Title: MASKING SECRETS
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: S, X
Archive: Please ask permission.
Spoilers: Through "Elegy."
Summary: Hiding behind your fears.
Feedback: Treat me at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com
Author's notes at the end 
*****************************

MASKING SECRETS (1/8)
By Jean Robinson



"Here?"

"Yeah."

He smiled. "Kinky."

She returned the grin. "I knew you'd like it. Now get over 
here and make me feel better."

He let her grab his tie and pull him down on top of her 
like a dog on a leash. "Tough day?" he murmured, 
fumbling with the buttons on her blouse while she 
yanked his neckwear loose and tossed it somewhere into 
the darkness behind her.

"You have no idea."

They had performed this act many times before, although 
never in this particular place. Poised naked between her 
legs, he hesitated a moment, the hand that had been 
groping her breast moving to stroke the fuzzy brown 
surface that protected them from the scuffed wooden 
floor instead. "Hey, what is this thing, anyway?"

Jody heaved an exasperated sigh and grabbed his wrist, 
guiding his hand back where it belonged. "How the hell 
should I know? Look, don't get all animal rights on me. 
I'm sure it's just some synthetic crap. It just came back 
from the cleaners this morning, in case you're worried."

"In that case. . . . "

"Oh! Oh, God. Right there. Yesssss. . . ."

In her vengeful desire to thumb her nose at authority, 
she'd forgotten two crucial facts associated with the 
pleasurable pastime in which she was now engaged. 
First, that she was not only vocal, but downright loud. 
Mere breathy moans and sighs weren't enough; it was 
her habit to babble, wail and shriek her delighted 
approval as he pumped enthusiastically between her 
thighs.  

Second, that she was not screwing her boyfriend on a 
blanket spread on the isolated side of the lake, nor in the 
back of his parked van, nor on the downstairs couch in 
front of the TV while her parents were out of town for the 
weekend.

She was at work.

As the climax built within her, as she cried, "Oh, yeah, 
baby, yeah!" in preparation for that final electric 
explosion, as the overhead fluorescent lights flared on 
with jarring intensity instead and a voice thundered 
above her, "WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?", Jody suddenly 
remembered where she was and why Tom was pulling 
out before the finish, his own orgasm pinched off as he 
squeaked, "Holy shit!" in terrified soprano tones more 
appropriate to his gawky twelve-year-old brother. 

Tom rolled off her, trying to cover himself with the edge of 
the Cowardly Lion costume pelt that formed their 
makeshift bed and scramble behind her.

Jody sat up, blinking, one hand rising to block the glare 
from the lights. "Ms. Evelyn, I. . . ."

The woman staring down at her was tall and imposing 
under normal circumstances. From Jody's vantage point, 
Ms. Evelyn towered above her like a wrathful god from 
the mythical tales they'd just finished studying in senior 
English. Zeus, maybe. Or Jupiter. Whatever.

"Get out. Your employment here is terminated as of this 
moment. Your final paycheck will be mailed to you, after 
I deduct the cost of re-cleaning this costume."

Jody's short job history was peppered with enough pink 
slips so that being fired made little impression, but the 
news of a salary dock struck a sensitive nerve. She 
jumped to her feet, white-hot anger instantly replacing 
any chagrin at her ignominious state of undress. "You 
can't do that, you bitch!"

"I certainly can, young lady. Now vacate the premises, or 
I'll summon the police."

"You're not in charge! Mr. Robertson owns the store!"

"I am the senior manager, Ms. Kelso. And you have 
exactly two minutes to dress yourself and your 'friend' 
and be on your way before I have you both arrested for 
indecent exposure, lewd behavior and trespassing."

Behind her, Tom was scrabbling wildly for his clothes, 
trying to stuff both legs into his jeans at the same time. 
"Jody, let's =go=!" he pleaded.

Jody opened her mouth to continue the fight - her 
permanent school record and her job files also featured 
numerous accounts of insubordination - when she saw 
Ms. Evelyn look pointedly at her watch.

The bitch meant it. She was actually counting down the 
seconds from the two minute warning.

Mouthing off was one thing. Getting arrested was 
another matter entirely. So far she'd avoided run-ins with 
the cops, despite a party-hardy lifestyle that included 
sex, booze and recreational drugs. Furious, Jody grabbed 
her clothes and began to dress.

They made it with eight seconds to spare. As Ms. Evelyn 
escorted them out the front door of Attic Treasures Bridal 
and Costume Shop, Jody turned back and fired one final 
salvo.

"I'll get you, bitch! You'll be sorry you messed with me!" 
She kicked the glass door with one sneakered foot, and 
the bottom pane shattered inward.

Jody ran, with Tom trailing her like a reluctant shadow.

A small figure stepped from behind a row of bridesmaid 
dresses. "We heard the noise. What happened?"

Ms. Evelyn locked the broken door. "Nothing that 
concerns us. Be careful. There's glass everywhere. Don't 
cut yourself."

The figure came closer, cautiously circumnavigating the 
mess. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. She's nothing but an ignorant slattern. Her 
threats are empty and meaningless. And if anything does 
happen, she'll make a convenient scapegoat."

The smaller figure smiled. "Good."
________________________

End part 1/8


MASKING SECRETS (2/8)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


The leaves had not yet begun to change, the season was 
still officially summer,  but there was an autumn 
crispness in the air all the same. Something in the bright 
blue sky and slightly chill temperature that reminded her 
of closure, hibernation.

And death.

Specifically, her own.

Scully got out of the car and tried to convince herself that 
her morbid thoughts were caused by the Halloween 
graveyard display in one of the store windows rather 
than her advancing illness.

Foam-rubber gravestones, cotton cobwebs, paper 
skeletons and plastic ghosts.

Ghosts.

As if the recent incident with Harold Spuller hadn't 
frightened her enough, shaken her faith and robbed her 
of almost all her remaining will to fight. Now Mulder 
expected her to chase more ghosts.

"Twelve people, Scully," he'd said yesterday morning in 
the office. The only thing lacking had been the slide 
show; for once, Mulder was working without visual aids. 
"Twelve unrelated people report seeing ghosts in a three-
month time frame. You have to admit that's a lot of 
specters for one county."

She'd been particularly tired. The previous night had 
been bad; a pulsating, pounding headache had kept her 
awake, wondering if this was the end, if the pain would 
just escalate not into a nosebleed, but an internal 
hemorrhage. If closing her eyes now meant she'd never 
open them again.

Vampire-like, the headache had vanished mysteriously at 
the first light of dawn, but by then it was too late to try 
and sleep. She'd dragged herself out of bed and into the 
shower and arrived at the office to hear Mulder's latest 
phantom folly. But because she was exhausted, she'd 
made a mistake and asked a stupid question instead of 
just telegraphing her disbelief with silence and a raised 
eyebrow.

"Why aren't the local police handling this?"

Mulder had looked at her strangely. "Because this isn't a 
crime, Scully. It's twelve appearances of various 
apparitions. The kind of paranormal event that the X-
Files division was formed to investigate in the first place."

Of course, she'd thought wearily. Now will come the 
inevitable question. And it had. Right on schedule.

"Scully, are you all right?"

She'd straightened her spine, pressed her lips together 
and forced herself to look him square in the eye. "Yes. I'm 
fine." And if you have to ask, Mulder, then you deserve it 
when I lie to you. I know you're afraid. But I'm terrified. 
It takes all my energy just to make it through each day 
now. I don't have any stamina to spare to comfort you. 
I'm sorry.

"Okay. We're flying up to New York this afternoon. I've 
got a list of the people who saw things."

The "things" had ranged from deceased relatives to fire-
breathing dragons and unicorns, demons and angels and 
flying monkeys. The "victims" had included seven men 
and five women, aged seventeen through forty-eight, 
whose occupations, income levels and marital status 
gave no hint of any connection.

There was, however, one link between them all. Everyone 
had attended a party prior to seeing whatever it was they 
thought they saw.

Not the same party, though. Eleven different ones, in 
fact. All costume parties, everything from a summertime 
Caribbean themed wedding to three early Halloween 
bashes.

Scully had made the mistake of pointing this out to Mr. 
and Mrs. Tierny, who had gone to their neighbor's 
annual Labor Day blowout dressed as Ronald and Nancy 
Reagan, gently suggesting that perhaps their apparitions 
had been inspired by a combination of the imaginary 
characters around them and the keg of Miller Lite 
supplied by the host.

Martin Tierny had bristled. "I assure you, Agent Scully, 
that I know the difference between someone =dressed= as 
Puff the Magic Dragon and a =real= dragon. Not that I 
believe in dragons. But whatever it was, it was =not= 
another party guest. And for your information, my wife 
and I don't drink."

End of interview.

Mulder had said nothing as she buckled herself into the 
passenger seat for the twenty-minute ride to the next 
tale, but she'd sensed his annoyance. Way to go, she'd 
thought. Next will come the suggestion that you go back 
to DC, followed by yet another inquiry as to whether you 
should even be in the field anymore.

"Scully, maybe you should go back to Washington."

Am I psychic, or what?

No. Just because Mulder was more predictable than the 
sunrise didn't mean she was picking up his brainwaves. 
It just meant she hadn't completely lost her observational 
and deductive skills, which was something of a relief.

"I'm fine, Mulder. But I still feel that based on what we've 
heard so far, all of these incidents can be explained by a 
heightened sense of suggestibility caused by a festive 
atmosphere. People get giddy at parties, even without 
alcohol to enhance their mood. It's a euphoric event by 
definition. That's why it's a party and not a business 
meeting. And when you're surrounded by people dressed 
up as Tinkerbell and the Lone Ranger, it isn't so strange 
that you would imagine you see any number of other 
things as well."

"So you think this is just an exaggerated case of runaway 
endorphins."

"I think it's one possible explanation. Certainly a more 
plausible one than an odd assortment of ghosts roaming 
around haunting random Westchester County residents."

"Westchester =is= the home of the Headless Horseman 
and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, Scully."

She'd turned her face to the window. "The operative word 
here being 'legend,' Mulder. For the sake of argument, 
suppose these people are seeing apparitions. So what? As 
you reminded me, it's not a crime. Nobody's been harmed 
by it. Unsettled, yes, but there's nothing in the criminal 
code protecting the public from unsolicited attacks of the 
willies."

"You don't think this is an interesting phenomenon in 
and of itself?" His voice had been tight, bordering on 
anger.

This time she'd held her tongue and let her silence speak 
for her.

But her instinct to protect him from her own bitterness, 
even on the bad days, had prevailed. At the next 
interview, the third of the day, she'd asked twenty-year-
old Grace Fisher where she'd gotten the Snoopy costume 
she'd worn as a publicity stunt for a Bark in the Park 
fundraiser for the local humane society, an innocent 
query that had proven to be the turning point of the 
investigation.

"The humane society told me where to rent it and 
reimbursed me," Grace had told them. "I'm the smallest 
volunteer, and they said I'd be the only one it would fit. I 
got it at Attic Treasures. Over in Mount Kisco."

By 5:30 the following day, they'd confirmed that all of the 
affected party-goers had rented their costumes from Attic 
Treasures.
________________________

End part 2/8


MASKING SECRETS (3/8)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


The front window display of Attic Treasures was an odd 
conglomeration punctuating the store's dual purpose, all 
the minute details of each item emphasized by the late 
afternoon sunlight. Scully's attention remained riveted 
on the cemetery exhibit highlighting the costume rental 
section, while Mulder stood briefly admiring the bridal 
dresses, most of which were unique creations of antique 
ivory and cream lace instead of the usual sequin and 
bead-studded satin taffeta affairs.

"Quite a place," he murmured.

Scully nodded, dragging her gaze away from the fake 
graveyard and all it implied beyond Halloween. "The 
building itself is old. Wood. It must take a lot of upkeep." 
Indeed, Attic Treasures did seem a bit out of place amid 
the modern brick storefronts along Mount Kisco's main 
drag; the stand-alone shop looked to be from a kinder, 
gentler era.

Mulder pushed open the door and they went inside.

The front room was crammed with bridal attire, all of it 
mimicking the selections in the window. This was a 
specialty shop catering to the unusual, not a place to 
find a mass-produced white gown or six fuchsia 
bridesmaid dresses adorned with the requisite giant bow 
at the back. This was a store for finicky mothers and 
fussy brides, for people concerned with who else might 
be wearing the same dress at their formal function.

"Can I help you?"

The cheerful voice came from their right, behind a 
counter they hadn't even noticed. Scully turned around 
in tandem with Mulder, both of them reaching 
automatically for their wallets.

"We're Age. . . Agents Mulder and Scully with the FBI. 
We're here to ask you a few questions about the 
costumes you rent."

The stutter was slight, almost unnoticeable. But Scully 
was glad for once of Mulder's tendency to speak first, for 
both of them. Because now the social gaffe was his and 
his alone. She only had to worry that her eyes had 
widened in surprise; she was fairly certain that the rest 
of her expression had not betrayed her shock at the 
appearance of the owner of the voice.

"Oh, yes. I heard you'd be coming in. I'm Mary Giordano. 
How can I help you?"

Scully had become accustomed to the cruelties of life 
frequently inflicted upon the innocent. In her work she'd 
viewed bodies of young men and women felled in the 
prime of their life by horrendous diseases, children 
violated by madmen, permanently scarred victims whose 
only crime was colossally bad luck. 

Mary Giordano brought back memories of that long-ago 
case in Florida with the circus freaks; she would have 
been right at home next to Mr. Nutt and Dr. Blockhead 
and the Conundrum.

The Fat Lady.

The Fat Lady who was staring at them expectantly, 
chestnut-colored hair falling to her shoulders in neat 
waves, whose pudgy, unlined face and three chins 
belonged not to a woman per se, but to a teenager. A 
pretty teenager, too, buried under what must have been 
400 pounds of excess weight. Scully put her total body 
mass at over well over 500 pounds, all packed into a five 
foot, five inch frame.

Mary had been reading; she closed her book and asked 
for the third time, "How can I help you?"

God, she even has beautiful eyes, thought Scully. Big 
brown eyes with a thick fringe of lashes. Carefully 
applied makeup to emphasize them. This was just not 
fair.

Mulder appeared to have lost not only the track of his 
thoughts, but the actual train as well, so Scully stepped 
in to cover for him. "Yes, thank you, Ms. Giordano. We 
need some information about some costumes that Attic 
Treasures provided during the last three months."

"Sure. What do you need to know?"

"Do you keep a list of clients and their orders?" Mulder 
had finally found his voice.

"Right here on the computer." Mary patted the PC in 
question. "Anything specific you're looking for?"

"How about a printout of all costume orders from July 1 
until now?"

Mary tapped a few keys, frowned at the screen, and 
looked up at them again. "Just costumes, or props, too?"

"Props?"

"Sure. We rent all sorts of stuff for parties, local theater 
companies, company promotional events, school plays. 
Sometimes even Broadway productions. Suppose you're 
doing a Hawaiian night and want a few fake palm trees 
for atmosphere. We've got 'em."

"Just costumes for now, please. Individual rentals only. 
Can you do that?"

"Let me see." Mary hunched over the keyboard. "There. 
It'll take a few minutes to print out."

Scully noticed the book the girl had been reading, a 
biography of Bill Cosby. "Interesting choice," she 
commented.

Mary smiled. "Yeah. I like his stuff. That's why I work 
here. I need the money for my class next summer."

Mulder began retrieving each sheet as it fed into the 
printer's out bin, running a finger down every page as he 
tried to glean additional clues from it.

"What class is that?" Scully asked.

"Stand-up comedy. I want to get into show business after 
college." She read something in Scully's expression and 
sighed. "I know what you're thinking."

Startled, Scully blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I know what you're thinking. 'Oh, she wants to be just 
like Roseanne.' Well, I don't. I hate her. She's not funny, 
she's just gross. I know what I look like and I know 
exactly what everyone's going to think when I start 
auditioning. That's why I need the money for a real class. 
I took one of those community courses last spring, you 
know? Eight weeks for like a hundred and fifty dollars? 
You know what happened?"

"What?"

"My first night, I get there, and the teacher says we're all 
gonna do two minutes each, off the top of our heads, just 
so he can see where we all are in the process of 
developing an act. Well, the first guy, he stands up, turns 
his baseball cap around backwards and pulls his pants 
down around his hips and starts slouching around the 
room telling yo' momma jokes. Like, 'Hey, yo' momma so 
dumb, she stay up all night studying for a pregnancy 
test.'" Mary's mouth twisted in distaste at the memory. "It 
was just so. . . so =stupid=. The next guy, his idea of 
comedy was imitating Eddie Murphy. Cursed for two 
minutes straight. And the teacher. . . the teacher 
encouraged them! Told them they had great promise, 
great technique, good timing. =Originality=. It was awful. 
I left before it was my turn and I never went back. What 
a waste of time. And money."

Mulder was still perusing the client list. Encouraged by 
Scully's interest, Mary continued.

"I don't want to stand up on stage and spout four-letter 
words and talk about sex. I want to talk about things 
that =are= funny, things that everyone can relate to. Bill 
Cosby's early stuff, it's hysterical. And it's not dirty. You 
can talk about it in front of your parents, or your 
grandmother. You ever see that HBO special he did 
where he talks about going to the dentist?"

Scully shook her head. It sounded vaguely familiar, but 
since college she'd watched so little television outside of 
news shows she couldn't bring it to mind.

"Well, it's hilarious. Trust me. All about what it feels like 
to get Novocaine and how the dentist likes to jam all 
these instruments in your mouth and then carry on a 
conversation with you. That's the kind of comedian I 
want to be. But I blew all my money on that stupid class 
last spring, so I'm working after school now to make 
enough to take a course at SUNY Purchase next summer. 
A =real= course, not just some community thing run by a 
jerk who probably thinks dead baby jokes are the height 
of humor."

"It must be hard to manage high school and a job."

Mary smiled. "I don't mind. I like it here. Mr. Robertson 
is my grandfather, and he's really nice to work for. 
Besides, a lot of show business people live in Westchester 
and they come in here. I started at the end of June, right 
after school let out, and my third day on the job, Glenn 
Close came in to find a dress for a party. I almost died on 
the spot."

"Scully?" Mulder interrupted.

"Find anything?" She moved to look at the list herself, 
now that it had finished printing out.

"Nothing that jumps out at me. I wonder. . . Ms. 
Giordano?"

"You can call me Mary, Agent Mulder. What?"

"Can we see the costumes?"

"Sure." She stepped out from behind the counter, a 
ponderous bulk in a voluminous blue tent of a dress. 
"This is the costume and prop room." She shoved open a 
door, wedging herself through it sideways.

Scully followed her, stepping into a large room of dim 
shapes and shadows, an ominous atmosphere that 
dissipated the minute Mary found the light switch and 
snapped it on.

But not before Scully cried out in surprise at the huge, 
bulbous shape directly in front of her, a brown, slimy 
thing with a thin evil smile and a penetrating stare.

And then the moment was gone, and she felt extremely 
foolish for having screamed at Jabba the Hutt, even if the 
model did seem to be reaching for her with its stubby 
little arms.

Mulder laughed. "I guess you would have been more 
comfortable with E.T., Scully. He's over here."

"Sorry about that." Mary sounded flustered. "I don't know 
who keeps moving him right next to the door. I can't tell 
you how many times I've moved him back to where the 
Star Wars racks are. He's one of our best costumes, 
though. You wear him to a Halloween party, you'll win 
the contest. I guarantee it."

She was not only ghostbusting, she was having close 
encounters with an award-winning slug. The day was 
just getting better by the minute.

Scully got her racing heart rate under control and turned 
away from the oversized worm. "How many people does 
Mr. Robertson employ?" she asked. Mulder had 
wandered off, list in hand, to locate some of the previous 
rentals.

"Well, my grandfather doesn't come in much anymore. 
Mrs. Casey does the books and helps out at odd hours, 
Ms. Evelyn is the senior manager, Lucille and Brenda 
work in the mornings and on weekends, and Maria and 
Heidi are the seamstresses, they do all the fittings for the 
bridal stuff. Then there's me, and. . . well, Jody. But she 
doesn't work here anymore."

"What happened to Jody?"

Mary was trying not to giggle and failing. "Ms. Evelyn 
fired her. Two nights ago."

"Why?"

Now the girl could barely speak, she was laughing so 
hard. Her entire body shook, and she had to lean on the 
doorframe to keep her balance. "Ms. Ev. . . Evelyn cuh. . . 
caught her and. . . and her boyfruh-fruh-friend. . . ." She 
couldn't continue, but the gist of her message was 
obvious.

"Back here?"

Mary wiped away the tears streaming down her face and 
nodded. "Right on the Cowardly Lion costume."

"Were you here when it happened?"

"No." Mary shook her head. "Ms. Evelyn told me the next 
day, when I asked where Jody was. I think she was really 
mad because the costume had just been cleaned. The 
flame retardant treatment for all these things is 
expensive enough, but the cleaning process for fake fur is 
just astronomical, you know? I mean, I really think if 
Jody and Tom had been making out on Darth Vader's 
cape she might not have been fired. After all, it's vinyl 
and it just wipes off."

It was by far the most amusing remark Scully had heard 
all day. Laughing out loud at the girl's comment would 
have been unprofessional, but she had to work hard to 
stifle the urge and wished she could tell Mary that her 
comedic talents had not gone unnoticed.

"Was Jody angry at being fired?"

"I guess. You see that cardboard panel in the front door 
when you came in?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Evelyn said Jody broke the door on her way out. 
Just kicked it right in, screaming about how she would 
make everyone sorry. The door's an antique. My 
grandfather had to special order the replacement pane; it 
won't be here for another week." Mary shook her head. 
"Jody and I got along okay, but I always knew she had a 
screw loose. You'd have to, right? I mean, to do 
something like that?"

Scully wasn't sure if Mary was referring to having sex in 
the workplace or destroying property, but she nodded a 
vague agreement. "When does Ms. Evelyn come in? We'll 
need to talk to her, too."

"She'll be here in a little while. Most times she works the 
evening shifts. I think it works out better for her, because 
of her daughters. You know, being home after school and 
all." Mary glanced at her watch, suddenly uncomfortable. 
"Um, do you need anything else? I mean, I want to help, 
but I'm really supposed to be out front. I've got people 
coming in soon for dresses and I'm all alone until Ms. 
Evelyn gets here."

"We're fine, thank you. You've been very helpful, and 
we'll let you know if we need anything else."

"Good. Just. . . um, just try not to mess things up too 
much?" Mary was looking back toward Mulder, who was 
on the far side of the room busily moving merchandise 
from one place to another. "Ms. Evelyn, she gets really 
peeved if the costumes aren't hung just right. She's 
fussy, but she's got a point. My grandfather says a lot of 
this stuff is irreplaceable."

Scully smiled. "I'll make sure Agent Mulder doesn't 
damage anything, don't worry."

"Thanks. I'll tell Ms. Evelyn that you want to see her 
when she gets here." With that, Mary went back out into 
the front room, closing the door behind her.
________________________

End part 3/8


MASKING SECRETS (4/8)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


"Hey, Scully, check this out!"

She wended her way over to him behind a rack of child-
sized costumes, and stopped dead when she saw what he 
was looking at.

The owner of Attic Treasures must have made it a point 
to buy any and all oddments from every source 
imaginable, including museums. Why anyone would 
need a selection of life-sized stuffed jungle animals as a 
prop or decoration Scully couldn't even begin to guess, 
but if the need arose, there they were. To make the scene 
even more bizarre, someone had seen fit to press the 
replicas into service as mannequins, displaying an 
eclectic selection of costumes.

The tiger in the French maid outfit looked just plain silly, 
the rhino in the ballerina costume somewhat reminiscent 
of Disney's "Fantasia." A giraffe sported a stately tuxedo, 
bow tie fastened high upon its long neck, while a gorilla 
hunched nearby in the tattered pants, bandanna and 
eyepatch of a pirate. A brilliant stuffed parrot perched on 
its rounded shoulder, providing the final touch. A squat 
warthog in full Highland dress completed the picture, its 
glass eyes and fierce expression somehow complimenting 
the spirit of the ancient Scottish warriors who had worn 
such attire in battle.

"Don't tell me you don't think this is weird," Mulder said.

"Actually, I'm starting to wonder why everyone who's 
rented from here hasn't seen things."

Mulder turned away and headed for another rack. "Did 
you learn anything else from Mary?"

"The store has a least one disgruntled and possibly 
unbalanced former employee who warrants further 
investigation. Did you find anything?"

"Look." He gestured at the ten outfits hanging on the 
rack. "These are all the ones still in stock that, according 
to the list, our victims were wearing at the time they 
started seeing things. Notice anything strange?"

Scully rifled through the costumes. Godzilla. Snoopy. 
Ronald Reagan. A skeleton. Something with a grass skirt 
and a wooden mask, either African or Haitian in origin. 
The white plastic body armor of a Star Wars storm 
trooper. Freddy Krueger from "Nightmare on Elm Street." 
Barney. Spiderman. Richard Nixon. Nothing but the 
usual mix of pop culture icons from film and politics. "No 
aliens?"

"Very funny. Look again."

She did, and this time it struck her almost immediately. 
"Masks. Each of these costumes has a full facial mask."

"Exactly."

"What about the two that are missing?"

"Nancy Reagan and Bill Clinton."

"So someone could be doing something to the masks." 
She picked up the Nixon mask and turned it inside out, 
running her finger over the bumps and ridges of the 
rubber.

"Or someone could be practicing their own form of 
witchcraft and somehow haunting them."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Given the disparity of the 
visions and the victim pool, I'm inclined to think this is 
more a matter of simple chemistry than voodoo, Mulder. 
If we take these back to DC for analysis, I think we'll 
probably find traces of some kind of hallucinogen."

"Is that possible? To get that kind of reaction from just 
breathing it in?"

"Most hallucinogens have to be ingested or injected into 
the bloodstream, but it is conceivable that one could be 
absorbed through the mucus membranes through 
continuous contact with the nose and mouth."

"Wouldn't the wearer notice the taste? Or the smell?"

"We're talking about rubber and vinyl, Mulder. I'm sure it 
tastes and smells rotten anyway. If the perpetrator was 
worried about it, they could dissolve the compound in 
some kind of sugar base and coat the mouth and nose 
portions of the mask. In fact, they may do that anyway, 
to stimulate the wearer into licking it and absorbing even 
more into their system. And while the Tiernys might be 
the exception, I'm sure most of the party-goers were 
imbibing alcohol, further enhancing the effects. 
Depending on what we find on these masks, it's a wonder 
no one died from an overdose."

Mulder looked at the row of costumes again. "Of course, 
at the moment, we have no idea why anyone might be 
doing this."

"No. No motive yet. Jody was fired only recently and from 
what Mary says, it sounds like she lacks the mental 
capacity for anything this devious or complex. Petty 
destruction is more her speed. This was meticulously 
planned."

"Mary seems very happy here."

Scully felt a sudden chill, wondering if the girl's apparent 
contentment could have been an elaborate facade, a true 
mask concealing a more unpleasant face. "She's also 
interested in comedy and drama."

"When did she say Ms. Evelyn would be here?"

"She didn't, not exactly." Scully looked at her watch and 
was amazed to find that they'd been alone in the costume 
room for almost an hour.

"Let's take these masks and go find her. We're not going 
to know anything more until we get a chemical analysis 
of them anyway."

They gathered up the ten headpieces in two unwieldy 
armloads and started back toward the door. As they 
passed the pirate gorilla, Mulder abruptly stopped, 
turning to stare at the big ape with a frown.

"What, Mulder?" She was beyond tired. The Barney head 
was heavy in her arms, and her headache had returned, 
thumping quietly behind her eyes. She had no desire to 
stay in this dusty room of make-believe any longer. 
Reality was setting in too fast for her to waste any more 
time in fantasyland.

"Do you smell something, Scully?"

No, I don't, she wanted to scream. I can hardly smell 
anything now, even the corpses or the formalin, two 
odors I thought I'd never miss. Chemotherapy tends to do 
that to a person.

"No."

He dropped his share of the masks, the Snoopy head 
rolling away across the grimy wooden floor. Scully 
winced, remembering her promise to keep everything 
neat and tidy. Snoopy's white forehead was coated with 
dust bunnies when he came to rest against a miniature 
corral by an exhibit for farm costumes.

"Coffee."

"What?"

"I smell coffee. Right here. All of a sudden. It's. . . it's like 
I'm in Starbucks or something."

Scully set her own masks down in a more ordered stack. 
"Mulder, what are you talking about?"

Instead of answering her, he stepped right up to the 
gorilla and probed the model until he found a seam along 
its side. Then he shoved his hand inside up to the wrist.

"Mulder, what are you doing?!"

In response he pulled his hand out again, fist clenched 
tight, and sniffed his find. "Coffee," he announced 
triumphantly, opening his hand to show her the beans.

"So it's stuffed with coffee beans. What does that. . . oh."

He nodded smugly as she made the connection. "Yeah. 
Drug smugglers use coffee beans to throw off the drug-
detection dogs. Our little home chemist is probably 
hiding their science project in these animals somewhere."

"We'd better check the others." Scully moved off to 
inspect the ballerina rhino.

She heard the muffled thump as she examined the 
quadruped's rough hide, running her fingertips over it in 
search of a point of entry, but paid it no heed, merely 
assuming that her partner had knocked into something 
solid in his haste to get at the giraffe.

And then she heard him groan, and started to turn, still 
only expecting to find him nursing a bruised ankle or 
finger, certainly unprepared to see him slumped on the 
floor with blood running down his temple, eyes cloudy 
and confused, with a vaguely familiar-looking woman 
standing over him holding his gun to his head.

In that instant of total shock, while she was still 
struggling to process how quickly the situation had 
changed, a small hand grabbed at her waist and neatly 
disarmed her, that person then stepping around into her 
field of vision to join the other assailant.

"I knew you were looking for me," the woman said calmly. 
"But I never expected to meet again under these 
circumstances."

As she stood paralyzed by this news, yet another person 
entered the scene and Scully felt her sense of reality 
sliding completely out of her grasp as the third figure 
came to stand beside the one holding her own gun.

Four years older, four years taller. Feminine curves now 
defined their bodies, but the faces hadn't changed that 
much with the onset of puberty.

"Hello, Agent Scully," said Cindy Reardon.

"We knew you would come," said Teena Simmons.
________________________

End part 4/8


MASKING SECRETS (5/8)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


There was a heartbeat of complete silence. Then Scully 
recovered. "Ms. Evelyn. Eve 8. Not very creative."

"Creativity is most useful when applied with precision. 
Such as our work with the costumes, as you just 
discovered."

"An apparently pointless and potentially deadly activity," 
Scully retorted.

"Don't judge the girls so harshly." Eve 8 gave a predatory 
smile. "You have to admit I've done a wonderful job 
raising them. When I found them, they thought 
opportunistic homicide was the pinnacle of 
entertainment. Under my tutelage, they've gained a new 
appreciation for using their considerable talents on more 
profitable, less lethal pursuits."

"Drugging unsuspecting people. I fail to see the profit 
margin in making people see flying monkeys."

"You never fully appreciated us, Agent Scully, 
particularly our intellectual capacity. You're a doctor. 
You're aware of how long it takes a pharmaceutical 
company to obtain FDA approval for human trials for any 
given drug?"

"Years. With good reason."

"If you're not the one dying of a potentially curable 
disease, or the one suffering in agony because the 
morphine no longer works and there's nothing stronger 
the doctor can prescribe, certainly there's good reason. 
But for those individuals, there is no good reason at all."

"You're not tainting Halloween masks with potentially 
toxic compounds out of a sense of altruism. I remember 
that much about the Litchfield experiments."

"Of course not," scoffed Eve 8. "I'm doing it for the 
money. The girls are doing it for fun."

Mulder made a half-hearted attempted to rise to his feet, 
and Cindy kicked him in the face, bloodying his nose and 
knocking him back down.

Scully started forward automatically, but halted as Eve 8 
jammed the gun against his head again. "Don't try it, 
Agent Scully. I'm much faster and stronger than you or 
Agent Mulder will ever be. You remember that from the 
Litchfield experiments, too, I imagine."

She bit her lip in frustration. Keep her talking, keep her 
talking. At the moment, all three Eves were toying with 
them, but there was a chance she and Mulder could still 
escape unscathed. The psychosis of their captors might 
just be advanced enough that they would simply let them 
go, so convinced of their superiority that they assumed 
nothing Mulder or Scully could do or say would ever 
endanger their work.

"I still don't understand how such uncontrolled 
experiments can provide a pharmaceutical company with 
any data at all, let alone any helpful data."

"Surely you've heard of Pink Pharmaceuticals. They have 
quite an extensive  employee base," said Cindy.

"Thirty-five thousand people in the United States alone," 
added Teena. "More than enough to provide observers to 
gather data at informal drug trials."

"Why spend years developing a drug, wondering what its 
effects might be, then being stonewalled by the FDA at 
the crucial moment when you need to begin human 
trials?" Eve 8 finished. "We provide what you might call a 
preliminary testing service. The observers determine 
whether a particular compound shows enough promise 
to warrant further development. Years of research are 
eliminated. Hundreds of millions of dollars are saved 
when you already know which projects to abandon at the 
outset and which to promote through for full FDA 
approval."

"So all your observers are party guests."

"Of course," said Cindy. "Where better to test 
hallucinogens then at a party?"

"People talk at parties," continued Teena. "They discuss 
their problems, their hopes, their dreams. They will tell 
someone if they feel ill, or unusually happy, or if they're 
seeing flying monkeys. Secrets they might not ever reveal 
under normal circumstances. They will speak frankly, 
without bias, without reservation."

Scully's previous experience with Pink Pharmaceuticals 
had nearly been her last. If they were capable of using a 
prison population as a testing ground, they were 
certainly capable of condoning this kind of experimental 
havoc.

"So what happens now?" she demanded.

"Now we remove you both from the equation, Agent 
Scully. I admit you were an interesting diversion - of all 
the things we ever imagined to go wrong with this 
particular project, I admit we never foresaw the 
possibility that the FBI would send their resident spook 
hunters to investigate. It's a contingency we won't 
overlook again, I assure you." Eve 8 nodded to Cindy. 
"Tie her up. And don't forget the cell phone; I'm sure 
she's got one."

None of her training had prepared her for the indignity of 
being hogtied by a twelve-year-old. Every fiber of her 
being screamed at her to attack, take the offensive 
somehow, yet she knew any efforts would be futile.

Not with Mulder lying helpless and injured, a gun shoved 
into his hair. Not with Teena aiming her own weapon at 
her with a steady two-handed grip that spoke of a 
familiarity with firearms and their power, and a deadpan 
expression that indicated she had no compunctions at all 
about engaging in some close-range target practice.

Not when all three of her adversaries possessed 
extraordinary strength and her own earthly abilities were 
questionable at best.

And not when she was being roped to something akin to 
a throne, a stage prop worthy of "King Lear" or "Hamlet." 
They'd chosen well; there would be no way to escape by 
tipping herself over and shattering the piece of furniture. 
She'd break long before this solid mahogany chair would 
even chip.

Scully had one hope, a trick she'd read about once in one 
of Mulder's books on Houdini. She took a deep breath, 
tensed all her muscles and prayed.

Cindy secured her wrists and ankles to the chair with 
firm, tight knots, bringing back unpleasant memories of 
dentist chairs and Gerry Schnauz. No duct tape this 
time, just thick, sturdy rope.

The girl stepped back to admire her handiwork, and 
Scully carefully released her pent-up breath and relaxed 
her muscles.

The ropes loosened. . . just a bit. Not enough to notice by 
visible inspection alone. But enough to give her a 
fractional amount of much-needed slack to work with.

The girls then trussed Mulder like a calf at branding 
time, and all three of them paused to give the situation a 
final assessment.

Eve 8 seemed satisfied. "Get the latest shipment," she 
ordered, and Teena and Cindy dug into the warthog, 
pulling out small plastic bags of an unidentifiable 
substance.

"Goodbye, agents," Eve 8 said. "We won't be seeing you 
again."

"Ever," added Cindy.

"We're sure about that," Teena finished.

They departed, loaded down with the guns, phones and 
the newest test compound from Pink Pharmaceuticals. 
On the way out, one of them flicked the light switch, 
plunging the back room into darkness.
________________________

End part 5/8


MASKING SECRETS (6/8)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


"Mulder! Mulder, talk to me!"

Nothing. Jesus, how hard had Eve 8 hit him?

"Mulder, you have to answer me! Come on, you need to 
stay awake!"

She heard a soft scraping sound, then a very quiet moan. 
"Scuh. . . ."

"I'm here, Mulder. Look, we're going to get out of here, 
but I need you to stay conscious. So talk. And keep 
talking."

"My head. . . ."

"I know." She began with her right wrist, slowly rotating 
it back and forth, as much as the ropes would allow. Not 
hurrying. Hurrying wouldn't help. Slow and steady wins 
the race. Eventually, she'd start to sweat a little and that 
would grease her way even more. She would get her arm 
out, but it wasn't going to happen right away. "I know, 
she clocked you a good one. Talk to me, Mulder. Tell me 
a story. Something you've never told me before. Anything 
at all."

"Mmm. . . I can't."

Desperate to keep him awake and coherent, she 
bargained with him. "Come on, Mulder. You tell me one 
of your deepest, darkest secrets, and I promise I'll tell 
you one of mine. But you have to go first. Please. Please, 
Mulder."

Another soft rustling sound as he tried to find a 
comfortable position on the wooden floor. They'd left him 
on his side, hands bound behind his back and roped to 
his ankles, knees bent back at a sharp angle. Never mind 
his head injury; very soon he was going to start losing 
circulation to his arms and legs, and then she'd be faced 
with the unthinkable task of carrying him out.

"Hmmm. . . if you put it that way. . . ." His speech was 
halting and slightly slurred, but he seemed to be 
processing her words, albeit slower than normal. "Um. . . 
I'm afraid of heights."

"What?" His confession stunned her so profoundly that 
she froze, forgetting about the progress she'd made on 
her wrist. "You? You're kidding."

"You gonna. . . make fun of me, or d'ya wanna hear the 
story?"

"No." Scully relaxed back into the chair, thankful that 
she had secured his concentration as well as his interest. 
She started jiggling her wrist gently again. "I'm not going 
to make fun of you. Tell me."

"Not much to tell. Never liked high places. Trees, roofs, 
whatever. Made me dizzy. 'Member that time in 
Washington? The 'lympic National Forest?"

"I'm not likely to forget a nice little trip to the forest that 
ended in quarantine thanks to prehistoric fireflies."

"I made you go up in the tree to look at the insect nest."

Yes, he had. Rigged a pulley and a sling seat and hoisted 
her straight up in the air to cut open the curious cocoon. 
He hadn't expected her to find the desiccated corpse of 
one of the missing loggers, though. That had been an 
added bonus.

"I thought that was because I was the smallest person 
there and the easiest to lift."

"Ha." Mulder sounded as though he was smiling. "Fooled 
you big time. I coulda gone up. You and Moore coulda 
lifted me. Didn't want to go up there, though."

He fell silent for a second, and she was about to prod 
him verbally once more when he spoke again, his voice 
so quiet she had to strain to hear him.

"All but one time."

She was sweating now, a fine coating of perspiration 
forming on her arms, making the rope slip and slide 
more easily. Once the coarse fibers abraded her skin 
enough, there would be blood to contribute further 
lubrication. Not a pleasant thought, but if it would 
hasten her escape, a nasty rope burn wasn't such a 
terrible price to pay. "What, Mulder?"

"Only one time I wasn't afraid."

"When?" Keep him talking, keep him talking.

"Skyland. Mountain."

For the second time, his words arrested her movements. 
It was somewhat unbelievable that someone so badly 
injured could possess the ability to shock her so 
thoroughly not once, but twice within ten minutes. No 
wonder they called him "Spooky." You just never knew 
what he was going to say.

The mental images that formed in Scully's mind were so 
overpowering she forgot to encourage him, forgot to keep 
plugging away at the ties around her arm, forgot 
everything but weight of her own breath locked in her 
chest, threatening to suffocate her. He went on with the 
tale without prompting, and she finally remembered to 
breathe.

"Left Krycek at the bottom. Took the cable car up to find 
you. Driving up woulda taken too long. Barry had too big 
a head start. Had to find you."

Oh, God.

Scully shut her eyes. I don't want to hear this, she 
thought. I don't.

She remembered the claustrophobic darkness of the car 
trunk, the dusty, moldy smell of the upholstery scraping 
her cheek and the dry, cottony taste of the gag over her 
tongue, tugging at the edges of her mouth. The dizzying 
rock and sway of the car as Duane Barry kept driving 
and driving and driving, making her wonder if he had 
any destination in mind at all, or if he would just keep 
heading somewhere for the rest of his life. And hers.

Then he'd stopped, hauled her out of the trunk and 
dragged her, stumbling and staggering on numb legs 
over the slippery grass, to a place where the light and the 
noise split the sky asunder and she was falling into 
blackness.

Blackness that had lasted three months.

Seemingly unaware of her distress, Mulder went on. 
"Krycek killed the operator. Stopped the cable car. To 
keep me from getting to the top. To you. I climbed. . . 
climbed out on top of the car. Was gonna jump to the 
tower, I think. Don't really remember. Just knew I had to 
do something, couldn't just sit there waiting."

"God, Mulder. How high up were you?"

"Don't know. Couple hundred feet, maybe."

Jesus. He could have been killed. One slip, one gust of 
wind. . . .

"What happened?"

Mulder moved again, grunting as he shifted stiffening 
limbs. "Not sure. Guess Krycek thought he'd delayed me 
long enough. Car started moving again. I was still on top, 
almost went over the side. Grabbed something and 
pulled myself back up, back in. Made it to the top 
station. But it was too late. You were already gone."

She felt the tears threatening and blinked them back. 
The additional moisture would help, but she was sure 
she couldn't get them to fall directly on her pinioned arm. 
That made them nothing but a nuisance.

"Wasn't scared, though. Whole time I was up there, I 
didn't even think about it. Too worried about you to 
notice."

She wanted to say something, anything, but the words 
wouldn't come. Instead, she focused on her wrist. Her 
exertions were paying off; she was bleeding and sweating 
freely now and the knots had definitely loosened. In 
another minute she'd be able to slide her hand out and 
make short work of her other bonds and his.

"Your turn."

"What?"

"Your turn, Scully. Deep, dark secret. You promised."

Did he sound more lucid in anticipation of her 
confession, or was she imagining things? Either way, she 
still had to keep him alert and responsive, even if her 
revelation wasn't the stark admission his had been. 
When she'd broached the game, she never dreamed he'd 
come up with such a personal failing; she'd been 
expecting some juvenile joke involving a mix-up of those 
videotapes that weren't his. "Um. . . when I was five my 
mother took me to a tea at our church. We'd just moved; 
we were new in the area. It was a welcoming kind of 
thing, with lots of other new members, all the prominent 
parishioners and all the priests. The monsignor asked me 
if I would come to Mass on Sunday with my brothers and 
sister, and I said in a very loud voice that we'd have to 
leave Bill home because he was the devil."

"So you were aware of that even at a tender age, huh, 
Scully?"

"Oh, it's funny =now=, but my mother was mortified. She 
hustled me out of there so fast I don't think my feet 
touched the floor."

"I assume you did have a rees. . . reasn'able explanation 
for this, even then?"

"It was right about this time of year. Bill had already 
chosen his Halloween costume and he'd been wearing it 
around the house, chasing Melissa and me when my 
mother wasn't looking."

"Lemme guess. A devil."

"Complete with a toy pitchfork. He poked us with it every 
chance he got."

"What was your. . . costume that year?"

"Me?" For a second she couldn't remember, then it came 
back to her. "Mulder, no. I'm not telling you that. It's too 
embarrassing."

"Deepest, darkest secret, Scully. Give."

"Oh, all right. I was Dorothy from 'The Wizard of Oz.'"

"Little blue pinafore? Ruby slippers?"

She squirmed. "My mother made the dress, but she said 
there was no reason to spend all that money on red 
shoes I would never have a reason to wear again. She 
said I could just wear my patent leather tap shoes and 
pretend they were red and it would be good enough."

Mulder laughed; Scully was torn between relief at his 
apparent recovery and humiliation that he was so 
entertained at this juicy tidbit from her childhood. "Dana 
Scully in patent leather tap shoes. I think. . . I think I 
just got very turned on."

"Shut up, Mulder."

"What happened. . . about the church thing?"

"Eventually my mother figured it out and forgave me. I 
think she took away Bill's weapon, too." Scully gave one 
final tug and pulled her arm loose. "Got it!"

"You out?"

"Almost." Frantically wrestling with the rope around her 
left hand, she paused briefly to wipe away the 
perspiration trickling down her face.

"Mmmm. . . Scully?"

"What, Mulder?"

"Do you smell something?"

She was about to snap at him that this was no time to 
start yammering about coffee beans again, then abruptly 
realized that for once she =did= smell something. An 
insidious, perilous odor that spoke of death.

Smoke.
________________________

End part 6/8


MASKING SECRETS (7/8)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Scully thought she'd been sweating due to her efforts to 
free her arm. She'd never noticed that the air had been 
growing progressively warmer, the atmosphere more 
oppressive.

The Eves had set the store on fire. The store full of fabric, 
vinyl and plastic, all of it encased in an ancient wooden 
building just waiting to ignite and roast them to a crisp.

She redoubled her efforts, now hearing the faint roar and 
crackle of flames in the main bridal room.

"Scully. . . ."

"I know, I know! I'm almost there, Mulder."

He was starting to cough, and she could feel her own 
throat closing, tears that had nothing to do with emotion 
now filling her eyes.

The rope around her other arm gave way, and she 
wrenched at the ones holding her legs, panic taking over 
at last.

She freed herself just as the wall to the bridal section 
caved in, bathing the costume room with vibrant orange 
light and blazing heat. Flames raced across the floor, 
licking at the racks of imaginary identities and shooting 
up the walls to the roof.

At least she could see him now, huddled on his side, eyes 
wide with alarm as the fire darted around the room.

"Mulder, hold still! I can't untie this if you're moving like 
that!"

He subsided enough for her to wrestle his restraints off, 
straightening his legs and bringing his arms forward with 
a drawn-out groan. Despite herself, she'd half expected 
him to leap to his feet immediately, and the fact that he 
simply rolled onto his back and closed his eyes again in 
pain brought her own terror back full force. Firelight 
danced across his pale, sweating face, making the blood 
from his nose and the gash on his temple appear black 
by comparison.

Too much blood. Way too much blood. First order of 
business, before she even thought about moving him, 
was to staunch the flow. She flailed blindly at the nearest 
costume rack, snagging something prickly but yielding to 
press against his face.

Must have been the disco section. She decided not to tell 
Mulder his makeshift bandage was in reality a hot pink 
sequin tube top. Grabbing his hand, she placed it against 
the shiny fabric she'd draped across his face and 
commanded, "Hold this. I'm going to find another way 
out of here."

Thick, choking smoke swirled about the room. Carbon 
monoxide worries paled next to the threat of the 
potentially toxic fumes that could result when some of 
the polyurethane props or synthetic fabrics began to 
smolder. They had to get out of here right now.

Scully scuttled on hands and knees, crawling crab-like 
toward the back of the room. It was an old building, but 
surely this town had fire codes? Ones that specified more 
than one exit? Preferably marked?

It wasn't labeled with the usual glowing red letters, but it 
was there. A door. Unlocked. Leading to a back alley, to 
cool, fresh air, to relative safety.

If only they had time to reach it.

If only she had the strength to haul Mulder from the 
conflagration.

They were both coughing audibly now; she could hear 
Mulder's harsh, hacking wheezes above her own. 
Protection. They needed some kind of cover, ideally 
something damp.

Damn it, why didn't this place have a sprinkler system? 
A fire alarm? Where the hell was the fire department? 
Surely a store on the main road through town couldn't 
just burn to the ground without someone noticing?

No time to think about that. Think about finding 
something to shield them from the flames, the heat, the 
smoke.

She blundered sideways into something warm and furry, 
some animal costume perhaps, and suddenly she 
recalled Mary's words from earlier in the day.

"The flame retardant treatment for these things is 
expensive enough. . . ."

Flame retardant didn't equal non-flammable, but it 
would buy them the time they needed to get the hell out 
of here relatively unscorched.

The smoke was making her dizzy, robbing her of her 
ability to concentrate. Her lungs spasmed painfully, 
reminding her that cancer and bonfires did not mesh well 
together. Mulder groaned again, his own misery amplified 
by her frenzy.

Big. Find something big. Need something to cover 
everything.

The barnyard display. Farmer's overalls, straw hats, and 
goofy two-person getups of a horse, a cow and a mule.

Scully dragged herself to her feet and staggered over to 
the cheery exhibit. Nearby, the warthog was engulfed in 
flames, its kilt burning merrily, the fire reaching hungrily 
for the mule costume. She grabbed the cow and lunged 
back to where Mulder lay, losing her balance and falling 
full length beside him.

Too long, it was taking too long to struggle into the 
oversized pants, patterned in comical black and white 
fake fur. "Mulder," she rasped, throwing the back half of 
the legs at him, "Mulder, wake up!"

His answering cough told her more than she wanted to 
know about his condition. Dressing himself was out of 
the question; it was taking all his will to maintain the 
pressure on his face. Squinting through the smoke, she 
guided his legs into the costume, then seized his lapels 
and yanked him upright with all her strength.

"Mulder! Mulder, listen to me. You have to get up. I can't 
carry you. You can lean on me once you're standing, but 
you have to help me and get up. Okay?"

He mumbled something unintelligible that she took to be 
a signal of consent, especially when he clutched at her 
with one hand to claw his way to his feet. It was hard to 
maneuver him under the covering drape of the cowhide; 
he was slumped against her shoulders with almost his 
full weight, bowing her nearly in half. Scully twisted and 
pulled until he was behind her, one of her arms holding 
his firmly around her waist, his face pressed into her 
back just below her shoulder blades. Groping for the 
head of the costume, she pulled it on and peered through 
the mesh screening below the animal's idiotic grin, 
hoping she could find her way back to the door through 
the blaze that now reached every corner of the room.

Under the warm layer of cloth, the heat was intensified. 
Mulder's unsteady feet crashed into hers, nearly sending 
them both to the floor.

If they fell, she knew they'd never get up again.

She hardly noticed the raw, tearing soreness in her 
throat as the smoke penetrated their inadequate shield. 
Barely heard herself coughing uncontrollably, blinking 
back a flood of stinging tears. The only thing Scully was 
truly aware of as they tottered across the burning floor 
was the searing warmth of Mulder's hoarse, irregular 
gasps against her back, his dead weight crushing her 
spine.

And then there was breathable air, and sharp artificial 
light, and dampness.

Voices shouting, hands stripping the mask from her 
head, pulling her away from Mulder. Strange men in 
black coats with yellow stripes, dripping water 
everywhere.

Sudden wet warmth on her face.

Tears? No. She was crying, true, but this wasn't the thin 
liquid trail of tears. It was the slow heavy trickle of 
another nosebleed.

Scully tried to speak, tried to tell the person holding her 
that she was fine, that her partner had a head injury and 
possibly a broken nose and needed medical assistance 
more than she did, and all her abused throat tissues 
could produce was a rough croak.

She was shushed, told to lie still and relax, not to worry. 
She wanted to tell them about the jungle animals and 
Jabba the Hutt and the Eves, but someone was wiping 
her face and someone else was pressing an oxygen mask 
over her nose and mouth and telling her to breathe, and 
everything became confused; suddenly the jungle 
animals became people she knew, with Langly taking the 
place of the tuxedo-wearing giraffe and Byers in the 
rhino's tutu and Frohike wrapped in the warthog's red 
plaid kilt.

She lost consciousness before she saw who had adopted 
the part of the pirate gorilla.

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

Although they both had excellent track records when it 
came to ending cases in hospitals, they rarely ended up 
incapacitated at the same time. It took Scully a moment 
the next day to realize that she had awakened in the ICU 
alone because Mulder was somewhere in his own bed, 
presumably still too ill to visit.

Her first visitor other than the nurse was in fact a 
complete stranger.

The nurse had checked her vital signs, assured her that 
her partner was alive and somewhere within the 
boundaries of the hospital, and left to summon the 
doctor. The elderly man in the business suit, whoever he 
was, clearly did not belong to the medical profession.

"Agent Scully?"

She nodded, knowing from experience that she needed to 
keep all conversation to a minimum for a while. There 
wasn't much the doctor could tell her that Scully couldn't 
figure out for herself. Smoke inhalation. Some first 
degree burns on her hands and face. Irritated throat and 
lung tissues.

"I'm Jonathan Robertson. The owner of Attic Treasures."

Former owner, if she was right about the extent of the 
damage. She couldn't imagine the building and its 
contents being anything other than a total loss.

Robertson looked utterly miserable. There was a smoke 
smudge on one cheek, his tie was awry and wisps of gray 
hair stuck out in all directions. He clutched a fedora by 
its brim, moving it around in a neverending circle with 
both hands. "I'm so sorry, Agent Scully. I know I should 
have installed a sprinkler system. If you and Agent 
Mulder had been killed. . ." he trailed off, eyes bleak.

Carefully clearing her throat, Scully spoke quietly, 
wincing despite her efforts to modulate her tone. "Do 
they know how the fire started?"

"No. Not yet. The fire department is still sifting through 
the ashes."

So much for their evidence. No more E.T., no more fake 
palm trees. Nothing but clumps of sticky wet ash and 
probably a dozen or so hysterical brides. September and 
October were busy months for weddings.

"Please thank your granddaughter for us. She was a 
great help."

"Pardon me?" Robertson looked confused.

Scully swallowed, grimaced at the scraping sensation 
and enunciated carefully. "Your granddaughter Mary. 
She mentioned that the costumes were treated to be 
flame retardant. I don't think we would have gotten out 
alive if I hadn't remembered that and used one to protect 
us."

Rather than clearing up the mystery, she appeared to be 
deepening not only his perplexity, but his distress. The 
fedora fairly spun between his hands now. "Agent Scully, 
I'm not sure what you're talking about."

"Mary Giordano? Isn't she your granddaughter?"

"Yes, but. . ." he stopped, crushing the hat in his fists in 
agitation.

"Sir?"

"Agent Scully, my granddaughter has been dead for a 
year. She committed suicide last September, after her 
classmates heckled her off the stage during an amateur 
talent night at the high school."
________________________

End part 7/8 


MASKING SECRETS (8/8)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Between the nose splint and the giant padded dressing 
on his temple, Mulder for once looked even worse than 
she felt. Their matching gravelly vocal tones, like 
sandpaper over granite, made her smile in rueful 
amusement.

The doctor had allowed her five minutes and five minutes 
only. Then he would escort her back to bed and if she 
didn't stay there, he'd restrain them both. Once he'd 
gotten the full story on her condition from her doctors in 
DC, the fussing and fretting had been nonstop.

"Tough guy," Mulder mouthed as the man left.

"He's never dealt with us before. He'll get over it."

"How are you?"

"Better than this morning." She held up her hands, both 
of which were lightly bandaged. "Most of it's minor, with 
very little blistering. I tore up my wrist a bit getting loose, 
but it's not infected. Neither one of us is going to be 
singing any arias for a while, though. How's the nose?"

Mulder smiled painfully. "Much better since they pried 
out the last of those sequins. For a while I thought I'd be 
sneezing pink glitter for the rest of my life."

"Sorry. It was the first thing I grabbed to stop the 
bleeding."

"S'okay, Scully. I wouldn't be here if you hadn't saved 
me. You can bandage me with sequins any day."

"Neither one of us would be here if it wasn't for Mary, 
Mulder. I still don't understand how that could be, 
though."

He frowned, furrowing his brow. "Mary? Mary who?"

"Mary Giordano. The girl we talked to before all hell 
broke loose?"

He shook his head. "I remember leaving the Tiernys, but I 
don't recall anything that happened after that until I 
heard Eve 8 and our favorite psychopathic twins."

"You don't remember speaking with a very overweight 
young woman when we first went into Attic Treasures? 
The one who wanted to be a stand-up comedian?"

"Sorry. No." He patted his head with one bandaged hand. 
"Concussion. The usual short-term memory loss. Who 
was Mary? Someone at the store?"

"She. . . ."

No client list. No crime scene to provide fingerprints, 
trace evidence. No corroborating testimony from her 
partner. No way to prove her own account of events.

No explanation of how or why she'd seen a ghost, 
conversed with it, taken advice from it that had saved 
both their lives.

Except the obvious one, the one that had caused her to 
see Harold Spuller and at least one other victim of Nurse 
Innes.

"Scully? Hey, Scully, are you all right?" Mulder reached 
over and shook her arm gently.

"Yes. I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You just went white all of a sudden."

She offered her usual small smile of reassurance, noting 
that he wasn't buying it any more now than he ever did. 
"I should let you rest. The doctor's going to come back 
and kick me out any minute now anyway." She stood up 
to go back to her own bed.

"Scully, who was Mary?"

"It's not important, Mulder." If she concentrated on tying 
the flimsy belt around the paper robe, she wouldn't have 
to look at his face and see the concern, the fear. And he 
wouldn't see the same emotions on hers.

Mulder thought all the people who had reported seeing 
the dead bowling alley patrons had been able to do so 
because they themselves were dying, and therefore had 
some connection to the deceased. She'd seen the college 
girl and Harold Spuller. And now Mary.

Yet Mulder, although he couldn't remember it, had also 
seen Mary.

What did that mean for his future?

He leaned over and caught her sleeve, mindful of the 
gauze on both their arms. "Deepest, darkest secrets, 
Scully. Any time you want to tell me about it. . . I'm 
here."

"There's no secret, Mulder. There's nothing to tell." Scully 
forced her suddenly trembling hands to complete their 
task and tightened the belt with a savage yank. She 
turned away and left him staring after her, feeling his 
gaze on her back the same way she'd felt him pressed up 
against her as they fought their way out of the store.

If only she could believe it.

End



Author's notes: This is what I get for messing with the 
Improv formula. <g> I offered to take ten elements from 
those on Scullyfic who have been stalked by me in the 
course of writing their own fic. They are listed below, 
along with the author who sent them and the work I 
bugged them about. Grateful thanks go to my beta 
readers sarah segretti and jordan, who stepped up to the 
plate even though they knew this was going to be one 
strange story. Also, many thanks to IndigoMuse and 
sister sandy, for their input on poisons, hallucinogens 
and probable methods of delivery.

And for the record, Westchester County, NY =is= the 
home of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. <g>

The elements:

Bill Scully Jr. carrying a long, pointy stick: Michaela 
("Unnatural Disaster")

Mulder and Scully in a 2-person cow costume, Mulder as 
the back, Scully as the front: Jill Selby ("Paper Saints")

Mulder getting very turned on by Scully in patent leather 
tap shoes: Meg ("Amor Caritas")

Mulder getting a sequin stuck up his nose: IndigoMuse 
("Seisdeadh")

A dead monkey in a pirate outfit: Nevdull (currently 
working on a casefile with JET)

Mulder sticking his hand inside the dead monkey and 
sniffing it: Pteropod (currently working on a casefile)

Frohike in a kilt: Pequod ("Tam Lin")

Mulder discussing a fear of heights, his own or someone 
else's: cofax ("The Wartime Series")

An award-winning slug: Syntax6 ("Embers," "All the Way 
Home")

A yo' momma joke: Jintian Li (God's Breath")

Special thanks to eb ("Any Graven Image"), who 
graciously allowed me to eliminate her element from the 
mix -- Krycek hosting a cooking show called "the 
fabulous one-armed chef" - when I begged, because I just 
couldn't fit Krycek into this tale no matter how I tried.

Feedback, chocolate and other Halloween treats happily 
received at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com