Title: I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM (1/9)
Author: Jean Robinson (jeanrobinson@yahoo.com)
Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property 
of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television 
Network. All others are property of the author. No 
infringement is intended. 
Rating: PG-13
Classification: X
Archive: Please ask permission.
Spoilers: Up through "Redux II"
Summary:  A hot case and a cool reception marks 
Scully's return to work.
Feedback: Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me at 
jeanrobinson@yahoo.com
Author's notes at the end 
*****************************

I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM
By Jean Robinson


Coralos, Texas
November 1997
Friday

The sun beat down relentlessly on the small 
neighborhood. The adults said it was the hottest 
November on record so far. It was all they talked about in 
town at the bar, the supermarket and the department 
stores. How hot it was. How much hotter it might get. 
How hot it would finally be before it was all over.

The kids didn't care about the weather records that were 
being broken left and right. They didn't care that the 
crops at the outlying farms were dying, and the lawns 
were crisping, and the risk of brush fires grew greater 
every day.

They just knew it was hot. And there was really only one 
way to keep cool in this kind of weather, because only 
sissies stayed indoors with the air conditioning.

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

"Anthony! You're not apposed to!"

Eleven-year-old Anthony Puglisi looked over his shoulder 
with an expression reserved exclusively for boys afflicted 
with totally annoying younger brothers. Sure enough, 
there was Joey, running up behind him, ready to ruin a 
perfectly good Friday afternoon, right on schedule.

Anthony reached out and grabbed the smaller boy by the 
collar of his Dallas Cowboys t-shirt. Five years separated 
them in age, and Anthony took after their tall father with 
his height. Joey would never be a physical threat, and 
the little punk couldn't seem to learn that particular 
lesson no matter how many times Anthony pounded it 
into him.

Flexing one suntanned arm, Anthony lifted his little 
brother right off the ground. "Listen, snotnose, don't tell 
me what I'm 'apposed' to do. If you get your ugly face out 
of my sight right now, I might forget to hurt you."

Joey squirmed and kicked, but couldn't connect with 
anything vital. "Mom said! Mom said!" he squealed, 
falling back on the veiled threat of parental authority as 
a last resort.

His brother secured his grip with a second hand, raised 
him even higher, and then heaved. Joey flew through the 
air and thudded on his back on the solid cement 
sidewalk, scraping both elbows bloody. He burst into 
tears of pain and frustrated rage.

Ignoring his sibling's braying wails, Anthony turned back 
to the business at hand. He held a tattered dollar bill and 
two warm quarters up to the man in the black and white 
truck, the one who dispensed chilly, soothing treats with 
a smile and never asked if you were 'apposed' to spoil 
your appetite by eating ice cream before dinner. The man 
who sold cheap relief from the sweltering sun.

The Frosty Cow Man.

"I'll have a Green Alien, please," Anthony said politely.

"Here you go, son. Enjoy it!" The man handed him a slim 
frozen package.

Tearing the wrapper loose, Anthony exposed the bright 
green popsicle and slipped the blessedly cool column of 
lime sweetness into his mouth. "Thanks," he mumbled 
between slurps.

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

Washington DC
Friday

She was being watched.

There was no creeping sensation, no feeling the hairs on 
her arms or the back of her neck stand up, no disturbing 
anxiety coiling in her stomach to alert her to the 
surveillance. She just knew.

He'd been watching her ever since she came back to 
work. There were days he spent doing nothing more 
productive than exercising his optic nerves by staring at 
her. If she looked up and caught him at it, he wouldn't 
back down, either. No quick body shift, no embarrassed 
cough, no papershuffling bluffs for Fox Mulder. No, the 
man simply held her gaze for as long as she cared to 
continue the staring contest, apparently amazed by the 
fact that she was there at all.

Well, he wasn't alone in that regard. Just about everyone 
she knew was amazed she was still alive. Including 
herself. After all, the cure rate for that kind of cancer 
wasn't exactly encouraging, was it?

If she considered her survival nothing short of a miracle, 
how could she blame Mulder for sharing that sentiment?

Scully couldn't. But that he chose to demonstrate his 
pleasure and wonder at her continued company with 
such all-encompassing and intense observation was 
starting to unnerve her.

Today was the fifth day in a row that he'd found her more 
intriguing than any of his files. Even the one that had 
come in yesterday's interoffice mail, emblazoned with the 
bold title, "Killer Chinchillas Terrorize Town." In the past, 
such a document would have acted as kind of a Mulder-
magnet, encouraging her partner to advance any number 
of increasingly far-fetched theories to explain why a 
bunch of small, furry mammals were suddenly snacking 
on their human keepers instead of their normal diet of 
Purina Chinchilla Chow. Hell, he would have called up to 
Travel for airline tickets before he'd even finished reading 
the opening paragraph.

In the good old days, that is.

Now he seemed lethargic. Almost paralyzed.

It scared her. Her once-energetic, imaginative and 
enthusiastic partner had been reduced to a sluggish 
shell. Afraid to move. Afraid to act. Afraid to think.

Because of her.

Scully didn't need ESP to read the thoughts behind his 
hazel eyes as he slumped in his chair day in and day out, 
focusing on her as she typed, filed and returned his 
phone calls as well as her own.

If I don't look at these cases, they'll go away. I won't have 
to work on them. We won't have to go anywhere or do 
anything or meet anyone that will hurt her ever again. 
We can just sit here safely in the basement for the rest of 
our lives.

But she didn't want to sit in the basement doing nothing. 
She hadn't survived a fatal disease to be a desk jockey. 
And if she was ever going to shake Mulder out of his 
overprotective lassitude, she'd have to do it soon.

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

Coralos, Texas
Friday

"Old MacDonald had a farm. . ." The tinkling chimes 
played the familiar tune as the truck rolled slowly along 
the street beside the playground. A pack of children 
disengaged themselves from the swings and came 
charging over, while others clambered down the monkey 
bars or scrambled from the big sandbox.

Tracy Owens jostled for a place in line amid the crowd of 
sweating, sunburned children. Someone slammed her in 
the back, knocking her aside. She tried to step back in 
and was met with immediate resistance. "No cutting!"

"I'm not cutting. I was there. You pushed me!"

"Yeah, well, you're not here now, are you, Freak?" Her 
tormentor was a classmate, a boy who had not yet 
experienced his own growth spurt and stood about two 
inches shorter than she did. Nonetheless, he grinned up 
at her with the supremely confident smile of a bully 
secure in his power over a weaker opponent.

"Let me in!" Tracy tried once more to worm back into the 
line.

The boy thrust her back out unceremoniously. "End of 
the line, Freak," he drawled contemptuously.

When they apologized later, her parents blamed it on the 
weather and the stress. Tracy hasn't been herself, they 
said. True enough. Normally she wouldn't have fought 
back, but today she raised her hand for the first time and 
swung.

Guided more by luck than aim, she smacked her 
adversary directly in the nose. The boy staggered back, 
howling, his hands flying to his face to stop the blood. In 
a fair fight, he could have taken Tracy, but he hadn't 
been prepared for her to instigate a rumble right here 
and now. All thoughts of retaliation evaporated as he 
tried in vain to defend himself from the blows that rained 
down on his face, head and shoulders.

Suddenly it was over. Tracy stood over the moaning boy, 
both of them coated with dust and spattered with blood, 
surrounded by a silent circle of children. She dropped 
her clenched fists and stalked over to the truck, where 
the man still waited. He had not interfered with the fight, 
had done nothing to prevent or shorten the battle that 
had been waged not five feet from his little concession. 
He merely accepted Tracy's money and handed her the 
Green Alien popsicle she specified.

"Enjoy it, honey," he said cheerfully.

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

Washington DC
Friday

"You're going home?"

It was the first thing he'd said all afternoon, and, 
considering that she'd just logged off her computer and 
was gathering files and picking up her coat, it was hardly 
an ingenious leap of logic. Still, it was progress. "Yes. I'll 
see you on Monday, Mulder."

"Got any plans?"

If he hadn't been blatantly eyeballing her all week, she 
might have missed the tiny trace of desperation in his 
tone. The minute inflection shouted out at her, giving 
voice to the dozens of questions he wanted to ask but 
didn't dare.

Will you be alone? Will you eat properly? Will you get 
enough rest? Will you call me if you feel sick? Will you be 
all right? Are you all right now, Scully?

There was only so much reassurance she could give. And 
even less that he would accept. So she answered only the 
question he'd spoken aloud, not the others that hung 
suspended around them, making the very air seem heavy 
and still. "No plans. I'll see you on Monday."

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

Coralos, Texas
Friday

Little Sharon Schwartz had watched with interest but 
without emotional involvement as the big blond girl beat 
up the boy. She didn't know either of the combatants, 
and her main concern was that she was near the back of 
the ice cream queue. At seven, Sharon was small for her 
age and she hadn't been able to outrace her long-legged 
playmates for a better place in line. She hopped 
impatiently from one foot to the other, convinced that all 
the kids in front of her were just taking their time to 
tease her. Her long brown curls bounced against her 
shoulders with each little jump.

Finally, finally, it was her turn. She reached up with a 
handful of moist, warm change and demanded, 
"Strawberry Twist."

"Oh, I'm sorry, little lady," the Frosty Cow Man said with 
real regret. "I just ran out of Strawberry Twists."

Tears stung Sharon's eyes. "What?" she squeaked.

"I don't have any more Strawberry Twists, honey. How 
about a Dreamy Fudge Bar?"

At home, Sharon's mother always made sure there was 
enough cake or pudding or cookies. At school, Sharon's 
teacher always made sure the shortest student could see 
the blackboard. At daycamp, Sharon's counselor always 
made sure the littlest, youngest camper had enough 
poster paint and drawing paper to create a masterpiece.

How come the Frosty Cow Man didn't know he was 
always supposed to have enough Strawberry Twists?

"I DON'T WANT A DREAMY FUDGE BAR!! I WANT A 
STRAWBERRY TWIST!!"

If the Frosty Cow Man was surprised that such a 
deafening bellow of vengeful wrath could emanate from 
such a tiny source, he didn't show it. "Sweetie, I'm sorry. 
There are no more Strawberry Twists. But how would 
you like a Green Alien, for free?"

The mercenary in her was well-developed enough to 
recognize this as a good deal, something worthy of 
releasing her carefully manufactured anger. Sharon gave 
an artistic sniffle while she pretended to consider the 
offer, then nodded. "Okay."

"Here you go, honey." He handed her the lime treat. 
"Enjoy it!"

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

end part 1/9



I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM (2/9)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Washington DC
Saturday

It was amazing, Scully thought, sitting on the floor with 
her back against the couch and her legs stretched under 
her coffee table, the amount of busywork generated by 
her illness. While she'd been hospitalized, her mother 
had taken on the task of responding to all the get-well 
cards, good wishes and Mass cards and acknowledging 
the flower arrangements, fruit and nut baskets, balloon 
bouquets, stuffed animals and boxes of chocolate. Once 
it become clear that the sentiments behind all the 
offerings were not in vain and she was going to live, 
Scully had insisted on finishing the chore.

Funny word, chore. When she was small, it meant things 
like taking out the trash, helping with the dishes or 
cleaning her room. At the Bureau, it meant keeping 
Mulder out of trouble, seeing that their reports were 
turned in on time and spot-checking them for her 
partner's attempts to slip in unauthorized references to 
alleged paranormal events, or cleaning out the clutter in 
their office. There just might be an agent in the Bureau 
who was a bigger packrat than Fox W. Mulder, but Scully 
doubted it.

While the sheer volume of gifts and cards to be addressed 
was staggering despite what her mother had already 
completed, the word "chore" didn't seem appropriate 
when applied to the task of thanking people who told you 
in one way or another that they wanted you to live. Were, 
in some cases, asking various Gods in various ways to 
make a special exception on your behalf and not spirit 
you off to some ethereal wonderland just yet.

She looked at the pile of greeting cards alone with some 
dismay. Do I even know this many people? she thought. 
Does anybody?

The top card showed a colorful spray of red, pink, yellow 
and white roses in a vase, and the verse inside read, 
"Many happy thoughts are being sent your way with 
wishes that you'll continue to feel better each day." It was 
one of those cards that you got by the packet in the mail 
with a request for a donation. The kind with the little 
paragraph on the back describing how the front picture 
had been mouthpainted by a paralyzed artist. 

The kind you gave to someone you didn't know well 
enough to spend two dollars on a name brand card, but 
who deserved some type of gesture due to the severity of 
their illness alone.

The sender had scrawled one personal line below the 
card's sentiment. "Hope to see you back at the office 
soon, Dana, Pat Seibert."

Pat Seibert? Who was she? Or he?

At least the mysterious Pat had put a last name on the 
card instead of just on the long-discarded envelope and 
provided some clue, however vague, to an identity. Was 
Pat Seibert someone from the HR department? Maybe a 
lab tech who'd run some unofficial tests for her the last 
time Mulder brought in a sample of unidentified goo? 
That guy at the desk who always cracked stupid jokes 
about sneaking off to the drive-in when she and Mulder 
came to requisition a car for their travels? 

It would have to wait until Monday; Scully didn't have a 
Bureau directory at her apartment. She set Mr./Ms. 
Seibert and his/her spur-of-the-moment card aside and 
picked up the next one, a large, humorous Hallmark 
from Kimberly, Skinner's secretary.

Finally. Someone she recognized. Pulling her stationery 
to a comfortable writing angle on the table, Scully started 
her thank-you letter.

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

Coralos, Texas
Saturday

Marty Thorpe hated losing. He especially hated losing 
after throwing two perfect passes that his receivers, who 
were wide open, dropped. Idiots. Morons. Jerks. Coach 
oughtta bench the whole team, except for him. Flinging 
his helmet onto the hard, dusty ground, Marty stormed 
off the field. The rest of the pansies could line up and 
shake hands with opposing team and mutter, "Good 
game." Everyone knew you didn't mean it, and today 
Marty didn't even feel like pretending.

How was he ever going to make the high school varsity 
when all he had to practice with were kids who couldn't 
catch a ball if you dipped them in super glue? Sure, high 
school was still two years away, but as Marty's dad 
always said, you have to build a reputation. Show the big 
guys what the next generation would be like. You never 
knew when the high school coach might come and hang 
around the junior high field, scouting out the talent. 

A sudden coughing fit doubled him over; he hacked up a 
mouthful of mucus and spat it on the dusty ground. 
Marty had just ended a three-week argument with 
bronchitis. Today had been his first game in nearly a 
month and he'd been looking forward to mopping the 
floor with the other team. He'd have done it, too, if only 
he'd had a little help.

In the distance, he heard the jingle of chimes playing, 
"Old MacDonald Had a Farm," and his step quickened. 
The Frosty Cow Man. That's what he needed; a quick 
sugary pick-me-up. Then he slowed down again, 
frowning. The doctor had told him not to eat ice cream or 
drink too much milk; it felt good but it would only cause 
his throat to clog further. Normally, he would have 
ignored the advice, but he needed to stay in top form 
after being sick for so long. The second string 
quarterback was just waiting for the chance to oust him 
permanently, the little weasel.

Then he remembered the full menu of the Frosty Cow 
Man, and picked up the pace again. There were plenty of 
non-dairy frozen goodies in that truck.

The black and white vehicle had pulled over to the far 
edge of the playing field, and Marty started to run. When 
he arrived, a crowd of kids from both teams was already 
there, wrestling for positions closest to the front to see 
and be served.

Marty never hesitated in situations like this. You have to 
look out for yourself, his dad told him frequently. No 
one's gonna do it for you.

He waded into the group, shoving players left and right 
and ignoring the indignant shouts of, "Hey!" and "Cut it 
out!" and "Marty, watch it!" until he was in front, facing 
the little counter. He'd made his decision on the way 
through, and he dug in his gym bag for change.

"Gimme a Green Alien," he ordered, sorting through 
coins.

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

Washington DC
Sunday

The priest's voice settled into a comfortably soothing 
drone for the homily, allowing Scully time to compose her 
own thoughts. Technically, there were definite sections of 
the Mass set aside to offer up prayers of thanks, and the 
sermon wasn't one of them. You were supposed to listen 
to the homilist's  message and apply it to your life, not sit 
back and lose yourself in your own private meditation.

Scully didn't care. Reciting the rosary in a voice so 
choked with tears the words were barely audible with 
Father McCue in the hospital, certain she was about to 
die, she'd come to an understanding with God.

The important thing was actually talking to Him, not 
when you did it or where. And if she decided to start a 
conversation with the Almighty instead of listening to a 
verbatim recitation of today's gospel reading, she didn't 
think He would mind all that much.

Thank you, God, for letting me carry on here a little 
longer with my family, my friends, and my work.

Thank you, God, for giving me a partner who is willing to 
risk his life to save me.

Now give me the strength to help him accept that I have 
survived, so he can start living again, too.

Amen.

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

Coralos, Texas
Sunday

The Plath house still smelled like flowers, even though 
the funeral had been three days ago. Jennie hated it. She 
hated everything about the funeral: the endless parade of 
weeping relatives, the little black skirt and white blouse 
her mother made her wear, the droning church service, 
the wooden coffin sitting over the grave in the cemetery, 
and finally, the party at the house afterwards, where 
everyone cried some more and ate too much food and 
drank too much beer.

None of it meant anything. Nothing meant anything now 
that Grandma was gone.

And nobody seemed to care about that but her. Grandpa 
just kept nodding and agreeing when everyone said it 
was such a mercy, she'd been so ill. Dad had long, boring 
talks with her uncles about how the insurance 
companies wouldn't pay the medical bills.

Mom was the worst of all. Jennie had escaped into the 
kitchen for a glass of water and arrived in time to hear 
Mom tell Aunt Evelyn, "I took care of them for eight 
years. It's your turn now. Once this is over, Dad will have 
to stay with you for at least half the year. I need my life 
back."

Aunt Evelyn started to argue, complaining about her 
house being too small, and then the two of them saw her 
and clammed up.

Nobody, it seemed, loved Grandma except for Jennie. 
Nobody missed her. Nobody wanted Grandpa.

She was curled up now on Grandma's bed, which was 
still neatly made up, even though Grandma had been in 
the hospital for a week before she finally died. Her 
mother appeared in the doorway with a giant black trash 
bag.

"Get up, Jennie. I have to strip the bed and clean the 
room out."

"Why?"

"Because we have to give Grandma's things to people 
who need them."

Stricken, Jennie stared at her mother. Give Grandma's 
things away? "You mean her clothes?" she whispered.

"Everything, honey. The clothes, the bedding, the 
furniture. We're going to make this room a study."

Jennie felt her throat close up. "What about Grandpa? 
Won't he need some of this stuff?"

Mom shook out the trash bag. "Grandpa is going to stay 
with Aunt Evelyn for a while. He's already packed the 
things he wants to keep, and all her good jewelry is in 
the safe deposit box. Some day we'll divide it between you 
and Amanda."

Jennie didn't care if her cousin Amanda got all of 
Grandma's rings, necklaces and cameo pins. She was 
suddenly desperate to keep something of Grandma's 
right this minute, something she'd touched and been 
close to. "Can't I have her sheets?" she asked hoarsely, 
fighting to keep back the tears. If she cried, her mother 
would just get impatient and yell. "My bed is the same 
size." The thought of sweeping every last remnant of 
Grandma out of the house was absolutely unbearable.

Her mother sighed. "All right. If you promise to go outside 
and play like a good girl, I'll save the sheets for you." She 
softened for a moment. "Do you want her towels, too?"

Jennie nodded vigorously, biting hard on her lower lip to 
keep it from quivering.

"All right. You run along and play, and I'll put them in 
your room." She opened the closet door and started 
pulling dresses off their hangers. "It's almost time for the 
Frosty Cow Man. Why don't you go get a cone or 
something? Look in my purse for some change."

It was the sight of her mother ripping away the final 
pieces of Grandma's presence in the house that propelled 
Jennie out the door more than the promise of a rare mid-
afternoon treat. Once outside, however, she let the tears 
fall as she wandered aimlessly down the street. Oh, 
Grandma, you're really, really dead. Why do people have 
to die, God?

At first she thought the sweet sound of music was God 
announcing his answer, but then she realized it was only 
the Frosty Cow truck turning the corner. She joined the 
little cluster of neighbors, wiping furiously at her eyes 
and nose with the back of one hand.

"Why are you crying, Jennie?" Sarah Lopez asked her. 
Sarah was ten, just a year older. They'd been good 
friends until the end of school last June, when Sarah 
apparently decided that it wasn't cool to be seen with a 
mere nine-year-old anymore. Not with junior high 
looming in the distance.

"I'm not crying," Jennie denied stoutly.

"You are, too." Sarah took a ladylike nibble from her 
Vanilla Fudge Bar and eyed her critically. "Your eyes are 
all red and your nose is running."

"I'm NOT crying!"

"Jennie's crying, Jennie's crying, crybaby, crybaby!" 
Sarah taunted, obviously hoping to incite the rest of the 
kids.

"Stop it!"

"Crybaby! Crybaby!"

Jennie's temper snapped. Her hand flashed out and she 
knocked the ice cream from Sarah's hand. It fell to the 
ground with a squishy splat, spattering Sarah's sneakers 
with slivers of chocolate coating and vanilla dribbles.

"I'm gonna tell!" Sarah shrieked, clearly forgetting that 
the mature, cool kids she envied in junior high didn't 
threaten to "tell" on each other when things didn't go 
their way. "You're gonna get it now!" She turned and fled 
for the Lopez house, two doors away.

Jennie didn't care. Let Sarah snitch on her. Nothing 
mattered without Grandma. She blinked back the tears 
again and realized she was the only one left at the truck.

"What would you like, sweetie?" the Frosty Cow Man 
asked her kindly.

"A Super Almond Crunch bar."

The Frosty Cow Man leaned over his little counter. "You 
know," he said in a confidential whisper, "your 
grandmother really liked the Green Aliens."

Jennie smiled a little at the thought of Grandma sucking 
on a bright green popsicle. "She did?"

"Scout's honor." The Frosty Cow Man solemnly drew a 
cross over his heart with one finger and held up his 
hand, palm forward. "Maybe you'd like to try one, too?"

"Okay." She handed up her money and took the popsicle. 
"Thank you."

He smiled at her. "Enjoy it, honey."

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

Washington DC
Monday

She beat him to the office by almost half an hour, a 
rarity. But when Mulder walked in the door, it was clear 
that he'd been here earlier and actually had been 
working. There was a spring in his step and a light in his 
eyes that she almost didn't recognize, so long had they 
both been absent.

He was clasping a familiar red and white striped folder. A 
new case. Whatever it was, it had tickled his fancy 
enough to rouse him from last week's torpor.

Although her main emotion was intense, overwhelming 
relief at her partner's apparent return to normal, Scully 
realized she was curious. After all, man-eating 
chinchillas hadn't even made him blink. Whatever was 
contained within that candy-cane folder had to be utterly 
amazing.

She'd spent hours the night before composing and 
rehearsing her speech to shock him back to some sort of 
productivity. Mulder, you have to stop this. Mulder, I'm 
not going anywhere. Mulder, everyone dies sometime but 
you have to stop behaving as if I've only got minutes left.

By the time she went to bed, she came to the conclusion 
that no matter what she said, Mulder would nod, agree, 
and continue to conduct himself as he had been doing.

Because she wasn't cured. She was in remission. And for 
Mulder, finder of mysterious miracle microchips, believer 
in extreme possibilities, that would forever mean that all 
his efforts to save her life had been for naught, and they 
were still living with the specter of her death hanging 
over them.

Scully's rational side knew he was technically correct. 
But her irrational side for once refused to back down and 
allow the full implications of the word "remission" to 
govern her attitude and her actions.

She'd survived. She was alive. Unless and until her 
health changed, nothing else mattered. She intended to 
spend her time living, not worrying about when and if 
she was going to start dying again.

Now, looking at the little grin playing about Mulder's 
mouth, she was thrilled her careful planned oration 
would no longer be necessary. It was horrible to think 
that someone else's misfortune would make her so 
happy, but she couldn't help it.

"New case?" she queried, raising her eyebrows as she 
nodded toward the folder in his grip.

"Skinner called me up the minute I got here. This might 
be it, Scully. This might be where we actually get some 
reliable witnesses." He opened the folder and handed it 
over to her.

Scully started to skim the contents, half listening as her 
partner recited the main points of the situation.

"Between Saturday morning and this morning, five 
children in Coralos, Texas became mute."

She looked up. "Mute?"

Mulder nodded. "Completely and utterly. They can't talk 
at all. Five unrelated children, ages seven to twelve. So 
far, no physical reason for the sudden disability has 
turned up."

"And you're thinking. . ."

"I think they saw something, Scully. I think they saw 
something so incredible, so unbelievable and so 
potentially frightening that they can't articulate it. Or 
anything else. I think they might be witnesses to some 
kind of alien visitation."

Scully sighed. "I hate to burst your bubble, Mulder, but. . 
."

He grinned. "I'd be sorely disappointed if you didn't try, 
you know."

"But the medical information in here is sketchy at best. 
They could have contracted some kind of virus, or been 
injured in some way. Yes, they might have seen 
something to scare them into silence, but that doesn't 
mean they got a peek at E.T. phoning home. They could 
have witnessed a murder. It's even possible that the 
trauma might be the result of something with even 
deeper psychological implications, such as 
unintentionally witnessing the act of sexual intercourse 
for the first time."

"Ooh, Scully. Are you telling me you walked in on your 
parents doing the wild thing when you were a kid?"

She'd known before she said it that he would zing that 
last theory with some kind of innocently lecherous 
comeback. She'd done it on purpose, just to make sure 
he was on the road to recovery. If he hadn't picked up on 
it, she would have known he was faking his excitement 
for her benefit. Now she hid her mental hip-hip-hooray 
behind the cool blue stare she knew he expected and 
replied, "No. I'm telling you that with the information and 
evidence I see here, an alien visitation is at present the 
least likely scenario."

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

end part 2/9



I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM (3/9)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Coralos, Texas
Tuesday

"I can't believe this heat."

Mulder had already removed his suit jacket, rolled up his 
sleeves and turned the rental car air conditioning on full 
blast. "We're about as far south in Texas as you can get 
without crossing over into Mexico. And you thought I was 
kidding when I said to pack your bikini." He shook his 
head in mock dismay.

Scully unbuckled her seatbelt to slip out of her blazer as 
well. As she refastened the shoulder harness and flipped 
down the sun visor, she said, "I haven't owned a bikini 
since I was eight years old, Mulder. You're about twenty-
five years too late."

"Don't shatter all my hopes, Scully. A man's gotta have 
some dreams."

"I know all about your dreams. You and that video 
collection you keep arguing with Frohike about are not 
what I'd call subtle."

Good. This was good. When she'd been sick he'd made 
feeble attempts at humor, and she'd been too ill to either 
encourage or chastise him for it. When she was 
recovering he'd been too busy hovering or gaping to 
engage in the casual sexual banter he'd tossed about so 
easily in the days before the disease nearly consumed 
her. Now it appeared that her hormone-riddled partner 
was back on track. How odd that a conversation that in 
any other context could be construed as sexual 
harassment could prove so soothing.

It took her mind off her own discomfort. She =was= 
warm, a great deal warmer than Mulder realized. The 
chemotherapy had played havoc with her internal 
thermostat. The doctors told her it would eventually 
straighten itself out; eventually she would stop feeling as 
if she was going through the hot flashes of menopause at 
the ripe old age of thirty-three.

But until that day arrived, she would just have to suffer 
through the times when she could feel her body baking 
from the inside out, radiating so much heat she 
sometimes wondered if her clothes would simply ignite 
and engulf her in flames.

"So the Coralos police chief's son is one of the victims?" 
she asked, needing a new distraction.

"Chief Puglisi, yeah. His son Anthony was the first one to 
lose his voice."

Scully had been half expecting Chief Michael Puglisi to 
embody his name as a short, bullish man with a 
pugnacious attitude. But while the head of Coralos' law 
enforcement division did have the dark eyes and hair 
commonly associated with Italian surnames, he was tall 
and slender, with a long, sad face that spoke of worries 
and fears extending well beyond what his job title alone 
might bring.

He welcomed them into his office with an expression that 
reminded Scully of Catholics who had seen the Pope 
during one of his American tours; a curious combination 
of respect, genuine awe and monumental relief.

He also scored a big point in her favor by immediately 
offering liquid refreshment, and didn't seem at all 
amused or surprised when she requested ice water over 
hot coffee.

"The heat's been a killer this winter," he observed, 
returning with their drinks and settling himself behind 
his desk again. His Texas twang was noticeable but low-
key, implying that he'd spent his formative years 
somewhere north of the Mason-Dixon line. "Haven't had 
a spell like this in a long time."

"How long has it been this way?" Mulder asked.

Puglisi tilted back in his chair, tapping one finger against 
his temple as he pondered the question. "I guess it never 
really stopped being summer," he said finally.

There was an awkward pause.

Scully was about to gently nudge the conversation back 
to the case at hand when Puglisi seemed to shake 
himself out of his mini-fugue. "But I guess you want to 
talk about my son, not the weather," he sighed.

"I understand this is difficult for you," she said quietly, 
"but if you can tell us about Anthony's activities before 
he was incapacitated, it would be helpful."

There wasn't much to tell. Anthony had gone to school, 
come home, played outside with his little brother, 
consumed three chili dogs for dinner, watched two hours 
of television, played another hour of video games by 
himself, and went to bed without protest at 11:00.

On Saturday morning, he'd awoken to find his voice was 
gone.

"Did you take him to the doctor?"

"His mother did." Chief Puglisi dropped his eyes to his 
desk blotter, then raised them again. "Anthony and Joey 
live with my wife. . . my ex-wife. We've been separated 
since July. We just signed the divorce papers last 
Monday. It's been hard on the boys."

"What did the doctor say?"

"Laura first thought maybe he had laryngitis or 
bronchitis or something like that, so she took him to his 
regular pediatrician. He couldn't find anything wrong 
with him. Sent him over to the hospital for tests that very 
afternoon, and they couldn't find anything wrong with 
him. By Sunday night, they were telling her Anthony 
needed to see a shrink, that it was all in his head and he 
was making it up to get attention." Puglisi had been 
toying with a pen and now he threw it angrily down on 
the desk. "Like he could just decide overnight to pull 
something like this even though he'd been acting 
perfectly fine before."

"What do you think happened to him?" Mulder asked.

"Agent Mulder, by the time Laura called me to say the 
bigshots at St. Christopher's Hospital thought my son 
was mentally ill, I had reports of three other kids struck 
dumb the same way. By Monday morning, Regina Plath 
was on the phone screaming that her little girl couldn't 
talk either, and that made it five. Frankly, I don't know 
what the hell's going on down here, but I don't see five 
kids all going psycho on us within one weekend. There's 
a lot of people saying I should have called the CDC, not 
the FBI. Please don't tell me I made the wrong decision."

"We're going to do everything we can to figure this out, I 
assure you," Mulder said firmly. "Agent Scully is a 
medical doctor. If she or I feel that it is necessary to call 
in the Centers for Disease Control to ensure the health 
and safety of your children, believe me, we will do so. 
Where is your son now?"

"Home. Laura checked him out of St. Christopher's on 
Sunday night. Said she didn't want any head doctor 
poking away at him."

"Does she have legal custody of both boys?" Scully asked.

"Yes. But I agreed with her anyway. I know Anthony. He 
can be a pain in the neck sometimes and he's not exactly 
the kind of kid who'll make the honor roll every semester 
in school, but when he wants to pull a stunt, it's not 
something like this. His idea of goofing with an adult is 
lying when Laura asks him if he's cleaned his room or 
done his homework. He's never faked being sick." Puglisi 
sighed again. "Not even to get out of school for a test or 
something."

"We'd like to talk to Anthony, if that's all right with you 
and your ex-wife."

"Go right ahead." Puglisi pushed a piece of paper toward 
them. "That's the names and addresses of all the kids. All 
the parents know I called you, and they're all expecting 
to hear from you at some point. Laura's taken this week 
off from work to stay home with Anthony, so she's there 
right now."

"Thank you." Scully stood up to leave, hoping Mulder 
wasn't going to interject any queries about lights in the 
sky or unexplained time loss. He followed her out docilely 
enough, seemingly lost in thought as they retraced their 
steps to the rental car. That type of pensive silence 
usually meant he was cooking up an idea she wasn't 
going to like. "What, Mulder?"

He unlocked the car door and slid inside. "I was just 
thinking about something Puglisi said. He said he 
guessed it never really stopped being summer."

Scully punched the button for the air conditioning; even 
a minute out of some climate control was enough to 
make you wilt. "So now you think this is connected to the 
weather?"

"I'm not sure what I think anymore."

"We won't know for certain until we talk to Anthony and 
his mother, but despite what Chief Puglisi thinks, it is 
entirely possible that Anthony's condition is a physical 
manifestation of his emotional state."

"In English, please, Scully."

She smiled slightly. "Divorce takes no prisoners, Mulder. 
You of all people should know that. You saw the way the 
man looked; he's clearly distressed about his marital 
problems. Anthony's picking up on the conflicting 
emotions from both parents and it simply became too 
much for him to vocalize."

"Just like that."

"Mulder, the separation took place in July; who knows 
how long the family stress dates back. What seems to be 
'just like that' could have been months in the making."

"And how do you explain the other four children? 
Simultaneous divorce trauma?"

She bridled at his slightly caustic tone. "Of course not. 
But there are any number of physical or mental factors 
that could have promoted similar symptoms in the other 
children. When we interview them, I'm sure we'll find out 
what they are."

The Puglisi home sat nestled in a quiet neighborhood; the 
stucco house was in no way different from any of the 
surrounding domiciles. Short, dry lawn, neat flagstone 
pathway leading up to a dark brown door. Laura Puglisi 
answered so quickly Scully suspected she'd received a 
warning call from her ex-husband and had been 
watching for their arrival.

After refreshments had been offered and declined, Laura 
had no excuse to pace nervously but looked as if she 
wanted to do so. She sat perched on the edge of her 
living room armchair, a small woman with short brown 
hair, minimal makeup and no jewelry, whose once-pretty 
face was now creased with parental anxiety.

They engaged her slowly, trying not to frighten her more 
than she already was. Her chief emotion, other than fear 
for her son's plight, was anger at the doctors who dared 
suggest Anthony needed psychiatric help. "Just because 
they can't look at his blood or take a throat culture and 
make an easy diagnosis they won't even try. I asked them 
to send the samples away to a bigger lab. Up to Dallas or 
Houston, or maybe that place in Tennessee where they 
send all those kids with cancer."

"What happened?" Scully asked, although she thought 
she already knew the answer.

"They =laughed=." Laura Puglisi's rage vibrated 
throughout the tastefully decorated room, a presence 
almost as tangible as an additional witness to the 
interview. "They told me there was absolutely no reason 
to waste the time of a university hospital on what was 
clearly 'a psychosomatic issue.' They said even if they 
wanted to, there was no way the insurance would pay for 
that kind of testing, given the capabilities of the hospital 
here and the kind of symptoms Anthony was presenting."

"Mrs. Puglisi, how long was Anthony out of your sight on 
Friday?" Mulder asked.

"He left for school at 7:45, same as always. He and Joey 
got home at three and called me, just like they always do. 
I like to make sure they're not off making trouble in town 
while I'm at work. He and Joey were in the yard playing 
when I got home at 5:30, and he was in plain view the 
rest of the night."

"He ate and drank all the things he normally would?"

She nodded. "Friday chili dogs are kind of a tradition. 
The boys love them."

"And Joey is fine?"

The woman nodded again, fighting to control the tears 
that were pooling in her eyes. "Joey's perfect," she 
choked.

Mulder handed her a tissue from his pocket. It was a 
long-practiced gesture; both of them had so much 
experience dealing with sobbing subjects that they 
carried travel-size Kleenex packets as routinely as they 
carried their weapons.

"Mrs. Puglisi?" Scully asked gently. "Do you mind if we 
talk to Anthony now?"

She mopped her eyes rather frantically and blew her 
nose. "I'm sorry. Yes, I'll take you up to his room. It's just 
that he normally talks a blue streak, and now he's so 
quiet. . . it's upsetting."

"It's quite all right. We understand this is a hard time for 
everyone."

They followed her up the stairs to a door covered with 
signs both professional and hand-lettered. Everything 
from "Private Property: No Trespassing" to "KEEP OUT 
JOEY" and "MOM YOU BETTER KNOCK" indicated that 
the occupant valued his solitude and did not look kindly 
upon intrusions, especially ones involving relatives.

Laura Puglisi knocked twice and called, "Anthony, I have 
some people here to meet you. I'm coming in now." She 
twisted the doorknob and pushed open the door.

The room was decorated in Early Adolescent Sports, with 
just a touch of Upcoming Rebellion. Well-known legends 
of basketball, baseball and football, all frozen in poses of 
heroic athleticism, dominated the wall space, 
interspersed with a few posters of rock bands with 
ominous names such as The Desperate Boys, Wyld 
Tymes and Groan. Clothes adorned the maple furniture 
and the floor. Shelving up one wall cradled childhood 
treasures, everything from seashells and unimpressive-
looking rocks to piles of video game cartridges and CDs.

The owner of all the chaos lay on his blue-patterned 
bedspread, a slim, sullen boy with his father's features. 
He frowned at Mulder and Scully and waved off his 
mother when she asked if he wanted her to stay while he 
talked with them.

There was a tattered notebook beside his feet. "He's been 
using that to write down his answers," Mrs. Puglisi 
whispered, and Anthony made another impatient gesture 
to punctuate the fact that he was mute, not deaf, and 
would his mother please bug off.

She did, with a final backward worried glance.

Mulder pulled up the boy's desk chair and sat backwards 
on it, leaning his arms on the chair back and affecting a 
casual, let's-just-be-pals attitude. Scully half-sat on the 
edge of the desk, willing to let him take the lead for the 
moment.

"Hi, Anthony. I'm Agent Mulder, and this is Agent Scully. 
Your dad asked us to come down to see what was going 
on here."

There was a brief flicker in his brown eyes at the mention 
of his father, but otherwise Anthony maintained his 
stony expression.

"You feel like answering a few questions?"

Shrug.

"How'd your day go at school on Friday?"

Shrug.

"Anybody bother you? Get in any fights you didn't want 
to tell your mom about?"

An elaborate eye roll, a clear statement of, "Get real, 
stupid."

Mulder continued, unfazed. "Okay, you made it through 
school without any problems, and you came home. Then 
what?"

Anthony reached for the notebook for the first time and 
folded it back to a new page. He scrawled briefly and held 
it out. *Nothing.*

"Your mom says you were outside playing with your 
brother."

Shrug.

"Anybody come by? Talk to you? Anyone you didn't 
know?"

Anthony shook his head, looking slightly puzzled, as if 
Mulder had failed the Do Not Talk To Strangers lecture 
as a child. Scully smiled to herself.

"What kind of games did you play?"

He scribbled briefly again. *Just ball.*

"Anthony," Mulder asked carefully, "did you see anything 
strange while you were playing ball with your brother? 
Like a person you didn't know, or a car you'd never seen 
before? Or maybe hear anything that sounded funny, like 
a big bang, or an explosion?"

He shook his head. Firmly. A definite no, even from a kid 
who might like to spin fairy tales to escape his chores or 
his homework.

"Does your throat hurt, Anthony?" Scully spoke for the 
first time.

He shook his head again, his expression turning 
resigned, as if he'd been asked this question a dozen 
times in the last few days.

"Did it hurt at all on Friday?"

Another head shake.

"When did you see your dad last, Anthony?"

Mulder quickly glanced at her, eyes narrowed, surprised 
at the question, but Scully ignored him and concentrated 
on the boy.

Anthony sighed and pulled his gaze away from them to 
wander about the room, roaming over various clumps of 
clutter before writing in his notebook again. *Last 
Thursday.*

"You see him every week?"

Nod.

"Do you have fun when you visit him?"

Another shrug, accompanied by a head tilt with more 
averted eyes. The visual equivalent of, "I guess so."

Mulder stood up. "Thanks, Anthony. You've been very 
helpful. We appreciate your talking to us."

They made their farewells to Laura Puglisi, assuring her 
with as much confidence as they could that they were 
indeed taking all of this very seriously.

Mulder started the car and pulled out of the driveway. 
"What was that all about?"

"What do you mean?"

"All those questions to Anthony about his relationship 
with his father."

Oh, how quickly we forget, Mulder, she thought. "Exactly 
what they're supposed to mean. It is possible that the 
divorce has affected him in a way that caused him to 
verbally withdraw. He's obviously distressed about the 
break up of his family."

"So you agree with his pediatrician and the doctors at St. 
Christopher's. That Anthony should see a psychiatrist."

I'm out of practice, Scully suddenly thought with dismay. 
Normally she could have defended herself and her 
hypothesis without difficulty. Normally she wouldn't be 
struggling to validate her ideas.

Normally Mulder wouldn't have taken that kind of 
patronizing tone with her until much later in the case. 
They'd only been here half a day and he was halfway to 
accusing her of not seeing the forest for the trees.

The angry words escaped before she realized she'd even 
intended to lash out at him.

"I'm saying that it =might= just help, Mulder. No, I 
haven't spoken to any of the doctors involved in this yet, 
but I'm not about to overlook one possible rational 
explanation for this child's problem. He didn't see 
anything and nothing happened to him; the fact that his 
brother was with him and remains unaffected points to 
an individual issue rather than a group experience."

There was a long silence. Finally Mulder merely said, 
"Well, tomorrow you'll have a chance to talk to his 
doctors, while I see if I can interview the rest of the 
children."

"It's only four o'clock. I could talk to them now."

Her partner shook his head. "No. We're going to check in 
to the motel and get something to eat."

She stared at him. Waste the rest of the day? "Mulder?"

"That's the way it's going to be, Scully."

"What do you mean, 'that's the way it's going to be'? 
What the hell is going on here?" she demanded.

He clicked on the turn signal as the motel sign loomed 
ahead. "You're only back a week," he said softly.

Aha. Light began to dawn, bringing fresh anger. "I've 
been fully cleared for active duty," she snapped icily. 
"You were made aware of that."

He shook his head, still refusing to look at her. "I 
promised Skinner," was all he said.

Skinner? Skinner was in on this, too? Blinding rage 
swept over her, obscuring her vision in a haze of red. "I 
don't care if you've promised Janet Reno," she retorted. 
"You have no right to dictate limitations on my 
participation in this case. Furthermore, I find it 
reprehensible that you went behind my back to enlist the 
support of my superior, who was not only informed of my 
clearance, but signed the final approval for my active 
status. I don't know what game you're playing, Mulder, 
but you've stepped over the line this time. You and 
Skinner both. I'm not some fragile china doll you can 
protect by hiding me in the basement. If you are not 
willing to allow me to conduct my end of the investigation 
in the manner I see fit, then I'm returning to DC on the 
next flight out to file a complaint against you and request 
an immediate transfer out of the X-Files. Is that clear, 
Agent Mulder?"

How he continued to drive while she unleashed her 
wrath upon him was a mystery, but he did manage to 
pull into the motel lot and park without causing an 
accident. After he switched off the ignition he finally 
turned to face her, a dozen different emotions warring for 
supremacy on his face.

She waited to see which one would be the victor.

And was stunned to see sadness come out on top. 

"Maybe you should go back, Scully," he murmured.

"I'm not letting you off that easily, Mulder. You dragged 
me down here, and we're going to finish this case. After 
that, we'll see whether I stay or not." She shoved the car 
door open, got out and slammed it shut.

Dinner was out of the question. Mulder knew better than 
to ask what she planned to do for food that night. Even if 
she had been hungry enough to eat, she was not willing 
to give in and share a table with him, dodging the jagged 
edges of their argument while engaging in meaningless 
small talk about the case.

Knowing that part of the reason he wanted to eat with 
her was to assure himself that she was, in fact, eating. 
As if she was some small child incapable of taking on the 
responsibility for her body's physical needs. As if 
watching her swallow mashed potatoes and salad and 
steak in cow country would convince him that she was 
fine.

When she knew perfectly well that no amount of food 
would persuade him that she was all right ever again. 
The word "remission" had been branded into his brain. 
No matter how much she ate or how healthy she 
appeared, he would continue to treat her as if she was 
teetering on the edge of death.

It took twenty minutes storming about her motel room 
before she calmed down enough to try and call Anthony 
Puglisi's pediatrician. By then all she got was the 
answering service, so she left her name and the nature of 
her call with the service and hung up.

She could try the hospital, but she didn't want to speak 
to them before getting some primary information from 
the pediatrician. Round one to Mulder. He'd kept her 
from the doctors and effectively off the case for a few 
more hours. If more children turned up mute because of 
the delay, she'd be sure to include a vivid description of 
his evasive tactics in her field report.

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

end part 3/9



I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM (4/9)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Coralos, Texas
Wednesday

Any fairy tale assumptions that a good night's sleep 
would put everything in perspective and add a shine to 
the day were dashed immediately. The temperature, 
which had hovered in the low 80s all night long, soared 
to 98 before 10:00 a.m., the time of her first stop on a 
long list of medical consults for the day.

She'd set up all the interviews from her room, pointedly 
leaving Mulder as her last call to tell him he could have 
the car to meet with the other children as long as he 
dropped her at the Coralos Medical Group's offices first.

Mulder agreed without comment.

His demeanor on the phone was so subdued she almost 
gave in and offered to meet him for breakfast before they 
started on the day's tasks. The ebullience from Monday 
seemed to have vanished entirely in the wake of her 
outburst, leaving only the lackluster pacifist from the 
week before.

Almost. She gritted her teeth and steeled herself against 
his emotional weaponry. After this case was done, they 
could duke it out about her health and his attitude. Not 
before.

Dr. Raymond Montero, cold and unhelpful on the phone, 
fulfilled his initial impression as a man jealously 
guarding his professional reputation from the 
government's taint by keeping her waiting for over an 
hour. Scully sat in the waiting room watching a revolving 
door of parents and small squalling patients come 
through, finally surrendering her seat to a weary mother 
with yet another coughing, damp-eyed child. Giant, 
colorful puzzle pieces, blocks and plastic trucks littered 
the floor, making the limited space between the seats and 
the front desk an obstacle course worthy of training pro 
football players.

Scully hadn't pressed the point initially; she'd anticipated 
such a delaying tactic from the doctor. As the hands of 
her watch crawled closer to noon and the air 
conditioning in the room failed to keep up with the 
number of occupants, she decided she'd been patient 
and pleasant long enough.

If Montero expected a government intrusion, she could 
give him one.

Cautiously picking her way between the toys and 
roaming tots, Scully approached the front desk again and 
pulled out her badge.

"Excuse me."

The harried clerk raised one finger in response, still 
attempting to take information from one caller while 
three other lights blinked on the phone.

Scully reached out and pulled the receiver away, 
replacing it back in its cradle and holding it there. The 
clerk's mouth dropped open in stunned surprise and she 
started to protest.

Scully cut her off. "Tell Doctor Montero I need to speak to 
him now. If he does not wish to see me in his office, I will 
be happy to escort him to the police station and conduct 
my interview there. I am a federal agent assigned to 
investigate the illnesses of children under his care, and I 
know he will want to take care of this immediately 
instead of wasting any more time."

Flaunting her Bureau credentials and making thinly-
disguised threats were usually her last resort. But there 
were individuals who responded to nothing less than 
such bullying tactics, and apparently Montero was one of 
them. The clerk's mouth snapped shut; she jumped up 
and disappeared into the back examining area. Two 
minutes later she reappeared at the waiting room door; 
all the parents looked up hopefully and then settled back 
in resignation when Scully was ushered into the inner 
sanctum.

Despite the modern, HMO trappings of his office and the 
presence of three other pediatricians on staff, 
personality-wise Montero fit the bill as The Revered 
Country Doctor.

The Revered Cranky Country Doctor, that is.

He was the pediatrician of record of two of the five 
children; Sharon Schwartz was the patient of one of his 
office colleagues, Dr. Susan Messina. Marty Thorpe and 
Jennie Plath had been taken directly to St. Christopher's 
emergency room.

His office space was atypical of a children's doctor; there 
were no childish mementos of thanks, no clumsy statues 
or humorous medical cartoons. Only his medical degrees 
decorated the walls. His desk blotter, which should have 
been overflowing with paperwork and samples from 
pharmaceutical companies, was meticulously bare.

Montero's sharp dark eyes held nothing but anger at the 
interruption as he curtly directed her to sit. He was 
perhaps twenty years older than she, and nothing about 
him suggested he was any friendlier or kinder to his 
small patients.

He rejected immediately any suggestions that Anthony or 
the other children's conditions were caused by physical 
means. There were no throat obstructions found during 
his examinations or those done at St. Christopher's, no 
structural damage to the esophagus, larynx, trachea, or 
vocal chords. None of the children had ingested any 
caustic compounds that might have caused the problem; 
there were no burns on the tongue, lips or gums to 
support such a possibility.

"Of course I'd be happy to share the children's medical 
records with you, Agent Scully," Montero remarked, his 
expression and tone indicating anything but pleasure at 
the prospect of collaborating with her, "and I am just as 
anxious to find out the reason for their distress. But I'm 
sure you'll find, as we all have, that it's definitely not a 
physical issue."

"So you conclude that these five children ceased 
speaking simultaneously due to some kind of psychiatric 
coincidence?"

"What I'm saying, Agent Scully, is that there are other 
factors here at work, as there are in any small town. 
Tracy Owens is learning disabled and was mainstreamed 
into regular classes for the first time in her life this fall. 
Tell me that's not a stressful situation for a child, 
particularly an adolescent. Her mother brought her in 
here the day after I'd sutured the lip of a boy who she 
beat up on the playground for teasing her." Montero 
stood up, indicating the interview was at an end. "Now if 
you'll excuse me, I have a waiting room full of patients to 
see."

"Fine. If you could direct me to Doctor Messina's office, 
I'd like to speak to her before I go over to the hospital."

Montero sighed heavily. "Doctor Messina is very busy."

Scully drew herself up and stared unflinchingly into his 
eyes. "So am I, Doctor. So I would appreciate it if you 
could bring me to Doctor Messina so I can complete my 
investigation as soon as possible."

A new voice chimed in from the doorway. "It's all right, 
Doctor Montero. I have time now before my next patient."

Scully turned to see a very thin woman about her own 
height, wearing a regulation white lab coat and a slightly 
nervous smile. "Good afternoon," the woman said, 
extending a hand to Scully, "I'm Doctor Susan Messina."

"Special Agent Dana Scully."

Messina led her to an empty exam room; Montero 
delivered one final admonishment not to take too long. 
"Don't mind him. He's always like that," Messina 
confided. "How can I help you?"

Scully flipped through her notes. "Sharon Schwartz was 
your patient?"

"Yes. Her mother brought her in on Saturday morning."

"What kind of a child was she under normal 
circumstances?"

Dr. Messina laughed, then turned sober. "I'm sorry. I 
know this isn't really funny. But normally, Sharon is 
your average seven-year-old kid. Every other word is 
'why' or 'what' or 'how come?' She's an only child and 
she's been catered to for her entire life. There's nothing 
she doesn't want that she doesn't get."

"It says here that she recently had a tonsillectomy."

"Yes. About a month ago. Routine surgery at St. 
Christopher's. Nothing abnormal; standard case of too 
many throat infections. No problems during the surgery, 
nothing afterward. All tissue samples were normal."

"She didn't make any post-operative complaints?"

"Nothing other than whining about what flavor ice cream 
she wanted." Messina smiled. "Apparently the hospital 
selection was not to her liking; I remember her parents 
sneaking in a half gallon of strawberry."

What else, thought Scully. "Could the surgeons have 
damaged her vocal chords during the procedure?"

For the first time, Messina looked dubious. "I suppose 
they =could= have nicked something, but I've never 
heard of it happening. And if it did, I would think the 
results of that kind of injury would have been apparent 
before now."

In other words, possible, but not likely. And if it was 
possible, Messina was not going to squeal on her 
colleagues and invite a lawsuit from the precocious 
child's doting parents.

"She was at the playground when Tracy got in the fight, 
though," the doctor continued thoughtfully. "When I 
asked her what happened she took two of the dolls I keep 
in my office and bashed them together a few times."

There were no other obvious coincidences to be found 
here. Scully sighed and closed her notepad. "Thank you, 
Doctor Messina. I appreciate your candor."

Messina's apprehensive smile of farewell was the last 
vaguely friendly expression she encountered the rest of 
the day.

The medical staff at St. Christopher's Hospital, from the 
emergency room doctors to the surgeons to the sole 
otorhinolaryngologist to the pediatric psychiatrist all 
closed ranks against the outsider. She cajoled, she 
questioned, she suggested and she argued. She reviewed 
medical charts, surgical notes and dietary plans, and 
looked at X-rays, MRIs and CAT scans until her eyesight 
blurred. She tracked down nurses, candy stripers and 
orderlies for discussions until her legs ached from 
roaming the hallways.

Nothing. There was nothing to suggest any paranormal 
influence at work, but plenty to infer that coincidental or 
not, these five children had simply taken all they could 
take in this one weekend and ceased speaking.

"Of course they're frustrated," the pediatric psychiatrist 
said in a tone so patronizing that Scully, who was hot 
and frustrated herself at that point, realized with horror 
that she was seriously contemplating drawing her 
weapon just to make him show her some respect. "When 
I talked with Marty Thorpe, all he did was throw things 
around the room. He wouldn't even try to write down an 
account of his activities for me. The boy'd just gotten his 
voice back after bronchitis and now this happens to him. 
I tried to give him an ice cream cone to calm him down 
and he mashed it against the wall." The man indicated a 
brown stain marring the soothing cream paint. 
"Maintenance is going to have to come in and repaint 
that. You can't wash off chocolate."

She called Mulder from the pay phone in the lobby of the 
hospital. "Mulder, it's me. Where are you?"

"Just driving away from the Plath home. Are you done?"

He sounded. . . careful. It was the only word to describe 
the nuance in his voice, as if he was very afraid of setting 
her off. At the moment she was too tired to worry about 
what that might mean. "Yes, I'm finished. Can you come 
get me at St. Christopher's?"

"Be there in a few minutes. I have a lot to tell you."

"I have a lot to tell you, too." She hung up and leaned 
wearily against the wall, staring out at the shimmering 
parking lot through the double glass doors.

The small boy loitering outside on the walkway failed to 
catch her attention at first. Then she realized his nervous 
gestures and glances were directed toward her. He clearly 
didn't want to come into the hospital, but wanted her to 
come outside.

Mentally groaning at the thought of carrying on a 
conversation in the blazing late afternoon heat, Scully 
pushed through the doors.

He looked slightly familiar. She crouched down to his 
level, summoned up a non-threatening smile and said, 
"Hi, there."

"Hi."

"I'm Dana. What's your name?"

"Joey."

"Did you want to talk to me, Joey?"

The boy shifted from foot to foot, his brown eyes darting 
back and forth. He didn't seem to be holding a mental 
debate with himself about the dangers of talking to 
strangers; his reluctance to come to the point appeared 
grounded in other quarters.

Which meant she wasn't a stranger to him.

Joey.

Brown eyes, brown hair.

Joey Puglisi. Anthony's little brother. Although she 
hadn't seen him during their time at the Puglisi house, 
he'd probably observed her from the kitchen or his own 
room.

Now that she placed him, Scully tried again. "Joey, do 
you want to tell me something? Something about 
Anthony?"

"I told him he wasn't apposed to do it." The boy looked 
down at his sneakers, scuffing one toe along the rough 
walkway. He picked at a large scab on one elbow; Scully 
saw he had a matching wound on the other arm.

"Did Anthony do something he wasn't supposed to do on 
Friday?"

"Yeah."

"Can you tell me what?"

The toe scuffed harder. Scully could almost see the battle 
going on in his head – am I being a tattletale or a hero?

Joey finally blurted it out. "Mom said no snacks before 
dinner."

Scully fought back a smile. "Anthony spoiled his 
appetite?"

"Yeah."

"What did he eat?"

"A Green Alien."

Oh, God. Of all the things for him to say on a day when 
she'd been snubbed by her own profession and now felt 
as if her bones were melting inside her body. Mulder 
would absolutely love this. "Anthony ate a Green Alien?" 
She felt stupid even repeating it.

"Yeah."

"Joey, can you tell me what a Green Alien is?"

He looked at her blankly and made a broad, circular 
gesture with both hands. "You know. A Green Alien. 
They're Anthony's favorites. I don't like 'em. I like Red 
Rockets. Daddy likes Orange Ooze."

Okay, the conversation had just gone from merely 
incomprehensible to completely unfathomable. Scully felt 
as though she was frantically treading water, observed by 
a confused jury of her peers wondering why she didn't 
just walk to the ladder and get out of the pool. "Joey, 
what do you mean?"

Such exasperation was almost comical coming from such 
a young source. She had a sudden flashback to a 
childhood memory, of trying to explain to her 
grandmother the theory behind the workings of her mood 
ring. The grand dame of the Scully family couldn't follow 
the science involved in a temperature-controlled piece of 
jewelry, and although at the time of the incident Scully 
had been a few years older than the little boy facing her 
now, she distinctly remembered expressing the exact 
same amount of contempt at the seeming density of her 
elder.

A far-away tinkle of music broke the stalemate; Joey 
swung around and scanned the street. "There!" He 
pointed to the far end of the avenue, where a black and 
white truck was turning the corner. "The Frosty Cow 
Man. He sells Green Aliens and Red Rockets and Orange 
Ooze."

Scully was about to plead continued ignorance when the 
truck drew closer and enlightenment struck full force.

Ice cream. 

Of course. 

God, had the chemotherapy damaged her higher brain 
functions so severely that she couldn't reason out a six-
year-old's meaning until it was literally staring her in the 
face in the form of a truck painted to match the hide of a 
Holstein cow, showing caricatures of giant dancing ice 
cream cones on its black and white sides?

Maybe she should go back to DC, if such simple 
connections were now beyond her grasp.

"Anthony ate some ice cream before dinner, and he 
wasn't supposed to," she said now, half dazed at her own 
obtuseness.

"That's what I =said=," Joey replied, and she didn't 
begrudge him the disgust in his tone. She felt it herself.

The jingling faded as the truck passed by. Scully, who 
had straightened up to watch the vehicle roll along its 
appointed route, stooped down again to her small 
informant's level. "Did you have one, too?"

The boy shook his head. "Mom said no snacks before 
dinner," he repeated virtuously.

If what she'd seen of the older boy's room and his 
personality held true, Scully thought it more likely that 
Anthony had control of the family fortunes while their 
mother was at work and habitually refused to share the 
largesse. Either way, she doubted Joey had enjoyed a 
cool treat that day.

It was the first discrepancy in the story of Anthony's 
"normal" day she'd found, albeit a minor one. An ice 
cream truck like that probably served hundreds of 
customers a day, particularly during a heat wave. A 
contaminant in the frozen confections was a possible 
explanation, but given the tiny pool of victims she was 
inclined to assign it a lower priority.

Still, she'd ask Mulder if he'd learned if his interview 
subjects had been clients of the Frosty Cow Man before 
their afflictions.

Assuming he'd asked them something other than 
whether they'd seen any convenient UFOs buzzing 
overhead.

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

end part 4/9



I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM (5/9)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Agreeing to eat dinner with her partner had not been a 
bad idea.

It had been a monumentally bad idea, perhaps the worst 
one she'd ever had in her entire life. That included the 
time she'd agreed to let Missy give her a home dye job the 
day before her sixteenth birthday party, lured by her 
older sister's assurances that blondes had more fun.

 Scully recognized that now, but she'd been too tired, hot 
and disturbed with herself to formulate a decent excuse. 
When Mulder inquired about meal plans in the car on 
the way back to the motel, she'd merely mumbled a 
wordless sound of assent and had gone back to her 
private deliberations about whether she was indeed fit for 
duty.

Mulder was trying. She recognized and acknowledged 
that, but it didn't change the fact that they'd progressed 
from a rational and mature discussion about the case to 
a full-blown argument before the salad plates had even 
been cleared.

He'd listened politely and attentively to her findings from 
her day at the hospital and the doctors' offices. About 
Tracy's problems at school, Sharon's recent operation, 
Marty's recent illness. To his credit, he even admitted 
that Mrs. Plath told him Jennie had just lost her 
grandmother, further supporting her theory that all of 
the children had some obvious external reason for their 
mute behavior.

And then he proceeded to decimate her hours of sweat 
and indignities by claiming that it proved nothing, that 
dozens of other children in a town this size suffered 
divorce, academic pressures, surgery, sickness and loss 
every day without manifesting a similar problem. 
Implying that there had to be a paranormal explanation 
somewhere and they were going to figure out what it was, 
even if it took until Christmas.

If the conversation – or altercation, as it could more 
accurately be described – had taken place anywhere 
other than over plates of food, Scully might have behaved 
differently. Might have held back the worst of the vitriol, 
contained the bitterness at having her views so casually 
dismissed.

In other words, she might have acted as she normally did 
when their opinions differed on a case, and eventually 
Mulder would perform as he normally did; recognize his 
shortcoming, apologize profusely and sincerely and 
promise to do better in the future.

She might even have remembered to mention her 
conversation with Joey Puglisi about Green Aliens and 
Red Rockets and Orange Ooze.

But the tedium of the meal itself, when added to the 
combined weight of the doctors' earlier disdain, the 
overpowering heat and her own growing sense of 
insecurity shattered the internal dam suppressing all 
that rancorous emotion.

Another nasty side effect of the chemotherapy that she 
hadn't shared with Mulder was how it affected her sense 
of taste. The last and most potent of the poisonous 
chemical cocktails Dr. Zuckerman had introduced into 
her system in a final effort to stave off her death had left 
her with flavor receptors that registered little other than 
texture and a faint tang of salt.

Her tastes buds were slowly recovering, but for now she 
might have been eating notebook paper instead of a cobb 
salad.

The thought of having to placate his concerns by 
pretending to enjoy food she couldn't distinguish from 
the cloth napkin on her lap while she listened to him 
reject her scientifically grounded hypothesis in favor of 
The Theory From Planet X was too much to bear, and she 
let him have it.

"Mulder, =stop it=."

He broke off midway through a sentence about the fairy 
tale of the Little Mermaid trading her voice for human 
legs. "What?"

"Enough. There is no evil witch in this town stealing 
children's voices. They did not get abducted by aliens 
and returned mute so as to prevent them from telling 
what happened to them. They were not rendered 
speechless from shock at seeing their parents turn into 
extraterrestrials, or their teachers, or their teddy bears. 
This is not an X-File. Do you hear me? THIS IS NOT AN 
X-FILE!!"

He stared at her as if he'd never seen her before, eyes 
wide and jaw hanging. His fork dropped from his slack 
fingers, sending a small spatter of creamy Italian 
dressing fanning across the red checked tablecloth.

Scully had leaned over her own plate as she snapped out 
the words in what originated as a modulated tone and 
escalated to a near-shout. Mulder accordingly pressed 
back against the vinyl booth, retreating from her 
menacing stance as much as from the words themselves. 
Although her eyes were focused on his, she could sense 
other diners staring at them, could hear those little 
whispered noises that meant everyone was talking about 
you.

"Scully. . . " Mulder began, his voice cracking slightly.

She cut him off, throwing down her napkin and standing 
up. "Don't. Don't even bother. I don't want to hear it. I'm 
leaving. I'll see you back in Washington, after I've spoken 
to Skinner."

Dignity required that she exit the restaurant at a sedate 
walk, so she did, holding her spine ramrod straight and 
her eyes fixed firmly on the goal, the door. A Naval 
Academy graduate fresh from the parade grounds 
couldn't have bettered her rigidly perfect posture.

But in her heart Scully was running for her life.

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

If she were a presumptuous person, Scully could have 
deluded herself into believing that she knew Mulder so 
well that she could discern his presence on the opposite 
side of her door simply by his knock. And while her 
partner did, for the most part, adhere to a percussive 
beat that mimicked "Shave and a Haircut" whenever he 
requested entrance to her motel room or apartment in 
circumstances other than dire emergencies, that wasn't 
how she knew Mulder was the one rapping on the thin 
plywood portal to her room at the Coralos Wheel Inn two 
hours after she'd stalked out on him.

No, she knew it was Mulder because absolutely no one 
else had reason to come to her room. Few people other 
than the maintenance staff or her mother had reason to 
frequent her apartment in DC, either. Using the highly 
scientific process of elimination, that left Mulder, now 
and always.

Still, she checked the peephole just to be sure. After all, 
she'd already proven herself so clueless an elementary 
school child had lost patience with her. It would be the 
ultimate capper on a dandy day to discover she'd 
forgotten all her training and her past experiences and 
let in a homicidal maniac through sheer carelessness.

But it was Mulder, as she'd known it would be. Scully 
slid the security chain and opened the door.

They eyed each other warily, silently.

"May I come in?" Mulder asked finally.

Scully stepped back in response, waving him into the 
room. He strode by her, his gaze taking in the open 
suitcase on the bed, the neatly packed clothing, the one 
suit left hanging in the closet, ready for the morning.

"You're really leaving." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes. I have a flight back at ten tomorrow."

He turned back to look at her, and she wanted to cringe 
at the incomprehensible pain she saw in his eyes. 
"Scully, please. Don't do this."

I'm not doing anything, Mulder. You've done it all for me. 
You wanted me safe and secure in the basement, and 
that's where I'm going. Although I may not actually end 
up in the basement, it'll be somewhere that you don't 
have to worry about me. And =I= won't have to worry 
about me. Or you. Or you worrying about me.

This time she held the words in check, not wanting to 
hurt him more than she had already. "We'll talk about it 
when you get back, all right?" she said gently.

"No, it's not all right, Scully. Why are you doing this?" he 
demanded.

She took a deep breath. "Mulder, last week you did 
nothing but watch me breathe. Now we're finally on a 
case that has your attention, and you've made it quite 
clear that my input is not only unwanted, but 
unnecessary. You were the one who suggested I go home 
in the first place. Well, I am. Why are you so upset now 
that I'm acting upon that suggestion?"
 
"Bullshit. You're not taking my advice, you're giving up," 
he snapped. 

That stung, and she flinched visibly. Because after what 
had happened this afternoon, it was closer to the truth 
than he knew.

But damned if she'd tell him that now.

She picked her words carefully, waiting until she was 
certain she had both her anger and her fear well in hand 
before speaking. "When you're finished down here, we'll 
talk. Until then, I will hold off on requesting a meeting 
with Skinner. That's all I can promise for now. All right?"

His shoulders slumped; despite his uncanny ability to 
bend her to his will 99.9 percent of the time, even Mulder 
the Mulish could tell this was that one time when all of 
his persuasive skills were not going to help him budge 
her. "All right, Scully."

"What's that?" she queried, noticing for the first time that 
his hands were not empty. When her partner arrived on 
her threshold bearing gifts, such bequests were usually 
inexplicable residue from a crime scene stored in clear 
plastic evidence bags, not oddly-shaped packages 
wrapped in black and white paper.

"Oh. Here." He held out one of the objects and she took 
it, feeling a sudden chill pass through the wrapper to her 
palm. "It's a Dreamy Fudge Bar. I saw the ice cream 
truck pass by after you left."

He'd bought her a chocolate ice cream bar from the 
Frosty Cow Man. Scully felt the back of her throat close 
up.

"He had these on the menu, so I couldn't resist," Mulder 
continued, stripping the paper off his own dessert, a 
bright green popsicle. "They're called Green Aliens."

Scully found her voice and her memory at the same time. 
"I ran into Joey Puglisi this afternoon. Anthony's younger 
brother. He said Anthony had one of those before he got 
sick."

"I'm not surprised." Mulder slid the green ice bar into his 
mouth and mumbled around it, "It's still over 90 degrees 
outside. The entire town's probably been living on these 
things for days."

"I guess."

"Are you going to eat that?"

Scully, who'd been holding the Dreamy Fudge Bar and 
staring dejectedly at the list of ingredients without really 
seeing them, glanced up to find Mulder pointing at the 
confection. "I. . . maybe later. I'm not very hungry right 
now." 

In truth, she wasn't capable of summoning anything 
other than fake delight over the unexpected snack. And 
Mulder, who'd pigeonholed her secret vice for frozen 
dairy products early in their partnership, would never be 
fooled by an artificial display of enthusiasm for his gift.

He bit off a piece of his popsicle, chewed it and produced 
a weak, sad smile. "I told the guy I needed something 
special as a peace offering. I said I'd had a fight with my 
best friend and if I didn't show up with something good, 
she'd kick my ass from here to the next county."

Mulder, don't do this, she begged silently. Just let me go 
home while I've still got some self-respect left. Aloud, she 
said the first thing that came to mind. "The next state, 
you mean."

"I would have said, 'All the way back to Washington,' but 
I didn't want to scare him."

"What did he say to that?"

"Offered me the Green Alien for nothing and told me to 
enjoy it. Said anyone who made their best friend walk 
out on them deserved a popsicle guaranteed to turn their 
lips green."

"He was right. That thing is turning your lips green. And 
your tongue, for that matter." Scully sat down on her 
bed, suddenly too bone-weary to continue the discussion 
from a standing position. The siren song of a cool 
shower, an air conditioner turned to full power, and the 
light comfort of a billowing cotton sheet beckoned. 
"Mulder, go to bed. I'll see you in the morning before I 
leave."

He acquiesced, pausing at the door for one last comment. 
"I'm sorry, Scully. I want you to know that."

"I know you are. But this is for the best. Thanks for the 
ice cream."

She sat staring sightlessly at the door for a long time 
after he left, until the Dreamy Fudge Bar succumbed to 
the temperature in the room and the warmth of her grip 
and seeped through the wrapper, leaking chocolate ooze 
over her fingers and palm. She jumped up before it could 
drip onto her slacks, dumping the melting brown mess 
into her bathroom sink before giving in to the 
temptations of the shower stall and the cooling system.

The frantic pounding woke her the next morning shortly 
after six. Her first thought was that the management was 
warning of a fire or some other external emergency; it 
never occurred to her that the assault on her door might 
be her partner.

But when she threw on her bathrobe to answer the 
furious banging, it was indeed Mulder.

Clad only in a gray t-shirt and sleeping shorts, his hair 
spiking out in all directions.

Panic clouding his hazel eyes.

Scully threw open the door. "Mulder? What is it? What's 
wrong?"

He brushed past her, pacing in agitated circles. His 
hands drew wild slashes in the air, as if he was playing 
an early-morning round of charades.

Scully grabbed him by his biceps at his next pass, her 
fingers digging into his flesh as she held him in place 
long enough to answer her. "Mulder, =tell me what's the 
matter=."

He stared down at her and Scully's own terror suddenly 
seized her with its paralyzing grip, squeezing the air from 
her lungs and the strength from her limbs.

Because Mulder's mouth was moving, but he was now 
truly speechless.

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

end part 5/9



I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM (6/9)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Coralos, Texas
Thursday

It took less than ten minutes to calm him down, give him 
a cursory examination and obtain a somewhat coherent 
written account of what had transpired between the time 
he'd left her room and awakened to discover his vocal 
abilities had gone AWOL.

Nothing in two-page, hastily scribbled account of Fox 
Mulder's scintillating evening of channel surfing at the 
Coralos Wheel Inn could account for this.

Nothing in his mouth other than a slight discoloration of 
his tongue, dye particles from the popsicle that had 
tenaciously defied the cleansing strokes of his 
toothbrush.

Frustrated and frightened, Scully ducked into her 
bathroom for a minute to splash some cold water on her 
face and compose herself. Mulder needed to be seen by a 
throat expert. Mulder would strenuously object to such a 
suggestion. He didn't need his voice to express his 
displeasure in that regard.

She reached for the faucet, and her gaze fell on the sticky 
puddle of brown sludge and soggy paper that still littered 
the sink.

Oh, my God.

The ice cream. The Green Alien.

She flew back into the bedroom; now it was her turn to 
startle her partner with panicky eyes and abrupt 
movements.

"Anthony had one of those Green Aliens. When you 
talked to the children, did anyone else mention eating 
one?"

His eyes widened as the connection clicked. She waited 
impatiently while he thought, his brow scrunched up in 
an effort to remember the details of all his conversations 
with the children and their parents. Finally, he grabbed 
another  piece of the Coralos Wheel Inn stationery and 
printed, *I don't think it came up. Nobody mentioned it 
that I can recall.*

"Do you still have the list of phone numbers for all the 
children?"

*Yes. In my room.*

"Get it. I'm going to call Chief Puglisi to alert him. I don't 
want that truck going out today until we know if we're 
right or not."

Mulder stood up and glanced down at himself, as if 
realizing for the first time his state of undress. He 
flushed.

Scully smiled thinly. "I suppose you can put on some 
clothes while you're at it, too."

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

Chief Puglisi was stunned. "The Frosty Cow Man? You 
think the Frosty Cow Man is somehow part of this?" He 
sounded as if Scully had just suggested they arrest Santa 
Claus.

"I'm not sure yet. All I know is that your son and my 
partner both ate a green popsicle from that truck right 
before they became mute. It's the first common element 
we've found. I'll be checking on the other children as 
soon as I hang up with you, but that truck needs to be 
impounded. Immediately. Is it the only truck in the 
town? Is it an individual enterprise, or part of some 
larger corporation? Who drives it?"

"Um. . ." The chief was flustered. Scully understood how 
he felt. It wasn't often she had to roust people out of bed 
to inform them that the friendly neighborhood ice cream 
man might be a vicious predator. "I. . . I don't know off 
the top of my head, Agent Scully. I'll have to find out. I'll 
need to get some people out of bed and over to the town 
hall to check on the Frosty Cow business license."

"Here's my cell phone number." Scully read it out to him. 
"Call me the minute you find anything."

"Will do."

Scully made one more call to the airline to cancel her 
flight and finished throwing on her own clothes just 
before Mulder returned. He had, she noticed gratefully, 
taken the time for a quick wash and shave; all his 
buttons were fastened correctly and his tie was properly 
knotted. Some sense of security had returned to his 
world. They'd figured out what was wrong. Scully the 
doctor would figure out how to fix it.

God, she hoped she could live up to that expectation. For 
all the times she'd ever wished Mulder would just shut 
up, she found his total silence unsettling and eerie.

While they weren't definite proof, the phone calls 
nonetheless convinced them. Mrs. Plath confirmed that 
she herself had sent Jennie out to the ice cream truck, 
although she didn't know what the girl had bought. Mr. 
Schwartz said that Sharon always had money for ice 
cream; strawberry was her favorite. The Thorpes weren't 
home. Mrs. Owens confessed that Tracy had indeed 
eaten ice cream after getting into a fight while on line 
waiting for her turn.

Scully hung up the motel phone as her cell rang. 
"Scully."

"The corporation headquarters are in California," Chief 
Puglisi said without preamble. "Each Frosty Cow truck is 
an individually owned franchise. The one here in town 
was sold last month to a Paul Kinder." Puglisi read out 
the address. "It's about a mile from your motel; how do 
you want to play this?"

Scully glanced over at Mulder, who was following the half 
of the conversation audible to him with narrowed and 
suspicious eyes. "Send me backup. To the location."

"Right. You're by far the closest, Agent Scully. I just want 
to warn you that it'll be at least half an hour before I can 
contact any of my people and send them out that way. 
Right after I spoke to you we had a tour bus accident out 
on the main highway with five other cars involved. . ."

"Do what you can. I'm going over now." She disconnected 
and turned around to find a piece of stationery shoved 
under her nose.

*I'M COMING WITH YOU.*

Mulder had penned the words with heavy, thick strokes, 
some of which had torn jagged holes in the flimsy paper. 
The stubborn expression on his face punctuated his 
insistence.

"No. You know that as you are now, you're a liability. You 
can't call for help if you get in trouble. You can't call for 
help if =I= get in trouble. For once, I need you to stay 
safely in one place while I go get the bad guys."

Instead of responding with another written salvo, Mulder 
merely dangled the keys to the rental just out of reach. 
The message was clear: I go with you, or you don't go at 
all.

"Fine." They were wasting time; Scully had no idea when 
Paul Kinder set out on his Frosty Cow route, but she had 
every intention of stopping him before he left his 
driveway this morning.

They pulled up across from a slightly rundown two-story 
home on the end of a dead-end street. The window 
shades were drawn; it was barely 8:00 but the day's heat 
had already started its customary ascension. Scully had 
noticed that most of the town kept their shades down all 
day to block the worst of the sun's assault.

The black and white cow-patterned truck sat in the 
unpaved drive.

She'd allowed Mulder to drive and now she turned to try 
and reason with him yet again. "It looks quiet. I'm going 
to check the truck, then come back here while we wait 
for the backup. Stay here."

He shook his head vehemently, determined to accompany 
her.

"Damn it, Mulder, STAY HERE," she implored 
desperately. "If you see something or hear something, 
blow the horn. Otherwise you're no good to either of us!"

He reached out suddenly and touched her cheek with his 
fingertips, mouthing a phrase she had no trouble lip-
reading.

*Be careful.*

"I will. I'll be right back." She slipped from the car and 
unholstered her weapon.

There was no cover between their vehicle and the silent 
Frosty Cow truck. If Kinder had already spotted her from 
behind his closed blinds, there was nothing Scully could 
do about it except duck and run, keeping herself as small 
a target as possible.

She reached the back of the truck and flattened her back 
against it, weapon up and ready, listening for any sound, 
any indication that Kinder was in the vicinity instead of 
puttering around inside his house. So far their adversary 
had shown himself to be disabling rather than 
dangerous, but Scully knew that any animal could attack 
if cornered and threatened. Just because he'd chosen to 
affect his victims from afar didn't mean he wouldn't be 
prepared to defend himself with deadly force.

Silence. She nodded to Mulder, who thankfully remained 
in the driver's seat of their car, about twenty-five yards 
away on the opposite side of the street. She saw his head 
bob in a return salute.

Scully eased around the far side of the truck and slipped 
down the length of it to check the driver's compartment, 
uncomfortably aware that someone could be lurking 
inside, tracking her progress through the sideview 
mirror.

Where the hell was that backup? What was taking them 
so damned long?

She crouched down below the open window, then sprang 
up, arms extended, gun shoved through the space to the 
empty compartment.

Empty.

She exhaled in relief.

Standing on tiptoe, Scully raked her gaze around the 
small front area of the Frosty Cow truck; but there was 
little to see other than the driver's seat and the vehicle 
controls. No one skulked under the overhanging 
dashboard or cowered behind the adjustable pilot's chair.

She slipped back the way she'd come, navigating along 
the far side of the truck, out of sight of the house. 
Slithering around to the back of the truck again, she 
reached up and grasped the handle on the double door.

It turned easily. Unlocked.

All her instincts warned her that she was walking into a 
trap. To wait for the promised backup. To realize that she 
was being set up. But her common sense was at war with 
her training. Kinder lived on the end of a nearly-empty 
road, away from town. Coralos was in southern Texas, 
where the daily high temperatures rivaled that of the 
Sahara. Was it so unreasonable then that he neither 
locked the truck's doors nor rolled up its windows?

All that notwithstanding, if the source of their problem 
was a particular Frosty Cow product, there might be 
evidence in the truck. Evidence that could easily melt or 
be reclaimed by the parent company if she didn't hurry 
up and secure a sample right now.

Scully yanked the handle and pulled the door open, 
throwing herself sideways in case Kinder came charging 
out.

He didn't.

She swung around to face the open door, weapon drawn 
and ready again, but saw nothing but banks of white 
coolers in the dim interior. Unless he was hiding in one 
of the refrigeration units, there were no places of 
concealment in the cramped space. Every inch was taken 
up with the insulated containers for a day of Frosty Cow 
sales. There was a small main aisle, barely wide enough 
to accommodate one person, running the length of the 
truck.

A faint humming emanated from inside. The refrigeration 
units apparently worked off a generator.

Ignoring the unpleasant memories of past suspects who 
could have compressed their bodily masses to fit neatly 
into the coolers with room to spare, Scully holstered her 
gun and hoisted herself up into the truck, taking a few 
steps forward.

Only to whirl around too late as Mulder sounded the 
alarm with a blast from the car horn the same instant 
the truck door slammed shut behind her, plunging her 
into darkness.

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

end part 6/9



I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM (7/9)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


She wasn't alone.

Paul Kinder was in here somewhere with her. Scully 
pressed back against the nearest waist-high cooler, 
gripping her weapon lightly, trying to regulate her 
breathing as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light.

The last time she was trapped in a truck with a killer, 
he'd said. . .

NO!

Scully stamped down on thoughts of Leonard Betts and 
his death sentence. She'd survived despite him. She had 
nothing this man needed, either.

"FBI. I'm armed." It sounded paltry to her own ears, but 
if nothing else, she was required to warn him before 
applying deadly force.

"I know. You're his partner, aren't you? The doctor?"

Young. Ordinary. Curious. Calm. Non-threatening. A 
catalog of vocal descriptions flowed through her head 
when he spoke. Useless knowledge. No, not useless. 
Everything has a meaning. Sift through this and find it. 
Find his weakness. Take the advantage.

The voice had come from her right, what should be the 
back of the van. Scully shifted slightly to face in that 
direction. "Yes. Are you Paul Kinder?"

"Yes. That's me."

There was a loud banging from outside. Mulder had 
deserted his post and was pounding fruitlessly on the 
exterior. From the inside, it reverberated like a kettle 
drum solo.

"He can't get in," Kinder replied conversationally. "I've 
locked the doors. And the connecting door from the 
driver's section back to here is locked, too."

"If you don't surrender soon, he might just take out his 
weapon and fire through the body of the truck," Scully 
said equably. She could be as calm and rational as he 
seemed to be.

"I doubt that. He'd never put you in danger. I saw that 
when I sold him the Dreamy Fudge Bar for you. Did you 
enjoy it?"

"I didn't eat it. I'm afraid my tastes have changed lately." 
Could she really be standing here in the dark 
nonchalantly discussing ice cream with a man who 
robbed people of their voices?

"That's a shame. I see he enjoyed his Green Alien." 
Kinder sounded as though he was smiling now.

Scully squinted desperately, trying to locate him. It 
should be easy; the truck wasn't that big and he couldn't 
be more than seven or eight feet away. But it was just too 
dark. There were a few slivers of daylight seeping in from 
around the edges of the back door frame, but the meager 
strips of brightness were not enough to enable her to 
distinguish anything other than a dim shape that might 
be him and might be another ice cream container. And 
the risks of a ricochet within the confined space were 
just too great. She had no choice but to keep him talking 
until she saw an opening to strike.

The pounding ceased for the moment. Scully prayed that 
the backup had arrived, although she couldn't hear any 
approaching car engines.

"Why have you done this?" she demanded.

"My name is Kinder. Most people pronounce it to rhyme 
with cinder, you know? But they're all wrong. It's really 
Kinder like finder. That's what my mother always said, 
anyway. And she said that it gave me a special mission in 
life."

"Which was?"

Kinder sneered. "Can't you guess? I'm supposed to help 
everyone be nicer to each other, to love one another, to 
bring joy and happiness. What better way to fulfill that 
mission than to drive an ice cream truck?"

Scully took a deep breath. "You have a peculiar way of 
spreading happiness by striking your clients mute, 
unless your idea of cheer is total silence."

"That's not my fault." Kinder's voice hardened. "It's 
theirs. No matter what I do, no matter how I try, they 
always fight. Adults too, but it starts when they're just 
kids. They're mean to each other, they're rude to me, 
they have no idea how to be polite and generous to their 
relatives and friends. They think they can bully each 
other and get away with it, enjoy life while making 
someone else miserable."

"They're children," Scully said coldly. "Eventually they 
learn manners."

"Their youth and inexperience is nothing but an excuse, 
and a poor one at that," Kinder rapped back. "Trust me. 
I've been doing this for a long time. They =never= learn."

"So why take their voices? What does that prove?"

Kinder laughed unpleasantly. "You really don't get it, do 
you? What did your mother always tell you when you 
were little?"

"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

"Nice try. And you are in the right ballpark. I'm talking 
about, 'if you can't say something nice, don't say 
anything at all.' Ever hear of that one, Ms. 'FBI, I'm 
Armed'?"

"Yes." 

"Then you understand. Not only could these kids not say 
anything nice, they had the temerity to say all their 
cruelest things and show their most vicious sides in front 
of me." Kinder sounded aggrieved, affronted at the 
behavior of his young patrons. "The language some of 
them use, it's unbelievable. Then they expect a reward 
from me. A treat." He laughed again, an ugly sound that 
echoed through the small space. "I gave them a treat, all 
right. They'll never have to worry about saying anything 
nice again. They'll never have to worry about being kind 
to anyone in word and deed. They'll just have to hope the 
world is kind to =them= from now on."

"Your mother was misinformed. Your name does not give 
you the right to be judge and jury over the etiquette of 
others."

"It's not polite to contradict your betters, Agent Scully."

She felt a chill skitter down her spine that had nothing to 
do with the low temperature in the van. The floor rocked 
suddenly under her feet and she stumbled, catching her 
balance only by letting go of her weapon with one hand 
to steady herself against the cooler.

"Your friend is behaving quite poorly himself," Kinder 
commented. The van swayed again. "I believe he's in the 
driver's compartment trying to rip the connecting door 
right off the frame."

"Give him enough time and I'm sure he'll succeed," Scully 
replied, re-establishing her grip on her gun and edging 
backwards. If she could get enough distance between 
them, she would risk a shot.

Where was the backup? Damn it, where was the backup?

"Unfortunately, we've run out of time, Agent Scully. I'm 
sure your friend isn't the only one waiting out there for 
me. I've been here on the job for a month, and now it's 
time to move on. There are other communities that need 
to be educated about the difference between true 
enjoyment and happiness and heartlessness and spite. 
But I've got one final pupil to teach."

Oh, dear God, not again. Don't tell me I'm locked in a 
truck facing a psychopath =again=. This is so unamusing 
I might actually laugh, a feat which would surely give 
new meaning to the term "she died laughing."

She steadied her weapon in the direction of his voice and 
put every ounce of steel she possessed into her own. "I'm 
sorry, but I'm not interested in any more graduate 
degrees. Now put your hands up and face the back of the 
truck. Otherwise I will shoot you."

If the vehicle had been bigger, giving him a longer 
runway to gather more momentum, the outcome might 
have been different. But Kinder made the most of the tiny 
section afforded him. Alerted by the thud of his footsteps 
and the sudden rush of air, Scully braced herself and 
fired.

At the same time the van shook again from Mulder's 
frantic efforts at the door.

And Scully missed.

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

end part 7/9



I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM (8/9)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


The shot went wild, pinging around the metal interior 
like an angry fly in a bell jar. Scully paid it no heed; it 
was too late to worry about it. Kinder was on her before 
she could fire again, slamming into her body with his 
own, knocking her backwards to the floor.

She cracked the back of her head against the lip of the 
cooler as she went down, but barely registered the pain. 
What she felt instead was rage – pure unadulterated fury 
that she ended up flat on her back =again=, pinned down 
at the mercy of some delusional fool who felt it his 
appointed duty in life to erase her presence from this 
earth.

She managed to hold on to her gun with one hand, but 
Kinder's full body weight was planted firmly on her 
stomach, and he grabbed her around the throat, fingers 
squeezing firmly against vital airways and arteries, palm 
pressing down on her larynx.

The darkness suddenly got darker.

Kinder whispered, "He says he had an argument with 
you. I think you started it. After all, he said you walked 
out on him. Now, is that a nice way to treat somebody? Is 
it?"

Scully struggled to breathe, to move, to do anything to 
stop him from suffocating her. She could feel her 
strength leeching away under the relentless pressure at 
her throat, the back of her head adding its own verse to 
the chorus of woes being sung throughout her body.

"And now you're not even polite enough to answer me 
back. No treat for you, Agent Scully. Not until you learn 
some manners!"

She felt him move and draw back his free arm, and a 
flash of silver glittered in the hazy blackness. Too thin for 
a knife.

An ice pick.

He brought his arm down, aiming the sharpened tool at 
her throat, meaning to sever her vocal chords and render 
her voiceless forever.

The van swayed again, and he lost his balance and 
faltered on the downstroke.

Scully's body, already in overdrive, responded to the 
slight shift in the  oppressive weight on her neck and 
abdomen with a flood of fresh adrenaline. She brought 
her gun hand up in a blind swing and smashed the 
unforgiving metal of the weapon against the side of 
Kinder's head.

He howled but the blow didn't deflect his assault entirely; 
the ice pick missed its intended target and pierced her 
left shoulder instead, the point slicing effortlessly 
through her linen suit jacket and the silky fabric of her 
blouse to spear the flesh beneath.

There was a flash of unbearable agony as the tip of the 
pick crunched audibly against bone. He yanked the silver 
spike back out and then took his hand off her neck. She 
saw his shadowy shape raise the pick high over his head 
with both hands, poised to drive it home with all his 
might and kill her.

Scully sucked in a ragged breath, ignoring the searing 
fire that followed the flow of air over her abused throat 
tissues. The air that brought a return to full 
consciousness. The air that brought strength. The air 
that brought the energy and the will to finish this once 
and for all. She dragged her hands up to her chest, 
coughing, aware that although her shoulder was 
bleeding, her left hand still functioned. She closed it over 
her right around the gun.

"Red light, green light, one, two, three!" chanted Kinder 
gleefully. He lunged down.

Scully fired again.

At such close quarters, the gunshot sounded more like 
an explosion. The recoil bucked against her hands and 
dug painfully into her ribs.

Kinder hovered above her, gurgling. The ice pick slipped 
from his hands and plunked harmlessly onto her chest. 
Scully flung it aside with one hand, struggling to sit up 
before her mortally wounded foe collapsed face first on 
top of her and pinned her again. 

Her movements shifted his stance, and he crumpled 
backwards over her legs instead.

The back door of the van was suddenly flung open, 
flooding the small interior with blinding daylight. 
Squinting to block the intense glare, Scully tried again to 
sit up, a precursor to gaining her feet before Mulder, 
Chief Puglisi and the four other police officers with him 
squeezed in and found her lying in such an ignominious 
heap.

No such luck. Her frenzied partner leaped inside as if 
he'd been shot from a gun barrel himself. She couldn't 
see him properly as her eyes were still tearing from the 
sun and his back was to the light coming in from the 
door, but she could imagine his words and his horrified 
expression without any difficulty.

Scully, Scully, Scully, oh, God, Scully. . . 

"It's not. . . " she rasped, grimacing at the appalling 
discomfort that accompanied her effort to reassure him, 
"it's not my blood. I'm all right, Mulder, it's not my 
blood."

She didn't need to look to know that her chest and neck 
were coated in gore; she'd felt the warm liquid raining 
down on her the instant she'd shot Kinder and she 
understood immediately how such an alarming sight 
could affect her partner.

Unseen but helpful hands dragged Kinder's dead weight 
off her legs, releasing her from the last of his lethal 
embrace. She coughed again, one hand to her aching 
throat, the other pushing herself upright.

Mulder tried to hold her down, and she shook him off 
with a mix of impatience and anger. "I'm all right! Let go 
of me!"

Her eyes had finally adjusted to the light, allowing her to 
see her prison clearly for the first time. It didn't differ 
much from her original impression; just a small space 
crowded with lots of white coolers.

Now redecorated with an abstract artist's brush and 
gallons of red paint, or so it seemed.

She also got her first good look at Paul Kinder, the Frosty 
Cow Man. He looked just like his vocal quality had 
implied, the diametric opposite of what his words and 
actions had construed. Young. Ordinary. Non-
threatening. Just a young man in a white shirt with a 
smiling cow on the pocket and a hole in his chest.

Scully struggled to her knees, feeling slightly queasy as 
she glanced down at herself.

No wonder Mulder wanted to keep her in a prone 
position. She looked like she'd been attacked by a meat 
cleaver, not an ice pick. She lifted her left arm to place 
her palm on the nearest refrigeration unit, meaning to 
lever herself to her feet. Fresh pain raced down her arm, 
awakening nerve endings that had, up to this moment, 
been slumbering uneasily under the effects of her 
adrenaline fog. She hissed in pain and slumped back 
down to the floor, clutching her bad arm.

"Shit." That hurt. She was certain it wasn't more than an 
oversized puncture wound, that the bone was only 
bruised instead of broken, but it really hurt. And she 
couldn't kid herself that the warm wetness running down 
her arm under her suit jacket sleeve was Kinder's blood 
this time. Oversized puncture wound or not, she was 
bleeding badly. Between the blood loss and the head 
trauma, she suddenly realized she was decidedly dizzy as 
well. If she did manage to stand up, she might very well 
fall right back down, or swoon into Mulder's arms like a 
Victorian maiden in some swashbuckling romance novel. 
Neither was a very appealing option, so she allowed her 
partner to settle her more comfortably in a seated 
position on the floor of the truck.

"Agent Scully?" Chief Puglisi crowded into the tiny space 
and crouched down with her and Mulder. "Jesus. Are 
you all right?"

"No. Yes. I mean no, I'm not dying, but yes, if you have 
an ambulance out there, I need some medical attention." 
On top of everything else, her voice was going to generate 
that distinctly husky timbre for the near future, she 
thought dismally. The kind that so many people found 
alluring and sexy, which would have been bearable if she 
didn't have the memory of ghastly reasons behind her 
condition.

Puglisi smiled slightly despite her gruesome appearance. 
"You do look a little green around the gills at that. I'll go 
holler for the medics. Just stay here."

Mulder was fluttering around her like a moth at a flame, 
mouthing sentences and paragraphs she couldn't even 
begin to translate. She could guess the gist of most it, 
unfortunately. How stupid she'd been to go to the truck 
without waiting for backup in the first place. How he'd 
tried to help her. How sorry he was that she got hurt. 
How she should have let him come with her.

"Mulder, stop. I'll be fine. This is all superficial."

He ceased his silent ranting and glared at her. 
Superficial, Scully? that glare announced. You're 
=covered= in blood and it's superficial?

"I told you. Most of it isn't my blood." How peculiar that 
he didn't even need to speak to carry on a coherent 
conversation with her. Or maybe not so peculiar. She 
was used to filling in the blanks he left in his personality. 
It was when she got quiet that he got lost.

Lost and found, hide and seek.

I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.

Red light, green light, one, two, three.

Red everywhere around her. Except for the aliens. There 
were green.

Gray.

No, that's only Reticulans. The ice cream aliens were 
green. The rockets were red. Just like ". . .and the 
rocket's red glare. . ."

Red and green. Red Rockets and Green. . .

Scully's eyes, which had drifted half-shut, snapped open. 
"Mulder!"

He spun around from his new position by the door; he'd 
picked his way over there in a frustrated attempt to 
hurry the paramedics. Disturbed by the urgency in her 
voice, he knelt down next to her again, one hand going to 
her face to brush back the sweat-matted hair clinging to 
her cheek, the other smoothing up and down her 
uninjured arm, trying to soothe what he perceived as 
distress.

"The coolers. Look in the coolers."

He frowned, making shushing motions, clearly thinking 
she was hallucinating or worse from the bang on the 
head. Scully pushed his hands away. "Mulder, listen to 
me. Look in the coolers. The Frosty Cow Man sells 
something called a Red Rocket. Find one! Do it now!"

He stood up hesitantly, then flipped open the nearest 
cooler lid and began rooting through the contents. 
Finally, he pulled out a slim, wrapped popsicle with red 
writing on the black and white wrapper and held it up for 
her inspection.

"Eat it."

He stared at her, eyebrows shooting skyward, as if she'd 
just made the most deliciously obscene suggestion he'd 
ever heard in his life. And maybe she had. But he still 
didn't understand, and he still wasn't moving to devour 
the cherry-flavored ice.

"Red is the color opposite of green, Mulder." She paused, 
then added what she hoped might be the final touch. 
"Please," she pleaded softly. "Please eat the Red Rocket, 
Mulder. Please."

The expression on his face shifted to one of total wonder, 
and he pulled the wrapper off and shoved the popsicle 
into his mouth.

"Thank you," Scully whispered.

Mulder crunched down on a softened bit of the snack, 
swallowed it, and smiled with red-tinged lips as he 
crouched down beside her again. "You're welcome," he 
responded hoarsely.

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

end part 8/9



I SCREAM, YOU SCREAM (9/9)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Coralos, Texas
Friday

"I can't thank you enough, " Chief Puglisi said, emotion 
making his voice raw and uneven. "I never thought I'd be 
so happy to hear someone arguing with his brother about 
what channel to watch on TV. It's incredible."

Scully smiled. "You're welcome. I'm glad the other 
children are all right now, too."

"Did you get those test results back from the lab okay?"

"Yes." She didn't add that they confirmed nothing other 
than the presence of the normal ingredients for ice cream 
and popsicles – a montage of milk products, sugars and 
corn syrups, natural and artificial flavors, assorted 
chemical thickening and preserving agents and food 
colorings.

Not that there had been much left to analyze. By the time 
the contents of the Frosty Cow truck had been 
transported to the lab for testing, most of the individual 
products had melted together in one slushy, multi-hued 
pool of viscous goop. If there ever had been any secret 
compound in either the Green Aliens or the Red Rockets 
to instigate such vocal disruption, it was now 
indistinguishable from the regular ingredients making up 
the Dreamy Fudge Bars, Super Almond Crunches, 
Vanilla Fudge Bars, Orange Oozes and Strawberry 
Twists. 

"You're going back to DC this afternoon, right?"

"Yes. Mulder and I have a flight at four."

"How's the shoulder?" Puglisi gestured at her sling.

"It's all right. Just a little sore, like my throat." Her neck 
was ringed with a necklace of ugly bruises from Kinder's 
fingers, but she'd been able to conceal the worst of the 
damage with makeup.

"And Agent Mulder?"

"He's fully recovered. He's picking me up in a little while." 
Mulder was back in full verbal form, even if his normal 
baritone was a little rough around the edges. He'd sent 
her off to Puglisi's office on the basis that with only one 
good arm, she'd be a liability when it came to packing.

"Oh, so I'm well enough to drive a car with one hand, but 
I'm not safe to have around the motel room amid the 
hazards of folding and creasing?" she'd asked, amused.

"You never know when one of these double-breasted 
suits is going to fight back, Scully. I can't let you take 
that chance."

"Admit it, Mulder. You just don't want go down to the 
station and fill out all that paperwork."

"True enough. But," he looked up from where he sat 
tucking her cranberry suit into her suitcase to regard her 
with serious eyes, "you were the one in the truck with 
him all that time."

She silently thanked him for padding the truth, 
cushioning her from the stark reality of, "You were the 
one who shot and killed Paul Kinder, Scully."

The taking of a human life was not an act she took 
lightly, even in the most desperate situations.

He nodded back in acknowledgment of her unspoken 
gratitude, the expression on his face soft and concerned.

As she left Puglisi's office, Mulder pulled up in their 
rental and beeped the horn.

She wondered if she would ever hear that sound again 
without thinking of the events of the past day. She 
slipped into the passenger seat and buckled the seatbelt, 
wincing as the motion twisted her injured arm.

Bless him. Mulder had the air conditioning on full tilt. 
Scully sighed in relief, gingerly leaning back against the 
headrest and closing her eyes.

"All set?" he inquired.

"Yes. Let's go."

They drove in silence for a few miles, then Scully turned 
her head to regard him through her lashes.

"Have I got a bug on me or something, Scully?"

"No. I. . . I feel I owe you an apology."

"You do, huh?"

"Yes." She paused, looking down at her hands. "I was 
annoyed at the way you were treating me, as if I would 
crumble into dust if someone so much as touched me the 
wrong way. As if I was still an invalid."

"I think you've proven in the last twenty-four hours that 
that's nowhere near the truth," he responded wryly.

"But when you started behaving the way you usually do 
on a case, challenging my opinions and my theories, I 
became even more angry. I. . . I had reasons for to be 
upset. Those reasons don't have anything to do with you, 
yet I took my bad temper out on you. My behavior was 
uncalled for and unprofessional, and I'm sorry."

"For what its worth, Scully, I don't think you need to 
apologize. You had every right to say some of the things 
you did, right down to filing complaints about Skinner 
and me for trying to limit your case involvement. I think 
you know how scared I was that you wouldn't survive. 
And I forgot that no matter what else happened, it wasn't 
up to me to make life or death decisions for you. If you 
didn't want to live as badly as you did, you would have 
died, chip or not." He paused to change lanes, edging 
carefully around an eighteen-wheeler. "I know you're fit 
for duty. Hell, you're probably more fit than I am. Red 
Rockets and Green Aliens and I still didn't understand 
what you were talking about until it was almost too late."

"That's because aliens aren't really green, Mulder," she 
replied affectionately, easing herself down to a more 
comfortable position in the bucket seat. "Everyone knows 
they're gray."


End



Author's notes: Eeek. A casefile. I can't believe I actually 
did this. To all those who have written casefiles, you have 
my deepest admiration and respect. :-) In case you were 
wondering, I did deliberately ignore any canon about 
Mulder being colorblind, despite my feature popsicle 
colors. My eternal thanks to Jill, who provided 
inspiration when I was stuck and beta-read the finished 
product.

Feedback: Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me at 
jeanrobinson@yahoo.com