Ghost Who Came In From The Cold -- Part 2
By Joyce
mab49@earthlink.net

X-Files Office

Mulder barely hit the office before he started to materialize. As far as he could tell, Scully was fine, a bit exasperated, but nothing out of the ordinary. She started when he popped out of thin air by Simon's desk, then seemed to relax.

"There you are. I've been calling for the past five minutes. I was getting worried," Scully said crisply. Coming down off his panic, Mulder was tempted to give her a smart-ass reply, but caught the worry in her eyes and squelched the words before they got out. It wasn't her fault that Gordon had scared the wits out of him with his oblique warning.

"I was talking with a witness to the murder of Agent Thomas," Mulder said with an air of immense satisfaction. Scully's reaction to this news, however, was not what he expected.

"And who was this mysterious witness to a crime which doesn't officially exist?" she asked brusquely. The worry that had been in her tone a moment before had been replaced by impatience. Mulder got the feeling that she was not happy he had gone investigating.

"Agent Thomas himself," Mulder replied smugly, feeling pleased that he had uncovered a mystery.

"Do tell. So he's a ghost? The FBI is going to be rather crowded with them if this keeps up."

Mulder was puzzled. Scully was sounding extremely chilly and he couldn't figure out why. This was shaping up to be one of their ritual dances, only with Scully starting out far more dismissive than usual.

"Only briefly. Gordon showed up and pointed him in the right direction. Before he left, Thomas told me that something jerked his hand off the railing and shoved him backwards." Mulder gave her the concise version of his interview with Thomas. Most of the emotional overtones were none of her business and quite frankly he didn't think she was in a position to understand the rage and denial a newly created ghost felt.

He decided not to tell her about Gordon's cryptic comment. Until he figured out what it meant, there was no need to get into a debate with her over something she didn't believe in.

"Mulder, you're grasping at straws. Agent Thomas lost his footing and gravity pulled his hand from the railing. As for the sensation of being pushed, well, it could be nothing more than the brain's attempt to explain the fall. A ghost is hardly a witness, Mulder," Scully explained with a satisfied smile. Mulder could sense that she had shoehorned all the facts into a scientific explanation and she was satisfied with the fit.

"Scully, Thomas was murdered; I'm sure of it. There was a faint trace of malevolence in the air around the stairs. I don't know how or who, but I'm confident he was murdered," Mulder argued, trying to remember to keep his voice down. He didn't want anyone barging in on a full scale argument between Scully and a ghost.

"Agent Thomas' wife says that no one was around at the time of the accident. The only footprints were those of Agent Thomas and the marks clearly indicate an accident. Why are you pushing on this? I will not go to Skinner and tell him that Thomas was murdered on such flimsy evidence. Agent Thomas' wife needs the chance to grieve, not the hassle of an investigation based on your belief. What am I supposed to tell Skinner? That my partner, not my current partner, but my dead partner, tells me that a ghost told him that he was murdered?" Scully took a breath to continue, but Mulder cut her off.

"No, I guess I'm not asking you to take my word for it. Go on as if nothing had happened, Scully. Just sometime, tell me how in hell your science explains me? I'd really like to know how you can admit I exist and appear to enjoy my company, yet deny anything else that smacks of the paranormal." Mulder was proud that he had kept his temper. In fact, he really wasn't mad, just frustrated and tired. Scully seemed to be able to compartmentalize his existence -- accepting his help in a crises, enjoying the quiet moments they spent together, yet completely denying his specialized experience in matters of violent death.

Scully looked stunned, then her lips thinned and Mulder knew he had pushed too far. Challenge Scully and she tended to clam up and retreat behind a solid wall of angry silence.

"Fine," she snapped, then sat back down at her desk. "Simon went home. He's lost a friend and didn't need to be burdened with your proposed revelation about ghosts. I was going to explain my reasons for not telling him, but you obviously still believe I was wrong. Pursue this murder investigation if you want, but I think you'll find that it amounts to nothing."

Scully spoke in a dangerously calm, level tone that Mulder knew meant she was angry, but determined not to show it. He shimmered slightly in his version of a shrug and considered his options. If he stayed, the chances were very good that his temper would get the best of him and he'd say something that would spark one of their rare, but vicious arguments. They were so close in so many different ways that it was ridiculously easy to find and hit the other's hot buttons.

Leaving presented other problems, but right now Mulder would rather be accused of running out on a discussion than take the risk that a lot of pent-up frustration would erupt in Scully's face. He needed to work through some issues by himself before fulfilling his promise to her to be honest. Honesty was fine in principle, but the application required some judicious timing.

"See you later, then," Mulder said as he faded from view. Scully looked surprised, then fumed a bit, but just as he was sliding out of the room, he looked back and saw a heart-wrenching wistful expression on her face. He wanted to go back and hold her, but anger lay too close to the surface for both of them. Better to leave now and give both of them a chance to work out why this disagreement was sparking such anger.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

A light afternoon snow ensured Mulder's privacy on his bench. With no other living soul in sight, he allowed himself the rare luxury of materializing as an opaque shadow until he could feel the feather-light touch of snow on his face. The cold wind blew through him unnoticed except as a faint ruffling of his ectoplasm. This was as close to being alive as he could manage. For some reason he could think better here than in his gray fog bank. Here were memories of nights spent as a living man trying to make sense of the conspiracy encroaching on his life. Here he had considered the endless possibilities of the future. Rather than depressing him, those memories helped ground him.

After a couple of hours of staring into the snow, Mulder was no closer to an answer to his restless frustration than when he started. Scully confused him. On the one hand they were close friends, almost intimate in their emotional bond, but on the other hand she refused to concede that his existence validated his belief in the paranormal. Ruefully he realized that perhaps Scully merely regarded him as an aberration in the natural laws of physics.

It all came down to a question of whether she was willing to accept the full ramifications of his return as a ghost, or whether she was merely indulging in a whimsical flirtation with something she only partially believed in. Scully was someone who relied heavily on physical evidence. Unfortunately, Mulder was incapable of providing her with physical evidence of his presence. He existed whether she believed in him or not, but seeing him and hearing him required her to operate on faith. Sooner or later, he was afraid that she would grow tired of the constant challenge to her science and simply stop believing. He'd still be a ghost, but she would effectively be blind and deaf to him. That scared the hell out of him, but it was a problem he had to face.

Scully was going to have to make a personal commitment to a belief in the paranormal and that was asking her to reconfigure the very foundation of her worldview. No wonder she was testy about his pushing her to fill Simon in on the facts. Once she was forced to tell someone else about him, then she could no longer compartmentalize him and comfort herself that he was simply an anomaly to the natural laws. Scully would never yield that much ground without a fight. She was as stubborn in defense of her science as he was in his belief in the paranormal. When he was alive, it was more or less an equal fight, something they both indulged in knowing the sides were evenly matched. Now he came along with undeniable proof that the paranormal existed in spite of science and its skeptical rationalism and the entire argument shifted into a defensive war for Scully.

After weeks of feeling like a supernumerary, Mulder was bemused to discover that he was smack in the middle of two mysteries. The threat to Scully concerned him, but it also intrigued him. He felt his mind kick into high gear as he sorted through the few facts and more numerous guesses he had accumulated. The intoxicating feel of an adrenaline high was missing, but he appeared to be far more turned on by the pure intellectual challenge than he remembered. Well, in his present state, thought was action, so he supposed this made sense.

The death of Agent Thomas tied into the threat to Scully -- he was sure of this as if he could read the mind of the suspect. For the first time since his abrupt departure from life, Mulder prepared to step out of orbit in Scully's universe. He would protect her, even over her protests, if need be. If he could also solve the mystery of the odd sense of distance and resentment he was reading from her today, then he'd be a very happy ghost. He filed away this euphoric feeling of having come home for future consideration.

What he needed was more hard data. So far, he had one death threat and one death. Both incidents were subtle, almost oblique in nature, and expertly camouflaged. Nevertheless, his instincts as a profiler, and as a ghost, were telling him that the threat to Scully and Agent Thomas' death were related. If he were writing a preliminary profile based on the interview with Thomas, and his own observations of the flowers that appeared in Scully's apartment, his initial theory was that these were acts of revenge. Less than twenty-four hours after Kent Bryson was killed in a shootout with an FBI team, one member of that team was dead and the team leader had received a death threat. Hardly a coincidence, in his not very humble opinion.

Still, as he considered his initial theory, gut instinct was telling him that there was something wrong with his hypothesis. He was drawing conclusions on limited data, but he'd done that before; it was one of his trademarks as Spooky Mulder. However, this time, he had the nagging sense that he was overlooking the obvious. He hated these moments when his subconscious would toss up doubts, but stubbornly refused to yield up any hint on what prompted the doubts. When he was alive, he would run himself into the ground chasing the answers locked away in his mind. Now, that was hardly an option and he simply simmered in frustrated irritation with himself.

His irritation vanished when he sensed that Scully was on the move. Looking around, he realized that it was almost dark. Daylight and nighttime had almost no meaning for him anymore. By whatever mechanism he saw, it didn't require light, although he could normally tell light from dark simply by the shift in the shadows cast by colors. Drowned in his own thoughts, he never noticed when a dreary gray day had turned into a dreary, drizzling twilight.

With a thought, he was back in the X-Files office. Scully was already gone and nowhere in the building as far as he could tell. He felt a twinge of pain that she had apparently headed home without calling him. Perhaps he should leave well enough alone, but he needed to reassure himself that she was safely in for the night. Then, if she still didn't call him, he'd abide by her wish to be left alone. The guys would probably let him hang out with them if he needed company, but being at odds with Scully and wrestling with a mystery made for a bad combination. He'd probably be better off drifting around than risk alienating the only other people who accepted his existence.

Guessing that Scully was somewhere in the gummed-up morass of the typical afternoon traffic jam, Mulder headed straight to her apartment. Making a methodical sweep of the premises, he froze when he saw a large, gaudy floral arrangement sitting on Scully's dresser.

"Shit! Bloody hell," he swore viciously as sparks spun off of him. The cloyingly sweet scent of hothouse flowers barely covered the bitter smell of death clinging to the roses. He resisted the urge to hurl this abomination as far away as he could. This was evidence. Even Scully was going to have to admit that the choice of flowers had a deadly significance. Mulder began an inch-by-inch examination of the apartment, looking for trace evidence of an intruder. After making two sweeps and coming up empty, Mulder simply phased out and hovered in the gray mist of the ethereal. Scully was close by, probably within a mile or two of home. He was going to have to materialize to warn her about the flowers. Hopefully she was over her irritation and ready to listen to him with an open mind. If not, then all he could hope for was to hold his temper and keep a very close watch over her.

As he waited for Scully, Mulder pondered the situation. Whoever the suspect was, he was too damn neat for Mulder's liking. It was downright spooky how he managed to break into Scully's apartment without leaving a trace.

Struck by a sudden thought, Mulder looked around for something solid, yet unbreakable. Grabbing a pillow from the couch, he dematerialized until he was barely solid enough to hold onto the pillow. From past experiments with Scully, he knew he was little more than a hazy shadow, barely visible unless you knew where to look. For all appearances, the pillow was floating in mid-air. Selecting a wall at random, Mulder walked straight into it. At least that's what he tried to do.

"Thought so," Mulder muttered as he tossed the pillow back on the couch. His chest still tingled from the feel of the pillow as it pressed through him after it hit the wall. If he was solid enough to hold onto the pillow, he was too solid to pass through walls.

The experiment didn't completely eliminate a ghost as the suspect, but it made it much more unlikely. A ghost would have to leave the flowers outside while he went inside and opened a window or a door to bring the flowers in. Rather complicated when there were easier ways to leave a threatening message. Still, he couldn't completely discount the idea. Ghosts were reflections of the men they'd been.

Bryson, for instance, had a convoluted mind that got off on mind-fucking his opponents until they made mistakes out of sheer frustration. It was possible that Bryson was continuing his murder spree from beyond the grave, but the perpetrator could just as easily be a wannabe imitator. Scully would not appreciate a suggestion that their suspect, providing she was even willing to admit there was a crime committed, was a ghost. Her reaction to his mention of Thomas' earthbound spirit suggested that her patience with ghosts was running low. If he pushed too hard, she might just tell him to get lost and mean it. Mulder wasn't ready to take that chance. Once again, he was facing the choice he faced so often when alive -- how much to tell Scully and how much to simply withhold until she was better prepared to deal with it.

About a half an hour later, Scully walked in with a tired slump to her shoulders. She dropped her laptop on the table before shedding her rain-soaked coat and hanging it up carefully. Her movements were slow and deliberate, almost mechanical, as she went about her normal end-of-day routine. Watching from the ethereal, Mulder wondered where a day that had begun so well had gone so wrong. There was something eating at Scully, something more than their disagreement on whether Simon should know about him and much more than the death of an agent she barely knew. He could understand the tiredness, it was the angry resentment brewing underneath that puzzled him. The last thing he wanted was to start an argument, but he couldn't allow her to walk in on the flowers unawares.

"Hey," he said softly as he materialized next to the Christmas tree.

The look of weary resignation on her face hurt him, but she merely sighed and trotted out a tired smile; a bleak effort that betrayed just how reluctant she was to talk with him right now.

"It's been a long day, Mulder," she started in an deliberately even tone, as if she were picking her words with care.

"I know," he replied gently, "but you've had a visitor. Whoever it was left the funeral bouquet in your bedroom this time," Mulder reported in a regretful tone.

When Scully made no move to enter the bedroom, Mulder continued his report. "There's no sign of forced entry and all the doors and windows are locked from the inside. Nothing has been disturbed and the suspect left no notes."

Scully stared at him for a moment, then walked gingerly into the bedroom. The scent of the flowers was overwhelming, but as before, Scully seemed to be unaffected by the rank odor of death. Mulder drifted along behind her, watching her reaction and wondering how she could dismiss the blatant threat these flowers represented.

"They're just flowers, Mulder. I'll ask the building manager to change the locks tomorrow," she said decisively without looking at him.

"They're evidence," Mulder retorted flatly, forcing himself not to snarl as Scully picked up the vase and started to carry it into the living room. He bolted out of the way when he realized she was going to walk right through him with the flowers. True, he was invisible, but never-the-less, the thought of touching those flowers made him ill. He materialized slowly, hoping he wasn't shaking as badly as he felt he was.

"Fine, then I'll take both of them to the FBI lab in the morning. Any other surprises?" Scully asked frostily.

Mulder watched as she deposited the flowers in the closet and tried to decipher her mood. Nothing about her reactions was normal. She was abrupt, dismissive, and almost angry. If it was something he had said or done, he wished she'd just come right out and tell him off. They'd exchange angry words, then they could sit down and start sorting things out. He might be dead, but he was no mind reader. All he knew was that something was grating at her and somehow it involved him.

"No, I just wanted to make sure you were OK," Mulder replied carefully, trying to keep the sadness out of his voice.

"I've been coping with DC traffic jams for years. I'm armed and if this secret admirer tries to drop off any more pilfered flowers, he's going to get the surprise of his life," Scully sounded almost fierce, the way he remembered her in his fondest daydreams. "Now, I'm tired and I have a lot of paperwork to do, so...." Scully fell silent, but her unspoken words rang loud and clear -- clear out.

"Sure. You know me, I worry. I'll go check in with the guys," Mulder assured her with a hearty smile. He wondered if Scully saw through the smile as easily as he saw through her attempt to be nonchalant.

"Thanks," she said with genuine feeling. There was a moment's hesitation, then, almost as if the words were being dragged out of her, "I'm tired. Maybe it's a delayed reaction to the raid. I'll be OK."

Mulder smiled, a genuine wistful smile that softened his eyes and opened up his soul to anyone who cared to look. "Get some rest. The government won't fall if you're late with the paperwork. Trouble is, you let Skinner get used to receiving your reports on time. I had him nicely primed to expect to get them whenever I got around to doing them. You're spoiling him," Mulder added with a wistful smile. To his surprise, his quip was greeted with a dark look and a frown, before Scully seemed to gather herself in and shutter her eyes. After a moment of icy stillness, she nodded and, to his relief, gave him a rueful smile.

That was interesting, he thought. At least part of what's bothering her has to do with Skinner. Maybe I should pay Skinner a midnight visit and suggest he be nice to my partner. Mulder considered this option only briefly. As satisfying as it might be to haunt Skinner, the repercussions were unfathomable.

Scully continued to stare at him with an odd look, half irritation, half one of incalculable loss, for a moment before going into her bedroom and closing the door. Taking the hint, Mulder faded and headed off to find the Gunmen. Things weren't back to normal between them, but the bond was still there, if a bit frayed. Eventually they were going to have to talk, but some of the urgency Mulder felt was easing off. Whatever was bothering her could wait, a day or so, until she worked some of it out herself.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Lone Gunmen's Office - midnight, Monday evening

Sitting around chatting with the Gunmen almost seemed like old times. The guys appeared to accept him with only an occasional wary glance, usually when Mulder forgot to keep himself solid enough to remain on top of the furniture. After catching up on the usual conspiracy gossip, Mulder simply sat back and watched as the guys hacked their way in and out of a variety of secure systems. At first Langly was a bit self-conscious about having a witness, but eventually he shrugged and apparently decided that Mulder was hardly qualified to testify in court even if someone managed to serve a summons on him.

Mulder hovered over Frohike's shoulder and offered password suggestions for a suspicious center that had far more security than a simple research library should have. He marveled at Frohike's stubborn determination not to let the system outwit him.

"Hey, Mulder, wasn't Tim Gowers one of the agents on Scully's team?" Byers asked suddenly from his corner where he had been attempting to trace Bryson's movements before he started indulging in kidnapping and murder three years ago.

Mulder tore his mind away from recalling as many non-PC words and phrases which could be used as passwords, and tried to recall who had followed Scully into Bryson's house. He hadn't really paid attention to any of the other agents. None of them had crossed his path when he was alive, although he was familiar with a couple of their names. All good men and steady agents. Skinner had given Scully a top-notch team and she had proved herself with flying colors, in Mulder's admittedly biased opinion.

"Older man, about forty or so, dark hair, a bit on the militaristic side," Byers offered. He seemed tense, almost hesitant, as if he didn't really want an answer, but had to ask.

"Yeah, I remember him. All spit and polish and 'yes, ma'am,'" Mulder recalled as the face of the agent came into focus in his memory. "What about him?" he asked warily. Mulder flatly refused to consider that he was developing precognition, but something about the way Byers was holding his breath did not suggest that he had good news.

"Just caught a police scanner transmission. A Tim Gowers was involved in an accident on Massachusetts Avenue. I don't have any details, but the policeman on the scene sounds upset."

"Damn." Mulder got up and started pacing, prompting Langly to bolt for the safety of the kitchen. Frohike held his ground, but flinched whenever Mulder came too close. Mulder's mind was spinning into high gear. Two accidents in two days -- Scully was going to have to concede that these were not coincidences. Even her strict scientific rationalism couldn't dispute statistical probabilities. The odds were too great that two of her team members would die in separate accidents on successive days. If this didn't scream murder to her, then she was in total denial. She was too good an investigator to turn her back on evidence, even if she didn't like what it told her.

At least she was safe, so far. Then, as if the proverbial light bulb went off over his head, Mulder realized what the suspect was doing. He cursed his stupidity. So much for the omniscience of the dead. He'd been so taken with his ability to discern spirits and sense the odor of death that he had completely overlooked the obvious intent of the suspect. Now wasn't the time to indulge in a long fit of self-recrimination, but he spared a few moments for creative profane comments about the decline in his mental abilities since his death.

The flowers weren't a direct threat to Scully, they were announcements that another one of her men was going to be eliminated. Out of five team members, there were three left. Mulder had no doubt that Scully was the last name on the list. She was supposed to watch helplessly as the men under her command were killed, then she would die. It fit Bryson's MO. The only problem was that Bryson was dead and Mulder didn't think Skinner was going to accept the theory that Bryson's ghost was the leading suspect. Hell, he was almost certain Scully wasn't going to accept that theory. Simon, on the other hand, would probably give it serious consideration, but Mulder wasn't about to risk Scully's wrath by outing himself to Simon.

"Where on Massachusetts Avenue? I want to see this crime scene before everyone tidies it up and sweeps vital evidence under the rug," Mulder said in an irritable tone of voice. He hoped that he wasn't going to have to deal with another confused spirit. There were only so many times he could watch a spirit cross over into the afterlife without going mad.

"Over near that Italian restaurant you used to frequent, Gizzani's."

"Thanks guys. See you later." Mulder waved as he disappeared and concentrated on the rococo front door of Gizzani's Ristorante.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

The flashing blue lights of a squad car flickered across the rain-slicked street a couple of blocks away from the restaurant. Mulder took a moment to orient himself before moving cautiously in that direction. His memory replayed the taste of Gizzani's superb manicotti and linguini and he wished ghosts could enjoy the aroma of food. He could smell, after a fashion, but it wasn't the same.

The accident scene was one of the worst Mulder had ever seen. As he slipped around the small crowd that had gathered, he thought that the initial reports had been wrong, there were two cars involved. Perhaps this was just a random accident and he was just hypersensitive to any event touching on the Bryson case. Then he realized that he was looking at just one car, split in two. The front half was wrapped around the stump of a utility pole like a pretzel. The back half had come to rest about a half a block down the street against concrete wall. The utility pole was lying across two parked cars; wires were sparking against the asphalt, completely encasing one poor man in his car. The man was alive; Mulder could see his terrified face staring fixedly at the wires crackling against his windshield.

A young cop was directing traffic as a pair of paramedics waited off to one side while the utility crew worked to shut off the power. The cop looked a little green around the gills. A rookie, Mulder thought sympathetically. This was probably his first really bad accident, and with the luck of all rookies, he'd probably just had dinner. Mulder wished he could offer sympathy, but the last thing the kid needed was a ghost appearing out of nowhere. One of the real downsides of being a ghost was the inability to offer a comforting word, or even an understanding nod. How many ghosts were driven mad simply because they couldn't connect on an emotional level to people any more? he wondered. He didn't know, but he was determined he wasn't going to be one of them. He flirted with madness enough when he was alive; he had no intention of going mad now.

The smell of blood was everywhere. What genius decreed that ghosts could smell blood and death, but couldn't indulge in the comforting smell of spaghetti? Mulder grumbled to himself. It just wasn't fair, but it was just the latest injustice he could add to a long list. Bracing himself for the prickly sensation of entering an area where a violent death had occurred, Mulder moved forward.

Wrong half, he thought as his non-existent stomach tried to do a queasy roll.

"I bet normal ghosts don't get nauseous," he complained to the empty air as he stared at the lower half of Gowers' body lying in a sticky pool of blood and ruptured intestines under the dashboard. The impact had literally torn him in half. No wonder the rookie sounded so upset when he made his report. The kid was probably going to have nightmares about this accident for weeks.

Mulder was no expert on accidents, but it didn't take an expert to deduce that Gowers had to have been going over 90 mph down a rain-slicked urban street when he collided with the utility pole. That didn't sound like the meticulous, by-the-book agent he recalled.

The sound of several more police cruisers told him that either it was a very slow night, or else the young cop had found Gowers' badge and this accident was being scrutinized by both police and FBI. It looks bad for the Bureau when a senior agent decides to use the city streets for his private racetrack. No doubt the spin-masters were already gearing to either paint this as a tragic accident that cut short a brilliant career, or else distance the Bureau from an agent who recklessly endangered civilian lives. He despised the bureaucrats who made their living trying to keep the Bureau's image sparkling clean.

The live wires actually tickled a bit as he walked through them to get to the other half of the car. Several policemen were already making their way cautiously around the wires to the other side of the car. Suddenly the wires went dead as the utility crew cut the power. Mulder reached the car ahead of the paramedics and looked inside. Gowers' upper body was still strapped to the seat. His arms were sheared off at the elbow, probably still gripping the steering wheel. Mulder didn't recall seeing the steering wheel with the other half of the car, which meant that a nasty surprise waited for one lucky cop scouring the scene.

What struck Mulder most of all was the look of terror frozen on Gowers' face. As far as Mulder could tell, Gowers had died of massive trauma and blood loss, but his upper body, except for the arms, was more or less intact. The impact that sheared the car in two must have slung this half away like a stone skipping along the surface of a pond. Gowers had time to see his death coming, poor man, Mulder reflected. That might explain why he felt no trace of a confused spirit in the area. Gowers knew he was going to die and simply went where good little spirits are supposed to go without any fuss.

"Now what possessed you to try to play chicken with a utility pole? Coincidence? I don't think so. Coincidences aren't usually this convenient." Mulder muttered quietly to himself as he observed the forensics team sketch the accident and take about rolls of film from every angle imaginable.

If the killer was human, he was too damn good at covering his trail. If he was a ghost, then the explanation was extremely simple, although how the ghost knew which car was Gowers', much less how to intercept it, was something Mulder couldn't explain. He could zero in on Scully, but their emotional connection was so strong, he suspected that he could find her in the middle of a stampede. A human killer could have tinkered with Gowers' car and waited for the inevitable. Chancy, but safe. Scully would probably embrace this explanation, but it just didn't feel right to him. The ghost theory was more complicated, but felt right.

Mulder sighed in exasperation. It was Spooky Mulder, the golden boy of ISU, all over again -- disregarding plain, straightforward facts for the more esoteric explanation on the basis of what *felt* right. The fact that he usually turned out to be correct didn't make his theories any more palatable to the agents who had to turn them into hard evidence.

"I'll do a routine check for alcohol, of course," an indignant voice erupted from behind Mulder. Checking to make sure he was completely invisible, he turned and watched as a young medical examiner leaned into the car and started a visual check of the body in situ.

"Take it easy, man. It's not every night we have a senior FBI agent try to drag race down a slick street. If he wasn't drunk, then I want some of what they're putting in the coffee machines over there," an older cop said as he leaned in beside the ME. "Damn accident is going to be a bitch as far as paperwork is concerned. The FBI's already prowling around. The papers can't be far behind. We fuck up and our asses will be ground up for dog meat."

"Anyone ever tell you that you worry too much, Jack?"

"Yeah, but worrying is what got me these sergeant's stripes and worrying is what will keep them on until I retire," Jack retorted as he pointed his flashlight under the front seat.

"Fred, Tyree, start doing an inch-by-inch search of the street. I don't want so much as a fingernail overlooked." Jack snapped the order without even looking up. Two late arrivals simply looked at each other, sighed, and grabbed gloves and flashlights as a light, misting rain began to fall.

Realizing that he had gathered all the information he could, Mulder retreated to the sidelines. He wanted to see the autopsy report, but he was willing to bet Gowers was stone-cold sober when his car became a speeding coffin.

Rather than instantly teleporting back to the Gunmen's office, or even to Scully's place, Mulder chose to drift silently along the street, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Taking the long way home was the closest he could come to a hard five-mile run. He remembered joking to his colleagues in ISU that a good five-mile run did more to fit the pieces together than twelve hours staring at the walls of his office.

If Bryson's ghost was responsible, there was no way the FBI could stop him. That meant it was up to him and he had almost no experience in ghost hunting. He wasn't even sure how to banish a ghost. He'd fought one once, but he still wasn't entirely sure how he defeated it. It appeared to be a matter of who had the stronger will. The idea of battling it out with Bryson was unnerving, but the idea of letting him get anywhere near Scully, or Simon for that matter, was unthinkable.

Profiling Bryson wasn't any easier the second time around, but Mulder kept at it until he was reasonably certain he had a tenuous pattern to Bryson's moves. The only problem was that he couldn't be sure he was profiling the right suspect. Scully and Simon needed to be in on this case. If he was right, then Bryson would methodically eliminate the team members, leaving Simon for last. Simon was Scully's partner. Bryson understood the bond between partners and would take particular interest in making Simon's death as gruesome as possible. Then it would be Scully's turn. The only thing Bryson hadn't counted on was that Scully had more than one partner and one of them didn't play by the rules any more.

After several miles, Mulder decided he had done all he could with the scant evidence he had to work with. Almost with relief, he thought of Scully's apartment. The place was dark and he could hear her slow, steady heartbeat coming from the bedroom. She was asleep and unaware that another member of her team was dead, killed in a freak accident. Mulder drifted into her bedroom and perched quietly on the end of her bed where he watched over her sleep each night.

After a moment, he decided to let her learn of Gowers' death through official channels. There was no need to put her on the defensive any sooner than he had to. She might resist believing that the deaths were part of an orchestrated campaign of murder, but she was too good an investigator to deny that the evidence was beginning to build in favor of murder. Meanwhile, he would guard her sleep. At least at night she would be safe. If the pattern held, however, another delivery of flowers was due tomorrow night. This time, Mulder intended to be waiting.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Scully's Apartment - later that night

With the ingrained precognition of a law enforcement officer, Scully came awake a scant half-second before the phone rang. Glowering sleepily at the offending instrument that had shattered a warm, comforting dream of a fully corporeal Mulder, a tantalizing X-File, and a pleasant walk in the woods, she tried to keep the resentment out of her voice as she answered it.

"Dana Scully."

Briefly her mind flashed back to those rare occasions when Mulder would call her with some new lead to whatever X-File had grabbed the attention of his erratic genius. Although she always grumbled, she secretly enjoyed the fact that he trusted her with his enthusiasms. She got to see that side of him he kept camouflaged from the doubters and nay-sayers in the Bureau. Until he abruptly died, she had never fully appreciated the trust he had bestowed on her when he allowed his enthusiasm free rein.

"Agent Scully..."

At the sound of her official title, Scully came fully alert, her mind already shifting away from pleasant memories to the stern requirements of duty. Official phone calls at 2 a.m. rarely came with good news attached. When Mulder was alive, part of her always clenched tight, trying to brace herself against the news that Mulder was dead, killed by the shadows he believed held secrets to what happened to his sister and to her.

"This is Assistant Director Skinner. Agent Gowers was killed early this morning in a one-car accident." Skinner hesitated, trying to choose his next words carefully.

"Sir? I'm sorry. Gowers was a good agent, but is there a reason you're calling at 2 a.m. to tell me this?" Scully tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. This was news that could have waited until morning. She had barely known Gowers, although she was impressed with his style and performance during the raid.

"I'm calling to alert you to the fact that I have assigned an agent to protect you. He should be arriving outside your apartment building within a matter of minutes. Agent Parrish is under my direct orders to see that you don't suffer an accident. I have also assigned agents to protect Agents Ambercrombie and Delacontrari," Skinner said brusquely. His tone left very little room for protests, but that had never deterred Scully in the past, and didn't even slow her down now.

"Sir, I fail to see how a bodyguard can prevent *accidents* from happening," Scully retorted frostily. She happened to glance down at the end of her bed and saw the smoky-gray amorphous shadow-form of Mulder start to take on a more solid form. Mulder's expression told her that he knew about this latest accident and was prepared to argue that it was evidence of some sort of murder spree.

"Two accidents in two days that take the lives of two members of a team whose only connection was a raid that ended in the death of a suspect is not coincidental in my books. You will cooperate with Agent Parrish. I am not putting you in protective custody because I need your insight and skills on this case, but you will accept whatever protection I choose to assign, is that clear, Agent Scully?" Skinner said with complete confidence that his orders would be obeyed.

"Perfectly, Sir," Scully snapped with enough resentment oozing out of her voice to make it clear to Skinner that this subject would be discussed, at length, in the morning.

"Good. I've called a meeting of the remaining members of your team and a task force from Violent Crimes in my office at 9 a.m. I will see you then." Skinner hung up, leaving Scully fuming impotently at the receiver.

"OK, Mulder, what's going on?" she growled, trying not to transfer her resentment at Skinner to Mulder.

"Gowers tore his car and himself apart racing down Massachusetts Avenue late last night. My best estimate is that he was going nearly 100 mph before he collided with a utility pole." Mulder kept his tone level and gave her just the bare bones report.

"Drunk?"

"Not a drop as far as I could tell. He was terrified before he died, Scully. He saw death coming and couldn't do a thing to stop it."

"And I suppose you're going to tell me that someone tampered with the car, or miraculously disappeared from the car....." Scully stopped in mid-sentence and glared at Mulder. "You believe that Gowers was killed by a ghost?" Scully sounded almost outraged at the idea.

"It's one possibility. Unless Gowers took up drag-racing on a city street at his age, then I see no other explanation than murder," Mulder answered quietly. "Who or what the suspect is, is still open to speculation." His tone was calm and professional. They might as well have been discussing the merits of Kirlian photography over the use of black light to document evidence missed by human eyes. She wanted to tell him that the very idea that ghosts could kill was ridiculous, but even rationalism wasn't up to the task of arguing against the existence of ghosts with a ghost.

Scully fumed for a few minutes then closed off, tucking her exasperation and temper under a mask of cool professionalism. Let Mulder see that she could accept defeat graciously. She'd consider his ghost theory, but she had every confidence that a perfectly human suspect would appear, if indeed there was anything to this murder theory.

"Well, we'll see what the task force Skinner has formed has to say. I doubt if anyone is going to bring up the subject of ghosts and I won't be your front man for the idea. Now, I'm going back to sleep." Scully abruptly slid back down under the covers and closed her eyes, effectively ending the conversation. She didn't go back to sleep for over an hour as she fought the rising tide of resentment directed at both Skinner and Mulder for placing her in an impossible situation. Skinner had no right to assume she couldn't defend herself. As for Mulder, he was too damn right, too many times. She was tired of being the one who got to replay his theories to an admiring Simon and Skinner. Where was Agent Dana Scully, the rational scientist who believed in hard facts and solid evidence? Feeling lost and adrift, Scully gradually slipped into an uneasy sleep, always aware at some level, of Mulder's silent presence. Usually it comforted her. Tonight it galled and grated on her already raw conscience. Damn him. Damn me, for letting him take over my life.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Tuesday morning, December 15th

Mulder paced the limits of Scully's apartment while she dressed and bustled through her morning routine in complete silence. Something about the way she held herself, as if braced for anything he might say, kept him from his usual morning banter. He concentrated on being as unobtrusive as possible. Finally, he found the atmosphere so uncomfortable that he decided to head for the office early. After cautiously checking for any sign that Simon was in the office, Mulder materialized to a comfortable smoky haze at his old desk, now Scully's, and considered the problem. It felt like old times when he showed up at the crack of dawn to sit in the dim light of his office and wrestle with evidence that just wouldn't fit together.

Bryson, or whoever had taken up his cause, was not going to strike again until he had completed his ritual offering of false sympathy. Mulder didn't have great faith that Skinner's security measures would be any deterrent, especially if the killer was Bryson, but the addition of a witness might force the killer to rearrange his plans. Delacontrari was in the greatest danger, if his profile was correct. Mulder had to find a way to convince Scully to insist that Delacontrari be put under close watch. If they could frustrate Bryson's neat ritual, then he was going to be forced to extemporize, and that was exactly what got him caught the last time.

Feeling the need to pace, Mulder unconsciously followed old patterns which took him through several pieces of furniture. As he passed through Simon's desk he felt resistance, as if he was pushing his way through a sticky web. He was caught for a moment, then broke free and turned to see what he'd run into.

Fuck. Mulder stared at a complex spider-web device made out of what appeared to be cotton lashed to an ash-wood frame swinging gently from the arm of the overhead lamp Simon used for close work. It was no bigger than his fist, but it was sufficient to do the job. "A ghost trap," Mulder muttered in an exasperated tone. "A fucking ghost trap." Just what he needed and what was sure to piss Scully off, though how he was supposed to know that Simon had trapped his desk was beyond him. Apparently Simon decided to do some investigating on his own about the mysterious presence he felt. Mulder stared at the wisps of ectoplasm fluttering from the web and tried to figure out a way to destroy the evidence. A gentle nudge of his hand left more ectoplasm stuck to the web and Mulder pulled back shaking his hand. Leaving a piece of himself behind felt weird. Once again he simply lacked the words to describe a feeling that had no relevance for the living.

Casting his mind over the various tricks of the ghost-hunting trade, Mulder realized that short of picking up the item and destroying it, there was no way he was going to get the ectoplasmic evidence off. He was well and truly caught red-handed. This was not going to be easy to explain to Scully. She was the only person he knew who could deny that ghosts, as a class, existed, while at the same time believe that ghosts had some supernatural ability to see all and know all. In spite of all their discussions, he had yet to make her understand that he was the exact same Mulder he was when he was alive. Death had not improved his tendency to walk blindly into trouble or transformed his ability to become so absorbed in a problem that he could block everything else out.

His urge to pace squelched, Mulder melted into the shadows in the far corner of the office and awaited his fate. It really didn't matter who arrived first. The fat was in the fire and he could already hear his butt sizzling. Lacking anything better to do, he glared at the offending trap. It looked like one of those harmless Dream-Catchers, a simple ornament as far as anyone living was concerned. Nevertheless it was an extremely effective trap. The problem was, Mulder recalled seeing it on Simon's desk for over a week now. He'd paid it no mind since he usually avoided going anywhere near Simon when he was in the office. It was simply a decorative item.

Apparently Simon had begun putting the clues together and set up this trap before the raid on Bryson's house. If he suspected that the X-Files office was haunted, then he must also suspect who was the ghost in question. There weren't too many candidates for the job. After all, who but Spooky Mulder had reason to haunt the place. Mulder wondered if Simon worried that Mulder's ghost was haunting him in revenge. If that was the case, then Scully or no Scully, Mulder was obligated to set him straight. He'd deal with the fallout from Scully's temper, but he refused to have Simon spend the rest of his life feeling guilty for a stupid accident and a fuck-up by karmic bureaucrats.

Coming to the decision to tell Simon the truth, Mulder felt calmer than he'd felt in weeks. Scully would be furious, but perhaps a good blowout would clear the air. If Scully got mad enough, she might just let slip what was bothering her. A dangerous strategy and not one he normally would have tried, but sometimes a frontal assault was the only way to deal with Scully's stubborn refusal to talk about her problems. If he was the problem. . . . If the strain of dealing with a ghost day in and day out was at the root of her anger, then he'd rather step away voluntarily than come to the day when she told him to go away and mean it. In any event, the decision was out of her hands. Now all he could do was weather the storm and hope their bond held.

The sound of heels coming down the hallway was almost a relief. Mulder felt Scully's presence before her hand touched the doorknob. Her aura was tightly controlled, a warning that she was in full professional mode with all emotions battened down. She reminded him of a clipper ship sailing with storm warnings hoisted, but prepared to challenge the storm rather than run from it. This was her 'Special Agent Dana Scully, don't mess with me, I'm armed and dangerous' mood. Mulder never understood why she felt that a cool, no-nonsense attitude was the only way she could earn respect in the FBI, but it was as much as part of her as her red hair. Maybe it was just the technique she developed to deal with one very exasperating former partner who was no less bothersome now that he was dead.

Bracing himself for his ensuing confession, Mulder materialized to a semi-solid, opaque form and moved to stand beside Simon's desk. He heard the blowers from the heating vents gear up to counter the abrupt drop in temperature in the room.

"Morning, Scully," he greeted her as she came in the door. Aside from a started look, she didn't seem too surprised to see him.

"I wondered where you'd gone off to," she replied in a neutral tone. Mulder couldn't read her at all, which was a pretty good indication that her feelings about him this morning were decidedly mixed.

"Shouldn't you be invisible or something? Simon will be here any minute."

Scully sat down at her desk and began her morning routine -- boot up computer, check e-mail, stash briefcase under desk, then head over to the coffee pot.

"It's not going to matter," Mulder offered cautiously. The abrupt snap of her eyebrows into a rigid peak told him that this confession was not off to a good start.

"And why not?" Scully asked in a dangerously calm tone. If looks could freeze, Mulder would have been a Popsicle. As it was, he fought the urge to just disappear.

"Because Simon finally put the clues together and set a trap." Mulder felt the first stirrings of his own anger. What right did Scully have to act like she was his keeper? It was the same pattern over and over, and Mulder was tired of being made to feel like an errant child. To her credit, Mulder knew that Scully didn't think of her attitude that way, but it rubbed him raw nonetheless.

"And you fell into it," Scully said with a disgusted shake of her head.

"Yes. You see, Scully, the thing about traps is that they aren't meant to be detected," Mulder replied with a slightly sarcastic snip to his tone. He was not going to be made the goat here. He made a mistake which would not have occurred if Scully hadn't been so damn stubborn about confiding in Simon.

"Did you even try?" Scully's tone was frigid, almost dismissive. She was in one of her rare moods where anger and frustration came together and focused on the nearest target. Mulder wondered who caught the brunt of this storm before he came along. He knew Scully was only marginally angry with him, but he was a convenient target when the real target was intangible.

"Stop that," Mulder snapped authoritatively. He rarely used that tone of voice, and almost never with Scully, but he had had enough. "I was, and am, many things, but I have never deliberately lied to you, or manipulated you. If this is what you think of me, then perhaps I should go." Mulder's temper flared, but he was in control, barely. From the shocked look on Scully's face, he realized that she hadn't expected him to fight back. Perhaps it was past time she realized that what she said and did could hurt him deeply.

Looking at Scully fighting shock and anger, Mulder felt his anger melt away. He knew that his rage was really directed at Bryson and the man killing off her team, not Scully, who was caught in a trap of her own making.

"I'm not your possession, Scully," he told her in a soft, sad voice, trying to persuade rather than command. "You can't keep me locked up like some treasured memory. In all the essential ways, I'm still the man I was. I've respected your wishes, but either you tell Simon, or I will." Delivering this ultimatum hurt, as did the look of angry betrayal in Scully's eyes, but there was no longer a choice. Then he decided to deliver his last bombshell before leaving her to consider the situation. "Simon doesn't deserve to think that I've come back to haunt him out of revenge."

Leaving Scully looking as if he'd punched her in the stomach, Mulder faded out. He tried not to feel guilty for lashing out. That had always been his problem when alive. He really hated hurting Scully, even if it was for her own good. It was too easy to feel like a bully and retract the verbal slap across the face. She gave him enough wake-up-and-get-with-the-program slaps and never seemed to feel the slightest twinge of remorse. Why should he feel guilty for giving her the same?

Guess I'm still caught in the older brother routine, he thought ruefully. Part bully, part knight-protector, and confused as hell about which part to play when.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Scully stood in the suddenly deserted X-Files office poised between anger and dismay. Ever since the raid on Bryson's house, she felt as if she and Mulder were standing on opposite sides of a tremendous chasm with only a frayed and tenuous rope linking them. She wanted to blame the schism on his infuriating insistence that she tell Simon about him, but honesty forced her to admit that she bore part of the blame. Maybe this whole ghost bit was just too much of a strain. Everyday she gave thanks that she still had Mulder around, but just as often she cursed his impetuousness and unwillingness to listen to reason. She was tired of the constant stress of mixed emotions.

Wearily she sat down at her desk and tried to regain the fragile sense of calm she had managed to assume during the drive to work. Damn Mulder and his carelessness. He should have been more careful, she thought grumpily. Trust Mulder to stick his foot in it and then dump everything on her to straighten out. Now she had Simon to deal with in addition to Skinner. Although Agent Parrish was discreet, she hated the idea that somebody was following her, or that Skinner didn't think she was capable of taking care of herself. Only the fact that Skinner had said that he was assigning an agent to Simon had kept her from protesting more strenuously. Well, that and the fact that Skinner probably would have ignored her protests, she grudgingly admitted to herself.

Just thinking about Skinner brought back the low-level headache that had plagued her for the past month. It would be nice to blame Mulder for the situation she found herself in, but it wasn't entirely his fault. Well, it was, but not really. Once again, she found herself going over the same problem over and over with no solution in sight. Mulder was simply being Mulder, and his insights into the cases were invaluable. It had never occurred to her that in the process of solving the cases, she was acquiring a reputation as a crack investigator. It hurt to hear whispered gossip that perhaps it hadn't been Spooky Mulder who was the brains behind the X-Files, but rather Agent Scully.

Her initial reaction had been anger that people could discount Mulder so quickly. Then resentment set in and an uneasy awareness that she was accepting honors and commendations for work not entirely her own. She felt cheapened, almost grimy, each time Skinner praised her handling of a difficult case when she knew that without Mulder's insights the case might not have been solved, or at least not as quickly. Now she was facing the possibility of receiving an official commendation for saving the lives of her team by leading them out of Bryson's maze of booby-traps. Skinner took her protests as an overactive case of modesty and she couldn't find the words to tell him that if it hadn't been for Mulder, she and every other agent in that house, plus all of the hostages, would have died in a catastrophic explosion.

Resisting the temptation to indulge in some of her father's choicer curses, Scully resolutely began putting her desk in order for the day. If the saints were with her, Simon would arrive at the last minute and there'd be no time to explain about Mulder before they were due in Skinner's office. Considering the way her day was going, St. Jude seemed the most appropriate one to appeal to. When she heard the elevator doors open a moment later, she decided that there were some disasters beyond even the power of the saints to avert.

Squelching the urge to bolt, Scully pulled herself together and tried to figure a way out of the trap Mulder so neatly shoved her into. As irritated as she was at Mulder, she also knew he meant his ultimatum -- either she told Simon, or he would. Having little choice, and hearing Simon at the door, Scully took a deep breath and wished she had Mulder's facility for making impossible theories sound almost plausible. She'd never told him how much she envied his ability to be convincing with miniscule proof.

"Morning, Scully," Simon said as he hung up his coat and headed for his desk. Scully made a non-committal response as she pretended to be absorbed in reading her e-mail. Maybe he won't notice, she thought plaintively, but without much hope. If Simon had set the trap, then it must mean that he expected to catch something.

A low whistle told her that Simon had seen the evidence of Mulder's presence. Glancing up she saw him standing in front of his desk, staring at the spinning ornament. From here, she could see thin filaments of what could be taken as spider-threads hanging off the cotton matrix. In spite of herself, she was intrigued. This was solid evidence, after a fashion, that ghosts existed. The rational part of her brain began to marshal arguments against the evidence of her own eyes, but she didn't have the heart to listen to them. She was tired of being rational, even though she knew it was so much a part of her that she couldn't help the doubts and questions. There was something very sad about those flimsy gray strands fluttering in the air. Mulder didn't deserve to be reduced to a handful of gray filaments.

Looking up, she realized that Simon was staring at her, his mouth half open as if he was torn between asking a question and saying nothing. No one could ever say that she was afraid to confront a situation head-on when the situation demanded it, Scully reminded herself.

"What?" Well, that wasn't the most promising start, but Scully was having trouble finding the right words. To soften what might have sounded a bit abrupt, she gave Simon one of her rare gentle smiles. Simon looked confused for a moment, then took a deep breath. Scully braced herself. To her dismay, she found herself wishing that Mulder were here beside her. Since when do I need him to handle a simple discussion with my partner? Since a miracle gave him back to her and she found herself caught between the rocks of her scientific denial and the shore of her need for him, she admitted sadly to herself.

"Scully . . . ," Simon started, then stopped and took another deep breath. Scully hoped he wouldn't hyperventilate and had to hide a smile at the thought of Simon abruptly fainting at her feet. It might delay the conversation, but Simon didn't deserve that kind of humiliation. In fact, she realized, he didn't deserve being put on the spot. Whatever her problems with Mulder were, Simon was only being the curious, intelligent man she valued as a partner. She was still angry with Mulder, but that anger didn't need to be taken out on Simon.

"It's all right, Simon. I imagine you have a lot of questions. I don't have all of the answers, but . . . ." she hesitated, then plunged forward, "I'll try to answer what I can."

"Who?" Simon sounded wary, but determined.

Trust Simon to reduce the entire question of haunting down to a simple one-word question, Scully thought ruefully.

"Mulder," she replied with a sad smile. At Simon's flinch, she hastened to explain.

"He's not here haunting you. In fact, he doesn't blame you at all for what happened." Scully took a deep breath. The world hadn't fallen down around her ears with that admission. Maybe she could get through this ordeal.

"Why not? It was my ball that killed him," Simon said with a stubborn set to his mouth.

Why me? Scully asked an unresponsive heaven. Two partners, both of them experts in taking on more than their fair share of guilt.

"Because accidents happen. Besides, Mulder seems to feel that he's the victim of a bureaucratic mix-up in heaven. He never did get along with bureaucrats," Scully offered in a tentative attempt at humor. To her relief, Simon attempted a smile in return.

"Hello, Simon," Mulder said as he slowly materialized in the back corner of the office. Scully bit back a confused surge of relief and irritation. Trust Mulder to be hanging around watching her twist in the wind, but it was very good to see him. Simon's expression was priceless and she had to turn a laugh into a discreet cough. Dumbfounded was a vast understatement.

"You're . . . you're . . . ." Simon stopped, raised his hand as if to point at the apparition forming in front of his eyes, and took a deep breath. "You're a ghost?"

Mulder nodded. "Damn smart trap you laid, Agent Ambercrombie. I never saw it until I left a bit of myself behind. What clued you in?" he asked in a cheerful, off-handed way. Mulder was obviously enjoying himself. Scully gave him a stern glare which he shrugged off before giving her a big smile. Try as she could, it was difficult to remain mad at him when he smiled like that. She contented herself with an exasperated shake of her head, but knew that the smile forming on her own lips gave her away.

Simon sat down abruptly as he tried to process the fact that he was calmly talking with the ghost of the man he had killed.

"You were expecting anger? Or maybe a lot of chain rattling and eerie moans in the night?" Mulder asked with a chuckle.

Simon looked pale, but nodded.

"Sorry. I suppose I could find some chains, but I'd rather sit here and hold a reasonable conversation and I'm not very good at moaning -- I think it has something to do with my lack of pitch."

"Simon, Mulder's been around since July. He's the one who got us through Bryson's traps," Scully said calmly. Someone needed to be the calm, rational one in this conversation. Mulder was having too much fun, and Simon looked shell-shocked.

"Then I wasn't imagining things?" Simon said with relief.

"No. Your damnable sixth sense has been driving me crazy," Mulder admitted as he carefully hopped up to perch on the printer table. He was maintaining a hazy solidity, but the wall was visible through him.

"You understand that Mulder's existence is not something we want to go beyond this office. I'm not sure what his enemies would do with the information." Scully really didn't want to think about the possibility that Cancer Man might discover that Mulder was still around. It was bad enough to play that scenario out in her nightmares, she didn't want to think about it in the light of day.

"Just consider me a silent partner in the office. You and Scully have been doing a crack job so far," Mulder conceded, trying to filter out the jealousy he felt. Simon had enough to cope with right now.

"You don't mind?" Simon asked curiously. His expression still bore a strong resemblance to a deer caught in the headlights, but he was rallying fast. Scully was impressed. She supposed that since he already believed in ghosts, accepting that he was talking to one came a bit easier than it had for her.

"Hell, yes, I mind, but sitting around brooding about it gets rather boring after awhile," Mulder snapped. His form shivered for a moment in the ghostly equivalent of a sigh. "I'm not some all-powerful manifestation, Simon. I'm just a corporally-challenged Fox Mulder. Scully can explain some of the problems -- like the strong case of the shivers you're experiencing now."

Simon stopped shaking, tried to hold himself stiff, then gave up. "Your doing?" he asked as he looked longingly towards his coat.

"Yeah. The more visible I am, the colder it gets. I'll fade out a bit before I turn both of you into ice cubes." Mulder obligingly faded until he was a gray hazy shadow barely visible. Scully relaxed as the room temperature began to return to normal. Even as used as she was to this aspect of Mulder's materialization, she still felt the cold down to her bones. Simon, who had been closer to Mulder, slowly stopped shivering and gave a long shuddering sigh as he felt the heat from the furnace hit him.

"I can be just a voice, but Scully finds it a little easier to take if there's at least a hazy outline to focus on. I usually give a whistle," Mulder paused to demonstrate before continuing, "before I materialize, and I always try to check out who's present. You nearly walked in on me more times than I want to remember."

"I'm not sure I believe this. I knew something odd was going on, but I didn't think about a ghost until Scully started acting strangely in Bryson's house. She acted as if she was listening to someone before each step. I'm relieved to find out that it was you and not because she was having visions," Simon admitted with a sheepish look at Scully.

Scully bristled for a moment, then gave Simon an amused cock of her eyebrow. He flushed and shrugged. She refused to look at Mulder, but she could tell he was remembering all the times she cocked that eyebrow at one of his outrageous double-entendres.

She had no doubt that a logical interpretation of her actions would be that she was going insane. People who hear voices are not usually entirely sane. It was interesting that Simon considered the possibility that she was going insane, but pursued a paranormal explanation instead. She hadn't stopped to realize just how much she trusted Simon to understand on faith alone. Looking suddenly at Mulder, she hoped he understood that the trust she shared with Simon didn't diminish the trust she shared with him. Mulder nodded sadly. His lips mouthed the words, I understand. Once again, she felt anchored by the bond they shared that apparently could withstand anger, misunderstanding, and even death.

"I guess I can understand why you didn't tell me," Simon said slowly.

Shaking off the sadness she felt whenever she acknowledged how much she missed the living Mulder, Scully sensed that Simon was being less than honest, but what could she say? She lied badly and she knew that if Mulder hadn't tripped Simon's trap, she would have continued to resist telling him. Just because the world hadn't come crashing down around her ears, it didn't mean she thought this confession was a good idea, nor did she feel comfortable with the idea of sharing Mulder. Even as that thought formed, she caught herself and ruefully admitted that she felt rather jealous that Simon was having almost no trouble accepting Mulder's existence as a ghost, whereas she still occasionally balked at the idea after nearly six months.

In a rare flash of insight, she realized that there was enough jealousy to go around. It had never occurred to her that just as she resented receiving accolades for work Mulder helped with, Mulder must have felt isolated watching her and Simon beginning to function as a team and receiving praise for work he was a part of. In truth, he was the silent partner on their team and likely to remain so. Scully felt a bit guilty as she realized she had been so wrapped up in her own anger that she had never considered how Mulder must feel. Perhaps that explained the sadness she had been feeling from him for weeks now. It must be hard for him to walk among the living, but be unable to interact with them. Mulder, despite his decision to isolate himself in the basement, was a very people-oriented person.

Maybe jealousy was too strong a word, but having lived in Mulder's shadow for three years, she could understand how he must feel. He didn't deserve this, she complained silently to whatever saint handled cases like this. Mulder couldn't help being brilliant, intuitive, and passionate. In spite of their differences, against all reason, he had always treated her as an equal. Even more importantly, he had trusted her to be able to hold up her end of an investigation without holding her hand or hovering nearby just in case. While his impulsive dashes into the unknown had irritated her, she now realized that in an odd way, they demonstrated his complete ease with her. From the little she had gleaned of his brief partnership with Krycek, she realized that those abrupt dashes were simply a part of who and what Mulder was. She had been given no special treatment because she was a woman. Mulder treated her no differently than he would have treated a male partner, except with one major difference -- Mulder trusted her.

Scully came out of her musings to hear Mulder's voice. "Right now, you have a more important problem to consider," Mulder said.

Simon looked confused as he was apparently startled out of his own musings. Scully gave Mulder a resigned look as she realized he was about to give Simon his theory behind the recent accidents.

"Someone is killing off Scully's team." Mulder gave Simon a serious look before turning to Scully with a slight tilt of his head and that raised eyebrow that suggested she fill Simon in on the missing pieces. That was so typically Mulder -- explode the bomb under an unsuspecting officer, then expect her to explain why the bomb went off.

"Mulder, there is no evidence to support your contention that Agent Thomas' death was anything other than a tragic accident," Scully protested automatically. "However, I'll concede that the death of Agent Gowers is rather suspicious." Scully knew that her position was weakening, but she found it hard to believe that a ghost would need to go to all this trouble to kill.

"Well, A.D. Skinner apparently believes it, or did at 2 a.m. this morning," Simon offered cautiously, looking from Mulder to Scully and back again. His voice lacked its usual firm confidence and sounded almost tentative. Scully appreciated the trepidation he must be feeling about jumping into what was apparently an ongoing argument. She had no intention of making him feel like a third wheel, but she didn't have any experience in facilitating a harmonious working relationship between the ghost of her former partner and her current partner. She liked and respected both men and suspected that anything she tried to do would just end up hurting one or both of them. Being held in checkmate exasperated her. Her instincts told her to fix the problem, but nothing sprang to mind as a viable solution.

"I'll admit, I'd feel better if I didn't feel I was being guarded by a terrier," Simon continued with a chuckle. Mulder looked puzzled, while Scully nodded her appreciation of Simon's jest. For just a moment, she realized that she and Simon shared connections that Mulder was simply not a part of. She wondered if there would always be these moments when one of her partners felt isolated, and conceded that there would.

Responding to Mulder's perplexed look, Simon added, "A.D. Skinner assigned Agent Ayo to protect me. Ayo is about five-feet, eight-inches tall and thin as a rail. I know he was top of his class, but...." Simon stretched to emphasize his tall, wiry frame. Mulder grinned and Scully knew he was remembering how Parrish's bulky linebacker body completely dwarfed her as they walked into the Hoover Building.

"I think this is someone's idea of a joke," Scully replied tersely. It was bad enough to have a bodyguard, but the idea that someone thought it was funny to give her Parrish, while assigning the diminutive Ayo to Simon was intolerable. That Mulder seemed to be amused by the situation didn't help.

"Poor Skinner. He probably just grabbed the first two names of the top agents he has on file and didn't stop to think of how it would look. I wonder who Delacontrari got?" Mulder said with an amused twinkle in his eyes. Scully felt her mouth twitching into a smile despite her irritation. Simon looked startled for a moment, then relaxed with a slow grin.

Scully was debating telling Simon about the flowers sitting in the forensics lab when she caught a look from Mulder. Simon had turned to his desk and was setting up for the day, apparently determined to show that he was at ease with a ghost hovering about. She noticed his shoulders were stiff and he wasn't quite as nonchalant as he wanted her to believe, but he was trying.

Walking towards her, Mulder spoke in a low, clear voice. "Remember, he can only hear me if I want him to. I need to talk with him alone, if you don't mind," he continued. Suspicious, Scully wondered what was so important that Mulder couldn't share it with her. Mulder was probably going to enlist Simon's help with his ghost theory and didn't want her rational explanations to interfere with his proselytizing. That was unfair, Scully rebuked herself. Mulder had cleared out plenty of times when she indicated she needed to speak with someone alone. The memory of his accusing words still stung. She didn't own him and he'd had no right to accuse her of trying to monopolize him. It wasn't beyond reason that Mulder would use her refusal to give him time to talk with Simon as evidence of his contention. She wasn't going to give him that satisfaction. She'd show him.

"Just promise me that I'll get equal time to persuade him that there's a reasonable explanation for the deaths." Scully mouthed the words as she nodded her agreement. To her surprise, Mulder looked completely confused, as if she'd changed the topic without giving him warning. As she watched him flounder for a moment, she realized that whatever Mulder wanted to talk to Simon about, it wasn't about the case. Squelching a sense of guilt for misjudging him, Scully reached out and lightly touched his arm. As always, the cold ate into her bones, but she felt him hum slightly. They touched rarely because of the cold, but she sensed that Mulder needed those moments when he connected to her.

"Simon, I need to run a couple of errands before Skinner's meeting. I'll meet you up there," Scully announced casually as she grabbed a note pad and pen and headed for the door. Simon gave her a startled look, then nodded, while looking uncertainly at Mulder, who was still standing by her desk, a half-visible shadow.

"Thank you," Mulder whispered, then hesitated for a moment before continuing so softly that she almost missed his words as she opened the door. "He's hurting, Scully."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

As he watched Scully leave, Mulder experienced a moment of doubt about his plan to talk some sense into Simon. Guilt was something he had a vast amount of experience with and he was beginning to suspect that Simon was not going to relinquish his guilt over Mulder's death easily. Still, he had to try. The memory of Simon brooding alone in this office on a cold Sunday afternoon compelled him to try.

"Agent Mulder...." Simon began in a small voice.

"If you're going to apologize, forget it," Mulder interrupted abruptly as he materialized to a semi-solid form. Simon winced and Mulder realized he wasn't exactly reassuring him. "I meant it when I said I wasn't mad at you. Yeah, right at first, I was, but this whole scenario wasn't supposed to happen. Don't ask me how screw-ups like this can happen, but apparently mistakes can occur."

Simon looked doubtful and kept his eyes focused on the papers he was holding. Noticing the tiny shivers he was attempting to repress, Mulder stepped back until Simon was on the far fringes of the cold radiating from his opaque form. Until Simon got a little more used to him, Mulder figured it would be better to give him something to focus on when they were talking.

"Listen, Simon, I don't want you wallowing in guilt over this. Scully needs you. Yes, I'm jealous, but I think we both can agree that keeping her safe is our first priority. Maybe we can work from there to an understanding, I don't know. Let's not push things." Mulder deliberately allowed some of his resentment and jealousy to leak out in his voice. Simon was too intelligent to accept platitudes. He'd give him the blunt facts and let him work from there.

"Sounds fair," Simon concluded after thinking over the matter. "I'm not your favorite person, but I don't have to worry about you looking for revenge, is that it?"

"Something like. If we put Scully in the position of having to make a choice, I don't think either one of us would like the outcome. There are problems to being a ghost that you're not ready to hear yet. Just trust me that it's complicated and tricky beyond belief. I'm still learning and I don't want to jeopardize Scully's belief in me by being a prick." Mulder gave Simon a rueful grin. To his relief, Simon attempted a smile in return.

"She's rather stubborn, isn't she?" he asked tentatively.

"You have no idea, but if you can win her trust, there's no one better to guard your back. She might not believe in what you say, but she'll believe in you," Mulder said slowly, remembering the odd mix of doubt and trust that made up their partnership.

"But you...." Simon started, then stopped, fumbling for his words.

"I'm dead, Simon. There's a limit to how much I can do. I can give advice, I can intervene, within limits, but Scully needs a live partner, and that's you. Trust me, if there was a way that guilt or brooding could change the past, I'd have done it long ago and we might never have met." Mulder fought for patience. Simon was being difficult, but probably no more so than he'd be himself if the situation was reversed.

Simon sighed. "I never thought the day would come when I'd be sitting in the X-Files office talking to a ghost. Somehow it sounds better in the stories than it does first-hand," he said with a sad smile.

"On that we can agree," Mulder replied, trying to get some sense that he had made some progress. Simon looked up at him, then literally shot out of his seat.

"Oh shit! Skinner will have my butt," he muttered as he grabbed a folder and bolted for the door. "Sorry...." he added just before he ran for the elevator.

Mulder nodded as he remembered how sharp Skinner's tongue could be whenever he was late for a meeting. Simon was about his height, if not a bit taller, so if he ran all the way, he'd slide in just in time. Mulder had the path to Skinner's office timed down to the second. Scully was probably pacing impatiently, but at least she'd blame him rather than Simon.

Taking the easy way, Mulder simply thought of the closet inside Skinner's office and materialized there a second later. He'd wait until everyone was assembled, then quietly join the meeting in a far corner, making sure to stay completely invisible. Skinner was proving to be more sensitive than he expected, so Mulder had learned to pick a distant corner and eavesdrop. He watched Skinner usher in Delacontrari and Scully, then wait for a moment while Simon skidded into the doorway. Two unfamiliar agents were already seated at the table waiting. Mulder assumed they were the other members of the team Skinner was putting together to investigate the mysterious deaths of two agents. It promised to be a long, and highly informative meeting, from Mulder's point of view. Making a soft sound directed to Scully, Mulder whistled to let her know he was present. She gave a barely perceptible nod as she sat down. Simon swept the room with his eyes before sitting down, as if wondering if he was lurking about. Mulder wondered what Skinner would think if he realized that his most troublesome agent was not only still around, but was actively involved in this case. One day he might reveal himself to Skinner, but now Skinner had more important things on his mind and Mulder didn't want him distracted from keeping Scully and Simon alive.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

"Agents Scully, Ambercrombie, Delacontrari, these are Agents Franklin and Hopkins. I've assigned them to this case." Skinner wasted no time on pleasantries, although he paused to give the assembled agents time to exchange nods of acknowledgment. Agent Scully's expression told him that she was controlling the urge to tell him to go to hell. Affronted and irritated came to mind as apt descriptions of her mood. She caught his eye and left no doubt in his mind that she was going to dispute his decision that the deaths of Agents Thomas and Gowers were not accidental. For a brief moment, Skinner wondered if this was how Agent Mulder felt whenever he offered an impossible theory and found his partner's skepticism glaring back at him. Skinner wished he had Agent Mulder's knack for making a totally implausible theory sound almost reasonable. All he had to go on in this instance was a gut instinct that these deaths were not accidents. His instincts could be wrong, but he'd rather face the humiliation of overreacting than lose another agent.

"Sir," Scully started, but the stern shake of Skinner's head stopped her in mid-sentence.

"Agent Scully, you will be given a chance to speak, but not now," Skinner said firmly. He had no intention of losing control of this meeting. Scully's objections could wait until he had laid all the evidence on the table. For a moment, he felt the test of wills between them as Scully bristled before giving him a stiff nod of acceptance of his terms. She relaxed, marginally, as she made it obvious that she would hear him out before ripping his theories to shreds. Oddly enough, her combative attitude aroused his competitive instincts as he decided how best to present his case.

"Agent Franklin, what can you tell me about Agent Thomas' death?" He turned to the tall, sandy-haired man sitting ramrod straight in his chair. Even sitting down, Agent Franklin managed to convey the impression that he was standing at attention. Skinner learned the hard way that appearances were deceiving. There was a streak of eccentric intelligence in Franklin that took off in surprising directions in unorthodox cases. Skinner felt that no one should be able to look so innocent while blatantly breaking the rules as Franklin managed. He suspected it had something to do with the classic profile combined with baby-blue eyes that made it difficult to believe in the duplicity clearly being practiced.

"Sir, I went over the autopsy report and found nothing to indicate that foul play was involved. The scene of the accident had been cleaned up, of course, but there didn't appear to be any way an assailant could have approached Agent Thomas without his knowledge or without being seen by one of the neighbors," Franklin reported in a relaxed style that hovered just on the edge of sounding smug. Scully allowed a small smile to appear as if her doubts were being validated. Skinner wasn't so sure. He knew Franklin and whenever he got that smug tone to his voice it meant that he was about to blow apart someone's pet theory. He had given Franklin this assignment at two in the morning. From his report so far, Skinner suspected that he hadn't gone back to sleep.

"However, I did talk with a neighbor early this morning. Apparently this neighbor left his house at the same time Thomas did. He saw no one in the vicinity, but his description of the accident was odd. The accident report states that Thomas slipped on the ice and fell backwards, hitting his head on the brick steps and dying instantly. This neighbor states that just before Thomas fell backwards, his head snapped forward. Perhaps it means nothing, but I found it odd, nonetheless," Franklin offered with the look of a man on the trail of a very elusive clue.

To Skinner's surprise, it was Ambercrombie who spoke up. He had been primed and ready for Scully to leap in, but other than an "I told you so" look, she remained silent.

"Were there any pebbles or small rocks on the steps?" Ambercrombie asked sharply. His distracted look vanished as he pounced on the clue Franklin offered. The question was odd, but it apparently had some meaning for Franklin.

"Damn," Franklin swore as a glowing smile of satisfaction slowly spread across his face. "With the back of his head crushed in, and a logical explanation for the accident, a few stray pebbles in the debris of his skull could be easily explained, especially if the killer used the same kind of pebbles Agent Thomas had by his stairs."

"It was just a thought," Ambercrombie offered, but he seemed relieved that his suggestion wasn't as far out as he feared it would sound. "It would explain why Frank didn't try to save himself."

Skinner tried to make the connection Ambercrombie and Franklin were making and came up empty. To his relief, Scully was looking lost, while Delacontrari and Hopkins had the look of men who didn't have a clue where the conversation had gone.

"Gentlemen?" Skinner prompted, hoping the two broadly smiling men would remember to let the rest of them in on the secret before he had to openly confess that he had no idea what they were talking about.

"Sorry, sir. It's an idea from a mystery novel. Someone could have used a slingshot to kill Thomas. That doesn't explain why he fell backwards instead of forwards, but it does explain the head motion described by the neighbor and why a gymnast like Thomas made no effect to break his fall," Ambercrombie explained. Then he started, looked around the room with a harried expression before relaxing with a sheepish grin. Scully followed his sweep of the room with one of her own, but Skinner noted that her expression was exasperated. When she realized he was looking at her, she forcibly relaxed and gave her partner an approving nod, although the smile was a bit strained.

Skinner pondered the dynamics of what just happened and filed them away for later consideration. Something odd was going on. He'd noticed that Scully often had a distracted expression on her face these days. An unwillingness to pry into her grief had kept him from inquiring if everything was fine, but perhaps it was time for a paternal chat from her supervisor. Barging into the emotional state of his agents always made him uncomfortable, but it was part of his job. Maybe Scully was ready to talk. Something had been bothering her for the past few months. Hopefully it was just adjusting to life without Mulder, but if it was something more, then it was time he knew about it.

For the first time, Delacontrari looked shaken, as if he suddenly realized that the threat was real and not just his supervisor's over-active imagination. Hopkins was growling something under his breath. Skinner suspected that he'd gone back to sleep and had barely started his investigation this morning. Franklin stole a march on him and now Hopkins must be wondering how to explain his lack of progress without looking like a slacker. Hopkins' contacts with the D.C. police would make him invaluable in this case.

"Agent Hopkins, I know that the D.C. police are technically in charge of the investigation into Gower's accident, but have you been able to find out anything?" Skinner offered Hopkins a loophole.

"Not very much. It will be several days before the examination of the car is complete, and the blood work is still being processed, but the pathologist I talked to indicated that the blood alcohol level was well below legal limits. He suggested that Gowers might have had a glass of wine or a beer with dinner, but was not in an intoxicated state when he got behind the wheel."

Skinner nodded. Hopkins was a good agent, albeit on the slow, methodical side. He'd turn over every stone before advancing a theory, which was why Skinner had assigned him to oversee the investigation into Gowers' death.

"Sir, I understand that two deaths in two days is stretching coincidence a bit far, but nothing in either death strongly suggests murder," Scully offered, stepping into the debate with only the barest hint of a challenge in Skinner's direction.

"Call it gut instinct, Agent Scully. Agent Franklin has supplied a possible means for murder in Agent Thomas' death. Agent Gowers was sober at the time he drove his car into a light pole at nearly . . . " Skinner glanced over at Hopkins for the exact speed the D.C. police had calculated Gower's was driving.

"Eighty miles per hour, sir, on a rain-slick street," Hopkins supplied without having to check his notes. He made a startling contrast to Franklin, a lot like the diminutive Scully did with Mulder. Hopkins was a short man, built like a boxer, with only the barest hint of an accent that suggested origins deep in the heart of Texas.

"Exactly. Unless Agent Gowers either took leave of his senses or abruptly decided to commit suicide in a messy, spectacular fashion, then I believe it's reasonable, in the light of Agent Thomas's death, to consider the possibility of murder, until the investigation turns up a mechanical problem with the car," Skinner replied firmly. He had no intention of stifling debate, but he wanted his position clearly understood.

Scully startled, then glared at a spot over in the corner before her mouth tightened in a scowl. Skinner glanced over and saw nothing there except a bedraggled tropical plant. Now there was an X-File. Six months ago the plant had been a healthy, leafy specimen, the pride and joy of Kim's green thumb. Now, despite all the loving care Kim lavished on it, the plant was gradually shriveling up and dying. He didn't have the heart to simply tell the janitor to cart it away, but he saw no reason why Agent Scully should take offense at the poor thing. Lately she appeared to have developed a particular distaste for the plant since he often saw her glance over at it with varying degrees of irritation. Skinner shrugged off the temptation to believe that her glares were killing the plant.

"So far as we can tell, the only connection between Agents Gowers and Thomas is the Bryson case. Agent Franklin, I want you to do a thorough background check on Bryson. Find out if there's anyone who might be willing to conduct a campaign of revenge on his behalf." Skinner waited for Franklin's nod before continuing. Before he could marshal his arguments for the next hurdle, Scully interrupted.

"Sir, this morning I delivered to the forensics labs two floral bouquets that appeared in my apartment. There was no sign of forced entry and my apartment manager denies letting anyone into my apartment. The first bouquet appeared on Saturday afternoon, the second one appeared on Monday afternoon," Scully offered in a clipped, chilly tone. Skinner got the impression that she was volunteering this information under protest, but from Ambercrombie's startled expression, this was the first time he'd heard about the flowers.

"A warning?" Ambercrombie asked cautiously, his eyes narrowed in worry as he considered the implications.

"An announcement," Franklin offered with a sick, angry glare as he stared down at his notebook. Skinner wondered if he'd run into a similar sick mind before. It was probable considering the anger he was barely controlling. "The killer's telling you he's going to kill one of your people before he does it." Franklin's tone was cold as ice. "So we have advance warning. When you get the next batch of flowers we'll know that the next hit is being planned." Mixed in with his anger, Franklin was trying rather unsuccessfully not to look eager. Skinner understood the mix of emotions. On the one hand he was furious that anyone would target his agents like this, on the other hand perp's who liked to advertise were usually easier to catch. Hopefully they could put an end to this killing spree before he lost Ambercrombie or Delacontrari. The idea of losing Agent Scully sent shivers down his spine. If anything would bring Mulder back from the dead for revenge it would be he lost Scully through carelessness.

"I'll assign someone to watch Agent Scully's apartment. Agent Scully, notify me immediately if you receive another flower arrangement. Gentlemen, I want this man caught. Agents Franklin and Hopkins, if you require more manpower, ask. I'm putting this case on high priority. Until we have more information, however, I want Agents Delacontrari, Ambercrombie, and Scully to return to their normal duties. You will continue to have protection and I'd appreciate it if you didn't make their lives any more difficult than you have to."

Skinner looked at the assembled agents. Scully refused to meet his eyes, but she seemed to be a lot less certain in her belief that he was over-reacting. Delacontrari looked nervous. Skinner suspected that he realized that his name was probably next on the killer's list. He was too good an agent not to consider that the killer would save Scully and her partner for last.

"Agent Delacontrari, stay in the building today. I'll assign you a driver to take you home and request that Agent Smythe accompany you inside and remain inside your house. He'll be relieved at midnight by Agent Witherspoon. I know this is inconvenient, but this killer is clever and I don't want to give him any openings to exploit. Agent Ambercrombie, for the moment, I'm leaving Agent Ayo on duty, but as soon as more flowers arrive, I will also assign a second agent to you." Skinner made certain that his tone left no room for debate.

"Any questions?" Skinner saw lots of uncertainty, but everyone appeared to understand the situation, even if they didn't like his precautions. "Fine. Dismissed."

As he watched the agents file out of the room, he considered asking Scully to stay behind, but decided she had enough to worry about. When he was alone, he leaned back in his chair and pressed the heel of his hands hard against the side of his head, trying to relax the tension. He hated losing agents under his command. Each time, even with an accidental death, he felt as if he should have done something to prevent it. Even with Mulder's death, he felt the aching sense that it shouldn't have happened and the lingering feeling that it wasn't his time.

To put it bluntly, he missed Agent Mulder. This case would have fascinated him. As odd as it sounded, Skinner missed Mulder's brusque resistance to bending his neck to authority. At least with Mulder he always knew where he stood. Skinner suppressed a sigh. He wasn't a sentimental man, but he wished he'd taken the time to tell Mulder that he had respected him for being willing to stand his ground and hold to his beliefs even in the face of ridicule and official reprimands. Now all he could do was try to honor the memory of an honorable man; one of many comrades lost over a lifetime who few would remember.

Shaking off this line of thinking before he began reviewing all his past mistakes and misjudgments, Skinner resolutely pulled up the reports from the Bryson raid. There was nothing in the rulebook that said he couldn't use his years of experience as an agent in Violent Crimes to help in the investigation. Maybe he'd see something everyone else had missed. It was worth a shot.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Without waiting for Scully and Simon, Mulder headed straight for the basement. The meeting had given him a lot to think about, not the least of which was Scully's growing irritation with him. He had merely whispered the word 'flowers' to her as a reminder when it seemed she might be reluctant to contribute that somewhat vague piece of evidence to the pot. The irritated glare he received in return surprised him and he needed time to analyze the situation. He'd prompted her many times before when they were facing Skinner, but back then he'd had a smile or a reassuring nod to take the sting out of his words. Now, all she had to rely on were his words and they were so small a part of their former complex layers of communication that they were almost ghosts themselves. He felt the vague sense that he was on the trail of something extremely important. This familiar feathery twitch in his mind warned him that the incident in Skinner's office was a vital piece in a puzzle he needed to solve. As far as he could tell, it had nothing to do with the case at hand.

Mulder gave brief thought to lounging back at his old desk to think this through, but the desk really wasn't his any longer. It now bore the unmistakable stamp of Scully's domain. In fact, now that he considered the matter, there was very little of his own presence left. His passion lingered in the files, those inexplicable, unexplained cases that threatened the foundations of conventional science, but somehow over the past six months the sense that he'd always had of being home was fading. This was Scully's office now; hers and Simon's.

It was odd, but despite having to dodge Simon while remaining invisible and reticent, Mulder had always felt that this office was the one place where he could still feel alive. Now, it felt different than it had even an hour ago. Another piece to the puzzle, but Mulder had no clue what the puzzle was supposed to look like. All he had were random pieces he was expected to put together. He'd worked with less as a profiler, but at least then he'd had tangible evidence to use as a foundation.

Hearing the elevator door open, Mulder paused and sensed two heartbeats coming down the hall. Apparently Scully, or more likely Skinner, felt that placing the agents assigned to protect Scully and Simon on the next floor was sufficient. Scully's rhythm was branded on his memory, and he was slowly beginning to recognize Simon's even when he was in a crowd. Remaining invisible would probably be the best course of action until he could determine Scully's mood. She never liked being proved wrong. Skinner had been blunt enough to ruffle her feathers. She wasn't accustomed to running headlong into the brick wall Skinner could throw up in front of a fast-moving theory.

"Simon, I don't care what Dorothy Sayers created for one of her mysteries, the fact remains that no one saw a stranger with a slingshot and there's no evidence to support your theory of murder. In Gowers' case, I'll concede that foul play is possible," Scully said grudgingly as the two of them entered the office. Simon didn't look convinced and the combative gleam in his eye suggested that he had not yet begun to fight.

Scully was fighting her usual rear-guard action against an unwelcome hypothesis, but it was obvious she was running out of arguments. Listening to her reminded him poignantly of their many arguments over evidence of their senses versus hard evidence that could be submitted to a court of law and which was more valid. He'd enjoyed those arguments because her objections, her resistance to his theories, made him think, forced him to justify his beliefs and organize his arguments.

Taken separately, Agents Thomas' and Gowers' deaths could be nothing more than accidents and the flowers showing up in Scully's apartments a hideous practical joke, but the three together with the Bryson raid as the link made the accident theory extremely untenable. Scully was a master of denying what she saw if it didn't fit in with her preconceived notions, but she was beginning to loosen up. The fact that she could accept his existence as a ghost reassured Mulder that she was open to extreme possibilities. Unfortunately, she seemed to feel she had to fight every inch of the way before she'd concede that she was dealing with something that wasn't easily categorized or classified under known rules.

"Well, I think someone should have checked the scene a bit more carefully and not just taken Thomas' death at face value," Simon asserted stubbornly.

"It wouldn't have helped," Mulder chimed in as he slowly coalesced into a charcoal-gray opaque form. Simon nearly jumped back out the door, but he regained control of himself after a couple of shuddering breaths. Mulder chided himself for not giving sufficient warning. Scully simply went to her desk and sat down with a shake of her head. Mulder wished he could detect whether there was an undercurrent of exasperated amusement in the way she looked back and forth between him and Simon, but her expression was unreadable.

"Why?" Simon asked shakily as he carefully edged towards his desk while keeping a wary eye on Mulder. Mulder realized that conditioning Simon to his abrupt appearances and contributions wasn't going to go quite as smoothly as he had optimistically hoped it would. The first flush of excitement over having his theory proved right was fading into wary apprehension about having to cope with a full-time ghostly presence looking over his shoulder.

"Agent Thomas had a gravel-filled gutter-garden beside his steps. A stray pebble or two would never be noticed." Mulder looked disgusted. "Good theory, though. I never read the Lord Peter books, but Sayers was considered a good writer. Anything is possible, including a hidden slingshot sniper." Mulder hesitated. He had more information to add, but talking about it might be painful for Simon. It would also resurrect the disagreement he and Scully had over this case.

"In any event, nothing can ever be proved in regards to Agent Thomas' death," Scully interjected after shooting Mulder a quelling glance which he took as a silent order/request to remain silent about his conversation with Thomas' ghost. Mulder considered his options and, as much as it galled him to withhold vital clues, he gave Scully a curt nod to indicate his acceptance of her terms. He wanted to understand what was going on before he deliberately walked into a major confrontation. Normally he wouldn't mind, but he couldn't get rid of the feeling that he was standing on very shaky ground that might disintegrate under feet at a wrong word.

"That doesn't mean I can't keep hoping," Simon added stubbornly, but with a shy smile that seemed to unbend Scully a bit. She nodded her understanding of his need to find someone to blame.

"For the moment, let's let Franklin and Hopkins conduct their investigations. If an accomplice of Bryson's is out there, then let's try to make it as difficult as possible for him to reach us," Scully offered. If her tone was a bit more strained than normal, Mulder knew how much it was costing her to play it safe. She hated being watched over, either by over-protective partners with a penchant for getting them embroiled in government conspiracies, or by no-nonsense agents with direct orders from Skinner to keep her alive.

Simon looked plaintively at her, no doubt remembering the diminutive Agent Ayo assigned to protect him, but nodded his acquiescence, albeit with a heavy sigh. Mulder could swear he heard a muttered "I hate paperwork," from Simon before he pulled a file off of a large pile of folders on his desk.

"Simon," Scully started, then hesitated as Simon looked up eagerly. "Let's use this time to go through the backlog files and decide whether any of them are worth looking into," she said, although from the expression in her eyes, Mulder was fairly certain that wasn't what she'd started to say. Was his presence inhibiting her from talking with Simon? It hadn't in the past, but he could read the subtle signs Scully was giving him that clearly said that she wanted him to find something to do elsewhere. Well enough. It might not be a bad idea to stake out Scully's apartment full-time. Mulder wanted to catch the flower deliverer and pry some answers out of him. One of the really nice things about being a ghost was that the suspects couldn't cry 'police brutality' with any expectation of being believed, he thought with a certain satisfaction.

"I'll go stake out your place in case your mysterious florist shows up again," Mulder said after making sure that he was focusing his voice for Scully's ears only. He was fading into a pale gray mist as he spoke. "I can't do much here without starting a lot of very unwanted rumors," he added disconsolately.

After checking to see that Simon was occupied, Scully nodded and mouthed the words -- "be careful." Mulder gave her a grin and a thumbs up before fading completely. It was tempting to remain for a few minutes and reminisce over the past when he and Scully would spend a comfortable afternoon debating cases and whether the FBI was really interested in ghosts and things that went bump in the night, but he had things to do, and indulging in a fit of nostalgia couldn't change his situation. Besides, he was looking forward to putting his unique talents to work on this case. Other than a brief fling at Halloween, he'd been a most well-behaved ghost. Now, if his suspicions were correct, he might be the only one who could solve this case.

In the time it took him to think of Scully's living room, he was there. Most likely he was facing a long, boring afternoon, but he was tired of being one step behind Scully's intruder. This time he intended to be on the spot when the flowers arrived. This time the suspect was going to get the surprise of his life, Mulder vowed as he settled into a comfortable position as a vague, formless gray mist. At least patience seemed to be one of the built-in perks of being a ghost. Time could literally have no meaning if he chose to ignore it. All he had to do was wait and sooner or later he was going to get some answers.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

"Scully?" Simon asked tentatively, hesitant to break the companionable silence. For nearly an hour, he had unsuccessfully attempted to focus his attention on sorting through the files Scully passed over to him, but his mind refused to focus. The Bryson case was too perplexing a mystery to ignore, and Mulder's reappearance as a ghost was entirely too mind-boggling to just set aside. He recalled his grandmother's advice never to go looking for things that go bump in the night and wished he'd remembered this before he laid out his ghost trap. He'd been so excited by the prospect of snagging proof of a paranormal event that he hadn't thought through what he'd do when he caught it. Now he was face-to-face with the disconcerting realization that the man he'd accidentally killed was still hanging around as a ghost. Perhaps there were some things better not brought out into the light, he thought ruefully as he fought the resurgence of guilt which had grown too familiar over the past six months. The problem was, guilt was now mixed with the pride and pleasure of working on the X-Files. Fairness was rarely a part of life. However, despite the feeling that he had come out of the tragedy last July far better than he deserved, Simon knew he would fight to keep the place he'd begun carving out for himself.

Mulder didn't seem to be around -- the office was free of that odd tingling sensation he'd been feeling off and on for months. This could be a good time to try to talk to Scully about the case, but he would feel better getting completely out of the office, perhaps to one of the local cafes for lunch where he didn't have quite so many reminders of Mulder hanging around. He wanted to ask Scully if she knew why Mulder had come back and that sort of personal question might be easier to ask if they weren't sitting in the midst of so many memories of Mulder's crusade. Simon believed Mulder when he said it wasn't about vengeance. Besides, he doubted if Scully would be a party to that sort of subterfuge. She might still be a bit uncomfortable with him, but they seemed to be beginning to establish a comfortable working relationship. Recalling some of their recent cases, Simon began to wonder how involved Mulder had been in their cases. That could make what he wanted to talk about awkward, but he wanted to clear the air. She needed to know that she could trust him to keep the secret. Aside from the issue of trust, he had to admit that even if he was inclined to broadcast the news, it would be a fast track towards a psych evaluation considering his near breakdown in July. Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome was entirely too convenient a label to stick on him and re-route him to the safety of a desk job.

Looking over at Scully to see if she'd heard him, he saw that she was engrossed in a thick file. From her appearance, she was completely unconcerned by the knowledge that she was on a clever murderer's hit list. Simon envied her sang-froid. Personally, he wanted to be out and doing something, anything, to make sure that whoever was carrying out Bryson's last wish was stopped before he had to bury another friend. Agents Hopkins and Franklin were good agents, but it was *his* life and the life of his partner on the line. At least Scully had an ace in the hole the murderer couldn't predict. Simon chuckled at the thought what an angry ghost could do to anyone trying to harm Scully. It would probably make for an interesting autopsy report. Maybe he'd do some digging in the back files later and see if a case of murder by ghost ever made it into the X-Files.

"Hmmm," Scully murmured absently, not taking her eyes off the report.

Simon considered making some flip comment just to see how long it would take to sink in, but decided that wasn't exactly how he wanted to start a serious and somewhat delicate discussion.

"Why don't we go get some lunch? I need some air and you look like you could use a break," he suggested casually as if he had nothing more serious than food and escape from paperwork on his mind.

"Skinner said...." Scully paused, then got what Simon had learned was her stubborn look -- her jaw set just short of the clenched teeth and her eyes took on a faraway expression, as if she was looking through him. Simon wondered what she was fighting -- his suggestion or Skinner's restrictions.

"Hey, he didn't say we had to starve. It will do our bodyguards good to get some exercise; it must be pretty boring just sitting up there in the hallway. Besides, I imagine they won't object to some food. Pietro's is close enough and anyone who tries to kill us in a restaurant frequented by FBI and Secret Service agents is going to get a very big surprise," Simon offered with an evil grin that finally got a chuckle from Scully. He was beginning to learn how to gauge her moods, although he knew he wasn't anywhere close to understanding her mood shifts.

"It's not fair," she said, prompting a startled look from Simon who was trying to figure out where the conversation was going. "Why do I always get stuck with the men who can eat anything and never gain a pound?" she asked, looking at a point somewhere over and above Simon's left shoulder. Simon glanced behind him before he could stop himself and for a brief moment considered apologizing until he caught the sly smile twitching at Scully's lips. Wetting his forefinger, he drew an imaginary line in the air.

"Well partner, shall we go kill a cow? I'll take the meat, you can go for the dairy products. If Ayo and Parrish are real good, we might even share," Simon replied as he got up and grabbed his coat. Ingrained habit tempted him to hold her coat for her, but it had taken only one time to cure him of that particular gallantry. She had apologized for the glare almost immediately, but the memory of her ice-cold blue eyes stayed with him. He had to keep reminding himself that she was his partner, not a lady -- however odd and impolite that sounded.

Ayo and Parrish were standing alert and ready by the time the elevator deposited Simon and Scully on the main floor. Simon glanced around, but aside from a couple of folding chairs, he could see no evidence that told him how they had amused themselves while their charges were safely tucked away in the basement. Simon was grateful that Scully had managed to bully the two agents into staying upstairs. Now that he knew about Mulder, he suspected her insistence was due to a fear that Mulder might materialize at the wrong moment and her own personal distaste at being guarded than from any confidence in the security of the basement office.

"Pietro's," Simon announced as they passed by the two agents who nodded. Ayo gave him a smile and a subtle thumbs up. Parrish's expression never shifted from impassive professionalism. Simon recalled that Ayo had a reputation as a prankster, but was also considered one of the best hand-to-hand experts in the Bureau. He knew next to nothing about Parrish, but supposed he was top of the line since Skinner had assigned him to guard Scully. It had taken Simon awhile to realize how protective Skinner was of Scully. A.D. Skinner was very good at masking his moves, but Simon had gradually realized that their backup always seemed to include some of the best agents on hand. Simon wondered if Skinner knew about Mulder. He could add that to the list of questions he wanted to ask Scully about.

It appeared that very few people knew that Mulder was still around as a ghost. Suddenly some of the rumors and talk he'd been hearing around the Bureau made sense -- the unexplained drafts, files shifted slightly out of position, and the odd sense that someone was watching them. He'd never thought about a ghost as the explanation, but it made sense now that he knew Mulder was the ghost. Mulder must have a greater degree of restraint than he would have, because he hadn't heard that any of his old tormenters were suddenly having accidents or losing important files. Simon had a short list of people he'd like to haunt and he doubted if he'd be very polite about it.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Despite the early hour, Pietro's was crowded. Simon gave Scully his order while he hunted down a booth somewhere near the back of the café. By deft maneuvering, Parrish managed to snag a table about fifteen feet away - close enough for observation, but certainly not close enough to overhear a conversation, not with the noise level in here, Simon thought with a certain amount of satisfaction. He had no intention of letting anyone else in on his plans, at least not until he talked them over with his partner.

"OK, Simon, what's up?" Scully asked bluntly when she finally wormed her way through the maze of chairs and tables to their booth. "Why are we eating at one of the noisiest and most crowded cafes in downtown D.C. when I know we both brought lunches?"

Simon repressed the urge to shuffle his feet and resolutely kept his urge to apologize limited to a small shrug. Once Scully was seated, he relaxed and fiddled with his straw for a moment to collect his thoughts.

"Where do you want to start our investigation?" he asked calmly, aware that his oblique question would irritate as well as intrigue Scully. He wanted her full attention and that meant arousing her curiosity. He wished he had Mulder's deft ability to deal with people. Especially his ability to squash patronizing idiots, Simon admitted to himself.

"Assistant Director Skinner has assigned Franklin and Hopkins to investigate the deaths of Thomas and Gowers. I don't recall him suggesting that we assist in any way, other than to cooperate with our bodyguards," she added with a disgruntled glance over at Ayo and Parrish.

"It was our case first," Simon insisted, hoping he didn't sound petulant. "We spent over a month building a case against Bryson and nearly died trying to arrest him. I think that gives us priority. Besides, it's my life, and I want to do something besides sit around waiting for the killer to strike." Simon knew his frustration and annoyance were showing through, despite his best intentions to present a calm, reasoned case for their involvement.

"And what can we do that Franklin and Hopkins can't?" Scully asked curiously. To Simon's relief, she seemed more curious about his motives than irritated by the fact that he wouldn't let this case rest.

"Well, for one thing we aren't conventional. For another, we have some very unconventional resources at our command," he suggested. He watched as Scully's expression went from curious to stony to a resigned sadness. He knew even obliquely touching on Mulder bothered her, but if he was still hanging around, then it was highly likely that he wanted to help. Simon wanted to hunt ghosts, not become one. Mulder might not be that fond of him, but Scully was next in line after him and Simon was willing to bet Mulder would be willing to do just about anything to protect Scully.

"Simon, don't...." Scully began in a harsh whisper, then pulled back and gestured for him to continue. Her expression was unreadable, but Simon sensed that she was controlling an urge to tell him to shut up and drop the entire subject. At least she was hearing him out. Simon was grateful. He understood how hard this was for her, but now that he knew about Mulder, he saw no reason not to simply accept him as a fact of life in what was turning out to be a very unique partnership. He might be uneasy knowing that the man he'd killed was peering over his shoulder, but somehow he also felt relieved knowing that Scully had extra backup.

"I'm not only referring to the visitor this morning. I know you have contacts outside the Bureau; I think I've heard you refer to them as the Gunmen. Let's use them. Scully, whoever killed Frank and Gowers went about it in a deliberately obscure fashion. That suggests either someone with a very convoluted mind, or else someone who couldn't take direct action. It's just a theory, but what if Bryson came back with one thing on his mind - vengeance?"

"Ridiculous. Ghosts don't ... " Scully stopped in mid-sentence as she fumbled for words. Simon didn't laugh. He suspected it was difficult for Scully, who prided herself on her skepticism and her scientific rationality, to admit that in this one instance science was wrong. Habit prompted her to deny the existence of ghosts, but she had undeniable proof that at least one ghost did exist and she was too good a scientist not to realize that if one could exist, then so could others. She was caught between a rock and a hard place. Having maneuvered himself into that position more than once in the past, Simon sympathized. Hearing their names called, he left Scully to her quandary and plowed his way to the counter to pick up their lunch.

"So, you're proposing that Bryson is responsible for the deaths?" Scully asked after several forkfuls of a Greek salad that looked more sinfully rich than his own meatball sub. It wasn't fair that a bowl of leafy greens should look more appetizing that a thick meatball drenched in tomato sauce housed between thick slices of Italian bread, Simon thought as he considered the possibility that salad could be a dessert.

"It's possible."

"Ghosts don't need to knock people down stairs or jam accelerators. They also aren't worried about covering their tracks," Scully commented with a deadpan seriousness as she looked at him over a bulging forkful of olives and feta cheese.

Simon felt his jaw drop for a moment as he rallied valiantly to the notion that Scully was actually taking his theory seriously. To his further surprise he saw that Scully was actually chuckling at his confusion.

"Simon, I may not believe in 99.9% of the phenomena Mulder paraded in front of me, but I've seen things I can't deny. I won't risk your life or the life of Delacontrari by insisting on maintaining strict scientific rationality in this case. I also agree with you - I have no intention of just sitting around waiting for whoever is killing off our team to act. What do you suggest?" Scully asked seriously, wiping the smile off her face, although her eyes still twinkled a bit.

"Have you ever heard of giving a guy a left turn signal before you do that?" Simon asked with a good-natured grumble, pantomiming a heart seizure. "OK, I'll take your word on how ghosts are likely to behave, although something tells me that I'm this close to something very important, but I'm not seeing it. OK, if not a ghost, then maybe Bryson had a close relative who's carrying the idea that blood is thicker than water to extremes."

"Perhaps. Agent Thomas did a complete rundown of Bryson's family connections. I'll take a look at his notes and see if anyone shows up who has motive and opportunity," Scully offered.

"Scully, did it ever occur to you that the Bryson case just felt odd? For nearly thirty years he lived a normal, if somewhat rowdy, life as a welder, then suddenly he starts butchering complete strangers. He didn't even fit the profile of most serial killers. Bryson had minimal social skills, true, but his intelligence was less than average and there was no evidence he ever cracked a mystery book. Suddenly he started committing crimes that left the forensics teams swearing. I never found anything that could explain what sent him on cleverly planned rampage against total strangers." Simon paused for a moment. The frustration of trying to track a killer who left almost no clues behind was coming back. Bryson might be dead, or not if his theory was correct, but his annoying sixth sense was insisting that the key to the current case lay in the past.

"I want to take a closer look at his history and see if I can find out what made him change from a weekend bar brawler into a serial killer," Simon said earnestly. He wanted some answers. Once they'd identified Bryson as their killer, the whys of his abrupt departure from normal life hadn't seem quite as important as finding him and putting an end to the killings.

"Simon, I'm not admitting a thing as far as your theory that a ghost is involved, but we'll attack this case sensibly. I'll talk with my friends and see what they can dig up about Bryson and his family. The M.E. in D.C. owes me a lunch, I think I'll collect and see what I can find out about Gower's death. I'm not entirely convinced there is a case, but I learned from Mulder that there are times you have to move on faith," she added softly, then got the resolute look in her eyes that told Simon that Agent Scully was about to move mountains. Whatever had been bothering her had been shoved aside. Simon just hoped he could keep up. Scully had a tendency to plow straight ahead without veering once she made up her mind.

"I'll go back to Frank's and take a look around. His wife is away at her mother's, so I won't have to try to explain to her that we think Frank was murdered." Simon hesitated, not sure how to go about asking his next question.

"What?" Scully asked with an amused smile. "You have that worried beagle look. Just blurt it out. I might not like the question, but I won't bite your head off," she assured him.

"If I need to talk to... you know," Simon added lamely, glancing around to make sure Ayo and Parrish were still well out of earshot.

"Oh," Scully said quietly. "Just go to the office and call him. It's a place he can get to easily and unless he's busy doing something else, he'll show up. Just remember, he's still the same; being a ghost hasn't changed his willingness to believe in any and all possibilities," she added with a fondly rueful look that reminded Simon of his mother talking about some of his more disgraceful youthful escapades. "However, he's still the best profiler the Bureau ever had and he was as puzzled by Bryson as you were. I think you two will get along far too well. Now, we better get back to work before Ayo wears out her watch."

Simon glanced over at Ayo who tried to look nonchalant, but Simon suspected she wanted them both back in the safety of the Hoover Building. With a nod to Ayo to indicate that they were leaving, Simon handed Scully her coat and shrugging into his, he let Scully lead the way back to their office. He felt the excitement of a mystery hit him along with the protein surge. Suddenly the long afternoon looked much more interesting that it had an hour ago. A trip to the evidence room seemed in order. He doubted if Skinner would approve a visit to Bryson's house, even with Ayo in tow, especially since he wasn't supposed to be working on the case. However, perhaps he could talk Jackson, who supervised the evidence recovery team, into going back and looking for certain things. As they walked back to the Hoover Building, Simon ran over the list of possible incentives he could offer Jackson. His resources were limited, but he could be very creative when he had to be. The answers lay in Bryson's past, he was sure of that. Now all he had to do was figure out where to start looking.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Mulder had no idea how long he'd been dreaming in the gray fog when he sensed someone approaching the door to Scully's apartment. As a ghost, he'd discovered that he could feel sounds. Perhaps he was sensitive to vibrations in the air, but it was more than that, although he lacked the words to describe exactly what it was like to feel a sound. He once spent a rather exhausting twenty-four hours trying to analyze how he could hear or see anything since he lacked the physical equipment necessary to register sounds or sights. If anything, his senses were heightened to the point of physical pain. Loud sounds tended to make him vibrate like a tuning fork. He supposed there was a logical, even rational answer, but Scully was having enough trouble adjusting to his existence as a ghost without trying to explain to her why he sensed things when his senses weren't supposed to work.

Materializing just slightly until he was the consistency of a thin mist, Mulder moved over to the corner of the room, out of direct line of sight from the doorway. The afternoon light had faded under a thick cover of clouds even though it was only three o'clock. Making a quick check, Mulder was relieved to note that Scully was still at work. At this distance he couldn't make out any details, just that she was safe and in familiar surroundings. He wasn't sure how this ability to determine Scully's approximate location worked, but he was very grateful for it at times like this.

As he waited for the footsteps to get closer, Mulder thought he heard thunder rumbling overhead, until he realized that the pattern was too regular. Taking his attention off the approaching footsteps, he realized that what he was hearing was sound of someone beating a hypnotic rhythm on a large drum. Along with the drumbeat, he sensed something else -- an odd cloyingly bitter-sweet scent in the air that made him shiver -- the death-house smell of funeral flowers. Whatever was coming down the hall carried with it a darkness of the soul that triggered his urge to flee back into the gray fog for safety.

Repressing the urge to retreat, Mulder held his ground and considered the situation. When the footsteps stopped in front of the door, the drum rumbled deeply in a rapid series of beats, then abruptly stopped, as if someone had laid a stilling hand on the drumhead. If he'd been alive, Mulder knew he'd be hyperventilating by now. The drums were a warning to any who could hear, but warning of what?

Barely loud enough for him to hear, a voice started chanting in some language that seemed vaguely familiar, but slipped past his memory before he could identify it. Whatever it was sounded like a ritual of some sort. Mulder felt the air thicken around him as if he'd been swallowed up in a hot, humid Southern night. He smelled fetid water and the oppressive scent of thick greenery. The sense that something evil was coalescing grew stronger as he watched a thin tendril of darkness slither under the door frame and coil just inside the apartment. Abruptly the darkness transformed itself into a serpent and lashed out in his direction. Without thinking, Mulder leaped backwards through the Christmas tree. Hissing with annoyance, the serpent fell to the floor and swung its head from side to side as if searching for him, tasting the air with its tongue.

Carefully staying out of range, Mulder wondered what kind of snake could sense a ghost, then realized that whatever else this thing was, it certainly wasn't natural, although it appeared to be intelligent. Feeling considerably aggrieved that none of his copious records had ever mentioned ghost-hunting snakes, Mulder continued to dodge the snake as it tracked him around the room. His curiosity was aroused. What was this thing?

The voice on the other side of the door was beginning to sound annoyed. The chant had a bite to it that seemed to sting the air around the snake, causing it to flinch and hiss angrily. Pulling the darkness back around itself, the snake disappeared in a haze of black smoke that shrank down, then burst up and out in the shape of a bobcat that looked like it had come straight from hell. Flames flickered on the tips of its fur and its eyes were red burning coals. It snarled as it saw him. The voice fell silent and Mulder felt a strange pinging sensation as if someone was searching for him. He began to realize that the situation was beginning to get out of hand.

Mulder backed up hastily through the kitchen wall and began giving serious thoughts to bolting for the safety of his gray fog bank. The cat seemed amused by his efforts to escape as it followed him through the wall. That answered one question -- the thing could follow him. He didn't know if it could track him across town and he didn't want to lead it to Scully. For now, he'd play cat and mouse with it while he tried to analyze what it could do.

Unfortunately, he had no idea how to handle this thing, much less the person who was controlling it, but if this was what was bringing Scully the flowers, then he wasn't surprised no one remembered seeing anyone. Whoever he was had power and knew how to use it. The snake/cat thing could be a familiar, a spirit in service to a sorcerer, but something kept nagging at him that the language the voice used was a vital clue. He knew that when he had time, no doubt he would remember what seemed so familiar, but right now he was too busy trying to avoid coming into contact with whatever this thing was. It was gradually dawning on him that if it was this determined to catch him, then it might be able to hurt him.

The air in the apartment continued to grow denser as if it intended to squeeze him into nothingness. If he had needed to breathe, he'd be on the floor at the mercy of that demonic cat. The chant had changed, and Mulder suspect that some spell was being cast designed to incapacitate whoever was inside the apartment. Whoever was controlling this spirit-beast apparently thought he was dealing with a living person. Mulder knew that gave him a slight edge if only he knew what to do with it.

Seeing the cat spring for him, Mulder dodged, but the cat literally changed direction in mid-leap and hurtled right at him. Frantically dodging, Mulder felt the cat's hind claws rake his shoulder as it flew past. His arm became molten fire, burning so hot Mulder was surprised the rest of him wasn't going up in flames as well. Falling to his knees in pain, Mulder tried to dematerialize only to discover that the fire was holding him in place. Helpless, he stared over at the cat who was righting itself after colliding with the wall. Mulder could swear there was a scorch mark on the wall where it had landed. As if aware that it had won, the cat paced slowly towards him, soft-footed and graceful, but with a dreadful hunger in its eyes. Mulder braced himself, determined not to give in to the pain. There had to be a way to fight this thing. A strong belief in a deity would be really helpful right now, but Mulder suspected that a last-minute conversion after death wasn't going to work. Actually, what he'd really wanted was a sorcerer powerful enough to banish this thing. A name popped into his head, and without thinking he called out to a spirit who had befriended him once and might just know someone capable of kicking this cat back to hell.

"Chester!"

The cat stopped, cocked its head to one side as if startled to hear him speak, then resumed its slow approach. So much for that wish, Mulder thought, as he rapidly ran through all the banishment rituals he'd ever read about and tried to decide whether he had time to try even one of them, or if they'd even work for him. The chanting outside the door continued its incessant beat against his senses.

"Man, it sure took you long enough," an exasperated voice from somewhere behind him. "What are you doing here, baka? You have no business with this man. He's protected."

Startled by the sound of another voice, Mulder risked a look over his shoulder. Standing just behind him was a thin boy, dressed in an old T-shirt and ragged jeans. His fists planted firmly on his hips, Chester Bonaparte glared at the cat, who rather comically began to scoot backwards rather hurriedly. Chester stepped forward and the cat retreated until its rump was square against the door. The voice outside fell silent with a rattling cough.

"Go away, both of you. I don't want to hear of you bothering this man again. The lady you got some call on, but I warn you, the loa are angry. Don't be making them more angry." Chester sounded reproving, but he gave Mulder a wide grin before going back to glaring at the cat who disappeared into a coil of black smoke and fled out under the door. The man outside yelped sharply and cursed a moment in what Mulder now recognized as Creole before he heard footsteps making a hasty retreat down the hall.

Chester turned with a satisfied smile and walked over to Mulder and knelt down look at his burning arm. Chester looked solid. Mulder even thought he could detect a heart beat, although it could be a drum for all he knew in his confused state. According to official records, Chester had died in a riot before their first meeting, but he looked and felt as solid as any living person. Apparently Vodoun ghosts operated under a whole different set of rules, but for once his curiosity was overwhelmed with waves of pain spreading out from his arm. Freed of the necessity of watching the cat, Mulder collapsed on the floor and tried not to moan as the fire in his arm continued to burn.

"You are one strange dude mixing in with bakas with no training. Bakas are nasty, but they can't touch someone protected by the loa. They owe you, so you're protected. Guess they forgot to tell you," Chester said with a sly grin, as if scoring a point off someone Mulder couldn't see. "Take this, it will keep the baka away." Grabbing Mulder's burning arm, Chester pressed a silver coin and chain into his hand. Cold seeped out from the coin until it felt like his arm had been plunged into ice water. Mulder could feel the cold smothering the fire and cooling the pain. Shuddering with relief, he looked at the coin that he knew he shouldn't have been able to hold in this barely materialized form. He was barely a shadow, and, normally, solid objects just flowed right through him. The coin rested in his hand as solidly as if he were fully materialized.

"It's OK. It goes where you go, at least until the loa figure they've paid off their debt. Now, I got to be going. Try to stay out of trouble; that's one bad dude out there," Chester suggested.

"Wait," Mulder asked, desperate to talk with someone who apparently knew more about being a ghost than he did. Chester shook his head with a sad expression and began to fade.

"Thank you," Mulder called after him. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he heard Chester laugh. For some reason, the boyish laugh lifted his spirits. Chester had been an engaging little imp who gave them vague hints and warnings in exchange for bribes of french fries and a Big Mac two years ago when they investigated mysterious deaths at a Haitian detainee camp in North Carolina. Scully still refused to talk about the case, but Mulder knew she had answers with no questions and wasn't happy about some of the answers.

Mulder shuddered in his equivalent of a sigh and stood up. So far, the afternoon could be called a draw, but only because he'd had outside help. From what Chester said, Scully would be getting no such help. He found that a bit unfair. She'd been as instrumental as he had in bringing Colonel Wharton down. At least they now had more information about the person stalking Scully's team. As far as he knew, Bryson had no connections to Vodoun, but for some reason, someone was using Vodoun magic to leave death warnings for Scully. The only motive he could come up with right now was revenge, but Bryson was dead and had been a loner with no immediate family or friends. Who cared enough about him to methodically stalk the team responsible for his death?

Mulder was exhausted and still shaky from his encounter with the . . . baka, he thought Chester had called it. At this point, he doubted if he could even manage a materialization, but he had to warn Scully that either Simon or Delacontrari was in immediate danger. From the pattern of the killings so far, he'd be willing to guess that the next target was Delacontrari. Simon was Scully's partner. That meant his death would be a hard blow and would probably be saved for last.

Thinking of the X-Files office, Mulder felt himself slide slowly towards it. He felt like he was moving through half-congealed Jell-O. Always before, the transition had been instantaneous, but apparently movement through the ether required energy, and his reserves were just about tapped out.

He had no idea how long it took, but eventually he found himself hovering in a spot just behind Scully's desk. She was busy at her computer, reading over autopsy reports, if he remembered the format correctly. Apparently something had happened to make her start taking the case seriously. Mulder felt a twinge of jealousy that Simon could convince her where he couldn't. The jealousy wasn't fair, but Mulder was too tired to make the effort to squelch it. He'd deal with it later. Right now Scully needed to be warned before he fizzled out entirely.

"Scully," he said softly as he tried to materialize. All he could manage was a pulsating mist that barely resembled a human form. Realizing that he simply didn't have the energy, Mulder quit trying and allowed himself to float in nothingness.

"Mulder? What happened to you?" Scully asked with a worried frown.

"I met the guy who's been bringing you flowers. Next time, I want the cavalry nearby," Mulder griped, hoping Scully would be reassured by his usual sardonic manner. She didn't look convinced, but Mulder sensed that she was at a loss to know how to assess his condition. Taking his pulse or calling the paramedics obviously was out of the question. Dr. Scully was obviously frustrated. Under other circumstances, Mulder might have been amused.

"Who was it?"

"I didn't get a chance to see. I was rather busy trying to avoid being obliterated by some sort of evil spirit. The guy is using Vodoun sorcery, or at least that's what Chester said," Mulder added as his coup-de-grace.

Scully's expression went from skeptical to stunned disbelief to worried doubt in what Mulder regarded as her classical head-on collision with inescapable paranormal phenomena. She remembered Chester only too well and had never managed to come up with a scientific explanation for him.

"Are you sure?" she asked hopefully. Mulder suspected she was trying to decide if ghosts suffered from delusions.

"Very. He appeared and banished the thing that was chasing me all over your apartment before telling me that you were in danger. The suspect never entered the room, but I think I know how he's been getting into your apartment without a key. I definitely smelled the flowers. You better warn Delacontrari that he's in danger."

"And how am I supposed to have come by this information?" Scully asked tartly.

"Fuck. Just tell Skinner that you're worried about Delacontrari and let him do the rest," Mulder suggested. It was rather lame, but the best he could do on short notice. It was a real pain being dead.

Scully nodded with a doubtful expression. As concerned as Skinner was about this case, Mulder suspected that even a hint from Scully that the suspect was on the move again would get some action without many questions.

"Where's Simon?" Mulder asked. He was alarmed at how faint his voice was becoming. Scully was cocking her head as if she was having trouble hearing him. Damn. Apparently even speaking from nothingness required energy and he was just about tapped dry.

"Trying to get a look at Bryson's place. He thinks we're dealing with a ghost," she added, with a slightly exasperated note in her voice.

"I don't think so. Whoever was outside the door was alive. We need to talk. Why don't you ask Simon to come to your place tonight? It's not safe here with the cleaning staff moving around. Maybe if we all share what we know, suspect, or even guess, we might gain an edge on this guy."

Mulder felt himself dissolve even as he tried to muster up enough energy to finish his request. His last conscious memory was seeing Scully's worried face nodding. He fell into the gray fog and floated without thought or form until he slipped into his natural dreaming state as he rested.

As his ectoplasm recharged, he reviewed everything he'd ever read on Vodoun. The possibilities were endless, but where did Bryson fit in? Nothing in his profile suggested a connection with Vodoun, and as far as Mulder knew, Vodoun sorcerers didn't just randomly pick a target. Perhaps they didn't know as much about Bryson as they thought they did. The voice outside the door was using a Creole dialect, but something about that voice seemed familiar, as if he'd heard before. No matter how hard he tried, Mulder couldn't pin it down, but he knew the mystery would nag at the back of his mind until he managed to locate the correct memory or else ran into the person behind the voice again. Considering the power evidenced by the attack on Scully's apartment, Mulder definitely preferred the first option. He had no idea how to counter a sorcerer who could command an animal spirit.

By the time he had regained his equilibrium, he felt Scully moving closer. He didn't sense any danger surrounding her, but her emotions remained closed off to him. They were going to have to talk about this, but now was not the time. They'd worked together before when one or the other was upset or even exasperated by the other. There was no reason to remind Scully that he was now far more sensitive to her emotional shifts. Her moods were as clear to him as the weather was to her. Of course, the drawback of this new sensitivity was that now she had far fewer clues on how he felt. Mulder wondered if they would ever manage to be in sync for more than a few moments.

To his relief, Mulder sensed that Scully wasn't alone. It would probably be easier on Simon if he waited until Scully called him. Simon was doing a fine job of coping, but Mulder had plenty of experience with conditioning Scully to his abrupt manifestations. Besides, remaining invisible would give him a chance to come up with an explanation for the afternoon's events that wouldn't push the limits on Scully's credibility. She was making remarkable progress but still had a tendency to dig in her heels when faced with an unexpected paranormal event. Unfortunately, there was no way to get around the fact that the appearance of a Vodoun sorcerer and a baka in the case meant that they were caught up in some very heavy-duty paranormal activity.

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End of part 2 

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