Middleborough, Connecticut

7:04 a.m.

            The light sparkled on the red front door as it opened to the morning.  The man who emerged from the tidy white suburban house scowled at the bright day. Blinking for a moment, he looked down and noticed a blue-wrapped newspaper lying across his own daily Herald.

            Picking it up he gave it a backhanded fling and sent it flying at the glass of the bay window that faced him from the house next door. The glass rattled but did not break; the paper fell to the dew-damp grass.

            "Tell that damn paper boy where you live!" he shouted at the quiet house and pulled the red door shut behind him with a slam.

            There was no response.

            Scratching the fringe of brown hair that circled his bald head he marched down the walk to the sedan in the drive. It was a tasteful dark color, trying to look expensive though the tan leather inside could have been faked from vinyl. Throwing his briefcase into the passenger seat, he slammed that door as well and walked around to slide behind the wheel.

            As he squealed away from the curb, steering with one hand, he turned his radio on with the other, only to be greeted with static.

            "Goddamn it," he muttered as he scanned for an available channel.  Just static.

            He popped an unlabeled plastic cassette into the stereo and relaxed into the seat as Rush Limbaugh informed him that everything that he had ever suspected about everything was right, and then some, and that none of it was his fault.

            He wound his way through the quiet tree-lined streets and joined the beltway. He was twenty minutes from work. He swerved into the breakdown lane and speeded up; with a little luck, he could make it in ten.

            Beeping and cursing, he settled down in his vinylesque seat and smugly passed one of the signs that said it was legal to drive in the breakdown lane between 7 and 10 a.m. Thank god, he thought.

            He passed an eighteen-wheeler on the right and its driver honked his horn. He gave the truck driver the finger with his free hand and steered his car smoothly around an upcoming curve at 70 miles per hour.

            The thump on the windshield caused him, startled, to punch the brakes rather harder than he usually would.

            He never had a moment to consider his decision, because his car flipped violently, spun at 70 mph into the side of the truck he'd just passed, and he was dead.

            When the car and the truck stopped, there was a moment of silence or of sound vacuum; the crash had taken all the sound out of the air.

            Past the shoulder, up the bank, on a tree limb, a small gray furry creature sat up on its back hind legs, turning something over and over in its front paws, then tossed it down and turned away. It disappeared up into the tree.

             On the highway the traffic trickled by on the far left but a wide swath of asphalt formed a moat of quiet around the metal forms. The truck, a large square hulk, stopped; below, the twisted sedan, upside-down, rocking, still rocking gently. A soft creak, creak as it rocked, the last ebbs of kinetic force leaving the car.

            Tick, tick, tick tick. From the cracked chassis a handful of small round, brown nuts trickled to the pavement.

-----------------------------------NUTS

An X-Files Episode

written by dith

Starring David Duchovny as Fox Mulder

Gillian Anderson as Dana Scully

as Mrs. Van Buren

as Stephanie Percy

as Larry Gonzalez

as Howard Van Buren

Based on characters by Chris Carter

Not intended as copyright infringement.

THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE

-----------------------------------

J. Edgar Hoover Building

10:48 a.m., March 23, 1996

            Scully tossed the folder back onto Mulder's side of the table. "Stupidity is hardly a federal crime, Mulder."

            "First rule of evolution, Scully. If you're dumb, you die." Mulder shrugged. "But in this case, stupidity was artificially boosted by the state of his brakes."

            "Tampered with?"

            "You betcha. Just one, though. Mr. Howard Van Buren had anti-lock brakes; one was disconnected, the other wasn't. When he slammed on the brakes, the tires tried to stop at different rates, resulting in a pretty spectacular spin according to all eyewitnesses."

            "Any reason to think it might be murder?"

            "The news media up there is playing it coy, but several reports have hinted that it might have been a protest against nuclear power; seems Mr. Van Buren was affiliated with a nuclear power facility in that area."

            The phone on Mulder's desk rang; he put the receiver to his ear without moving. "Mulder."

            "You're going to like this case, Agent Mulder." The voice was soft, low. "It's the smallest clues that will mean the most."

            Mulder frowned a little and he sat up straight. "How did you get this number? And what part of "no comment" do you not understand?" He hung up.

            Scully's eyebrows flew up.

            Mulder shook his head. "Some tabloid reporter - wants my comment on the Spanos study."

            "The study that showed that UFO sighters aren't nuts? I thought that thing was published months ago." Scully pulled some manila folders from her drawer.

            "It was. Someone's a little late in jumping on the bandwagon - or just yanking my chain."

            "It sounds like it's right up your alley, Mulder." She tilted her head to look at him as she rose.

            "I don't have to prove to anyone that I'm not crazy, Scully." He grinned. "Everyone already knows."

            "Of course. Look, I want to discuss these test reports on the Brooklyn case with Pathology - if you want to check out that Connecticut case, file the paperwork, OK?"

            "You want this case?"

            Scully stopped, one hand holding open the door, and looked back into the office. "I thought you wanted it, Mulder. Make up your mind. I'll see you before lunch, OK? Let me know if we're going to travel." She smiled at him before letting the door close behind her.

            "Just look at this place, Mulder. Have you ever seen anyplace that looked more like a storybook suburb?"

            Mulder leaned one elbow on the armrest of the door, looking out the window as Scully drove. "This is the real thing, all right. See Spot run. Run, Spot, run."

            They stopped at a large white-painted cake of a house, Barbie's Dream House, the first floor ornamented with big bay windows, the upper floors frosted with cupolas and gables.

            Mulder's eyes widened as he followed Scully up to the door. The lawn - the yard, really - had a look that said "landscaping", in case any passersby had missed the Mercedes in the drive.

            "I expect Malibu Stacy to answer the door," he whispered behind Scully as she rang the doorbell. She just had time to throw him an admonishing look before the door opened.

            "Yes?" A slim, dark-haired woman stood in the door in dark green wool pants and pale yellow silk blouse and an slightly impatient look.

            "Ms. Percy? This is Special Agent Mulder, I'm Special Agent Scully, from the FBI. We're investigating the death of your neighbor, Howard Van Buren. Would you mind if we came in and asked you a few questions?"

            Her look changed immediately to one of lighthearted interest. "Am I a suspect in Howard's death? How delightful! Do come in." Her jet black eyes sparkled and her heavy black hair, bobbed at the neck, swung in an arc as she ushered them inside.

            Mulder couldn't help making a swirling motion by his ear with one finger as he and Scully followed the woman into her front room. Scully just shrugged.

            "So you're not very upset about Mr. Van Buren's death, I take it, Ms. Percy," Mulder said softly as they arranged themselves in plush white furniture.

            "Oh no, not terribly, sorry. Howard and I hated each other. I expect that's why you're here. I'd like to offer you some tea or coffee, but I'm afraid I'm fresh out of both - orange juice, perhaps?"

            "No thank you, we're fine. We don't want to take up a lot of your time, I'm sure you're very busy," Scully assured her.

            "I'm not busy at the moment but I was about to be - I'm heading in to the office."

            "What do you do, Ms. Percy?" Scully followed up the obvious lead.

            "I'm an investment banker."

            "Were you a business rival of Mr. Van Buren's?"

            "No, Howard was a paper pusher at the nuclear plant outside of town. Although I'm sure my financial success was just one more reason for Howard not to like me."

            "Really? What were the others?" Mulder interjected.

            "Oh, Howard didn't approve of businesswomen in general. Have you met Mrs. Van Buren? Well, she's quite a trip. I've called her Mrs. Van Buren for the six years I've lived here. If she has a first name, I've never heard it, even though we see each other at least once a day - I work largely out of my home and Mrs. Van Buren is always at home. Let me see, what else. Well, I don't think Howard approved of women who wore pants, nor did he approve of Native Americans, nor did he approve of single women living alone, nor did he approve of my having friends over at my own house... there's not much I could do that Howard didn't dislike."

            "You're Native American?" Mulder paused with pen poised above his notebook.

            "Yes. In fact, my first investment client was my own tribe. Howard didn't approve of how much money they made with my advice, either."

            "May I ask which tribe?"

            "The Pequots, ... that's a tribe in this state."

            "They're opening a casino, aren't they?"

            "They opened it quite a while ago, Mr....."

            "Mulder." He grinned. "I'm guessing Howard didn't approve of casinos either, did he?"

            The smile she gave him was warm. "Mr. Mulder. No, he definitely didn't."

            There was a crash and a tinkle, as of something falling and breaking, from somewhere in the house. Murmuring, "Excuse me," Ms. Percy slid gracefully out of the room.

            "Sounds like Howard was more likely to want to get rid of Stephanie Percy than the other way around," Scully observed dryly and settled back into the couch, writing in her notebook.

            "Do you suppose she needs help with something?" Mulder wondered out loud, coming to his feet and looking towards the door Stephanie had gone through.

            "No," Scully said frankly but Mulder was already gone.

            Through a central hallway and towards the back of the house, Mulder found an open doorway, and looked through to see Stephanie struggling with something in a cage, muttering under her breath.

            "Need any help?" he said, and she jumped, then snatched her hand away, only to return it just as quickly.

            "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Mulder, just some trouble with Moocher here."

            As he came up to the cage he could see that she had a small gray squirrel under one hand. "Did he bite you?"

            "Just a nip."

            Wrapping his long fingers around the little creature, Mulder slid him into the cage and closed the door. "Sure he's not carrying any nasty diseases?"

            "Quite sure." She seemed happier now that the cage was closed, and relaxed again, only to look down at the shards of a small white vase at her feet.

            "The damage was done, huh?" He stopped her from bending to pick up the pieces. "You could cut yourself again - may I see?" Holding her hand as carefully as he'd held the squirrel, he looked at the bite; it was bleeding cleanly, not deep.

            "I'll, uh, bandage it -"

            "Clean it first," he advised, and bent to pick up the pieces of the vase.

            "Tell me, Mr. Mulder, do you clean up after the pets of all your suspects? Or do you usually skip right to the issuing orders part?"

            Sheepishly, Mulder looked up into her face, and hurried to say, "Excuse me, I didn't mean to -"

            "Not at all, I appreciate the help, I'll be right back."

            By the time she'd returned Scully was with Mulder, and surveying the squirrel. Once he'd finished staring at the floor, looking for china pieces, he realized that there were at least five cages of varying sizes, containing six or seven squirrels. Two of them rested on what looked like antique piano benches; a third was on a walnut breakfront, the others on a highly polished table, padded with woven mats.

            "You like squirrels a lot," Mulder observed as Stephanie rejoined them.

            "I like animals a lot. I like plants, too. I'd be happy to have you help clean up my greenhouse, too, if you'd like." He looked away so he wouldn't blush; Stephanie smiled at Scully.

            Scully, leaning down over one of the cages, made a sound like a small gasp and said, "Oh my God, what is that?"

            Mulder looked at the squirrel she was pointing at. It was walking around and around inside its cage. A smooth, flesh-colored protuberance projected from one ear.

            "It's a tumor, Agent Scully. These squirrels couldn't survive in the wild. They're foundlings or sick animals I've found in the area. I know that sounds nasty, but I assure you they've been tested for diseases before I bring them in the house - I have a very sympathetic vet."

            Scully watched the squirrel walking around in its circle and her face seemed to be fighting off a grimace of disgust - or empathy. "This animal should be put out of its misery."

            Stephanie Percy stared at Scully. "That's a pretty quick diagnosis, Ms. Scully. You seem quite sure that his life is not worth living. I'm not so sure." She turned away to lead them back to the living room. "I have a supply of a sedative that I use when they seem to be in too much pain."

            "To help them sleep?" Mulder asked.

            "To put them to sleep," Stephanie replied, and she turned dark eyes to him, and in her eyes there seemed to be night.

            "Well, if that's a murder suspect, I'm Captain Kangaroo."

            Scully looked across the diner table. "That might explain your hair. Why cross her off the list so soon? Because she likes squirrels?"

            "Does she strike you as a murderer, Scully?"

            "Murderers don't generally strike you as murderers. They strike you as people."

            "You don't believe that, Scully. You know as well as I do that when you meet someone who's really capable of murder, you get that feeling -"

            Scully's eyes unfocused for a moment, and she shrugged just a little. "Sometimes," she said faintly. Then louder, "Still, it's too soon to cross her off the list. She's got something in the house for putting animals to sleep; she doesn't seem to disapprove of someone putting Howard 'to sleep'. Let's at least wait until there's someone else on the list."

            "What about Mrs. Van Buren?"

            "Oh, she sounds like the murdering type," Scully said sarcastically, tossing her napkin on her plate.

            "Didn't you ever see The Stepford Wives?" Mulder slid a manila folder across the table at her. "See what you think of this."

            She opened it, skimmed it while Mulder talked.

            "Those are photographs of the car after the crash," he went on, while she flipped photos and sheets of paper.

            "Was there anything wrong with the car aside from the brakes?"

            "You see anything right with that car? Check this out." Mulder reached over the top of the folder to point at the windshield in the photo with his straw.

            "Looks like the sort of fracture an impact might make. Van Buren's head hitting the windshield?"

            "Except that it's on the outside of the car."

            Scully shrugged. "Something flying around loose during the impact could have made that fracture."

            "Maybe." Mulder settled back in his seat, tapping his straw on the table. "The radio also wasn't working. Van Buren had an appointment to come get it fixed next week."

            "Well, he won't need the appointment now." Scully looked across the table at her partner. "Come on, Mulder, spit it out. There's something else you're dying to tell me."

            "The air filter was full of nuts."

            "Nuts?"

            "Nuts. Stored there by squirrels, presumably, unless Howard Van Buren had some really peculiar habits that we haven't found out about yet. It's not uncommon in this area, apparently; the squirrels look for places to store nuts even when the ground is frozen, and they can get up inside the engines of cars, so they do."

            "So what do you make of the nuts, Agent Mulder? If anything, they remind me of the suspect you don't suspect, Stephanie Percy."

            "Why? Because she likes squirrels?"

            "You were the one who brought up the nuts, Mulder, not me. If you wanted to suspect Stephanie Percy, I suppose you could come up with some theory that would involve her uncanny ability to commune with squirrels and convince them to get up inside the engine of a car."

            Mulder stared at her. "Scully, you're way ahead of me."

            "Except that I don't buy it for a minute, and neither do you, I hope."

            "It's the little clues that matter the most, Scully."

            "Thank you, Watson," she suppressed a smile and sipped her soda.

            Ten minutes later they were walking up to the Van Buren's door. Mulder cast a glance over at Stephanie Percy's house but it was silent.

            A chittering little animal tossed something at Mulder's head. Looking up, he saw a squirrel swinging on one of the thick power lines that ran up and down the street. It chittered at him again, as though blaming him for something. Mulder saluted.

            "If you actually start taking the squirrel theory seriously, Mulder, I don't even want to hear it, I'm warning you now," Scully said as she pressed the doorbell.

            "It's just a little odd, don't you think, squirrels hiding so many nuts in the spring? I thought they did that in the fall," Mulder said mildly.

            "Maybe you can run next door and ask Stephanie," Scully said, making several distinct syllables out of the name. Mulder turned a questioning look on her but the door was opening.

            Mulder quickly replaced the look with his "sincere agent" smile. "Mrs. Van Buren? I'm Special Agent Mulder, this is Special Agent Scully, we phoned you earlier?"

            The widow nodded, but said nothing.

            Gamely he pressed on. "May we come in? We just have a few questions; we won't take much of your time."

            She acquiesced by simply stepping back and opening the door wider for them to come in. Questioning her was going to be difficult, Mulder thought, unless at some point she spoke.

            It didn't happen until she was seated on the sofa in her living room, stroking an animated acrylic couch cushion that might have been some sort of dog.

            Quietly she said, "I'm glad someone's taking this seriously enough to look into it. The local police seemed to think that it was just an accident."

            "Well, there may be evidence to indicate that it's not, exactly, Mrs. Van Buren," Scully said soothingly. "Do you know anyone that might have held a serious grudge against your husband? Or he against them?"

            She stared at them as though she couldn't remember why they'd come. "No, no," she said faintly, her voice trailing away at the end. Her soft, cultured New England accent turned slightly harsher as she looked out her side window at the familiar bay window and added, with the first signs of her own enmity against anyone, "I have to say the only person who might have hated Howard that much is that ... unsuitable woman next door."

            Scully blinked and considered taking down the phrase "unsuitable woman" but decided against it. "Your husband was an administrator at a nuclear power facility. He never had trouble with protests? Threats against him personally because of his job? Things of that sort?"

            "Oh, not for years. People in this area have gotten quite used to the idea of nuclear energy, Agent Scully. This isn't the seventies, you know," she said, and raised her silver, perfectly coifed head rather challengingly.

            "Yes, ma'am," Mulder acknowledged, his face absolutely serious. "The Bureau's been apprised."

            She was trying to decide if she'd been insulted or not and Scully tried to head her off before she decided. Knitting her brows as she looked at her partner, her face smoothed as she tried again. "You haven't had any protests in this area against the nuclear plant since the seventies?"

            "Oh you know, a little one here and there; a group of college students who get bees in their bonnets, or those Indians, or some group down from Boston or up from New York. No one local, certainly. Why, the plant employs most of the people in this neighborhood!" Mrs. Van Buren's pride in this fact was unmistakable.

            "Any problems with anyone at work?" Mulder interjected.

            "He was promoted last year over Larry Gonzalez, I think there might have been some hard feelings over that, but nothing serious, no." She paused, then went on. "I'd like to say that Howard didn't have an enemy in the world - isn't that what the widow's supposed to say at this point? That's such a horrible word, widow." The last sentence was quieter, almost parenthetical, and she seemed to sink down in herself; then she regained her hauteur. "Of course, that would be silly. Howard had plenty of enemies; but they were the usual sort. People you had to avoid at company Christmas parties, people who didn't bother to say hello to you in the street. You have to dislike someone a lot more than that to kill them, don't you think? The only person who really didn't like him was that... Miss Percy next door. She and Howard had words quite a lot. Of course, I wouldn't want to speak ill of anyone of her... people, but she has got quite a temper, and has said some pretty threatening things to Howard. Cursing him, you know, I'm sorry to say."

            "Like what, Mrs. Van Buren?" Scully prompted.

            "Oh, nothing comes to mind... I never really listen to that kind of talk," their hostess responded primly and continued to stroke the dog. "But it seemed - more frightening, somehow...."

            "Because she's Native American?" Mulder interjected, but his voice was soft.

            Mrs. Van Buren shook herself and looked up. "I have nothing against Native Americans, you know, Mr. Mulder. But... I don't think she can be quite right in the head. I mean, she keeps all those dirty little animals in her house."

            "The squirrels? Has she had them a long time?" Mulder asked.

            "Years she's been having them in and out. Sometimes she sets them free in the backyard and they come over and dig up my flower beds. I've complained time and again but she just laughs at me and says it'll aerate their roots. I'm not sure what that means," Mrs. Van Buren said with the utmost dignity, "but I don't think it's good. It's certainly not something I would do to my flower beds on purpose. Maybe it's some Indian thing. Anyway, I don't listen to her."

            Scully couldn't repress an impulse to repeat stupidly "Some Indian thing?" This case was going nowhere, she thought.

4 p.m., March 24, 1996

            The distinctive cooling towers of a nuclear power facility loomed over them as the agents disappeared into the complex some distance from the towers.

            "I'm Larry Gonzalez," a large, wide-faced man of middle years greeted them as they came in, and shook their hands. "I'm acting for - in Howard's capacity, now that he's gone; I've been authorized to let you into his office."

            "Thanks." Both agents followed the man down a sterile concrete hallway and through a half-glass door with "Howard Van Buren" stenciled on the front.

            Scully began poking through the stack of papers on the desk. "You haven't moved anything yet? Business forms, standard forms, anything like that?" she asked.

            "No, no. Not before or since the police came and checked the place out. Not yet."

            "You don't need any of this?" Scully gestured at the loose stacks of paper.

            Gonzalez looked a little flustered. "It's, uh, mostly long-term stuff."

            "Uh huh." Scully sat at the chair, began poking through papers in earnest.

            "What is this?" Mulder asked, tapping a fingertip against a large map that covered half the wall behind Howard's desk.

            "That's our service area," and Gonzalez looked happy to talk about his business. His finger outlined a series of blue lines. "These are the routes to which we supply power - not directly, you understand, but through the standard distribution system. Here's our distribution lines in red."

            "Mmhm. Some of the red lines have stars on them? This one - this goes right through Van Buren's neighborhood, doesn't it?"

            "Sure. That's my neighborhood too. A lot of the executive staff live in that area." Gonzalez paused for a moment. "The stars are lines we've been having problems with."

            "What kind of problems?"

            "Power surges, primarily, followed by ... power outages."

            "Really? Have you found the cause of the problem? Equipment failure or what?"

            Gonzalez now looked like he rather wished they'd never gone down this road. "No sir, we have no cause for the surges yet. The outages are usually caused by... equipment failure."

            Mulder wasn't reassured by the way Gonzalez grasped the phrase from Mulder's own question, but he didn't push it. "Can I get a copy of this map?"

            "I'll see what I can do," Gonzalez said to the wall.

            "Well looky here," Scully said softly at the desk, and waved two sheets of paper at Mulder. She handed the first sheet to Mulder.

            It was notification of a lawsuit, and the letterhead read Pequot Casino.

            Mulder sighed and gave the letter back to Scully. "We'd like to talk to some of the other people who worked with Van Buren, if we could," he said to Gonzalez.

             They walked away from the shadow of the cooling towers, stark against the black asphalt crossed with yellow lines, to their car. They had interviewed Van Buren's coworkers and found them to be even less enamored of Howard than Mrs. Van Buren might have liked to think.

            Mulder slid off his trench coat and tossed it in the back seat before getting behind the steering wheel as Scully dropped into the seat opposite; it was getting much warmer. "No one in there was taking Howard's loss very hard," Mulder said dryly and started the car. "Certainly not as hard as Mrs. Van Buren."

            "You could say that. You could also say that they hate his guts." Scully opened the manila folder and scanned the top sheet while Mulder pulled out of the lot. "I don't know why; he sounds like such a sweet guy. Poor woman." Scully sighed. "Well, her faith in her husband's memory is certainly touching, but even she doesn't try to pretend he was a saint."

            Mulder laughed shortly as they pulled out onto the highway.

            "Unless we're missing something obvious, though, I just can't see why this man is dead," Scully went on. "Plenty of people disliked him, but that's hardly reason to kill him. Does anyone stand to benefit from this death? No. There's an insurance policy, but it's not unduly large. Did his wife kill him for a small insurance policy? Did his neighbor kill him because he was rude? Did a co-worker kill him because of a year-old promotion? Doesn't seem likely. Mulder, no one cared about this guy enough to kill him."

            Mulder watched thoughtfully as they passed under a power line drooping over the road. A small gray squirrel was perched on the line, watching their car, and then it was out of sight. "Aren't you going to bring up the casino lawsuit?"

            "A suit for damages to the casino from the nearby storage of radioactive waste. All damages resulting from the bad PR of having the waste nearby; no actual leakage in evidence. That's a common enough issue, Mulder, not a personal thing someone would kill over."

            "We hope."

            "Come on, Mulder, I'm not trying to point the finger at Stephanie Percy. There's still nothing that looks like a good lead."

            "At least that's the way it looks on the surface. More digging might turn up something new."

            "That's the kind of digging we can do from D.C." Scully let the folder drop in her lap, looked out the window, then turned on him. "You are not going to pursue your squirrel theory, are you?" Her tone was half-alarmed, half-threatening.

            He laughed. "What do you think I am, nuts?"

            One restaurant dinner later and Mulder was reclining on the bed in his motel room, feet in socks propped up, flipping through channels. He had the look of a man to whom motel rooms had become simply part of a changing background, never quite the same but never quite different; he ignored his surroundings as they ignored him, and only noticed if there was a lack of hot water, towels, or TV remote.

            This establishment provided these basic amenities and Mulder was content. He was listening to the TV, reluctant to get up and change, thinking that his idea of heaven would be to just drop carelessly asleep to the low sound of the TV. He sighed comfortably, wiggled his toes.

            He must have been dozing. A sound from the television woke him, the sharp sound of breaking glass. What the hell was on? He reached for the remote, but his hand drifted over it, the motion unfinished, and his eyes widened; he blinked. Breaking glass. Breaking glass. What was it about breaking glass?...

            He reached to pick up the phone when it started to ring.

            Mulder jumped. Clicking off the sound with the TV remote in his other hand, he picked up the receiver. "Mulder."

            The low voice. "I don't think you're nuts, Agent Mulder." Click.

            Mulder stared at the phone receiver. He put it down in the cradle, staring at the phone. It rang again; he jumped, clearly startled. This time he let it ring twice, then picked it up. "Mulder," he said again, more slowly.

            "It's just me. I wondered if-"

            "Scully, come on over."

            "Mulder, - it's raining out! I just wanted to know if you -"

            "Come on over." He hung up.

            She was only three doors down but she arrived lightly damp from the spring rain and looking annoyed, her hair, pulled back from her face, curling in the moisture. "For God's sake, Mulder -"

            He reached out and took her wrist, pulled her inside and closed the door. "You want to plan our attack for tomorrow?" Grabbing a sheet of the ubiquitous motel paper and a pen, he scribbled, "Phone call - anonymous source - encouraged me to take this case, in D.C."

            Scully considered this for a minute, cast a glance over his shoulder at the uncurtained window, and strolled over to pull the curtain shut as she said out loud, "Who do you want to interview next?" On his paper she scribbled, "Who?  & what'd he say?"

            "I'd like to go see the car at the mechanic's, then maybe see if he has any family in the area." Mulder wrote back, "He/she said, 'I don't think you're nuts.'"

            "Hard to believe," she said dryly, and widened her eyes questioningly at Mulder as she spread her hands as if to say, "What now?"

            "I know," he mumbled as he wrote, "I don't know."

            They looked at each other for a minute, questioning each other with their eyes, thinking. "Well, we'll find out tomorrow," Mulder said, half a sigh in his voice, a little resigned. On the paper he wrote in block letters, "WATCH YOUR BACK."

            "Do you think we ought to stay much longer?"

            He knew what she was asking. Were they in danger?

            "I don't think so," he replied, and smiled as reassuringly as he could. "My spider-sense says it'll probably turn out to be nothing."

            "I hope so." She nodded, and, opening his door with less regard this time for the rain, slipped out and back to her own room.

            Mulder angled his head so he could see her go into her own room, knew she would bolt the door, let the curtain fall back.

            Still fully dressed, he lay down on his bed, the television still with no sound, and stared up at the ceiling, willing himself to sleep. It didn't happen. Rising from the bed he stripped off his shirt on the way to the bathroom, retrieved his sweatpants while in the tiny tile room and put them on before sliding into a sweatshirt and returning to the bed.

            He lay down, flipped on the sound and turned to a movie on some cable channel. Settling down with the blanket over him and his head at the foot of the bed, he propped himself on a couple of pillows and settled down in a position that might let him fall asleep.

            A streetlight in the parking lot flickered, and Mulder looked up at the light flickering against the back of the curtain, then down at the television. Had he fallen asleep again? The TV seemed to have woken him up and now regained his attention as he heard the hushed sound of high screams.

            He turned and looked at the screen. Tippi Hedren, in her New Look wasp-waisted dress, was barricading herself in a phone booth as crazed birds dive-bombed her. She screamed and screamed, but still the birds kept coming, with no rhyme or reason.

            His eyes dark in the dimly lit room, Mulder blinked. "I really, really want to go to sleep," he said to the room at large.

            But his body wouldn't relax and his mind had to follow. "Shit," he said, and his head fell back on the pillow in a gesture of pure exhaustion. He stood. He pulled a PowerBook out of his briefcase, plugged in the power supply for both the computer and the cellular modem, and started to type.

            They spent the next morning interviewing a couple of relatives that lived in the same county; then stopped at another diner for lunch. They sloshed through mud past some brave daffodils and into the diner, and reviewed their notes as they waited for their orders.

            "There's nothing here, Mulder. I don't think there's any suspect because it wasn't a murder. This was just a freak accident."

            "Oh, the car and insurance companies are gonna love that conclusion." His cellular rang; he pulled it out. "Mulder."

            "Yeah, Agent Mulder, it's Matt, the mechanic? You told me to call you if I found anything. Just wanted to let you know I found Van Buren's radio - thought I might salvage it, you know? - and the wires look like they've been chewed."

            "Chewed?" Mulder looked across at Scully, who looked alert.

            "Yeah, you know, the wires stripped, but ragged, like you get from rodent damage, though, not wirestrippers. Seems reasonable given all the nuts in the filter, you know, but I thought you might like to know; you said if I found anything." His tone clearly conveyed both that he thought nothing of his discovery and that he hoped that it might lead to some exciting murder case for the feds.

            Mulder hung up. "Squirrels were behind the broken radio."

            "Were they." Her tone was level.

            "Possibly related to the air filter damage."

            "Is it."

            "Look, Scully, have I ever wasted your time before? Let me rephrase that," he amended hastily at the look on her face. "Do you think I would waste your time on this?"

            She looked away. The furrow in his brow and a downturned corner of his mouth betrayed his hurt, but he said, "You know what I realized last night, Scully. That impact fracture on the windshield. It was clearly made from outside the vehicle. We haven't asked ourselves, why would Van Buren stomp on his breaks while he's going 70 in what was an absolutely clear breakdown lane? He must have seen something that startled him into the reflex. Something coming at him?"

            Scully squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could wish his more reasonable arguments away, just for a moment. Reasonable-*ish*, she amended to herself. "Mulder, if we hurry we can catch a shuttle flight home in three hours." But her voice lacked conviction.

            "From here? Might as well catch it at Logan as at JFK airport."

            "Why?" Her tone was more than suspicious.

            "New England in the spring, Scully. It's beautiful. Nature just a-burstin' out everywhere. I thought you might enjoy the ride. While we're driving we can have a ballistics expert check out that fracture and see if they can come up with some idea of what might have hit the car. And we can stop and visit a friend of mine on the way. A very new friend; I met him on the Internet last night. I've been, ah, doing a little research. He's expecting us."

            "Ah? A squirrel specialist?" Scully dabbed at her mouth, waved for the check.

            "Not exactly."

Center for Complex Studies

Brandeis University

Waltham, MA

March 25, 3:32 p.m.

            "New England in the spring. It's muddy," Scully observed as they picked their way over a trampled campus green to a large red brick building, half-round and glassy on the end.

            An elevator ride and a stroll down one of the clean white hallways more evocative of a doctor's office than a university building, and they found themselves in front of a heavy metal door adorned with a plate: "Vasyli Gates, Ph.D."

            The door was open but the room was empty. Mulder walked over to the wide glass window; Scully began skimming the titles to books like Metabolic Pathways in Microorganisms and The Annual Review of Microbiology.

            Within a minute or so, however, the dark, rough-haired scientist himself appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a lab coat and shouting, "Ah! Good! You are here! I'm so glad you made it. Jeff, I'll see you after class," he said to a student who hovered behind him and disappeared unseen. "You must be Special Agent Scully," he said, coming forward and shaking Scully's hand, "And you're Fox Mulder. Great, great. Please sit down."

            The man cheerfully toppled piles of journals onto the floor to clear another chrome-and-vinyl chair for Scully, and waved them both to sit as he settled at the chair next to his desk. "So, Mr. Mulder. What can I do for you in person that we couldn't do over the Internet, heh?"

            "I thought it might be a little quicker to get it all out of the way in one go, sir," Mulder explained, looking over at Scully. "I wonder how much you might be able to tell me about symbiosis as a mechanism for evolution, Dr. Gates."

            "More than you'll ever need to know. Why? Aside from applying for a Ph.D. program in biochemistry, I can't imagine why an FBI agent might need to know about that."

            "I'm working on a case right now that has me... curious about the extent to which symbiosis contributes in the evolution of a new animal."

            "All the way, Mr. Mulder, all the way! At least if you believe Margulis' work, and I do. It's an interesting field, but I still can't see its application to crime." Smiling broadly at the agents, folding his hands over his stomach, Dr. Gates looked like a puzzled dark Santa Claus, his black hair springing away from his face.

            "Multi-celled animals?"

            "Well sure! That's the whole point behind it, isn't it? Get a bunch of one-celled animals to cooperate and boom! You've got a multi-celled animal!"

            "I mean, the symbiosis of multi-celled animals with one another."
            "Ah!" His feet slammed flat on the floor. His eyes looked off into the distance, then piercingly at Mulder, then Scully. "That would, of course, be incredible."

            "In the sense of impossible?" Scully asked.

            "Impossible, yes, but that's beside the point. Such a creature would have all the benefits one-celled animals joined up to get in the first place: more resistant to disease and attack, able to survive the destruction of some of its constituent animals, better able to gather food, everything! Fascinating idea, really. But impossible, of course, first because how would two multi-celled creatures join? They are already self-contained biological units with skins far less permeable than the walls of cells. And second, of course, multi-celled creatures are already so specialized."

            "How specialized?" Mulder pressed.

            "What kind of animal?"

            "Say... a rodent? Like maybe a ... squirrel?" Mulder didn't look at Scully.

            The scientist hooted. "Squirrels! Squirrels? Hey mister, squirrels might look low on the food chain to you, but they are practically as specialized as humans from the evolutionary point of view. Why, they're mammals for pete's sake, they have specialized structures for - Well, if they were to bother to join in symbiosis with another animal, it would have to be because it gained them a benefit they didn't already have. And a squirrel has all the parts and intelligence it needs to keep warm in winter, to feed itself - heck, they can even tell if nuts have any meat in them before they open them! They are quite efficient as they are."

            "To face a more sophisticated enemy? Something that destroyed their integrity as individuals, made it beneficial to band together? Made it possible to form a group intelligence greater than the intelligence of any individual animal?" Mulder went on doggedly.

            "For what? Hmm? The Carolina squirrel has lots of enemies in the wild but they breed pretty quickly - not like rabbits, but plenty fast enough. They're doing OK, Mr. Mulder; in fact sometimes on this campus I think they outnumber the students. I don't know what they would gain, what they would need to do that would be worth overcoming the enormous obstacles to symbiosis - obstacles which, I don't need to add, I don't think can be overcome. There's a world of difference between a protein and a microbe, Mr. Mulder - there are many dozens of worlds of difference between a microbe and a squirrel."

            Mulder, silenced, sat in his chair examining his shoetips. Scully, after a minute's awkward silence, said, "You work on multicellular symbiosis?"

            "Not directly, no. My work is more in - well, I understand you're a doctor, Agent Scully, perhaps you'd like to see my lab?"

            "Certainly."

            They both stood and looked at Mulder, who waved them on. "I'll join you in a second."

            A slight frown crossed Scully's brow - Mulder didn't even look like he was in the same room with them, his mind was miles away - but the scientist didn't seem averse and bounced out the door gesturing for Scully to follow him. "You'll like this..."

            They trailed off down the hallway and Mulder stared out the window, his chin in his hand. From this height the students on the green and concrete quadrangle looked like rodents themselves, scurrying back and forth carrying books like food to be hidden for the winter, clutching them to their chests, forming little knots in the traffic then breaking up, the components of the knots flowing elsewhere.

            Something was percolating below the surface of his thoughts but he wasn't sure enough to follow it down into the depths of his own unconscious. He would wait and see if it surfaced.

            His phone rang.

            "Mulder."

            "See that fire in the paper today?"

            Mulder started as if someone had burned him, automatically turning away from the window. "Who is this?"

            "Just a friend, Mulder," the voice said softly. "I want to help you."

            "I already know plenty of people who want to help me. Mom told me never to talk to strangers."

            "Just trying to help," the voice echoed, then there was a click as the line went dead.

            Immediately Mulder dialed a number. "Is this Stephanie Percy?"

            "Yes? Can I help you?"

            "It's Agent Mulder."
            "Oh! Hello." Her voice relaxed, sounded less businesslike, but by no stretch of the imagination could she have been his mystery caller; Mulder rubbed his neck and went on.

            "Ms. Percy, did you read the evening paper yet?"

            "I have it here. I just got home. Why don't you call me Stephanie?"

            In the midst of everything else whirling through his head Mulder didn't stop to think about it. "Thanks, Stephanie. Could you tell me if there's been a fire in Middleborough today?"

            "Oh yes. I don't have to check the paper; I heard the engines."
            "When?"

            "This morning. A house just up the street, not five blocks away. I didn't know the guy."

            "I see."

            After a second of silence, Stephanie went on, "Are you going to be questioning me again in the course of your investigation, Mr. Mulder?"

            "Just Mulder," he tried to sound magnanimous. "I'm sure I'll be back your way soon, why?"

            "Just wondering. See you, Mulder." She hung up.

            Mulder forgot about her immediately after hanging up the phone. He was completely preoccupied by the problem of how to convince Scully to return to Middleborough.

            They crossed the police lines with impunity, flashing their badges and stepping carefully through the hedge. A detective intercepted them; a quick identification established the lines of communication.

            "I assume you wouldn't be here if there weren't some question of a crime being committed," Scully addressed the policeman.

            "Absolutely. Look at this, just this back room burned, though parts of the porch and hall became involved before the blaze was brought under control."

            "Arson?" Just one word from Mulder.

            The cop nodded. "And murder. The owner died in the fire, overcome by smoke; he never woke up."

            Mulder turned as if to walk into the house; the cop put a hand on his elbow. "Watch out," he said. Mulder squinted a little, and the cop's face, plain, ordinary, seemed to swim in space for a moment, like a plastic mask in water, as Mulder suddenly asked himself, what if it's him? What if he's the caller?

            But Mulder moved away, and assured the man, "I'll stay clear of the fire damage."

            "I'd like to see the body if I may," Scully murmured, and she and the policeman moved away as Mulder stepped inside the front door, passing a scorched door frame on his left, and walked up the staircase on his right.

            It was a tiny house, a few rooms downstairs surmounted by a huge, finished attic. In the attic chairs, boxes, lamps were scattered here and there, the chairs covered with cloth and everything covered with a tremulous coating of dust which breathed motes, sparkling in the light from the high windows on each end of the attic. Mulder swung around to the right, walking all the way around the room along the edge, examining the wall. Gingerly he finished up in the area to the left, over the burnt room,  under the windowed gable there, and in the slanting light he saw a scattering of little round forms. He bent and picked one up, rolled it in his fingers.

            He heard Scully's step climbing the stairs as he straightened. Just at knee height a round tubular vent, possibly intended for a dryer or a stove, that ran through the outside wall; a companion vent led down through the floor under his feet. Both were stuffed with paper and covered with plastic; in the wall vent the plastic was torn, leaving a wide gap and plenty of space for little bodies to squeeze through. The floor vent was still sealed. Instead, a small hole, looking as if it might have been gnawed, gaped in the plaster.

            "I suspect they're going to find this was an electrical fire, Scully. Damage to the wiring inside the wall. They're going to call it accidental. But I think their first call was right. Arson."

            Scully joined him in the sunbeam of the setting sun.

            "Squirrel damage." He dropped the nut into her outstretched hand. Gesturing around their feet he said, "Filberts. Hazelnuts. Commonly mistaken for 'acorns'. Nice hard shell; they keep very well when buried in the ground and stored for the winter."

            Sighing, Scully rolled the nut between her fingers. "Go on."

            "Howard Van Buren stepped hard on his brakes because he saw something coming at him. Someone or something tossed something at his car to startle him, make him use the brakes that had been tampered with. The only evidence of anyone tampering with his car is the presence of chew marks on the wiring, and the nuts in the air filter. Squirrels clearly were in his car engine, and they certainly have the manipulative ability to disconnect the cable to one of the brake cylinders. They would have had to disconnect it; it's metal, they couldn't chew through it."

            Pausing for breath, Mulder looked down at the nuts, back at Scully. "The squirrels in this area are doing pretty badly, Scully. I don't have a significant statistical sample, but I do know that Stephanie Percy has more animals with tumors than one ought to find in any population."

            The blank look on Scully's face spurred him on. His voice took on an edge. "Listen, the Carolina gray squirrel is capable of mass migrations called 'irruptions'. The whole population just picks up and moves together; no one knows how they coordinate it. They're animals already inclined to cooperative group efforts. What if they crossed the line? If something enhanced their preexisting capability to communicate with one another? If they became not just a group of animals, but a group animal?"

            "For what reason, Mulder?"

            "They're in danger. They're dying. I don't know why, but maybe they do, or maybe they think they do, and they're fighting back."

            "They think they do? Listen to yourself, Mulder. You're leaping to conclusions that are not just beyond the bounds of probability, they're beyond rationality." She stepped towards him. "We haven't seen anything that wouldn't be the result of a healthy squirrel population doing its normal amount of damage. Storing nuts in air filters, that's the kind of thing squirrels do. There's plenty of evidence of squirrels digging in this yard. Squirrels do that. Unscrewing a brake cable? I don't think so."

            "Do you see any other connection between these two cases?" Mulder demanded.

            "I sure do. The man who lived here was Larry Gonzalez."

            Mulder was silent, balling his hand into a fist around the hazelnut. "We can go back to the plant."

            "Yes. And of course we need to look into the casino that filed the lawsuit. But Mulder..." Scully seemed reluctant to go on, but held up the nut between a thumb and forefinger, "you're ignoring the obvious connection between these two cases and our suspect. You were the one who pointed out that this was a hazelnut. They don't grow around here, and they aren't cheap. Someone is feeding them to the squirrels, someone who doesn't mind using up money on cute rodents."

            "Someone like Stephanie Percy," Mulder conceded.

            "You better hope something turns up here, Mulder," Scully said as they walked through the immaculate yard again. "No connections between Larry and Howard outside work, unless you count that they lived in the same area. If they were both killed by the same person, we're going to have a tough time figuring out who has a grudge against the nuclear plant. Everyone in this town works for them, and the last protest was three years ago. It's not even on the most-wanted-list of any of the environmental groups up here; as nuclear energy plants go, it's as safe as they come, if not safer."

            "However safe that is," Mulder added, and looked back over his shoulder at the thick power lines that draped the street; behind them a gray squirrel ran across the power line over their car.

            "It meets government guidelines and then some."

            Mulder's grin was mirthless. "My faith in government guidelines has eroded a bit lately."

            When Stephanie opened her front door the two FBI agents were standing there, just like the last time.

            "Hi," she said, taking a step back and gesturing them in, swiping surreptitiously at her face with the other hand.

            "Something wrong?" Mulder said quickly, turning and noticing the signs of tears on her cheeks. "We could come back..."

            "No, of course not. Just a little trouble with Moocher."

            "What's wrong with him?" Scully put in, her voice compassionate.

            "The, uh, same thing that's been wrong with him all along; brain tumor," Stephanie said, bringing her face under control. "But I'm afraid it would be cruel to help him live any longer. He's, um,..."

            "I understand," Scully interrupted her.

            "Do you?" Stephanie looked into the blue-grey eyes of the smaller woman, then nodded. "I suppose you do."

            Turning away from them with a complete disregard for proprieties, Stephanie wandered back to her front room; the agents followed.

            Talking as much to herself as to them, Stephanie's voice trailed behind her as she went. "It's amazing, you know? I've done a lot of reading about cancers of various sorts - most of the animals I save here have some sort of cancer - and the poor things actually exhibit many of the symptoms of brain cancer. Personality shifts, that sort of thing. Moocher was..." she stopped a minute and looked down into the cage as Mulder and Scully moved around to stand at her side. "He was a sweet little guy. Most squirrels aren't. Food and survival, that's their main drive, of course. But he was nice to other squirrels, and he was nice to... he was the only squirrel who let me pet him. Lately he's been grouchy, biting me, even hissing at me. But I've known him for years..."

            Uncomfortable and wondering what to say, Mulder looked over Stephanie's head at Scully. Scully took a deep breath, then shrugged. What could they say?

            They looked at the little gray body in the cage, stretched out over a nest of rags and paper, his eyes staring straight ahead. His chest moved up and down as he breathed, but that was all.

            "Stephanie, it seems as though he's gotten to the point where he'll be happier when there's no more pain." Mulder attempted to bridge the silence.

            "I don't think he's in pain," she murmured, "I don't think he knows anything any more."

            "Then it's time to let him go," Scully said softly.

            Unheeded, the tears were falling from her dark eyes, but she looked at Scully and the expression in her eyes said that she knew Scully was right.

            Stephanie opened the drawer; there was a syringe and a rubber-topped bottle in it. She stared down at them, tears still trickling thick and fast down her face.

            Scully cleared her throat. "I'll help you, Stephanie, if you want me to."

            The dark-haired woman nodded.

            Mulder left.

            In the living room, it wasn't many minutes before Scully came out, her coat off, her sleeves rolled up, and drying her hands on a towel. "It just took a minute, Mulder."

            Mulder rubbed his eyes to hide his face, feeling like a heel for what he was about to say. "Do you think she might let us have the corpse?"

            Scully stared at him, open-mouthed. "Mulder, I have to say - and I don't mean this personally or anything - you are a screwed-up individual."

            "Scully, I know how it sounds, believe me, I don't like my saying it. But she's in it. You're the one who keeps putting her back on the suspect list. The only other real suspect we have is the one you don't want me to mention. But if we could do an autopsy on that squirrel we might be able to get some valuable information." Sighing, he ran his hands through his hair, standing it on end, looking at the floor to avoid Scully's steady gaze.

            She shook her head and said, "I don't see what depriving her of her pet can do for us, especially now. She's feeling vulnerable and lonely right now."

            "Dammit, Scully, I can see that she's lonely -"

            "And she'd like to have a friend. And I think she'd like it to be you."

            "What do you...?"

            "Careful, Mulder." She raised an eyebrow. "One more stupid remark out of you and I'm going to take back everything I ever said about you being a brilliant investigator," and the narrowed eyes she added to this remark as she rolled her sleeves down added weight to the threat.

            "All right, all right. But Scully, I'm not kidding about this. I need more information on what's happening to the squirrels in this area. Would you like us to spend a few hours in the suburban wild trapping squirrels? Or would you rather we ask her if she'd mind us taking the live ones for examination? Which would you rather cart back to D.C., Scully, a cage full of live sick squirrels or one little squirrel corpse?"

            As she looked up at his face something unfamiliar flickered behind her eyes and she frowned, just a little. "I think you've really gone over the edge on this one, Mulder."

            He jumped as if he'd been slapped. The creak of the door opening made him turn his head and Stephanie stood there, composed and upright, more like she'd been on their first visit. "I'm really sorry about that," she said as she walked into the room and up to Mulder, the beginnings of a faint smile coming back to her tearstained face. "What an awkward situation, eh? I assure you that I don't go to pieces over dead rodents every day."

            "I'm sure you don't," and he made the words as reassuring as he could. "Stephanie, I know this might sound a little odd to you, but if I may, I'd like to ask you a question."

            Retiring to the couch, she nodded. Scully, observing Mulder all the while, sat at the far end of the couch and Mulder sat in a chair near Stephanie.

            "I have two things to ask you, actually, and I hope they won't sound too intrusively personal, but I need to ask them."

            Stephanie nodded again.

            "First, I'd like to ask you if we might be able to take Moocher back to D.C. with us. I think that it's very important to the case that we're solving if we find out just what was wrong with him. I know he had a brain tumor, but I'd like to find out as much as we can about what caused it." Mulder's eyes were leveled on her, calm, reassuring.

            She let out what sounded like a half-hysterical giggle and said, "Well, it wasn't smoking cigarettes or a high-cholesterol diet, Mulder; he wasn't that kind of squirrel."

            Smiling, Mulder nodded, but let her go on.

            She got control of her voice again and said, "Honestly, I don't know why you shouldn't have him. I could dispose of him myself but I'd- I'd rather not. And if it helps you in your case... though I can't imagine how it could... I think that we would both prefer that, me and Moocher." Her voice was steady now, and the smile she gave him was genuine and calm.

            "Good. Thank you. We'll take him with us when we go, if that's all right." She nodded, so he went on. "There's another question I'd like to ask you, Stephanie. Do you have a friend you could talk to tonight, someone who might understand?"

            A quirk of a wry smile raised one corner of her mouth, and she looked at him. "I hate to admit it to a nearly total stranger, but no, I don't think I do. The neighbors are pretty much convinced that I'm a 'bad element'. And my business contacts are all very much business." As if suddenly embarrassed by her admission she looked out the window at the setting sun.

            "I understand. Believe me, it's not as usual as you might think." Suddenly struck by the fact that he himself would be hard put to name a non-work-related friend if he had to, he put out his hand and covered hers on the arm of the chair, so that she stopped twisting the tassel on the corner of her couch pillow and looked at him. "I understand," he said again, and she seemed to understand his meaning.

            Only a few minutes later they headed over the cobblestone path on her flat well-manicured lawn to their rented car, a shoe box in Mulder's hand.

            "That's going in your luggage," Scully whispered to him as he deposited his cargo in the trunk of the car, then swung the keys around one finger before opening the driver's side door.

            Stephanie Percy stood on her stoop, watching them go, arms crossed and hands tucked against herself to ward off the spring chill.

            She stood there watching even after the car had pulled away, musing to herself, until she realized that she was being watched.

            Looking up abruptly, she saw Mrs. Van Buren standing in her front lawn, a watering can in her hand, near a bed of daffodils.

            The two women regarded each other silently for a moment, then Stephanie yielded to impulse and walked over to the other woman. Nothing separated their yards but a thin row of perfectly aligned bricks. Stephanie stopped and stretched out a hand. "Mrs. Van Buren, I don't believe I've had an occasion yet to tell you how sorry I am about your loss."

            The older woman looked startled, then said quickly, "I still forget he's not going to be there when I go inside." Almost as an afterthought she took Stephanie's hand, then released it.

            "I know what you mean," Stephanie murmured.

            Mrs. Van Buren just stood there, continuing to look half-suspicious, and Stephanie added, "My father died when he was not much older than your husband. My mother still misses him very much, and so do I. So I sympathize."

            The older woman's mouth twitched. "Even though Howard never liked you?" she couldn't resist saying.

            Surprised by the other's candor, Stephanie said, "Maybe because Howard never liked me. I'll never get the chance to make it up with him now."

            Silently the two stood in the darkening twilight and studied one another. Stephanie rubbed her arms against the chill and said abruptly, "I hope your daffodils are doing all right. Perhaps you can give me some advice about them. I never have any luck with them."

            "I'd enjoy that," Mrs. Van Buren said, and actually smiled, a tentative smile but a genuine one.

March 27, 9:18 a.m.

J. Edgar Hoover Building

            Mulder sat at his desk, and as he sat he pushed aside the stack of interoffice envelopes on his desk. Scully came through the door with her cup of coffee as he sat and watched him for a moment before proceeding to her own desk.

            "Amazing how things pile up after just a couple of days, isn't it?" she said and swiveled in her chair to look at him over the steam of her coffee.

            "Mmm."

            Silence.

            "There's a note attached to that top file; an Agent Matthews in the Colorado office says she thought you'd be interested in the possibility of a relationship between the killer bees' migration and ball lightning in her area; she's written up quite a report."

            "Mmm."

            Nothing would help smooth the way, she might as well get it over with. "Speaking of reports, I read the one you want to file on this Connecticut case, and I have to say...well, Mulder, I have to say I'd prefer you didn't file it."

            He looked up then, his eyes boring into hers.

            "We both know that we don't always agree on hypotheses, Mulder. But we usually can come up with a consensus on the best course of action. This time ... well, we can't."

            He blinked. "Because you don't agree with my theory."

            Scully sounded her most reasonably non-confrontational. This is Mulder, she thought to herself, but stuck to her resolution. "No, because I think your theory is not only untenable to practitioners of modern science, but also represents a path of least resistance for you on a case you don't want to take the time to pursue thoroughly."

            Mulder sat back in his swivel chair, his face utterly blank. "That's a serious accusation, Scully."

            Softening her voice, she replied, "I mean it to be serious, Mulder."

            Rocking back and forth a few times, he finally said, "I can't pursue a line of investigation I don't see."

            "Mulder... I don't think you've pursued a line of investigation on this one."

            He sat up abruptly and opened his mouth to say something but she beat him to it. "Mulder, we both know you're a great investigator. I'm not talking about following the party line. I'm talking about covering the bases. You have no evidence for your theory. OK, that's one thing. But you also haven't ruled out evidence for the other theories. We have to find out whether or not there's any evidence that the casino might have been involved in Howard's death. Or whether someone might be *framing* the casino." She shook her head. "Not only is that shoddy work, it's not fair to the victim, it's not fair to the possible suspects, and it's not fair to me."

            "Shoddy work?" The shock in his voice was undisguisable. "Scully. Good lord. How many cases have we investigated together?" Both hands were pushed against his desk as though to prevent it from sliding backwards over him, and he ducked his head for a moment; when he raised it again there was a glimpse of a cold glitter in his eyes. "Is this how little it takes for you to doubt me?"

            Taken aback, she rose to her feet and walked toward his desk before she'd even realized it. "This is not personal, Mulder! You know that. Why is this case different from any other? Why don't the usual rules apply?"

            "The usual rules seldom apply to an X-file, Scully. You know that." His short laugh was more of a bark than an indication of humor.

            "That's not what I mean." Her increasing frustration began to show in her expression. "Fine, then, call it the Mulder rules. Any sort of rules."

            "You know," and his voice was tight, "just once I'd like to see you actually refute my theories instead of just dismiss them outright."

            "Little green men and murdering squirrels are tough to refute, Mulder," she said evenly. "Pretty much outside the bounds of logical argument, if you know what I mean. Or maybe you don't." Turning away, her head bent, she paused for just a moment, and then whirled back, a new thought on her face. "Does this have anything to do with the phone calls you've been getting, Mulder?"

            "The phone calls?"