Title:  Vicious Aloysius
Author:  Allison J.
E-Mail Address:  allijohn@home.com
Rating:  PG-13 (a touch of language, and some icky things)
Category:  X, H
Spoilers:  None
Summary:  Scully and Mulder chase down a vengeful ghost in wintry 
Northern Montana.  Minimal angst, some oddness, a nice, *friendly* 
way to keep warm.  Notes at the end.
Disclaimer:  1013's, not mine.  
Archive:  Ask first, please.
Feedback:  Snarfed up like a bowlful of chocolate chips.

Nancy FF performs beta duties, once again.  Thanks, hon! :)

****

Vicious Aloysius


Route 93, Northern Montana
January 14

"Only in Montana," Mulder commented, "would they put an 
international airport in the middle of nowhere."

He glanced over at his partner, who sat hunched in the passenger 
seat beside him.  The car's heater was going full blast and the 
vents on her side were directed at every possible part of her 
body.  Her parka-clad arms were tucked tightly against her, 
gloved hands shoved stiffly under opposing elbows.  Scully's 
face registered the barest response to Mulder's exacting 
observation: a slight raising of the eyebrows.

"I mean, really," Mulder continued.  "Kalispell.  Why on earth 
would you expect to find an international airport outside a place 
like Kalispell?  I suppose it makes as much sense as the rest of 
northern Montana.  Nothing here for anybody but militia groups 
and cross-border bargain hunters."

"And us, apparently," Scully muttered, staring out the window at 
the white-shrouded landscape whizzing past.  She glanced at the 
heater controls on the car and winced, noting they were already 
set to maximum.  She and Mulder had already waged an inconclusive, 
non-verbal heater war with each other, and Mulder had resigned 
himself to simply shutting off all the vents on his side.  She hugged 
herself tighter and hunkered further into her coat.

"The skiing, on the other hand," Mulder continued, "is supposed 
to be phenomenal.  Back there, just outside of Whitefish?  Big 
Mountain Ski Resort.  Hip-deep powder.  Amazing apres-ski, 
right on the hill."

"You don't ski, Mulder."

"I know," he responded, glancing at Scully again.  "I've always 
wanted to learn.  Maybe when we're done here, we can head up 
there and take a lesson, whaddya say?"  He peered at her 
unresponsive form, all but the top of her face hidden in the deep 
collar of the jacket.  "You still cold?"

"I've been cold ever since the fresh air vent on the plane got 
stuck and I couldn't either close it or get it off me," she said 
flatly.  She glared at Mulder.  "As I recall, you wouldn't switch 
seats."

"I didn't know it was bothering you that much," Mulder protested, 
turning his attention back to the road.  He slowed for a patch of 
ice, squinting slightly at it as wisps of snow cavorted and whirled 
in the bow wave of the car.  "Besides, the attendants get upset when 
you do that."

They bumped silently northward a few minutes more.  Scully 
swallowed, frowning at the sensation at the back of her nose and 
throat.  She peered out the windshield, scowling at the unrelenting 
grey of the fields as they blended unapologetically into the 
unrelenting grey of the sky.  A few apathetic snowflakes fell.  
Vertical slashes of dark grey suggested distant trees, and behind 
them rolling mounds of an intermediate grey hinted at foothills 
and mountains.  The patchy road continued the achromatic theme as it 
stretched before them, leading, apparently, to nothing.  She glanced 
at the outdoor temperature gauge on the dashboard: minus five degrees 
Fahrenheit.  Sighing, she closed her eyes, wincing again at the raw 
patch at the back of her throat.  She coughed.

"What's the matter, Scully?"  Mulder demanded, slightly 
annoyed by her silence.  Admittedly, she rarely showed much 
excitement when he hauled her out to some remote place to 
investigate an X-File, but today she seemed to be copping some 
attitude that he couldn't quite fathom.  Sure, he hadn't told her 
much about this case, but that wasn't unusual.  He punctuated his 
question by throwing her another look.  She glanced blankly 
back at him.

"Nothing," she said, her voice muffled by the jacket.  "I'm just 
waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For the usual.  For the spellbinding reason you're about to give 
me that explains why we're driving down a narrow and icy two-lane 
highway in a completely uninhabited part of the country."

"It's not completely uninhabited, Scully," Mulder objected, 
pointing out the window.  "See, there's a horse."  The animal 
stood miserably in the middle of a field, its muzzle brushing the 
frozen ground, its tail drifting between its legs.  It shook 
snow off its blanketed back.

"I stand corrected," Scully sniffed, poking her chin over the top 
of her parka.  "So please do indulge me by explaining why we're 
here."

"We're here," Mulder explained patiently, "to meet with a 
graduate student of anthropology who is conducting research on 
an old burial site for his dissertation."

"And he found something unusual.  I get that part, Mulder."

"Well, he didn't find anything unusual by himself.  He and the 
sheriff did."

"You explained that part, too.  Several eviscerated animal 
carcasses and two human ones."

"That's right."  Mulder stopped, looking satisfied.  They drove 
on in silence.  Scully stared at him expectantly.

"And...?" she prompted.

"And... we're here to investigate the human remains."

"Why."

"Because the sheriff figured that the animal carcasses should be 
dealt with by Fish and Wildlife officials," Mulder said, as if 
responding to a slow child.  Scully passed a hand over her face 
and sighed in exasperation.

"Mulder, if I wanted to pull teeth for a living, I would have 
become a dentist," she said, glaring at him.  "Do I get to enjoy 
the sound of the other shoe dropping any time soon?"

Mulder sighed.  "Okay.  This grad student, Ben Heffner, is 
working on his PhD in anthropology at the University of Montana.  
His supervisor knows someone I know at the Smithsonian.  My 
Smithsonian contact called me saying that his colleague called 
him after Heffner reported these animal carcasses to local Fish and 
Wildlife, who in turn reported the first human carcass to the local 
sheriff because of the similarities in the manner of death."  He 
paused for a breath.  "The X-File," he continued with a grin, "is 
nothing short of a good old fashioned ghost story.  Heffner is 
excavating the burial site of one Aloysius Bogg, a homesteader in 
these parts circa the 1850's.  Now Mr. Bogg had the reputation of 
being something of a recluse and an old fart.  More than that, 
actually.  He was reputed to have a nasty temper, and wasn't above 
perpetrating the occasional assault to make his point.  The locals 
called him Vicious Aloysius.  He was a trapper and a hunter who also 
raised chickens and kept a few horses and cows.

"One winter, he went out to check his trap line and found that 
someone had been helping themselves to his catches, gutting 
them on site and making off with the pelts.  So he laid in wait 
one night with his shotgun, hoping to take care of whoever had 
been poaching off his property.  Six men showed up.  He 
confronted and threatened them but they murdered and then 
eviscerated him.  The local constabulary eventually arrested the 
six men and one, whose conscience was bothering him, ratted on 
his buddies in hopes of getting off more lightly.  But the most 
interesting thing this guy talked about was Bogg's warning; that 
after death Bogg would seek his revenge upon whomever trespassed on 
his land again, especially on anyone who uncovered his bones.  
The offending individuals would be disembowelled."

Scully shrugged slightly.  "Great story.  And you think that these 
animal and human deaths have something to do with Heffner's 
disturbance of old Bogg's burial site."

"It's classic, Scully," Mulder said enthusiastically.  "Why else 
would these tales of vengeance by a disturbed and wandering 
spirit endure if not for some shred of truthfulness?  Legends and 
myths are dismissed as apocryphal only because there is little in 
the way of credible, empirical, documented evidence of their 
veracity.  We're not out here because the Ghostbusters are 
booked up.  We're here to document evidence, to give credence 
to ancient tales such as this one with hard, objective proof."

"So if this is vengeance against people," Scully challenged, 
"what's with the eviscerated animal carcasses?  The ghost 
needed practice?"

Mulder snorted.

"Okay," she said.  "Do you want to hear another story?"

"Since you're going to tell me anyway, go ahead."

"A phenomenon documented in England, particularly the southwest 
part of the country," Scully began crisply.  "Specifically, 
the story of the Beast of Bodmin Moor.  Farmers reported the 
mysterious loss of livestock, particularly sheep and cattle.  
They'd go out to the field only to discover their animals dead, 
legs and head still attached to an empty pelt.  The animals had 
been neatly slit from stem to stern and gutted.  There was little 
blood, no trace of viscera.  Foxes and wolves were discounted as 
possible culprits, because wild dogs tend to tear chunks from 
their prey and run.  This was almost surgical in its precision.  
One farmer reported the loss of 24 head of livestock in 2 months.  
Some farmers reported seeing what looked like a big cat, like a 
cougar or a panther, but it was elusive.  No one has caught it.  
Animal experts believe it might be an exotic pet that was turned 
loose when its owners got tired of it."

"And you think that's what's going on here," Mulder said.

Scully nodded.  "Cougars are native to this region.  If there's one 
around here whose food source is threatened, it will turn to 
livestock.  Now it's unusual that it should turn to people, and I 
have a hard time believing a big cat would be that tidy with its 
kill, but yes, I do think that's what's going on here.  I think we 
should discuss this with Fish and Wildlife when we get to -- 
where are we going again?"

"Don't you think it's an interesting coincidence that these 
killings would start up within days of Heffner unearthing Bogg's 
burial site?"

"Not particularly," Scully yawned.  "The only thing I find 
unusual is that Heffner is conducting an excavation in the dead 
of winter when the ground's frozen."

"He's suffering from a syndrome common to grad students," 
Mulder replied.  "He's scrambling to finish and defend his 
dissertation before the fall term starts again and he has to cough 
up more money to stay registered in his program.  He's a 
desperate man."  Mulder thought a moment, then looked at 
Scully, a slightly hurt expression on his face.  "You hate these 
cases, don't you Scully."

"No," she said.  "I don't.  I think it's fair to say that there are 
some that I find more -- compelling -- than others."  Scully spied 
a few more outbuildings and houses as they cruised along.  
Civilization at last, she thought.

"Ghosts aren't compelling?"

"Right now, I'm just wishing they haunted someplace warmer.  
Say, Florida or Puerto Rico."

"Ah.  It's the cold, not the case," Mulder prodded.  Scully smiled 
wryly.

"I've -- developed a greater tolerance for X-Files in the past few 
years," she admitted.  "Sometimes I even think I might have 
developed a slight taste for them."

"Eureka," Mulder muttered, a note of triumph in his voice.

"No need to be sarcastic, Mulder," Scully admonished.

"No, Eureka," Mulder said, pointing to a sign.  "We're here.  
Eureka, Montana."

Scully noticed the sign at almost the exact same time she noticed 
something else.  She sat stiffly upright, reaching for Mulder's 
arm.

"Mulder..."she said, tensely.

The car thudded over the body before Mulder could react.  He 
swerved to the side and skidded to a stop, leaving dark streaks in 
the snow behind them.

Scully was out of the car and running toward the body before 
Mulder could open his door.  She reached the prone form and 
turned it face up, grimacing as she did so.  After a moment, she 
looked up and back at Mulder's stricken face.

"Jesus, Scully, I didn't see him," Mulder stammered, moving 
toward her hesitantly.  "Is he...?"

"He's dead, Mulder, but you didn't do it," she said, turning back 
to the body.  "He's been dead awhile."  Mulder crept up beside 
her, feeling immensely relieved.  Scully pulled gingerly on the 
figure's bloodstained coat so her partner could get a clearer view 
of what she saw.  Mulder winced.

The body had been gutted, slit from throat to groin and divested 
of its internal organs with surgical precision.

****

Sheriff Carl Adams met them where they waited at the edge of 
town.  He took their statements, loaded the body into his truck, 
and followed them into Eureka, stopping off at the small hospital 
to unload the body at the morgue.  Adams was a small town 
sheriff of the old school.  Fiftyish, with a waistline expanding at 
approximately the same rate as his hairline was receding, he had 
grown up in Montana and served as Eureka's law enforcement 
for twenty-five years.  He was avuncular, chatty, familiar to all 
in the town, and knew everyone in return.  Scully sensed that 
he'd just as soon interrogate witnesses over a friendly beer as 
haul them into his office.  His down-to-earth nature was 
obscured at the moment by his dark, troubled expression, and 
Scully felt sorry for him.

"We're not used to this sort of thing around here," he said as he 
poured them each a coffee in his office.  "Folks are pretty shook 
up about it.  I'm sorry you had to meet Harlan Wolfleg like you 
did back there.  You would have liked him.  Everybody did."  
Scully and Mulder took the steaming mugs with thanks and sat 
across the table from Adams.  The sheriff looked at each of them 
gravely.  "I'm grateful that you've come out all this way from 
Washington to look into this.  Frankly, I figured this was a little 
too small-time for the FBI, but I guess our resident egghead has 
some unexpected pull."

"Where is Mr. Heffner?"  Scully asked, grateful for the warmth 
of the coffee as it slipped down her increasingly sore throat.  She 
placed her mug down on a small, intricately crocheted doily that 
served as a coaster.

"I was just about to call him.  He's boarding with us, the wife 
and me, but he's probably out at his excavation site right now.  
It's a ways from here -- if you like, I can take you out there.  
Although old Bogg won't be too happy to see you government 
types on his land, let me tell you."

"Bogg?"  Scully asked, glancing at Mulder.

"Hieronymous Bogg," Adams clarified.  "Great grand something 
or other of the original homesteader, Aloysius Bogg, that Ben 
just dug up."  Adams put a pretentious spin on his pronunciation 
of both "Hieronymous" and "Aloysius".  "We just call 'em 'Hi' 
and 'Al'.  Most people call Al 'Old Vicious', although some call 
him 'Wishy' on account of the way he supposedly chickened out 
when he was cornered by the men that killed him way back 
then."

"Well, even with a shotgun advantage, six against one isn't the 
greatest of odds," Scully offered.  Adams shrugged.

"Me, I don't care one way or the other," he said.  "The Bogg 
family has never been that sociable.  After Al was killed, his 
cousin and later descendants took over the homestead.  The 
Boggs are rugged pioneer stock, fiercely independent, suspicious 
of everything they don't have direct control over.  When Hi gets 
drunk, he gets mouthy, carrying on about how the immigrants 
have destroyed the heart and soul of America.  But at heart, he's 
a bit of a pantywaist.  He talks tough, badmouths the government 
and all it stands for, but he's always among the first in line to file 
his federal taxes every year."  Adams chuckled.  "He'll still give 
you a rough ride when you meet him, so I'm just warning you."

"He lives alone out there, then," Mulder said.

Adams shook his head.  "No.  He's out there with his common-
law wife.  I guess that's as good a description as any.  They don't 
cause trouble.  She owns an esthetic salon downtown here, nails, 
skin treatments, that sort of thing.  Hi, he just does odd labour -- 
runs the Zamboni around the rink, odd construction jobs in the 
summer.  They make out okay.  No mortgage, see.  Just taxes 
and utilities."

"When can we head out to the homestead?"  Mulder asked.

"Soon as you're done with your coffee," Adams replied, draining his 
own cup.  Mulder and Scully followed suit.  Scully spied a box 
of tissues, reached for one, and discreetly blew her nose.  Adams 
looked at her.

"Coming down with something, Agent Scully?" he inquired.  
Scully shrugged.

"Looks that way," she said, tossing the tissue into a wastepaper 
basket and pocketing a few more.  "I may need to pick up a 
decongestant.  Is there a pharmacy nearby?"

Adams collected their empty cups and winked at her.  "Doc 
Jensen will fix you up with whatever you need.  We can stop 
there first, if you like."  Scully shook her head.

"I'll be fine," she said, offering Adams a smile.  "I'll pick 
something up on the way back."  As they headed to the door, 
Mulder looked at his partner curiously.

"You never said anything about being sick," he said, holding the 
door open for her.  Scully merely gave him a look, and led the 
way out to Adams' truck.

****

They drove out to the Bogg homestead near Gregor Lake, about 
20 miles west of town.  Mulder and Adams sat up front in the 
sheriff's 4X4, regaling each other with the Bogg story and local 
folklore.  Scully sat behind Mulder, occasionally dabbing at her 
running nose and watching the scenery go by.  Such as it was.  
An oppressive fog had settled over the landscape and the 
occasional forlorn snowflake streaked past the speeding window, 
caught in the vehicle's slipstream.  Still, there was beauty here, 
of a rather stark nature.  The dry snow formed intriguing, 
evolving patterns on the asphalt, its weblike structures collapsing 
and reforming like a cat's cradle before the truck blasted through 
it, obliterating its delicate existence.  Scully glanced behind her 
once, some part of her relieved to see the patient, immortal snow 
resettling on the pavement in the vehicle's wake, beginning once 
again its ephemeral, courtly dance.  She turned her attention to 
the conversation in the front seats.

"So six people have got to die, huh?" Adams said, glancing at 
Mulder.

Mulder nodded.  "According to the story, yes," he said.  "One 
person for every one who was involved in Aloysius Bogg's 
murder."

"What did Fish and Wildlife have to say about these incidents?" 
Scully piped up from the back, leaning forward.  Adams inclined 
his head to the right, acknowledging her comment without taking 
his eyes from the road.

"We're meeting with Avril Todd when we get to the Bogg 
place," he said.  "Avril has been with Fish and Wildlife for ten 
years, and she knows her animals.  She's convinced it's a cougar, 
but is puzzled by the human victims.  Livestock are easier 
pickings."

Scully leaned back, pressing her foot into the back of Mulder's 
seat as she did so.  The barest expression flitted over his face in 
acknowledgement.  

"A hungry cougar wouldn't turn to people as a food source 
unless it was absolutely desperate," Mulder said, gesturing to a 
herd of sheep pawing sustenance out of a passing field.  "As far 
as I know, this hasn't been a particularly bad winter."

"You're right about that," Adams agreed.  "Lots of snow, but the 
weather's been comparatively mild.  Plenty of elk, deer, 
antelope, and bighorn sheep around.  Food shouldn't be an issue 
for big cats this year - they shouldn't even have to turn to 
livestock."

"So why the people?" Mulder asked, pressing the back of his 
seat against Scully's knee and feigning a stretch.

"You got me," Adams shrugged.  "Maybe this ghost thing of 
yours is true.  No offense, but I doubt it.  Still, it's weird."

"Have you considered that it might be the work of a cult?" 
Scully wondered after a silence.  She leaned forward, bumping 
the back of Mulder's seat with her shoulder.  Adams grimaced.

"You mean, someone is running around gutting people and 
animals?" he said, surprised.  "I hadn't given it any serious 
consideration, no.  I suppose it just seems too bizarre to think 
that people might be behind this."  He glanced back at Scully, 
gratified.  "Thanks for the tip."

"If you'd like, I can have a look at the bodies," Scully offered.  
"I'm trained as a forensic pathologist.  If there was human 
involvement, I may be able to find something."  She leaned back, 
giving Mulder's seat a discreet shove.

"That's a great idea, Scully," her partner said, glancing over his 
shoulder.  "An autopsy may show human involvement, but in the 
absence of evidence of that, we might be able to rule out the 
work of cultists."  He sat forward and let his body thud back 
against the chair, bumping Scully's knees again.  She grinned 
and shook her head.

"I - don't mean to question your procedures in such cases," 
Scully began, addressing Adams, "but in order to make a 
determination of human involvement I need to know that 
appropriate continuity procedures have been followed."  Adams 
nodded.

"I stayed with Harlan's body until it was locked in the fridge, 
and signed off on it.  Let me know when you want to proceed, 
and I'll make sure I'm there when the body's removed for your 
autopsy."  He reached for his radio.  "I'll just get someone to let 
the hospital know that we're doing one.  Normally we don't if 
the cause of death is as obvious as this."

"I just need to be sure that evisceration was the cause of death," 
Scully said.  As Adams radioed in to his office, Mulder turned in 
his seat and looked at his partner.

"You just need to be sure?" he repeated, incredulous.  Scully 
looked back at him confidently.

"If there was cult involvement," she said, "the victims might 
have died in some other manner.  They may have been 
eviscerated post-mortem."

"Which would make the manner of death something less than 
supernatural," Mulder said, looking disappointed.  Scully raised 
her eyes and turned her head to the side.

"Not necessarily, Mulder.  They might have been slimed to 
death, first."

Mulder wrinkled his nose at her and turned back.  Adams had 
finished with his radio call.

"All set for you, Agent Scully," he said.  "No one touches old 
Harlan until you can have a look at him.  I also signed off on the 
other two victims, and they haven't been touched yet.  I put a 
hold on them, too, but we have to inform their families.  They're 
not gonna like it.  I know one family that already has their 
funeral plans in place."

"I'll deal with the first two victims first, then," Scully said.  "The 
examination shouldn't take long, especially since there are no 
internal organs."

Adams nodded, then pointed to several greyish lumps of varying 
size in the middle of a field.  "That's it," he said.  "The Bogg 
homestead."

As they drew closer, the greyish lumps resolved into a log 
bungalow and several outbuildings, including a barn.  Several 
old vehicles in varying stages of decay littered the barnyard 
which, as far as Scully could determine, was devoid of animal 
life.  A truck similar to Adams' was parked in front of the house, 
alongside a pickup and a sedan from another era.  The 4X4 and 
the sedan were brushed clean of snow, indicating they'd been 
recently driven.  Snow blanketed the pickup with the remains of 
the most recent storm; partly buried tracks indicated it had been 
driven probably a couple of days ago.  Scully noticed the huge 
satellite dish behind the house, pointed up at the five hundred 
channel universe.  Beside it was a flagpole from which Old 
Glory hung upside-down, stirring feebly whenever a slight gust 
of wind tickled the fabric.

Adams pulled up behind the pickup and killed the engine.  He 
led the way up to the front door and rapped confidently on it.

"Who the hell is it?" a male voice rasped from within.  Adams 
threw an amused glance at Mulder and Scully and spoke to the 
door.

"Sheriff Adams, Hi," he said.  "I've got some company."

"It ain't the goddamn FBI, is it?" Bogg said, his voice becoming 
clearer as he opened the door.  He glared at Mulder and Scully, 
his eyebrows ascending slightly as he caught sight of Scully.  
The two agents produced their badges.

"I'm Special Agent Mulder, and this is Special Agent Scully of 
the Goddamn FBI," Mulder said, deadpan.  Bogg sneered.  He 
was a slightly built rodent of a man with sharp features 
accentuated by a scraggly moustache and deep creases in his 
sun-damaged face.

"I just want it clear that I didn't invite you," he said, stabbing a 
long skinny finger at Mulder, then Adams.  "He did.  Jesus H. 
Christ on a cracker, I put up with enough shit from the Feds.  
Soon as this crap is cleared up, the sooner you can clear the hell 
out of here.  That's the only reason I'm cooperatin'".  Bogg 
stomped away from the door and into the house.  The three at the 
door took that as their invitation inside and stepped over the 
threshold.  The agents looked around.  Mulder's nose twitched at 
the old, tanned-leather mustiness of the air, his eyes adjusting to 
the dim, warm lighting of the room.

Taxidermy had evidently been a hobby of one of the Bogg clan.  
Stuffed heads of every creature ever deemed a trophy lined the 
walls, many of the heads appearing old and moth-eaten.  The 
moose was missing part of its rack and its jaw hung broken and 
limp, its mouth open in a way that reminded Mulder of 
Bullwinkle.  A bearskin rug lay in the middle of the floor, its pelt 
matted and encrusted with probably several years' worth of 
crumbs and grime, its head permanently frozen in a taxidermist's 
idea of a primal snarl.  Hunkering above the oversized stone 
fireplace was a rather mangy stuffed beaver.  A battered manual 
typewriter sat on an antique desk in the corner, sheaves of 
typewritten paper stacked loosely alongside.  A bookcase stood 
next to it, lined with tomes as old as *Mein Kampf* and as 
recent as *The Bell Curve*, with every related topic spanning 
the publication years in-between.  Mulder grimaced in distaste.  
He stepped closer to the bookcase, staring at a stack of 
newsletters and magazines, his eye catching something familiar.  
His jaw dropped.  The most recent issue of "The Lone Gunman" 
lay, well-thumbed, on top.  He'd have to tell Frohike.

Scully's eyes travelled around the room as well, her gaze settling on 
the stuffed carnage and the bookcase as well as the lamp with its 
hide-covered shade.  Another inverted American flag hung defiantly 
from one of the cabin's log rafters.  She noticed other touches as 
well, touches that didn't come from Hi Bogg.  A bucolic paper-tole 
scene hung proudly near the door, surrounded by a padded, 
calico-patterned, heart-shaped frame with lace around the edges.  
Needlepoint samplers, all with a "Home Sweet Home" theme, were 
scattered around other walls, all framed in a similar fashion.  A huge 
macram頨anger was suspended in the corner, gripping a round glass 
table stiffly in its fringed grasp.  Dried flowers and garlands, tied 
elaborately with satin ribbon, festooned the lintels of the doors.  
Scully was willing to bet that a spare roll sat on the back of the 
Boggs' toilet, covered by the crocheted skirt of a cherubic doll that 
smiled dumbly next to a stack of "Guns and Ammo" magazines.  She 
shrugged, deciding that there was, after all, no accounting for taste.

Bogg stood defiantly in his living room, his arms crossed, staring 
at them all belligerently with his small, dark eyes.  "You wanna 
talk to that kid Heffner, I suppose," he said.  "I didn't invite him, 
either, specially diggin' up Al Bogg like he's doin'.  'Furtherin' 
the cause of science', my balls.  Goddamned university is payin' 
me for my trouble, otherwise his ass'd be grass, stupid little 
intelleckshul shit.  I'll go get 'im."  With that, Bogg disappeared, 
brushing past a woman as he stalked into the back of the house.

The woman watched him go with an amusedly resigned expression, then 
moved into the room, beaming hospitably.  She was taller and stockier 
than Bogg, her bottle-blonde hair coiffed elaborately in a French 
roll and a series of improbable curls.  Her makeup was impressively 
stagey.  She didn't so much walk as flounce, her ample bosom 
undulating under the bodice of her flowing peasant dress, her hands 
held about shoulder height.  She extended one of those hands to 
Mulder.  He jumped slightly and pondered briefly how he could avoid 
being gored by the impeccably manicured nails that extended a good 
inch or more beyond the tips of her fingers.  He tentatively put his 
hand out and hoped for the best.

The woman took his hand and pumped it once, making contact 
with Mulder's eyes through heavily lined and mascara-hedged 
orbs of her own.  She smiled broadly at him, her nicotine stained 
teeth framed by scarlet lips.  "I'm April-Mae June," she said 
with syrupy warmth.  "Please don't mind Hi; he's never had 
much use for social graces.  He leaves that to me."

Mulder smiled politely back and extricated his unscathed hand 
from April-Mae's after a suitable interval.  "Special Agent Fox 
Mulder," he said formally, and introduced Scully.  He noticed 
that Scully shook April-Mae's hand with similar trepidation.  
April-Mae turned Scully's hand over in her palm and examined 
the fingers intently, stroking the tips with her thumb.

"Oh, hon," she said.  "Who does your manicure?"

Scully looked uncomfortable.  "Uh, I do," she said.  April-Mae 
pursed her lips.

"Not bad for a home job," she admitted, pulling Scully's hand up 
for closer examination.  "But you know, a professional linen 
batiste application will do those pretty hands wonders.  I might 
even be able to give you a discount."  April-Mae thrust her free 
hand under Scully's nose and beamed, turning her long scarlet 
nails so they caught the light.  Scully carefully pulled her hand 
out of April-Mae's and smiled, her lips pressed thinly together.

"It -- looks like you do lovely work," she said to the twinkling 
nails hovering inches from her face.  "I'm afraid that nails like 
that would probably get in my way."

"Oh, pish-tosh," April-Mae said dismissively, waving her hand.  
"You'd be surprised at how fast you get used to it."  She clasped 
her hands in front of her and continued to beam at her guests.  
"You folks like anything to drink?  Coffee, tea, hot chocolate, 
soda?"

"Hot chocolate for me," Scully said, while the men decided on 
coffee.

"Coming right up," April-Mae said lightly, and flounced away 
into the kitchen.  Mulder moved over to Scully and lifted her 
hand, grinning.

"Definitely a linen batiste job," he said.  Scully pulled her hand 
away, answering Mulder's playful expression with a cautious 
one of her own.  Mulder looked toward the kitchen.

"'April-Mae June'?" he wondered, shaking his head.  "If she 
marries Bogg and hypenates her name, she could be a June-
Bogg."

Adams shrugged.  "She came in one day a few years ago, after 
she opened her nail shop," he said.  "She didn't think that Edna 
Alice Shpyth carried the right sort of panache for the proprietress 
of a beauty salon, so she changed it to April-Mae June."

Mulder and Scully cast a dubious eye over the d飯r once more.  
Adams lowered himself into a cracked and studded leather 
armchair with a chunky afghan tossed casually over the back.  
Doilies graced the armrests.  The agents followed Adams' 
example, scrunching side by side into a similarly festooned love 
seat.  Scully began examining the decoupaged pine coffee table 
while Mulder cast a disapproving eye over Bogg's library again.

A door slammed somewhere in the house, followed by the 
stamping of multiple sets of feet.  A moment later, Bogg entered 
the living room, followed by a youngish man in his mid-twenties 
and a dark, willowy woman in her thirties.  Bogg grunted 
something unintelligible and pushed past the newcomers into 
another room.  The sheriff and the two agents rose and the five 
stared at each other for an awkward, silent moment.

"Uh," Adams began, "Avril, Ben, this is Agents Mulder and 
Scully of the FBI.  Agents Mulder and Scully, Ben Heffner, 
University of Montana, and Avril Todd, Fish and Wildlife."  
Mulder and Scully shook hands with the pair.  Heffner blew 
briefly on his hands and removed his jacket nervously; Todd 
removed her outerwear with grace and ease.  Everyone sat, 
taking care not to disturb the doilies.

Scully regarded Heffner as he removed his glasses, trying to 
unfog them.  He was small and stockily built, his close cropped 
red hair receding from his temples.  He glanced up once to meet 
Scully's studious gaze.  Abruptly, he dropped his brown eyes 
and intently supervised his hands as they buffed the lenses.  
Scully decided he needed to be put at ease.

"How goes the research, Ben?" she asked.  Heffner jumped as 
though shot.

"Oh, uh," he began, nervously.  "Good.  It's good.  It's um, 
going good," he concluded helplessly, blushing intensely.  
Dammit, he hated attractive women, and it wasn't fair that she 
was so poised and evidently smart, too.  Scully settled her 
shoulders and strove to assume a hopefully less threatening 
posture.

"What's it about?  What are you investigating?" she said, 
animating her voice with genuine interest.  Heffner shrugged, 
scrubbing the lenses furiously on his microfleece shirt.

"Um, nothing important," he stammered.  "Um, I mean, nothing 
important to anyone outside of academia.  I don't think.  I'm, uh, 
looking at old murders.  You know.  Butch Cassidy and the 
Sundance Kid kinds of things.  Looking for patterns.  Historical 
interest.  That sort of thing."

"Oh, you're a forensic anthropologist," Scully said soothingly.  
Heffner looked up abruptly then, squinting at her through 
uncorrected vision.

"You know about forensic anthropology?" he said, fumbling to 
put his glasses back on.  When he did, his face registered 
genuine surprise.

"Sure," Scully said.  "It's a branch of physical anthropology, 
recognized only in the last thirty years or so as a distinct 
discipline.  The FBI consults with forensic anthropologists all the 
time.  The National Museum of Natural History is just down the street 
from where Agent Mulder and I work.  I have a background in forensic 
pathology, myself, but the work of forensic anthropologists has 
always interested me."

"You work in DC?  Wow.  Cool."  Heffner laughed self-
consciously.  "A forensic pathologist - cool.  Great."  Heffner 
was beginning to melt, then he looked abruptly uncomfortable 
again.  "Shit -- sorry, I mean shoot -- I know that.  I know the 
FBI works with forensic anthropologists all the time.  How 
stupid.  Of me, I mean."  He laughed again, nervously.  
"Anthropology is policy with the FBI, right?  At least that's what 
my advisor says."

Adams broke in.  "Ben's been across the West, trying to clear up 
a few mysteries.  What happened to Billy the Kid, to Calamity 
Jane, to Butch and Sundance.  Frontier justice sorts of things.  
How people died and why, under what circumstances, especially 
if they died violently.  He's putting together crime scene data 
from forensic excavations, hoping to establish some standardized 
procedures and a body of work for future archaeologists and 
forensic investigators.  It may even have some application in 
prosecuting war crimes in the future.  Isn't that what it's about, 
Ben?"  

Heffner nodded.  "Yes.  Exactly.  Old Vicious Aloysius' death is 
legendary around here.  It was a thrill to get Hi Bogg's 
permission to excavate on his property.  I'm learning a lot."  
Heffner was warming to his topic and to his new acquaintances.  
"Butch and Sundance aren't in the States, of course.  They were 
killed in Bolivia.  I was part of an undergraduate class that 
studied the work of Clyde Snow's team, the one that tried to 
positively identify the Saint Vincent remains.  I got hooked on 
this stuff.  It's so cool."

"You found the first animal carcasses, the ones that were 
eviscerated," Mulder said.  Heffner jumped again.  Scully 
wondered if they would have to start all over and acclimatize 
Heffner to Mulder now.

"That's right," Heffner said, twisting his hands in his lap.  "I 
found a sheep and a deer.  I told Sheriff Adams about them, and 
he called Fish and Wildlife.  Then when Ms. Todd went out to 
investigate, she found..."  He looked over at Avril Todd and 
swallowed.

"I found the first human victim,"  Todd finished, as calm as 
Heffner was nervous.  "He was a few days gone.  The sheriff 
identified him as Hugh Granger.  I knew Hugh - he was a 
poacher.  Got what he deserved, in my opinion."  Todd spoke 
with neither rancor nor pleasure; her manner was cool and 
professional.  "That's when I got in touch with Sheriff Adams 
again.  Everyone around here knows about the Bogg legend and 
what his ghost is supposed to do once the site is disturbed.  I'm 
not sure where the FBI fits in, but I'm told you have an interest 
in cases with a bizarre bent."

"We found Sam Erickson a few days later.  He was a buddy of 
Granger's," Adams said grimly.

"Can we go out to the excavation site?" Mulder asked.  Heffner 
leaped to his feet and grabbed his coat.

"Absolutely.  I think you in particular might find this interesting, 
Agent Scully."  Heffner looked at her and smiled shyly, then 
turned away abruptly, hunting for his gloves.  The group headed 
out through the kitchen, where April-Mae had prepared several 
steaming mugs.  They each took one, Scully cradling her hot 
chocolate and sipping it gratefully as they headed out into the 
cold.

Heffner had sheltered his site under a tent.  A small generator 
chugged noisily outside, providing power to the light and a small 
heater that resided inside.  The fit was snug for the group of five.  
Scully noticed extra clothes and a thermos stuffed in one corner; 
the thermos rested rather incongruously on another doily.  They 
arranged themselves around a pit that Heffner had carefully 
portioned off in squares of string, each square labeled and 
marked.  His tools -- picks, trowels, soft brushes, and rags -- lay 
scattered around the rim of the site.  Some sections were dug 
deeper than others, creating a 3-D checkerboard effect.

In the pit lay one Aloysius Bogg, or what was left of him.  
Heffner was completely relaxed now, in his element.  He 
lowered himself into the pit and looked up at Scully, pointing to 
Bogg's chest.

"This is what got me kind of excited," he said.  "If you look 
carefully here, you can see that Bogg's assailants weren't too 
careful in gutting him.  There's a roughly diagonal line across 
the sternum.  Normally you don't find any evidence of knife 
wounds in skeletal remains if the assailant is aiming for soft 
tissue - why would you, right?  I also think Bogg might have 
been killed in some other manner first.  See here..."  Heffner 
pointed to a small horseshoe-shaped bone that lay in pieces 
against the cervical vertebrae, just under the lower mandible.  
"The hyoid bone is crushed.  Very common when the person has 
been either strangled or hanged.  I'm tentatively saying 
strangulation."

Scully nodded, fascinated, and crouched down at the edge of the 
pit.  "Good guess.  You might also want to check the odontoid 
process on the first cervical vertebra.  If he was hanged, there's a 
good chance it's been snapped off.  Many hanging victims die 
that way.  The process pierces the spinal cord, resulting in 
complete paralysis of the post-cranial musculature.  The victim 
essentially suffocates."

"That's right, Agent Scully," Heffner said, pleased.  "I'll use that 
information to confirm my suspicions once I get around to 
removing the skull.  It's a tricky process, doing this work when 
the ground's frozen like this.  I have to thaw everything out 
carefully, and only when I'm satisfied I've got all the data I need 
from the previous layer."

Scully looked at her companions.  "I think the autopsies on the 
victims might reveal whether we have a human killer or an 
animal one.  It's true that bones can't always reveal how a 
person died, but the soft tissue almost always does."  She 
glanced back down into the pit to see Heffner staring at her with 
naked admiration.  "You're welcome to observe an autopsy if 
you like, Ben."

Heffner shook his head.  "No, thanks.  I've - got a lot of work to 
do.  Data to gather, a dissertation to finish, you know.  Besides," 
he said sheepishly.  "I've never seen a dead body.  Not with flesh 
still on it, that is.  Bones - they're a little less personal, you 
know?  If you - if you know what I mean, that is."

Scully nodded, smiling.  "If you change your mind, let me 
know," she said, straightening.  The world spun a bit as she 
stood and she took a deep breath.  Damn the flu, anyway.

Mulder looked over at Todd.  "Is there evidence that there was 
an animal involved in the human deaths, Ms. Todd?"

Todd shook her head.  "That's the weird part.  I couldn't tell.  
There were no tracks, no scat, no signs that the bodies had even 
been dragged by human or animal."  She smiled apologetically.  
"I'm like Ben here -- I've never seen a human body before this.  
I wasn't about to look closely at what happened.  I figured that 
was more the expertise of the medical examiner and you guys," 
she said, looking at Adams.  Uncomfortable, she looked again at 
Scully.  "I can identify most bite marks.  If you want me to, I can 
be at the autopsy to identify anything that looks like it might 
have come from an animal, but if it's all the same, I'd rather 
not."

Scully shook her head. "I'm sure that won't be necessary, Ms. 
Todd," she said.  "I can take a Polaroid and show you if I need 
to.  I'm sure I can rule out either human or animal involvement, 
but I'm pretty sure it was one or the other."

Todd looked over at Mulder, who was patiently waiting for 
Scully to finish with her mundane theorizing.  "You think it was 
something else."

"I suspect something else," he replied.  "The fact that these were 
fresh kills, but that there was no sign of any animal activity of 
any kind, including human, around the bodies makes me consider other 
possibilities."

"You don't actually think this ghost story about Bogg is true, do 
you?"  Todd asked dubiously.  Mulder looked at her levelly.

"I think we need to consider all possibilities," he said simply.  
Todd looked at Scully, who returned a blank look over the tissue 
she held to her nose.  Scully shrugged and crumpled the tissue.

"I think we should consider and eliminate all competing 
hypotheses before drawing any firm conclusions," she said, 
offering her standard scientific disclaimer in counterpoint to 
Mulder's usual, less orthodox pronouncement.  Mulder 
shrugged, executing his step in the familiar dance.  Scully 
thanked Heffner and led the group out of the tent; Heffner stayed 
behind in the pit, eyeing Scully not at all surreptitiously as she 
left the enclosure.

Scully looked at the outbuildings and glanced up at the flag, its 
ragged end flipping morosely whenever a passing gust occasioned by.  
Adams fell into step beside her and glanced at her thoughtful 
expression.

"Something, Agent Scully?" he asked.

Scully frowned.  "I don't mean to indulge any redneck stereotypes 
here, but does Hi Bogg have any links to paramilitary organizations?"

Adams shook his head.  "I've long suspected that he does," he 
admitted.  "Scuttlebutt around town has it that he's a low-level 
gun dealer and that he keeps a cache of weapons here on the 
homestead.  When he's drunk, Hi likes to call this place his 
'compound'."  Adams waved to a snow-covered mound near the 
barn.  "Hi's father built himself a bomb shelter over there in the 
'50's.  Hi brags that it's fully stocked and ready to shelter him 
and April-Mae when the revolution comes.  I suspect he's got 
unregistered weapons down there, but I've never had probable 
cause to search the premises.  Myself, I think Hi is all sizzle and 
no steak.  He's got a mouth on him, but apart from spending a 
night in the drunk tank once in a while he's a law abiding citizen.  
He's got no prior arrests except for relatively minor things.  He's 
low-key.  I keep my eye on him, though."

They reached the house and pushed the door open.  The house 
was full of cooking smells, and as they returned their mugs to the 
kitchen April-Mae could be seen stirring something in a large 
cast iron skillet.  Scully sniffed hopefully, but the congestion was 
rapidly robbing her of her sense of smell.  Just as well, she 
thought, as April-Mae reached for a smouldering cigarette and 
took a long drag off it, its ash hovering mere inches from the 
skillet.

April-Mae beamed again at her guests.  "Anyone for chili 
tonight?"  Mulder made a show of checking his watch, an 
unnecessarily pointed gesture, Scully thought.

"I'm afraid we can't -- we've got to check in and plan what 
we're doing tomorrow," he said, glancing at Scully.  Scully 
nodded, and turned abruptly to sneeze.

"You sure, Agent Scully?"  April-Mae asked.  "My chili's just 
the thing for stuffed up noses.  Guaranteed."

"Thanks anyway," Scully responded, dabbing at her nose as 
April-Mae took another drag.  "Agent Mulder's right; we do 
need to get back."

April-Mae shrugged noncommittally, unfazed by the rejection.  
Mulder led the way out of the house, looking covertly for Bogg.  
The homesteader was nowhere to be seen.  

As they climbed back into Adams' truck, the sheriff glanced 
over at the two agents.  "Well," he said, buckling himself in and 
turning the ignition, "what do you make of that, then?"

Mulder's eyes were shining.  "No tracks, no scat, no evidence of 
animal or human involvement in Granger's or Erickson's 
deaths," he said, his voice edged with excitement.  He glanced 
over at Scully, huddled again in her jacket.  "This should prove 
interesting, once Agent Scully has done her autopsy."

There was a silence while Adams backed the truck out of the 
drive and accelerated it down the highway.  The snow, for now, 
had stopped.  "What do you think, Agent Scully?"  Adams 
prompted.

Scully considered.  "I think I'd like to read Mr. Heffner's 
dissertation when he's finished it," she said dryly.  Mulder 
turned and glared.  Scully smiled slightly, threw her partner a 
"gotcha" look.  "I'm not sure," she said, turning serious.  "Agent 
Mulder's right -- we may know more after I have a look at the 
three victims tomorrow.  Even then, the histology and toxicology 
will give us the best information, but it'll be at least a couple of 
weeks before we get the results back from the Great Falls medical 
examiner's office.  I still think," she continued carefully, "that 
we're dealing with something odd but explainable in conventional 
terms."

Mulder threw her a look again, the familiar, challenging look 
that said "you're on".  Scully returned it with a slight lift of her 
eyebrows, then closed her eyes for a quick nap.

They headed back to Eureka in thoughtful silence.

****

The Archimedes Motor Hotel
8:32 p.m.

Scully groaned at the insistent tap on the door and opened her 
eyes.  It always startled her a little to find herself in unfamiliar 
surroundings when she woke up.  She had no idea why.  The 
Learning Channel was showing what looked to be a repeat 
episode of "Blast Masters", and her laptop screen swirled 
patiently, waiting for her to return to her work.  She sat up and 
rubbed her face.  Doc Jensen of the Twilite Pharmacy had fixed 
her up but good.  She could actually breathe now, but the good 
doctor's ministrations had left her groggy.  She checked the time.

She ran her hands through her hair, smoothing it down as she 
peeked through the peephole.  Figures, she thought.  She sighed, 
unclipped the chain, and opened the door to the guy standing 
outside in the dark and the cold.  Mulder peered at her 
inquisitively.

"Sorry," he said.  "Did I get you up?"

Scully shook her head.  "No problem," she replied, her voice 
thick and husky, tinged with sarcasm.  "I was getting up to 
answer the door, anyway."  She took in his wet hair, his t-shirt 
and shorts, the towel around his neck, the battered Keds, and the 
steaming mug he held in his hands.  "You trying to catch a bug, 
too?"

Mulder raised his eyebrows a little at her voice.  "I was just 
down at the hot tub and sauna," he said, his breath condensing.  
"They've got a great little setup here.  The manager was trying 
to ply me with beer.  He's tickled pink that he's got a couple of 
FBI agents staying at his humble inn."  He grinned.  "You should 
have come down.  I think the steam might have done you some 
good."

Scully massaged the back of her neck, mustering an indulgent 
smile.  "Aren't you cold?"

"Not really," Mulder said.  "It's kind of invigorating, actually.  I 
can understand why the Swedes like to throw themselves into 
snowbanks after sitting naked in a sauna."

"I don't think I want to know, Mulder," Scully muttered.

"Anyway, I brought this for you," Mulder said, proffering the 
mug.  "Hot lemon and honey.  The manager's wife made it up 
when I told her you were sick.  The honey's from her family's 
apiary."

Scully smiled, warmed by the gesture, and took the mug.  
"Thank you, Mulder," she said.  She took a sip, stepping aside to 
let Mulder in.  She sat cross-legged on the bed while Mulder 
settled in a chair, rubbing his wet hair with the towel.  Eyeing the 
TV, he pointed at a figure in an FBI jacket.

"Hey.  Isn't that Harrison?  I did some of my explosives training 
with him."  Scully eyed the TV and nodded.

"I think so," she said.  She slid her finger over the laptop's 
touchpad and the screen saver winked off, replaced by text.  She 
turned the little computer so that Mulder could see.  "I did a little 
background check on Hieronymous Bogg," she said.  "Adams was right; 
he has no recent convictions, but he has been arrested in the past 
for weapons violations, mostly handguns.  He's been fingerprinted and 
his prints are on the FBI database.  I can't find any definite links 
to paramilitary organizations.  He hasn't been charged with anything 
in the last three years other than drunk and disorderly, but he does 
have a file with us."  She looked up at Mulder and found herself 
mildly surprised that he was paying attention.

"Interesting," Mulder said, draping the towel back over his 
shoulders.  "You said that Adams thinks he has some low-level 
connections with a group."

"And that Adams has never had cause to search the Bogg 
homestead for weapons caches or any sign of illegal activity 
connected to these groups," Scully finished.  "I did see on 
Bogg's bookshelf a newsletter from the Sons of Freedom.  Now 
they have been linked to terrorist activities.  They have a 
compound here in Montana and a sister compound in Northern 
Idaho."

"Did you catch the copy of 'The Lone Gunman'?" Mulder asked.  
Scully smiled.

"Yes, I did.  Poor guys.  They have their ideas, but they're only 
capable of assaulting good taste."  Scully shifted and took 
another sip of her drink, studying the screen.  "I'd agree with 
Adams; nothing I saw out at the homestead indicates that there's 
anything we can legally use as probable cause to search the premises.  
But I wonder if we shouldn't keep our eyes open for an 
opportunity while we're here."  She looked back at Mulder, who 
was nodding in agreement.

"Go on," he said, absently playing with the little doily that lay on 
the side table.

Scully regarded him, slightly puzzled.  "So I'm thinking that 
while we're out here chasing ghosts, we might as well look for 
opportunities to get more information for our colleagues in 
Domestic Terrorism.  I know the field office in Salt Lake City 
has a file on the Sons of Freedom and I'm sure they'd appreciate 
any information we can give them."

"I think you're right, Scully," Mulder said.  His expression was 
solemn, but tinged with amusement around the eyes.  Scully 
shook her head, frowning.

"What?" she demanded.

"Nothing," he responded, his eyes turning serious for a moment.  
"I think you're right about needing to keep tabs on Bogg.  I 
appreciate the fact that you have your eye on the bigger picture." 
The mischievous look returned.  "But I've got to say that I'm 
really enjoying listening to your voice."

Scully cleared her throat, feeling a flush creep over her face.  
"Right," she said, and winced as her voice emerged lower and 
huskier than ever.  "Thank you so much."

Mulder stood and pulled a blanket down from the closet shelf.  
He unfolded it and draped it around Scully's back, letting his 
hands come to rest on her shoulders.  She looked up in surprise.  
Mulder looked back at her with genuine warmth and affection.

"Good work, Scully," he said.  "I mean it.  Keep it up."  He 
touched her cheek briefly.  "And I hope you feel better tomorrow."  
With that, he left.

Scully smiled softly as she took another sip of lemon, feeling its 
heat mingle with the rest of the warmth suffusing her body.

****

Eureka General Hospital
11:47 a.m.

Scully flopped wearily into a chair and slowly pulled off her 
gloves, looking at the bagged remains of Mr. Wolfleg.  Three 
autopsies, all done before lunch.  Not bad for a morning's work.  
She closed her eyes and massaged her neck, wincing at the 
general achiness that pervaded her body.  She'd slept well last 
night and had awakened this morning feeling considerably 
better, but the bug wasn't out of her system yet.  Far from it.  A 
chill ran through her and she thought ruefully that she would 
order anyone else with the same symptoms to bed with a hot 
water bottle, or at least a stack of videos.

"I'll survive," she muttered to herself.  She moved over to the 
sink to wash up.  Her cell phone rang, and with a flash of 
prescience she groaned audibly.  Not another one.

"Scully," she sighed into the handset.

"Hey, Scully, how you feeling?"  Mulder's voice came through 
crackly, on the edge of the cell boundary.

"That depends on what you're about to tell me," she responded, 
tucking the phone against her shoulder and beginning to run 
water in the stainless steel sink.

There was a pause.  Scully closed her eyes and waited for it.

"Uh, well actually, Adams' deputy should be there any minute 
with the latest victim," Mulder said apologetically.  "A Mrs. 
Rice, aged sixty-four, the town librarian.  Her boarder found her 
this morning, in the kitchen.  He could smell the breakfast 
burning and he went to investigate."

Scully pinched the skin between her eyes.  "And you want an 
autopsy, right?"

"That would be helpful," Mulder said, his voice fading then 
returning.  "Sorry, Scully.  The cellular service is a little spotty 
out here.  What did you find on the ones you did this morning?"

Scully stretched the kink out of her back.  "Well, the good thing 
about eviscerated corpses is that there's a lot less to do," she 
said.  "The only fluid I could obtain was vitreous, since the 
bodies have all been pretty effectively exsanguinated and urine 
samples were out of the question.  I've sent brain tissue to the 
labs in Great Falls, along with samples from the body cavity and 
the incision site.  But I couldn't see anything obvious.  No bite 
marks, no evidence of trauma other than the fact that they were 
disembowelled.  And that appears to be the primary cause of 
death."  She paused.  "But what's most interesting is how neatly 
it was all done.  Surgical in precision.  Both ends of the digestive 
tract are cleanly cut."

"Definitely not an animal, then," Mulder crackled.

"I'd say not.  We might be dealing with a psychopathic neat 
freak."  The connection stuttered.  "Mulder, I'm losing you."

"Can...alk...oard?" Mulder fizzled.  Scully frowned, her free 
hand instinctively flying to her ear.

"What?"

"...talk...boarder?"

Scully paused, piecing together his request.  "You want me to 
talk to Mrs. Rice's boarder?"

"...es."

"Anything else, Mulder?  Can I pick up your drycleaning?  
Return your video rentals?"

"Look, I'd help," Mulder said, still crackling but clearer.  "But 
I'm out here at the Bogg homestead."

"Sorry, Mulder," Scully said.  "I hate being sick.  I get cranky 
when I'm sick."

"I appreciate what you're doing," Mulder replied.  "Really.  I'll 
make it up to you somehow."

A door opened and the familiar sound of gurney wheels on 
rubber-coated concrete caught Scully's attention.  "Looks like 
Mrs. Rice is here," she said resignedly.  "This shouldn't take too 
long.  Then I'll find her boarder, and meet you out there."

"Sounds good.  When can I expect you?"

"Two?  Three?"

"Okay," Mulder said.  His voice became conspiratorial.  "By the 
way, Mr. Heffner keeps asking after you.  I think he's kinda 
sweet on you, Scully."

Scully smirked.  "I'll see you later," she said, and clicked off.  
She looked up to see two lab techs bringing in the bagged form 
of Mrs. Rice, with a stricken-looking deputy following behind.

"Agent Scully," he said, looking at her, "I'm Deputy Griffin."  
He shook her hand, and glanced at the body bag.  "God, I hate 
my job."

"This kind of work is never easy," Scully soothed.

Griffin clutched his hat and chewed his lip.  "I wish I'd made my 
peace with her," he blurted, his eyes reddening.  "The last time I 
saw her, we argued.  It almost came to blows."

Scully studied the form on the clipboard that rested on the body, 
reminding herself of the close-knit nature of small communities 
like Eureka.  She looked at Griffin with sympathy.  "You knew 
her well, then.  I'm sorry.  It's difficult to lose someone you care 
about."

Griffin sniffed and hesitated.  "She revoked my borrowing 
privileges," he blurted finally.  "Kept saying I owed twelve 
dollars and fifteen cents in overdue fines.  I should have just paid 
them, dammit."  With that, he grabbed the clipboard from Scully 
and scribbled his name.  He fled the room with a whimper.  

Scully shook her head and sighed, tossing the clipboard aside 
and snapping on a fresh pair of gloves.

****

Mike Petrou ran a shaking hand through his thick black hair as 
he sat next to a more composed Deputy Griffin in Mrs. Rice's 
living room.  The living room was immaculate, its appointments 
genteel and spare while still conveying warmth.  A large stone 
fireplace dominated the room, its mantle holding several framed 
pictures and keepsakes.  Scully stirred the mug of instant chicken 
noodle soup as she listened.

"I thought she'd just slipped, you know," Petrou said, reaching 
tremulously for a cigarette.  "She's lying there on the kitchen 
floor with her back to me, and I go to turn her over..."  Petrou 
gagged slightly, his eyes tearing.  He giggled self-consciously.  
"She was frying up breakfast sausages.  Is that sick or what?"

"It would be helpful if you could show me where you found 
her," Scully said.  Petrou shook his head.

"I ain't setting foot in that kitchen again," he asserted, pulling on 
the cigarette.  "You wouldn't have that soup if Griff hadn't gone 
and got it for you.  I've already made arrangements to move in 
with the Millers.  Once you're gone, I'm outta here."  He looked 
at the cigarette in disgust.  "I haven't smoked in ten years.  I 
could even put up with Mrs. Rice's habit without a thought, 
that's how clean I was."

"I understand," Scully said, dodging slightly to avoid a wisp of 
smoke.  "Can you give me any other details?  Anything you can 
tell me would be helpful."

Petrou sighed.  "The weirdest thing was there was no blood, no -
- no guts, either.  None at all.  Maybe a little blood on her dress 
where the -- where the cut was.  She didn't scream or call out or 
anything.  I first knew something was up when I smelled burning 
and the smoke alarm went off.  But there was a noise as I came 
down the stairs.  It was -- "  He shivered.  "It was kind of a 
sliding noise -- a scraping, hollow sort of noise, like maybe 
someone was dragging a hollow tube across the floor.  I dunno."  
He looked up at Scully with red eyes.  "She kinda reminded me 
of a gutted fish, you know, kinda laying there with her mouth 
and eyes all open and glassy-like."  He paused and took a deep 
breath, the ash from his smoke shuddering off the end and onto a 
doily.  "That's when I called the Sheriff's office, and started 
making phone calls to other boarding houses.  That's all I can 
tell you, Agent Scully.  Wish I could be more helpful."

"No blood, no entrails," Scully said.  Petrou nodded.  Scully 
looked at Griffin, who grimaced in confirmation.  "Could you 
show me?" she asked the deputy.  Reluctantly, he rose, clapping 
Petrou on the shoulder as he led the way into the kitchen.

Scully looked at the polished surfaces and knelt on the floor near 
the refrigerator.  "This is where Mr. Petrou found her?" she 
asked.  Griffin nodded.  Scully bent closer, running a gloved 
hand over the surface, straining to see minute blood stains.  
There were none.  She straightened, glancing around.  "This 
place belongs on the cover of Good Housekeeping," she 
murmured, rocking back to her feet and standing slowly.

"She kept her place pretty spic and span, all right," Griffin 
acknowledged.  Scully regarded him.

"How well do you know Mr. Petrou?" she said softly.  Griffin 
shook his head.

"He's not the one who did this," Griffin said firmly.  "He's an 
environmental consultant and a member of the Sierra Club.  
Comes in once in awhile to work with the forestry industry and 
to do a little backcountry hiking and skiing.  I saw him 
accidentally squish a bug once, and I thought he was going to 
cry.  There is absolutely no way.  I can vouch for his character."

Scully nodded, peering out at the haze of smoke in the adjoining 
living room.  "And you can confirm his story about how Mrs. 
Rice appeared when she was found?"

"Absolutely," Griffin said.  "There was no sign she'd been 
dragged or moved, and definitely no sign of blood or anything 
else."  He shifted, uncomfortable.  "I don't know about that 
dragging noise he described.  She definitely died where she 
dropped.  It was like she was here, cooking, and then she was 
down there, dead.  With no guts.  Like Scotty had beamed them 
out of her or something."

Scully frowned and nodded.  "Thank you, Deputy," she said.  "I 
think that will be all.  I've arranged to have the lab work on all 
the victims sent to your office.  If there's anything worth 
following up on, the reports should give you the data you need."

Griffin nodded.  Scully bid her farewells to the deputy and the 
still-vibrating Petrou and headed toward the rental car.  As she 
headed out of town toward the Bogg homestead, her thoughts 
swirled around the case much like the snow that was now 
drifting downward, obscuring the tracks behind her.

****

Bogg Homestead
4:30 p.m.

Mulder peered worriedly out the living room window, parting 
the chintz curtains with his fingers.  The snow was falling 
steadily and thickly, and the light was fading.  He was about to 
reach for his cell phone when he saw two yellow globes gliding 
toward the house along the roadway.  He sighed, relieved, his 
attention only partly on Heffner's animated chatter.

"...and the conference buffet was this theme thing," Heffner was 
saying.  "Great food.  They had salmon mousse piled into the 
tops of these Australopithecus skulls.  Plastic, of course.  You 
spread it on crackers with these fake spear points."  Mulder 
looked at Heffner, not sure whether to be amused or disgusted.  
Adams, Todd, and April-Mae sat near him, April-Mae focused 
intently on crocheting a doily.  Bogg was hunched over his 
typewriter in the corner, banging away on a manifesto.

"I mean," Heffner continued, addressing Mulder since it seemed 
he was the only one paying attention, "it could have been tacky 
if it wasn't so tastefully done."  His face lit up as he heard 
footsteps outside the door.  "Is that Agent Scully?  Oh good, I'm 
glad she made it okay."

Mulder opened the door to Scully, who was stamping and 
brushing the snow off herself.  "It's really coming down out 
there," she commented, stepping inside. 

"The sheriff and I were debating calling you," Mulder said, 
taking her coat.  "About half an hour ago he got a call about a 
storm warning, but we figured you were already on your way.  
We might want to consider just turning around and heading back 
into town."

Adams shook his head.  "I wouldn't recommend that, not now," 
he said.  "The forecast is for a blizzard.  They blow in fast here.  
I'd hate to get stranded."  As if to confirm his warning, a gust of 
wind slammed hard against the house, blowing whorls of snow 
against the window.  Scully looked at Mulder, slightly irritated, 
then thought better of saying anything.

"Agent Scully?" Heffner said, waving to attract her attention.  
He pointed at her, gun style, and winked.  "Hanging."

"I'm sorry?" she said, moving closer to the group.

"Aloysius Bogg.  He was hanged.  The odontoid process was 
broken off, like you said."

Scully smiled and nodded.  "That's fascinating," she said, 
squirming internally under Heffner's covetous gaze.  Mulder, 
curious to observe Heffner's reaction, sidled up beside his 
partner and briefly but pointedly laid his hand on her upper back.  
Heffner glowered.  Mulder smiled softly, taking a seat across 
from Adams.  Scully rolled her eyes.

"Well," April-Mae said brightly, laying her crocheting on her 
lap, "since we may all be here together for the night, who's up 
for leftover chili?"

Heffner enthusiastically raised his hand.  Bogg muttered 
something impolite from his corner and threw the carriage return 
hard enough to knock the little typewriter askew.  Todd smiled at 
April-Mae.  "That sounds great," she said.  "But we may be able 
to get out of here.  Let's just see how the storm shakes down."

"No problem," April-Mae said cheerily.  "In the meantime, Hi 
has a stock of some pretty good homebrew."  She glanced at 
Bogg, knowing that one way to draw him out of one of his 
antisocial funks was to get him to start talking about his beer 
making.  Bogg straightened and swiveled in his chair, his 
response purely Pavlovian.  April-Mae grinned.

"Whaddya got, Hi?" Heffner said.  "I've played around a bit 
with stouts and porters, but I've got that sedimentation thing 
happening all the time."

"You just don't know how to rack properly, kid," Bogg 
grumbled, but his expression had lightened considerably.  "I'll 
show you a good brew.  Be right back."  He disappeared into the 
kitchen, and his feet could be heard pounding down the steps to 
the basement.  He returned a few minutes later, several unlabeled 
longnecks clanking between his fingers.

"I got some pale and dark ale, some wheat beers, and a porter for 
the kid," he said, standing them upright on the decoupage table.  
He looked at Adams.  "What's your pleasure, Sheriff?"

Adams checked his watch.  "I'd better hold off," he said.  "In 
case the weather lifts and we can go back to town."  Todd 
nodded her agreement.  Bogg looked over at Scully, who was 
blowing her nose again.  "I'm on medication," she said.  "But 
thanks."  Bogg looked disappointed.

"Buncha candy-asses," he muttered.  He threw a challenging look at 
Mulder.  "What about you, Fed?"

Mulder pointed to the array of bottles with his chin.  "What's 
your recommendation?"  Bogg lifted a couple of bottles, 
squinting at the contents.  He tossed one to Mulder, who barely 
caught it.

"Dark ale," Bogg announced.  "Better than the horse piss you 
probably drink."  He disappeared into the kitchen, hunting for a 
bottle opener.  Mulder held the slightly sticky bottle gingerly 
away from him as though expecting it to explode.

"We're still on duty, Mulder," Scully admonished lightly.

"Technically, yes," he said, bringing the bottle to his face for 
closer examination.  "But are you planning to go back to the 
office?"  Scully shrugged, looked amused as Bogg returned with 
an opener, glasses, and, unexpectedly, coasters.  He popped the 
cap off Mulder's bottle first, then did the same for Heffner and 
himself.  Mulder poured the ale and took a cautious sip.  Scully 
watched as Mulder's expression froze, a grimace trying to force 
its way past the polite mantle.  Reluctantly, he swallowed.

Bogg was making a big show of his sediment-free porter to an 
impressed Heffner.  He looked at Mulder, whose expression was 
carefully neutral.  "Well, Fed?  Isn't that impressive?"

Mulder nodded slowly.  "It's -- well malted," he said.  Bogg 
snorted.

"Damn straight it is," he said. "The extra sweet kick comes from 
the honey."  He plunked himself down next to Heffner and 
engaged him in an animated conversation about brewing.  Mulder caught 
Adams' eye.  Adams was laughing quietly.

"Shoulda warned you," Adams said softly, leaning close to 
Mulder.  "It's the worst goddamned stuff on the planet."

Mulder shook his head.  "It's going to be a long night," he said 
ruefully.

****

8:45 p.m.

Scully studied the cards in her hand, less interested in the game 
than in the fascinating conversation she was sharing with April-
Mae and Avril Todd.  They'd played several rounds of Hearts, 
Scully winning most, but mainly due to the fact that she was 
paying attention to the game.  Todd had started the conversation 
by inquiring about Scully's background; this had led to a sharing 
of information on career choices.  April-Mae's contribution was 
turning out to be the most surprising of all.

"So, after getting my Bachelor's in physics and minoring in 
urban sociology, I went for the Masters," she was saying.  
"Quantum mechanics - that was the thing I really had the 
aptitude for.  I really wanted to look at chaos theory and its 
application to human events like moral panics and mass 
hysteria."

"So what happened?"  Todd asked, hoping she wasn't asking an 
indelicate question.

April-Mae shrugged, sucked on the end of a cigarette.  "I 
realized that unless I wanted to teach at the university, which 
didn't appeal to me, my only other option was to offer paper or 
plastic at Safeway for the rest of my life.  I dropped out of my 
program and went for an MBA.  I finished that, summa cum 
laude, and moved back to Great Falls to start up my own 
business.  That's where I met Hi."

Scully bit her lip, ungraciously tempted to repeat Todd's 
question.  April-Mae smiled at her companions.

"You're probably wondering what happened there too, aren't 
you?" she asked, looking from one to the other.  Both her 
companions displayed carefully cultivated neutral expressions.  
"Hi's a good man, under the crust," she said, rearranging her 
cards.  "He's a redneck, and he has his beliefs, but you've never 
heard a man quote Shakespeare and Proust quite like he does."  
April-Mae leaned forward confidentially.  "Especially in bed.  
He's a solid, dyed-in-the-wool romantic.  Seriously."

"Can't judge a book by its cover," Scully commented sagely, 
laying a card on the pile.  April-Mae and Todd nodded in 
agreement, examining their cards.  Scully looked across the 
room at Mulder, who was trapped in a corner with Heffner, 
Adams, and an obviously drunk Bogg.  Heffner was in the 
middle of a joke.

"...so when they found the skeleton inside the wall of the old 
barn," he was saying, "they figured they wouldn't have too hard 
a time identifying it.  He had a medallion around his neck..."

"...saying 'Hide and Seek Champion, 1935'," Mulder finished, 
flipping one of Bogg's beer tops into an upturned ballcap.  He had a 
bigger pile of bottle tops than his companions, including the 
entirely sober Adams.  Mulder had switched to Bogg's wheat beer, which 
was considerably more agreeable than the dark ale.  Even so, he'd only 
had two.

Heffner looked hurt.  "Agent Mulder, you spoiled my best 
anthropology joke," he said indignantly.  Mulder shrugged, 
attempting to bank a cap off one of the empties into the hat.  He 
missed by a mile.

Bogg was twitchy when he was drunk, but at the moment he 
appeared relatively mellow.  Adams, Mulder noticed, was 
keeping careful watch.  "So Mulder," Boggs slurred, "how come 
you've worked for the Fibbies for so long and you're still a field 
agent?  Ain't you any good?"

Mulder shrugged and flipped another cap.  "I keep losing the 
swimsuit competition at promotion time," he said indifferently.

Heffner snorted, swigging another mouthful of Bogg's finest 
porter.  He decided he liked Mulder, even if he stole the 
punchlines to his best jokes and acted like he had the better claim 
to the lovely Agent Scully.  Speaking of whom...  Heffner 
leaned back in his chair and gazed at Scully, who was yawning 
not entirely discreetly.  God, she had the most beautiful 
zygomatic arches.

The wind howled and pounded the sturdy log cabin in this, the 
third straight hour.

"So, Agent Mulder," Adams said, leaning forward to empty the 
ballcap for yet another round, "tell me more about your theory 
about these deaths and the ghost of Al Bogg.  I read quite a bit, 
and I've begun to wonder if all this resurgent interest in the 
paranormal isn't just some sort of new fad."

Mulder tried not to bristle.  "Well, it's been my long-held belief 
that we've become so reliant on science and Western 
empiricism that we've neglected other ways of knowing the 
world, that there are other belief systems that are equally valid 
but tend to be dismissed because they don't fit the scientific 
paradigm.  I respect science, but I don't believe it can answer 
everything."

"Your partner seems to think it can," Adams countered.

"True," Mulder admitted.  "She does our work a very important 
service by insisting that we rule out the scientifically plausible 
explanation before we seriously entertain the scientifically 
unverifiable.  I embarrass myself occasionally in my work, usually 
because I've ignored her input.  But I'm getting better."  He 
accepted his share of bottle caps from Adams and flipped one.  It 
bounced off the button in the hat's centre and landed squarely on 
the bill.  Adams positioned one of his caps on his thumb and 
eyed the hat.

"Still, you don't think that this increase in popular interest in 
paranormal phenomena has a lot to do with life in the '90's?"  he 
mused.  "A kind of post-modern deconstructionism that's 
rejected absolutes in favor of hyper-relativistic thinking?  Is it 
pre-millennial tension, maybe?"

Mulder regarded Adams, impressed, and was about to answer 
when Bogg belched.  "Pre-millennial tension," the homesteader 
grunted.  "When April-Mae gets that, she bloats up like an old 
cow."

Adams missed the hat.  Both he and Mulder looked disapprovingly at 
Bogg, while Heffner merely giggled into his beer.

A hollow dragging noise reverberated through the room.

Scully looked up, startled.  The noise dwarfed the racket of the 
wind, its residual harmonics reminding her somewhat of an 
attenuated digeridoo in its lower registers.  It sounded again, 
sending a chill down her back.

The others stared around room; they'd heard it, too.  It sounded a 
third time, riding down the rafters into the structure of the 
building itself and dissipating into the moan and wail of the 
wind.

"What the hell is that?"  April-Mae said.  Scully looked over at 
Mulder, who had stood along with everyone else.  He looked 
back, and an understanding passed between them, unspoken.

"I think it's just the wind," Scully lied.  Todd shook her head.

"That's no wind," she said.  It sounded again, more distantly this 
time, away from the house.

"It's headed toward the barn," Bogg muttered.  Adams looked at 
him warily, recognizing the initial stages of alcohol-induced rage 
he'd jailed Bogg for numerous times.

"Steady, there, Hi," Adams warned, brushing his hand past his 
sidearm.  Bogg ignored him.

Scully had moved over to Mulder.  "That's the noise that Mrs. 
Rice's boarder described," she said quietly.  Mulder nodded.  
Adams moved closer to them.

"That's not your ghost, is it, Agent Mulder?" Adams said, 
staring nervously up at the beams.  

"I don't know," Mulder said.  "I think we should have a look."

Adams looked at him in disbelief.  "You kidding?"  He 
wandered over to the window and pulled back the curtains.  
Snow had drifted against the sill and was swirling outside.  The 
single flood light had been reduced to a diffuse glow.  
"Assuming you can even find the barn, why would you go out 
there to look for this thing?"

"It's demonstrated that it can enter buildings," Mulder said.  "I 
think it's also fairly discriminating in who it kills.  If it wasn't, 
I think we'd all be dead by now."

"Fucking great," Bogg burped, his rodent eyes glowing. He 
popped the top off another beer.

Mulder looked at Scully, who looked back uncertainly.  "Mulder, 
that blizzard is blinding," she said.  "We could so easily get lost, 
even if we think we know where we're going."

Mulder looked out the window, studying the rise and fall of the 
wind.  "It only gets bad when the wind really gusts," he said.  He 
motioned her over, pointing.  "See, when it dies a little, you can 
just make out the barn."  Scully watched, reluctantly agreed with 
Mulder's assessment.  Mulder looked at her, at her high colour.

"If you don't feel up to this, I can take Sheriff Adams with me," 
he said.  Scully shook her head.

"I need to see this thing for myself," she asserted.  In truth, she 
was tired and had been hoping for an early night.  But she wasn't 
about to let Mulder go out alone.

"Sheriff Adams," she said, looking up at her colleague, "stay 
here and make sure everyone stays put.  Mulder and I won't be 
long."  She and Mulder headed for their winter gear; Scully glad 
that she had opted for the ugly but functional Sorel boots.

"I'm not staying here and letting no government shit-fer-brains 
look after my property!" Bogg bellowed, leaping to his feet.  
Adams pushed him easily back into the chair, giving him a stern 
look.  Bogg glared back at him, then slid out of the chair and 
stalked stiffly toward the basement.  Adams looked after him, 
wary, and followed him as far as the kitchen.

"Leave him be, Carl," April-Mae said.  "He's all right."  A gust 
of wind and snow pushed into the house as Mulder and Scully 
left.

The two agents fished the big flashlights out of the rental car and 
stood for a moment, disoriented, looking for the barn.  The 
clanking of the flagpole's halyard drew their attention to the flag, 
now snapping and whipping in obeisance to the wind.  Snow 
scattered the light everywhere, diffusing it, stealing its power to 
illuminate their path.  The wind died for a moment, and Mulder 
grasped Scully's arm, pointing.  The barn loomed perhaps two 
hundred feet ahead, a grey mass huddled against the charcoal of 
the night sky.  They put their heads down, Mulder pushing a path 
through the snow, Scully hanging on to his jacket.  They stopped 
as the noise sounded again, from the general direction of the 
barn.  Then the wind reasserted its dominance over everything 
and they pressed forward.

They found the barn.  Pushing its heavy doors open, they 
entered, shining their lights around.  The wind screamed, knifing 
through the slats and through the seams of their jackets.  Mulder 
shivered, taking note of the barn's contents.  Two old, rusting 
vehicles, ancient farming equipment, a pile of bald and cracked 
tires, a scattering of hay.  Mulder took one side of the barn doors, 
Scully the other.  He listened carefully for the hollow dragging 
sound through the howling of the blizzard.

Bullets suddenly ripped through the old wood of the barn in a 
deafening, deadly staccato.

Instinctively, Mulder threw himself to the ground.  More 
semiautomatic rifle fire tore through the wall he'd been standing 
next to, spitting splinters through the newly rendered holes.  He 
looked ahead, wild-eyed, and saw movement across the barn, as 
though of someone crawling along the floor.

"Scully!" he yelled, and ducked his head again as another volley 
of bullets sprayed through the open barn door.  Faintly, he heard 
Bogg's voice above the wind:

"'By the pricking of my thumbs,'" Bogg bellowed, "'something 
wicked this way comes!'"

More bullets spewed through the door.  Mulder thought he could 
see Scully's face lift from its prone position.

"Mulder!" she called.  "You okay?!"

"Get down, Scully!" he yelled back, hugging his head tight to the 
floor as more ammunition poured through the wall, sending 
showers of wood chunks over his back.

"'Oh villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!'" Bogg quoted 
again, his words snatched away by the wind.  He howled as he 
yanked again on the trigger, spraying the barnyard with lethal 
metal projectiles.

"'That he is mad, 'tis true'," Mulder muttered into the floor.  
More bullets.  By the light of her flashlight, he saw Scully move.  
His heart flipped as she appeared to lift herself off the floor and 
crawl away from the wall.  The gunfire stopped for a second, 
then started up on her side of the structure.  He watched, horrified, 
as bullets gored the wall near her and she suddenly pitched forward.

"Scully!!" he screamed, panic igniting.  Wide-eyed, he searched 
the floor for her, every sense, every nerve standing on end.  He 
inched forward, releasing an involuntary whimper of frustration 
and fear as the projectiles reached for him again.  Goddammit, 
she was hurt, perhaps dying, perhaps dead...

"Bogg, you fucking shithead, cut it out!" he yelled, his voice 
catching, as metal casings pinged around him like hail.  The 
onslaught continued and Mulder lay flat, counting off the endless 
seconds, tears of abject fury stinging his eyes.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"  Bogg yelled hoarsely, forsaking 
the Bard for Bronson, and strafed the barn once more.  After several 
more agonizing seconds, the volley suddenly stopped.  Mulder listened 
through the ringing in his ears but heard no more gunfire, only the 
scream of the wind.  He paused, waiting, then could wait no longer.  
He pressed his advantage, scurrying across the floor on his elbows 
and knees as fast as they could take him.  He heard Bogg's distant 
swearing and hoped

(hoped hoped)

that the bastard had run out of ammunition.

"Scully??" he called softly, his voice pitched high and frantic, 
directed at a soft huddled lump in the dark.  His heart was in his 
mouth -- oh god, they'd never be able to get her to the hospital in 
this weather, oh god oh god oh god...

The floor disappeared under his elbows as he pitched forward 
into blackness.  There was a blinding pain and a blaze of 
ungodly light, and then there was nothing.

****

mulder?

grey, grey, the world was grey, a wizard of oz grey, its features 
bleak and flat and jesus who's been messing with the colour on 
my tv

mulder

warm and smooth against my face what the hell is that oh my 
god SCULLY

He gasped and jerked awake.  Someone knifed him in the head 
as he tried to sit up.

Hey...

Scully...!

"Shh.  I'm here.  It's me.  It's okay."  Pressure on his shoulders, 
pressing him back down onto something that scratched against 
his jacket and pricked his scalp.  The someone had finished with 
the knife and was now excavating his skull with a backhoe.

"Scully..." he said, lying back and reaching forward feebly.  He 
grabbed something, an arm, and gripped the Gore-Tex fabric.  
The warm softness again on his face, on his forehead, on OUCH

"Just lay back.  You've got a nasty gash on your temple."

Mulder sobbed once, an inarticulate blend of relief and 
unreleased, anticipatory grief.  "I thought you were dead," he 
said, his voice hoarse and tight.  "I saw the gunfire, and I saw 
you go down..."

"I went down all right," Scully said, squeezing his hand and 
gently smoothing hair away from his wound.  "Same way you 
did."  She watched as his eyes focused on her face.  He squinted 
in the indirect glare of her oversized flashlight as she held a 
finger up.  "Follow this," she said, moving it slowly side to side.  
Holding up more fingers, she asked, "How many?"

"Four.  What do I win?"

Scully smiled.  "A working brain," she said.  "Your pupils are 
reacting normally, you're tracking okay, and you seem to have 
most of your marbles.  How's the head?"

"Feels like I drank a case of Bogg's ale," he said, closing his 
eyes again and wincing.  Scully nodded soberly.

"You've probably got a mild concussion," she said.  "I want you 
to just lay there and relax.  I don't think we're getting out of here 
tonight, anyway."  Mulder opened his eyes again and looked 
around at the darkness that lay beyond the pool of light near his 
hip.  "What is this?" he asked.

Scully sat back on her heels and followed Mulder's gaze.  
"While you were unconscious, I did a little exploring," she said.  
"It looks like a hay storage bin of some sort.  There's hay 
everywhere, big piles of it.  I looked around as best I could, but I 
didn't see a door.  The only entry or exit seems to be the way we 
came in."  She gestured to the trap door above them.

Mulder sighed and pushed himself to a more upright position, 
Scully watching disapprovingly.  He breathed out again, more 
slowly, watching his breath condense in the air.  "It's cold," he 
said.  Scully nodded.

"The weather report said it was going down to fifteen below 
tonight, which will feel like forty below with the wind chill."  
Scully spoke idly, unconsciously pulling down on the zipper of 
her jacket.  Mulder frowned, noticing her flush and the damp, 
dark strands of hair sticking to her jaw.

"You look warm enough for both of us," he said, concerned.  
Scully grimaced, pressed her wrist against her forehead.

"I've been running a fever all afternoon," she said tiredly.  She 
crawled beside Mulder and began pulling up handfuls of hay, 
piling them around and over her partner.

"Hay is insulating," she said.  "We should be okay as long as 
we're out of the wind and stay under some cover."  Mulder tried 
to stand to help her, but she pushed him back.  Mildly annoyed 
but in too much pain to put up much of a fight, he settled for 
grabbing what he could around him, feeling impotently becalmed in 
a sea of dead grass.

Scully worked slowly, methodically, pushing hay over and around them.  
She shoved a large mound to her partner's left side and dragged her 
wrist across her freely perspiring forehead, her breathing laboured. 
Mulder looked at her pained expression and held out his hand.

"I know a perfect, scientifically valid method for keeping 
warm," he said.  Scully smiled.  She took his hand and stepped 
around the mound, lowering herself to her knees beside him.

"Believe it or not," she said, "I was going to suggest the same 
thing."  She pulled Mulder's hood over his head and snugged the 
zipper tight, reluctantly doing the same to her own.  She settled 
beside him, reaching to pull the hay over him while he drew the 
large mound over them both.  Exhausted, she lay her head on his 
shoulder, resting in the crook of his arm, her own arm draped 
over his stomach.  Mulder pulled his right glove off and slipped 
his hand under Scully's hood, letting it rest on her cheek.

"Mmmm," she murmured, "that feels good."  She lifted her chin 
a little, directing his cool palm elsewhere on her face.  "Don't let 
your hand get cold."

"Not here it won't," Mulder said, subconsciously pulling her 
closer.  "You're radiating like a blast furnace."

"Frohike was right," she muttered into his wrist.  "I am hot."

Mulder bit his lip.

They lay like that for several minutes, both craving sleep but still 
feeling the adrenalin rushing through their bodies.  Each of them 
hovered at the twilight edge, but just as they dipped over it their 
still-jangling nerves yanked them back to wakefulness.  The 
wind howled and pounded the building in ragged gusts, whistling 
through the new holes Bogg had made for it, making the aging 
timbers sway and creak above them.  At times the entire barn 
shook, sending a vibration clear down to the hay bin.  It was 
unsettling.  It was unnerving.

It was still out there.

And so was Bogg, somewhere, perhaps reloading.

"Scully."

"Mmmm."

"There's something I've always wanted to ask you.  About 
autopsies."

"What about 'em."

Mulder shifted, knowing the distraction was nine-tenths for his 
benefit.  "I know you develop a clinical detachment, but does it 
ever bother you?"

"Sometimes," Scully replied thoughtfully.  "Most times I'm just 
doing a job, a service to find the truth about what happened to 
someone.  Sometimes, though, I'm very much aware that I'm 
dealing with what was once a human being, someone who was 
once as alive as you or me, with thoughts, beliefs, experiences, 
dreams.  I convince myself that that person is no longer 
occupying the shell, but some days it's harder than others."

Mulder nodded, noting that his headache was subsiding a little.  
He listened to the wind for a moment more.

"What part of an autopsy bothers you the most?" he asked.  He 
felt her small shrug under his left arm.

"I don't know.  Cutting open the skull and removing the brain, I 
think."

"Why?"

Scully hesitated.  "I think it's because that's where I believe the 
person, the essence of the human spirit, resides," she said.  "It 
amazes me to think that a person might be nothing more than the 
electrochemical action of a few pounds of grey, gelatinous 
tissue.  I believe we're more than that, but..."  She trailed off, 
then added, "Removing the brain makes me feel a little, well, 
sad."

"It's sort of like a desecration," Mulder offered.  He felt Scully's 
head move against his shoulder in a nod.

"That's interesting," he mused.  "The ancient Egyptians believed 
that the heart contained a person's essence.  When the nobility 
were being prepared for mummification, the priests excised all 
the organs except for the heart.  The only organ they didn't 
preserve was the brain.  They felt it was irrelevant.  They 
removed it through the nasal cavity or eye sockets and discarded 
it -- maybe fed it to the cat or something."

He prepared to launch into another cultural analogy but stopped, 
aware of Scully's deepened breathing.  He felt her body rise and 
fall gently under his arm, keeping slow, measured time.

"Scully?" he whispered.  No response.  He glanced down, seeing 
the edge of her hood, a protruding shock of slightly damp hair, 
and the subtle curve of her slender nose.  Her eyes were closed, 
long lashes grazing the top of her cheekbones.

The crushing sensation of love and gratitude in his chest was as 
powerful as it was unexpected.  On impulse, he brushed his lips 
gently against her forehead.  Then he let his head fall back 
against the hay, closed his eyes, and toppled after her, into the 
abyss.

****

It was deathly quiet.

Even on the coldest winter mornings, a city still bustles and 
creaks with noise.  The rhythmic cough of engines reluctantly 
starting, the styrofoam groan of tires on snow, the scream of said 
tires spinning futilely on ice, the all-season susurration of 
traffic on streets, the wail of sirens, all carrying for miles on 
endless, microscopic filaments of crystalline air.  One of the few 
winter sounds the country shares with the city is the haunting, hollow 
moan of a jet as it slices through even colder air at thirty thousand 
feet.

Such a jet groaned through the frozen firmament above the barn 
and scared the bejeezus out of Scully.  Her head popped out of 
the haystack as though spring loaded.

She was still alive.

Remembering where she was, she settled back into the warm 
pocket.  At some point in the night, Mulder's arm had slipped off 
her shoulder and she'd curled up like a cat, half on, half off his 
groin.  She peered at the face of the still-slumbering Mulder, 
glad she'd awakened first somehow.

Reluctantly, she crawled out of the shelter and stood in the chilly 
air.  She shivered.  The clothes under her jacket were damp and 
clammy, the result of the good fever sweat she must have had 
during the night.  She was tired, stiff, and wobbly, but no longer 
feverish.  She still felt like crap.

Wandering unsteadily over to the opening in the top of the 
storage bin, she noticed for the first time the ladder lying on its 
side against the wall, mostly buried by hay.  Disgusted, she 
cursed softly in self recrimination for not noticing it the previous 
night.  She really must have been out of it.

A groan and a rustle drew her attention back to the mound of 
hay.  She moved back over and knelt beside Mulder, who was 
wincing as he slowly sat up.

"Good morning," she said, peeling off her glove and inspecting 
the gash on his temple.  It had clotted messily and dried blood 
was matted in his hair.  "You look like shit," she mused.  "How 
do you feel?"

Mulder opened one eye.  "Like shit," he said.

"I think you're going to have a scar," she muttered, frowning.  
"Sorry about that.  Didn't bring my first aid kit."

Mulder painfully rolled to his hands and knees and sat on his 
haunches, stretching his shoulders back.  "Please tell me," he 
groaned, "that you're at least half as sore as I am, and I'll feel 
better."  He eyed her, taking in her pale complexion and the 
circles under her eyes.  "How are you doing?"

Scully shrugged.  "I'll live.  I'd kill for a hot shower."  She 
gestured to the ladder, her voice taking on a tone of apologetic 
self-reproach.  "Look what I missed last night."

Mulder laughed voicelessly.  "From what I recall, neither of us 
were in any shape to deal with Bogg or the blizzard or anything 
else last night," he said.  "Just as well we stayed here."  He 
listened, noting the absence of wind.  "We can get out now, 
though."

Pushing himself to his feet, he made his way stiffly over to the 
ladder.  Scully retrieved her flashlight, noting ruefully that it had 
been left on all night and the battery was now dead.  She noted 
something else and squinted, peering at the rectangular shape in 
the wall.

"Mulder," she said, her legs swishing through the hay as she 
moved toward it.  "Look at this."

"What is it?"

Scully ran her hands along the edge of the old wood door and 
encountered a rusty hasp with a padlock attached.  "I'm not 
sure," she said.  She batted at the hasp with the butt edge of the 
flashlight.  The hasp came off on the fifth whack, and she pulled 
on the door edge.  Her eyes widened.

"It's a heavy duty steel door," she said.  A wheel sat in the 
middle of it, reminding her of a bank vault.  She pushed the 
wood door outward, kicking hay out of the way.  Mulder waded 
over to join her.

"What do you think that is?" he said, frowning.  Scully tried 
turning the wheel.  It resisted at first, then gave in a clockwise 
direction.  She looked at Mulder.

"Let's find out."  Scully turned the wheel, straining slightly at its 
stiffness.  They heard bolts slide back.  Scully pulled hard and 
the door swung open smoothly on oiled hinges.  Behind it was a 
short tunnel with another door at the end.

Scully looked up at Mulder.  "Want to bet this is part of the 
bomb shelter?" she asked.  Mulder nodded his head, peering into 
the tunnel.  They slipped inside.

Floor, walls, and ceiling were solid, poured concrete.  The door 
at the other end wasn't nearly as heavy as the one they'd come 
through, but it was still made of metal.  Scully turned the knob 
and reacted, surprised, when the bolt slid back.  She opened it 
cautiously.

The inside was dark, and she squinted at the black interior.  She 
squeezed her eyes shut as light blazed through the room, and opened 
them cautiously to see Mulder standing next to a light switch.

"Sorry," he said absently, looking around the room.  Scully 
looked too, and raised her eyebrows.

The room was laid out as amicably as any modest basement 
apartment, the furniture covered loosely in plastic.  The d飯r, 
though vintage Cold War, looked comfortable enough.  A sofa 
and recliner rocker sat companionably by a coffee table.  On the 
coffee table was a large, elaborate crocheted doily, and upon this 
was a vase containing silk flowers.  A "Home Sweet Home" 
sampler hung above an old stereo and a decent selection of 78's, 
45's, and LPs.  Books and magazines were scattered along a 
bookshelf, mostly dog-eared paperbacks and back issues of 
National Geographic.  A tiny kitchen area was in one corner.  
Scully winced slightly as she saw a neatly made bed tucked in 
another corner, and thought about how it could have improved 
the night she'd just spent.  But it was the crates that ultimately 
grabbed her attention.  She made her way over to them, Mulder 
following behind.

A dozen wooden packing crates were stacked against the back 
wall of the room.  Scully lifted the lid on one, and looked up at 
Mulder excitedly.

"Gun parts," she said.  "Looks like knocked down semiautomatic 
rifles."  Mulder lifted the lid off another box and nodded.  "Same 
here," he responded.  He ran his hand over the lid and looked at 
the floor, noting the absence of dust in a pathway from the door 
to the wall.  "These haven't been here long.  Looks like you were 
right, Scully.  He's stockpiling weapons, perhaps dealing them 
on a small scale."

Scully looked at the serial number on a gunstock.  "We can get a 
warrant to do a check on these numbers.  He might have legal 
ownership if he can prove he owned them prior to September, 
'94, but somehow I doubt it."  She closed the lid.

Mulder gestured to a hatch in the ceiling with a ladder leading up 
to it.  "We might be able to get out there," he said, moving over 
to the ladder.  Scully shook her head.

"It probably dumped a good couple of feet of snow last night," 
she said.  "We'll never get it open."  Mulder nodded reluctantly, 
and they made their way back out to the hay bin.  After wrestling 
the ladder into place, they climbed out.  Mulder retrieved his 
dropped flashlight and eyeballed the rolled up tarp he'd mistaken 
for a gravely injured Scully last night.  He shuddered.

The snow had stopped, but the day had dawned ashen and 
depressingly cold.  Still, it was bright enough to make their eyes 
hurt as they stood in an ankle deep drift inside the barn doorway.  
The drift angled up to knee height as it opened into the yard.  
The house lay just ahead and to the left.  Mulder saw smoke 
curling languidly out of the fireplace chimney.

"Someone's home," he said, pointing.  Scully nodded.  They 
exchanged glances, each sharing the same wondering thought 
about what might have happened there last night.

Mulder took the lead, breaking trail toward the house.  The snow 
had drifted to mid-thigh in places, but wasn't well compacted.  
Scully followed in his wake, keeping her head down as she 
trudged.  She looked up once, just in time to see Mulder pitch 
forward.

"Aggh," he complained, rolling over, brushing snow from his face.  
Scully stifled a laugh.  Mulder stood and stumbled, his boot 
slipping on something buried under the snow.  He bent and 
cleared the white stuff away, uncovering a sock-clad foot.  
Scully drew closer.

"I think I know what happened to Bogg last night," Mulder said 
grimly.  Scully nodded and knelt, helping Mulder clear away 
snow.

Bogg lay face down in a rough spread eagle, his semiautomatic 
rifle lying next to him.  He was dressed exactly as they'd seen 
him last - shirt, jeans, and socks.  Turning him over was a 
challenge; he was no more pliable than a store mannequin.  
Scully shook her head, noting the ice and frozen vomit stuck to 
Bogg's face and chest.  Mulder was examining the rifle.

"Passed out and froze to death," Scully muttered.  "Probably 
would have choked on his own vomit if the cold hadn't got him 
first."

Mulder gestured to the weapon.  "He'd run out of ammo," he 
said.  "Probably was on the way back to the house to reload."  
He glanced at Bogg's torso.  "Vicious Al didn't get him, then."

Scully looked back at the house.  "I'm surprised Sheriff Adams 
didn't come looking for us," she said.  She stood, kicking snow 
back over Bogg's body.  "We might as well leave Bogg out here 
in refrigeration until we can get him back to town.  No point in 
moving him right now."  Mulder picked up the weapon and the 
spent magazine and continued moving toward the house.  He 
made it perhaps fifteen feet before he pitched face first into the 
drift again.

"Jesus!" he cursed, scrambling awkwardly back to a standing 
position.  He dug furiously until he'd uncovered the other body.  
Grimly, he pointed to the sheriff's frozen corpse, riddled with 
holes from Bogg's rifle.  Scully closed her eyes.

"He must have come out to try and get Bogg under control," 
Mulder said.  "He had his gun drawn.  Bogg was probably so 
pissed he had no idea he even hit Adams."  They stood for a 
moment in silent respect for a fallen comrade before continuing 
on to the house.

Both of them were perspiring from effort by the time they 
reached the door.  Avril Todd had seen them coming and opened 
the door just as Mulder placed his hand on the knob.

"There you are," she said worriedly, looking at each of them.  
"We were afraid something had happened to you."  She glanced 
at Mulder's forehead.  "That looks nasty," she said.

Brushing snow off themselves, they stepped into the house.  
Mulder glanced around the room, shivering slightly as the 
warmth enveloped him.  A fire burned placidly in the fireplace.  
He made a beeline for it, Scully not far behind.

Mulder looked at Todd.  "Where are Ben and April-Mae?" he 
asked.

"They're here," Todd said.  "Ben's still asleep, I think.  April-
Mae is in the house somewhere.  She's worried about Hi."

Mulder looked at her solemnly.  "Both Bogg and Sheriff Adams 
are dead," he said, sitting on the hearth.  "We found them outside 
just now when we were coming back from the barn."

Todd looked stricken.  "Carl's dead?" she said, her dark eyes 
moistening.  "Bogg shot him, didn't he?"

"It appears that way, yes," Scully said, joining Mulder on the 
hearth.  "I'm sorry, Avril."

Todd sat slowly on the couch, trying to keep her emotions under 
control.  "That bastard," she sniffed.  "Carl tried to stop him last 
night, even though he knew how dangerous Bogg could be when 
he was loaded."  She sat quietly for a long moment, tears sliding 
down her face.  Abruptly, she dashed them away and looked at 
Scully.

"What happened to Bogg?" she said.  Scully told her.

"Serves the little shit right," Todd said bitterly.  She reached for 
a tissue from a box encased in colourful crocheted yarn and blew 
her nose.  Mulder regarded her compassionately, shuddering 
slightly as the warmth penetrated another layer of cold.

April-Mae appeared suddenly in the kitchen door and regarded 
Scully and Mulder with a look of intense apprehension.  She 
glanced at Todd, then back at the two agents.

"He's dead, isn't he," she said flatly.

"I'm very sorry, Ms. June," Scully said gently, "but yes.  And so 
is Sheriff Adams."

April-Mae caught her breath.  "Oh God," she whimpered, her 
hand covering her mouth.  She sobbed once, then disappeared 
into the kitchen.  Her feet pounded down the stairs to the 
basement, where Bogg had disappeared the previous night.  
Mulder and Scully looked at each other in alarm.

Scully stood, checking her sidearm.  "I'll go," she said.  Mulder 
stood, grabbed her arm.

"I'm going with you," he said firmly, checking his own gun.  
"You're no match for an assault rifle."

"I hate to break this to you, Mulder," Scully said tautly, "but 
neither are you."  She glanced at Todd.  "Stay here," she 
commanded, overriding Todd's protest.  Todd shrugged and sat 
down, resignedly staring into the fire.

Weapons drawn, the two agents cautiously moved to the top of 
the dark stairwell.  Noises crept up the steps, sounds of clanging, 
sliding, metal on metal.  Mulder's pulse went up a notch, and he 
flexed his fingers around the butt of his handgun.  Scully slipped 
around to the other side of the stairwell, intent on the space 
below.

"April-Mae?" she called.  "Everything okay?"

"Oh yeah," April-Mae called up from the dark, her voice 
wavering with grief and bitterness.  More noises.  Mulder crept 
down the first few treads, holding his gun near his shoulder.  
April-Mae suddenly appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and the 
three of them jumped.  She looked up at them with mascara-
raccooned eyes, holding a metal mixing bowl, a tub of flour, and a 
can of syrup in her arms.

She smiled bravely.  "Anyone for pancakes?" she asked.

****

"It's kind of a blessing, in a way," April-Mae sniffed, picking 
apart the shredded tissue.  She smiled at Scully and thanked her 
for the fresh one the agent was handing her.  "I never took him 
that seriously, all his bullshit about the government and so on.  
Not until recently, anyway.  He just started collecting all those 
books and things in the last few years.  And the guns.  I told him 
I didn't like it.  He just kept getting more and more militant in 
the way he talked though, you know?"

Several hours had passed, and Scully, Mulder, Heffner, and Todd 
sat in a small circle that included April-Mae.  April-Mae had 
busied herself with breakfast and had insisted on washing the 
agents' clothes while they took turns showering.  Now, with 
nothing to do, her grief had risen in force.

Scully marveled at how much better she felt with clean, dry 
clothes on.  The cut on Mulder's head looked much better, too, 
leading her to revise her opinion on the potential scar.  Her 
physical comfort satisfied, she was better able to attend to the 
personal dynamics playing out in the room.

"I know this probably isn't the best time to bring this up," she 
said apologetically, "but Agent Mulder and I need to inform our 
colleagues about the stash of gun parts we found in the bomb 
shelter.  They will execute a search warrant on the premises and 
run a check on the serial numbers.  There's a chance you will be 
arrested and charged because of your complicity in secreting the 
guns."

April-Mae nodded morosely.

"There is also a chance," Scully continued, "that because you 
didn't have a direct role to play in Hi's gun dealing, your 
circumstances might be mitigated."

April-Mae's jaw firmed, and she looked squarely at Scully.  
"I'll take whatever responsibility is mine," she said.  "I knew 
what he was up to, and I didn't say anything.  I guess I just tried 
to ignore it."  She laughed sardonically.  "I always did hook up 
with losers.  But he was such a sweet loser."

Heffner slumped in his chair, looking glum and hung over.  The 
student shifted and sighed.  "I don't mean to sound callous," he 
said, "but when can we get out of here?  Knowing there are two 
bodies in the yard out there is creeping the hell out of me."

"When I called the sheriff's office this morning," Todd 
remarked, "they said that the plow was out clearing the roads in 
and around Eureka.  They doubted it would get here before 
tomorrow at the earliest, and there's another blizzard expected 
tonight."

"The *plow*?" Heffner said, disbelievingly.  "One plow?"

Todd looked at him, bemused.  "How many plows do you think a 
town like Eureka needs?" she said.  "I imagine there are plows 
running all over Northern Montana right now, but it'll be awhile 
before anything from Whitefish makes it up this way.  Not unless 
the Canadians are running their plows across the border.  This 
storm went as far north as Sparwood, B.C. and into Alberta."

"My tent blew over," Heffner blurted helplessly, seeing he 
wasn't garnering any sympathy for his outrage over Eureka's 
dearth of snowplows.  April-Mae sniffed, tears welling afresh.

"Hi... he sometimes... drove Eureka's plow," she whimpered.  Todd 
put a hand on her shoulder.  April-Mae wept quietly for a few 
minutes, then abruptly gathered herself together and reached for 
her crocheting.  Her nails clicked as she briskly chained tiny 
loops of fine cotton together.

Mulder looked at his companions.  "That -- odd noise we all 
heard last night," he began.

Heffner shuddered.  "That was another thing that creeped me 
out," he said.  "That went on above the house all freakin' night."

Todd nodded.  "It was a weird noise," she said.  "I think it was 
the wind blowing through the rafters, but I'll admit it was just a 
little too strange for wind."

April-Mae didn't look up from her work.  "The cold makes 
things sound strange, sometimes," she said dully.

Mulder looked at Scully, motioned with his head toward the 
fireplace.  They got up and moved toward it.  "That sound 
again," he reminded her.  Scully nodded.

"But no one died last night, not the way our victims have," she 
responded.  "I don't think that noise has anything to do with 
anything.  Maybe it's as April-Mae said -- the cold changes the 
way things sound."

"Or maybe Old Vicious figured that Bogg did his work for him 
last night," Mulder replied.  Scully shrugged.

"Are you still convinced there's an X-File here?" she asked.

Mulder nodded.  "There was Mrs. Rice, who was killed only 
yesterday morning.  We don't know how many may have died in 
town last night.  We probably won't know until after the snow is 
cleared and things get back to normal."

Scully folded her arms and glanced over at the little group.  She 
noticed Heffner's watchful eyes dart away as they made contact 
with hers.  "In any case, we're probably stuck here until tomorrow."

"True enough," Mulder sighed.  He peered out the window at the 
two 4X4s and felt suddenly stupid.  He looked over at Todd.

"Ms Todd, the two 4X4s," he said.  "I know the snow's deep, but 
can't we get back to town that way?"

Todd shook her head with a soft smile.  "I know the ads make it 
look like those trucks can go anywhere, but truthfully they 
can't," she said.  "Besides, I went out to start mine this morning.  
The battery's dead."

"What about Sheriff Adams'?  He's probably got the keys on 
him.  We can try that."

Todd looked doubtful, then stood slowly.  "Okay," she said.  
"Let's try that."

Mulder looked at Scully.  "Keep a lid on things here," he said, 
and went to put on his winter gear.  Scully nodded, and went 
back to rejoin Heffner and April-Mae.  She saw Heffner's look 
of mild triumph at seeing her separated from Mulder, and a wave 
of mild irritation went through her.  She sat with a sigh and 
picked up one of April-Mae's doilies, fingering the delicate 
pattern.  And waited.

****

9:46 p.m.

The wind howled and battered the house again, spitting icy chips 
in a steady hiss against the windows.

Mulder sat and stared numbly at the fire, his vision confined to 
the glowing embers under the grate.  He'd gone through Bogg's 
library, picking out his favourite issues of "The Lone Gunman" 
and rereading the articles.  He'd leafed through the less 
distasteful volumes on Bogg's bookshelf.  He'd read a few pages 
of Bogg's manifesto and cringed at its content.  He'd done 
everything in his power to make his situation more comfortable, 
except succeed in making Heffner shut up.  The student wailed nasally 
from one of the back bedrooms:

"And I knooooooooooow that my heeeaaaaaaaaaarrrt will go 
ooooooooonnnnnn..."

Heffner was drunk.  Earlier, when he was only a few bottles into 
Bogg's homebrew, he'd tried to deliver an impromptu memorial 
service for Bogg and Adams.  Todd had pushed him into the 
kitchen for a stern talking-to.  He'd come back into the living 
room, muttering apologies, and sat sullenly in the corner 
working his way through Bogg's stock and his own repertoire of 
old Steve Miller tunes.  Mulder had to escort him to one of the 
bedrooms and shut the door when Heffner inexplicably started 
covering Celine Dion and weeping uncontrollably.

Mulder had never felt so trapped in his life.

It bothered him, more than he wanted to admit, that none of the 
vehicles would start.  Even Todd had been surprised at the 
uncooperative 4x4s.  In any case, the snow had drifted well over 
the bumper of the trucks and halfway up the grille of their rental 
car.  No one was going anywhere for awhile.  Now Mulder stared 
grimly at the new blizzard as it battered the house.

Scully was disappointed, but had surrendered herself to the 
inevitable.  At least tonight would be spent in relative comfort.  
The forecast was for improved weather tomorrow and there was 
a chance they could get out of here and back to Eureka.  And, 
with any luck, back to Washington shortly thereafter.  It 
frustrated her that they were no closer to solving the case than 
they were when they'd arrived, and now two other individuals 
were dead.  She didn't hold out a great deal of hope that they'd 
get home any time soon.

April-Mae had settled into a sort of resigned despondency, 
punctuated by brief periods of forced chipperness that unsettled 
everybody.  Todd had engaged her in a game of cards in one of 
these moments, but the game finished early when April-Mae's 
grief had risen again and was once more sublimated in a bout of 
frenzied crocheting.  On the side table, a small but growing pile 
of doilies stood testament to the power of her sadness.  Scully was 
wary of the nearing end of April-Mae's cotton supply.

Todd was silent and ruminative.  At one point she unbraided her 
sleek black hair, ran her fingers through it, and began braiding it 
again in tight, Caribbean-style plaits.  She had enough hair to 
keep her occupied all night if need be.  She leaned back against 
one arm of the sofa, one sock-clad foot on the seat, the other on 
the floor, intent on her work.  Scully noticed Todd had her 
firearm with her, and on the floor beside her lay a tranquilizer 
gun.  She'd brought them in with her after she and Mulder had 
failed to bring the vehicles to life.

Heffner finished with Celine Dion and, after a moment's careful 
consideration, began to yowl a song about pickles and motorcycles.

The hollow moan reverberated through the house again.  Heffner 
stopped singing.  Everyone looked up at the ceiling.

"It's back," Todd said softly, pausing in her delicate braiding 
work.

The noise sounded again, moving across the top of the house and 
dissipating somewhere above it.

"'nnnnI don' wanna die," Heffner sang, "I jus' wanna ride on 
my motorcy -- cle..."

"Shut up, Ben," Todd commanded.  She sat up straight, listening 
carefully.

A strong gust of wind knocked the house.  The lights flickered, 
and went out.

"Dammit," April-Mae muttered.  Swearing under her breath, she 
stood and went to the closet, fishing blindly for her winter gear.  
"Generator's out back," she said tersely.  "I'll go out and start it.  
I only hope Hi put enough gas in it."

Mulder stood along with Todd and Scully, all of them reacting 
with instinctive alarm.  "Just stay inside, April-Mae," Todd said, 
her voice edgy.  "There's something out there.  We can make do 
with the fire and candles, if you've got them."

"It's just outside the door," April-Mae said firmly.  "I won't be a 
second."  She moved to the back door and paused as the hollow 
noise dragged itself across the house again.  She glanced back 
once, a little nervously, and disappeared outside.

The three of them stayed rooted to the spot, all of them staring 
apprehensively at the place just vacated by April-Mae.  Scully 
knew that either she or Mulder were obligated to go after her if 
they felt that she was in some kind of danger.  Scully, on some 
level, also knew better under these circumstances.  She stayed 
put.

Long seconds followed.  The generator roared distantly.  The 
lights flickered on, and everyone let out a collective sigh of 
relief.

The noise sounded again.  The generator died, and the lights 
went out.

Tense, Scully edged closer to the mantle and grabbed a pillar 
candle from its decorative holder.  Wordlessly, she bent to light 
the candle in the fire and stepped cautiously to the back door.

"Scully," Mulder cautioned.  Scully held up a hand and 
continued carefully on her way.  Mulder took the other candle, lit 
it, and followed her.  Todd, candleless, crept slowly behind 
Mulder.

Carefully, Scully opened the back door and held the candle out 
as far as she dared.  She swept it in an arc, slowly.

"April-Mae?" she called.  "You all right?"

The only response she got was a gust that blew out her candle.  
Mulder sidled up beside her and peered into the dark.

"There," he said, pointing.  Scully squinted into the dark, then 
her eyes went wide.  She stepped outside into the storm and ran 
the few steps toward the huddled shape.  Mulder watched as 
Scully knelt beside the form, then slumped her head and 
shoulders.  Abruptly she stood and attempted to start the 
generator.  The lights flickered, and in the brief illumination 
Mulder could see the inert form of April-Mae and spatters of 
blood in the snow.  The lights sputtered and died.  Scully tried 
twice more to get the generator started, and gave up.  She ran 
back to the door, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.  She 
banged the door shut behind her.

"Dammit!" Scully said, vigorously brushing snow from her 
limbs.  In the glow from his candle, Mulder could see she was 
angry.  She slammed her palm down on the kitchen counter and 
ran the other over her forehead.

"She's dead, isn't she?" Mulder said gently.  Scully nodded, 
trying to find words.

"Like the others," she said bitterly.  "We should never have let 
her go out there alone, Mulder."

"I think we just knew better than to follow her," Todd said.

They heard the sound again.  Instinctively, they all backed away 
from the door.  Scully grabbed her extinguished candle and lit it 
from Mulder's.  Todd looked pensive, almost puzzled, listening 
carefully through the wind.

"Something's different," she muttered.

"How different?" Mulder asked.  Todd listened a few seconds 
more, then shook her head in frustration.

"I don't know.  It almost sounds familiar, but I'm not sure."  She 
turned into the living room abruptly and sat on the couch.  She 
checked her sidearm.  "Are you armed?" she asked the agents.

"Yes," Scully said.  "What do you think it is?"  As if on cue, the 
moan repeated itself.  Todd tensed and listened carefully as it 
dragged itself out and faded into the wind.  She shook her head 
again.

"I can't say what it is," she said.  "It's no animal I'm familiar 
with.  I don't know of any animal that kills like that."  She jerked 
her thumb toward the back door.  Scully could see she was shaken.

"You've got your tranquilizer gun with you," Scully said, 
gesturing.  Todd glanced at it and snapped the clip of her 
sidearm back into place.  She looked at Scully, her dark eyes on 
fire.

"Whatever it is, it doesn't live," she said coldly.  "It gets torn 
apart and studied."

The house shuddered as something slammed into it.  The front 
window of the living room rang like a gong.

"That wasn't the wind," Mulder said nervously.  They all tensed 
as the moan started up again.  It was almost a noise of 
frustration, as though something was being thwarted in some way.  
They listened as it paused, then started up again, drifting around 
the outside perimeter of the house.  

It reached the front door.  In the dim firelight, the knob twisted 
and caught against the lock.  Abruptly, the door vibrated as 
something threw itself against it, rattling the framed needlepoint 
that hung on the inside.  The door vibrated again, and again a 
third time.  Then it stopped.

The sound moved away from the door and continued its journey 
around the outside of the house.

"It's looking for a way in," Todd whispered, transfixed.  The 
three of them turned slowly, in almost perfect synch, as they 
followed the creeping sound.

Mulder abruptly ran to the back door, startling Todd and Scully, 
and threw the deadbolt.  The door shuddered.  Backing away, he 
rejoined the two women in the living room, but not before 
noticing the large rechargeable flashlight hanging on the kitchen 
wall.  He grabbed it and lit it, extinguishing his candle.  He 
instantly felt better.

The noise stopped for several seconds then started again, its 
resonant groan now creeping up the side of the house alongside 
the stone chimney.

Todd grabbed a chunk of firewood and threw it on the grate.  
Sparks flew everywhere.  She backed away, wide-eyed in fear, 
as the flames began to feed on the log, sending orange tongues 
up the chimney.  She looked at Scully helplessly; Scully returned 
the look.

"It's the only part of the house open to the outside," Todd said 
nervously.  "Except for the furnace air intake."  Her voice 
dropped to a whisper again with these last words.

The sound crept up the chimney and seemed to pause at its top, 
hovering and whistling down the flue.  The flames flattened and 
flared sideways, nearly extinguished.  The three of them beat a 
hasty path down the hall toward one of the bedrooms and 
slammed the door behind them.

With their sidearms drawn instinctively, they huddled against the 
wall and listened.  The sound crept down the outside of the 
chimney and drew itself along the length of the house toward 
them.  It threw itself against the outside wall, rattling the 
bedroom window.  They hustled out of the bedroom and headed 
in a tight pack to the room Heffner was passed out in.  He 
groaned as they entered.

"Have you made a sex and age determination yet?" he muttered, 
half conscious.  Mulder stared at him as the anthropologist 
drifted off again into an alcoholic slumber.

The thing threw itself against the wall.  Heffner jumped and 
grumbled, curling himself into a tight ball.  Todd and Mulder left 
the room while Scully looked after Heffner worriedly.  Whatever 
was out there seemed to be after the three of them, judging by 
the way it followed them as they moved within the house.  She 
left Heffner in the room, reluctantly shutting the door behind her.

Todd and Mulder had slipped into the bathroom.  Scully 
followed, closing the door behind her.  She looked at her 
companions, the gravity of the situation etched across her face.

"How long do you think we can keep this up?" she said in a 
hoarse whisper.  Mulder shook his head, his own apprehension 
visible.

"I don't know," he said.  He sat on the toilet, looking up at the 
ceiling.  The noise was still out there, muffled.  "This room has 
no outside walls.  It can't get to us directly.  I don't think."  He 
flinched slightly as the house shuddered.  He looked over at 
Todd, who was listening with puzzled intensity.

"What is it, Avril?" he said.  She frowned and shook her head 
abruptly.

"This doesn't make sense," she said.  "It doesn't happen this 
way."

She stopped.  Mulder and Scully waited for her to continue.

"What doesn't happen this way?" Scully prompted.  She watched 
as Todd seemed to gather herself, her slender brown fingers 
flexing around the butt of her sidearm.  After several moments, 
Todd seemed to pull herself out of a trance and turned her gaze 
to Scully.

"Stay here," she said with authority.  "Don't move."  With that, 
she moved fluidly to the bathroom door and opened it with 
caution.  Mulder got up to follow her; Scully stopped him with a 
hand on his arm.  He shook it off and peered around the edge of 
the doorframe, his light trained on Todd.  She was walking 
slowly and purposefully toward the front door, her gun ready.  
The sound followed her, pausing as she paused at the front 
entrance.

Todd flexed her free hand and reached for the doorknob.  The 
sound had changed somewhat, morphing into a kind of snarl that 
overlaid the moan like an eerie set of harmonics.  Todd's fingers 
closed around the knob.  After a pause, she twisted the knob hard 
and pulled the door open.

A large blur of motion skittered across the opening.  Todd fired, 
the flash from her gun strobing in the doorway.  She fired three 
times.  Scully thought she heard a muffled thump as something 
hit the snowpack outside.  Todd remained frozen in place for 
several seconds, then lowered her arms and straightened.  

The noise was gone.

Several more seconds trolled by.

The noise was still gone.

Still tense and alert, Todd looked over her shoulder at the two 
agents peering at her from around the bathroom doorframe.  
"Come here," she said, her voice tinged with a mixture of relief 
and sadness.  "Look at this."  They met her at the door.

On the bloodstained snow, its pelt already gathering a layer of 
frozen flakes, lay a cougar.  Even dead, it was an imposing 
figure.  Scully looked at it in amazement, figuring it was at least 
seven feet long without the tail.  She looked at Todd, who was 
staring at the animal with tears in her eyes.

"God, I hate doing that," Todd said quietly, her voice thick with 
self-reproach.  "It's not right."  She gathered herself and slowly 
shut the door.  The three of them listened carefully.  The only 
moan now was the familiar one of the wind.

Mulder looked bewildered.  "A cougar," he said dumbly, looking 
at Scully.  Scully looked back at him without triumph, feeling 
Todd's profound regret at killing such a magnificent creature.  
She looked back at Todd sympathetically.

"If it was a threat, though, Avril," she began, but Todd shook her 
head vigorously.  

"It wasn't a threat," she said.  "It would never have come in the 
house.  But it killed April-Mae.  Cougars don't attack people as a 
general rule.  There was something wrong with this one if it was 
killing people."  Todd slowly replaced the gun in her holster and 
looked at Scully.  "I knew there was something familiar about 
that sound."

Mulder shook his head.  "It wasn't completely familiar, though," 
he prodded.  Todd looked troubled.

"No," she said.  "It wasn't entirely the sort of noise a big cat 
makes.  But the wind -- it does strange things to sound."  The 
professional mantle slid over Todd's bearing once again.  "I'll 
take it back to Fish and Wildlife.  We'll want to examine it, see 
if there's any reason why it would have attacked people like 
that."  With that, she retired to one of the bedrooms and quietly 
shut the door.

Scully sighed.  "I guess that's it, Mulder," she said.  "A cougar.  
The Beast of Bodmin Moor strikes in the colonies."  She tried to 
feel satisfied, but the feeling stalled before it could be fully 
realized.

Mulder frowned at her, irritated.  "I don't think we're done with 
this, Scully.  Vicious Aloysius still has one more victim to 
claim."

Scully pondered this for a moment, then shook her head.  
"'Vicious Aloysius' is lying out there dead in the snow, Mulder," 
she said finally.  "I wish it wasn't, but it is."  She shrugged the 
tension out of her shoulders and neck and slipped her gun into its 
holster.  "I'm going to bed.  Goodnight."  She drifted off down 
the hallway to another unoccupied bedroom.

Mulder stared at the front door, apprehensive, lost deep in 
thought.  The firelight crawled over his troubled features as he 
considered the events of the evening, trying to make all the 
pieces fit, and failing.  Something was wrong, something was still 
missing from the equation.  It had to balance out somehow.

He sat on the hearth, thinking, for a very long time.  Finally he 
rose and lay down on the couch, pulled an afghan over himself, 
and stared contemplatively into the flames, his sidearm within 
easy reach on the coffee table.  

It was a long time before he fell asleep.

****

The plow finally reached them late the next afternoon.  Earlier, 
Todd had radioed into town and informed the sheriff's office of 
the three bodies and the cougar carcass; a solemn procession of 
hearses and a truck with a winch now followed behind the 
laboring plow.  Mulder, Scully, and Deputy Griffin helped bag 
and load the frozen bodies of Bogg, Adams, and April-Mae 
while Todd and another Fish and Wildlife officer rolled the 
cougar onto a tarp and winched it onto the truck bed.  The truck 
was kept busy jump starting dead batteries; engines turned 
sluggishly over, trying to force cold-thickened oil through their 
works.  Heffner looked on miserably from the living room 
window, his desire to sing supplanted by a monstrous headache 
and a nasty case of dry heaves that sent him sprinting for the 
bathroom every few minutes.

Scully couldn't remember a sky so blue or cloudless, or a day 
when she'd seen the air sparkle so.  Suspended ice crystals 
formed a ring around the sun, sundogs flaring along the 
circumference.  The brightness of the snow made her eyes tear 
relentlessly and her nose run in sympathy, but at least her cold 
was waning.  Now she climbed into the rental with Mulder, their 
job here finished.  The group traveled silently and morosely, 
forming a bizarre procession of trucks, cars, plow, and hearses 
leading back to Eureka.

She kept a respectful silence as the bodies were wheeled into the 
morgue's cold storage and the doors were closed and tagged.  
Griffin looked troubled for reasons that appeared to Scully to go 
beyond the death of his boss and two other people.  He looked at 
her inquisitive, sympathetic gaze and shook his head.

"Something weird, Agent Scully," he said.  "I'm not even sure 
it's worth mentioning."  He hesitated; Scully prompted him with 
a look.  Griffin winced, uncomfortable.

"We followed proper procedure at Mrs. Rice's house after we'd 
documented the scene.  You know, dusted for prints, took fiber 
samples, that sort of thing.  We turned up an anomalous set of 
prints that didn't belong to either Mrs. Rice or Mike Petrou, and 
they didn't show up in either the state or federal database.  
Something told me to check for prints from the bodies you 
autopsied: Granger, Wolfleg, and Erickson.  The prints," he said, 
"belonged to Harlan Wolfleg."

Scully considered this information.  "I imagine that he must have 
visited Mrs. Rice at some point before his death," she offered.  
Griffin shook his head.

"No, those two weren't that friendly.  The relationship wasn't 
hostile or anything, they just had nothing in common and tended 
not to associate with each other.  I can't imagine why Harlan 
would have gone over to Mrs. Rice's.  Besides," Griffin 
continued, looking at Scully significantly, "the prints were found 
on the kitchen counter and the utensil drawer.  You saw Mrs. 
Rice's house.  It was practically sterilized.  She always kept it 
like she was having an open house."

Scully frowned.  "I don't know how else to explain it," she said.

"Sheriff Adams also told me something about the seal on the 
cold storage when he opened it for you the other day," Griffin 
mused.  "It hadn't been tampered with, exactly.  But he said the 
tag was upside down, and he was sure he'd put it right side up 
when he'd signed the body over to the hospital."  He paused, 
considering this, then dismissed it, shrugging philosophically.  
"I've just started asking around about Harlan's activities prior to 
his death.  I'm sure there's a logical explanation.  He might very 
well have stopped by Mrs. Rice's about something.  I'm sure 
that's what it is."  He looked thoughtful a moment more, then his 
face assumed a professional mask and he held out his hand.  
"Thank you, Agent Scully," he said.  "I'm glad you and Agent 
Mulder were able to help."

Scully shook his hand.  "I think you owe more thanks to Avril 
Todd.  She was the one who figured out it was a cougar."

"Strange behaviour for a cougar," Griffin mused.  "But I'm sure 
you've seen stranger things."

Scully smiled.  "Take care, Deputy Griffin," she said, and left for 
the motel to pack up.

Griffin looked at the stainless steel doors of the morgue cold 
storage room and scratched his head.

Cougars.

****

Glacier Park International Airport
4:15 p.m.

Passengers for the flight to Washington, D. C. were filling the 
departure lounge where Mulder and Scully sat.  Scully leafed 
through a paper while Mulder slumped beside her, staring into 
nothing, his expression vaguely troubled.  He crunched on 
something hard, swallowed, and popped another lozenge into his 
mouth.  The smell of menthol and eucalyptus wafted past 
Scully's nose and she glanced over at her partner.

"How's the throat?" she inquired.

"Sore," Mulder croaked with a grimace.  Scully suppressed a 
smirk, and turned the page.

"Well, take care of it," she offered solicitously.  "It's quick, but 
it's nasty."  She cleared her throat of some residual congestion, 
glad to be feeling better.  Mulder glanced at her miserably.

"You've been awfully quiet since we left Eureka," she added.  
"I'm sorry we didn't get to go skiing."

Mulder shook his head.  "It's not that," he said.  "There's 
something not right about leaving Eureka.  I keep feeling there's 
work left to be done."

"The sixth victim," Scully said.  Mulder nodded.  Scully 
considered this, then shook the paper to straighten the creases.  
"Mulder, it was a cougar.  Admittedly, Avril said it was highly 
unusual behaviour for a cougar, but the explanation still makes 
sense in a very worldly sort of way.  I think our work there is 
done and we can just go home and write it up.  Five people died.  
I wish they hadn't, but there will be no sixth victim.  I'm quite 
sure of it."

"Mrs. Rice is what puzzles me," Mulder persisted.  He straightened 
and turned to his partner.  "She was the only victim found inside.  
There were no signs of struggle or attack.  Yet she was killed the 
same way April-Mae and the others were.  And what about Harlan 
Wolfleg's fingerprints?  I think that Aloysius Bogg's spirit takes 
over the bodies of his victims and gets them to do his work."

Scully frowned.  "So how does the cougar fit in?"

"I don't know," Mulder admitted.  "Maybe he doesn't just take 
over his victim's bodies.  Maybe he uses what's convenient.  
Sometimes it's a person, sometimes an animal.  It might explain 
the animal carcasses."

"Yes, but so would a lot of other things," Scully replied.  She 
shook her head.  "I'm satisfied that the sheriff's office kept 
proper continuity on the bodies.  Both Adams and Griffin signed 
them in and out for the autopsy in my presence.  There was no -- " 
she hesitated, then continued, "no sign that the seals had been 
tampered with."

"Scully, if I'm right, then the spirit of Aloysius Bogg is still out 
there, using animal and human bodies to carry out his revenge.  
And he's got one more score to settle.  We need to be there, or at 
least warn Deputy Griffin."  Mulder paused as the gate attendant 
announced pre-boarding for their flight.

Scully folded her paper and shook her head.  "Mulder..." she 
began, and stopped as her cell phone rang.  She answered it and 
listened.  Mulder watched as a frown crawled across her face.

"How did it go missing?" he heard her say.  Mulder looked at her 
intently; she returned his look with a puzzled one of her own.  
"That's very odd, I agree," she said.  Reacting to Mulder's stare, 
she sighed.  "Agent Mulder feels that you should stay vigilant, 
that this thing isn't quite over yet.  Yes, that's right.  Vicious 
Aloysius.  I -- think it might be wise to take whatever precautions 
you can, yes," she finished reluctantly.  She listened a moment more, 
then ended the call and looked at Mulder uncertainly.

"That was Deputy Griffin," she said.  "Hieronymous Bogg's 
body has gone missing."  They stared at one another for a moment, 
mulling over the significance.

The attendant announced the start of regular boarding.  Reluctantly, 
they stood and moved slowly toward the gate.

****

A pair of frayed and worn jockeys sailed across the room and 
landed half in, half out of the suitcase.  Heffner didn't care.  He 
pulled shirts and pants out of the dresser drawers and flung them 
at the bed without looking.  His head hurt, and he was scared.  
He was anxious to get the hell out of here.

The house he'd shared temporarily with Sheriff Adams and his 
wife was empty.  In her grief, Muriel Adams had gone to the 
house of a friend for solace and company.  Heffner knew it 
probably wasn't good timing, nor was it especially polite, to 
have blurted out to her that he was leaving, but at the moment he 
didn't care.  Nor did he care about the remains of Aloysius Bogg.  
He had enough data; he could go back to Missoula and finish 
writing his dissertation.  Maybe his advisor could come out and 
clean up his dig site.  He sure as hell wasn't going to.  Ethics and 
respect for the dead be damned.  Aloysius Bogg hadn't exactly 
shown much respect for Ben Heffner, after all.

Heffner turned and stared at the clothes strewn about the room.  
He swore and began to gather them up in armloads, dumping 
them into the ancient hard-shell Samsonite that sat on the bed.  
He was so out of here.  His ruminating mind paid scant attention 
to the sound, a sound much like that of a jet plying its way 
through the soul-numbing temperatures of winter at thirty 
thousand feet, or an attenuated digeridoo at its lowest registers.

The bedroom door clicked shut.  He started and looked behind 
him, his eyes growing wide with astonishment.

Hieronymous Bogg stood between him and the door, looking 
entirely the worse for wear.  His skin was a pasty bluish-white, 
with red patches where the cold had frozen skin and burst blood 
vessels.  He was naked and bore nothing save the broad bladed 
carving knife that Ben had seen Mrs. Adams use to slice the 
Sunday roast.  The blade twisted slightly, its keen edge catching 
the cold winter light from the window.  Heffner froze to the spot, 
his mandibular joint clicking as his jaw dropped.  He stared into 
Bogg's flat, dead eyes as the latter grinned at him.

"Hiya, kid," Bogg said, and summarily gutted him.



FINIS


Feed me!  allijohn@home.com

****

NOTES:

I am a non-credit night school junkie.  I usually take at 
least one course each fall and winter just for the hell of 
it.  I have taken courses on everything from juggling to 
investing (I still can't juggle, and I'm still a very un-
shrewd investor, so don't ask me to demonstrate my skills 
in either.)  When the local university offered up a course 
in forensic anthropology this past winter, my immediate 
thought was "hm. What a fascinating field of study.  This 
couldn't possibly give me cool stuff to use in my fanfic, 
could it?"  So I signed up.

What an amazing course.  The instructor, Dr. Hartmut 
Krentz, is a physical and forensic anthropologist who spent 
some time in Seattle assisting the FBI on the Green River 
murders.  He had many, many anecdotes to share.  I learned 
so much.  I learned how to identify the sex of skeletal 
remains from various key points on the bones.  I learned 
why the skull doesn't tell you much about a person's age 
after the age of 20.  I learned why trying to dispose of 
bodies by fire is generally a lousy idea, unless you 
*really* know what you're doing.  I learned why it's 
generally better to bury a body vertically if you're trying 
to keep anyone from finding it.  (Not foolproof, but better 
than a horizontal burial.)  I learned some really stupid 
jokes.  And I learned some neat things from the optional 
field trip to the Medical Examiner's office.

The ME's office was not for the squeamish, but then again, 
neither was this course (handle actual human skeletal 
remains?  Yeah!!).  We didn't get to see an actual autopsy 
(I admit, I probably would have bailed anyway).  I learned 
a few important things:

a) The reception area smelled faintly of formaldehyde.  The 
actual examination bays smelled of -- nothing.
b) There is a separate area for autopsying AIDS and 
hepatitis victims, and "decomps", which has its own air 
exchange system.  'Nuff said.
c) The ME doesn't usually perform autopsies.  In fact, 
doctors don't even perform most of the autopsies.  In 
Canada, anyway, most of the autopsies are performed by 
"forensic pathology technicians", who usually have an 
undergraduate degree in either nursing or anthropology.  
Good thing Dr. Scully works on the oddball cases that 
require her specialized knowledge, because otherwise 
she'd be *way* overqualified.
d) Not every body that comes through the ME's office gets 
autopsied.  While all sudden and unexplained deaths 
generally warrant an autopsy, sometimes the cause of 
death is so obvious that it's signed off without anyone 
lifting a scalpel.  A good example is death by carbon 
monoxide poisoning; cherry coloured skin and blood 
colour is a dead giveaway.

What I used from this class in "Vicious Aloysius":  
Heffner's joke about the hide and seek champion, the stuff 
about the hyoid bone and the odontoid process, and Scully's 
explanation to Mulder about how she feels when she does 
autopsies.  Our tour guide at the ME's office, one of the 
technicians, made the comment about removing and dissecting 
the brain, and how difficult he finds that process.  He 
said that he considers the essence of what makes us human 
to be located in the brain, and I thought, what a Scullyish 
thing to say.  I think I'll use it. ;)

If you've got the time and the spare change, I encourage 
you to seek out and take courses like this.  I would have 
taken it even if I wasn't a fic writer.

-Allison J.