Epilogue II A Moment In the Sun: Bellefleur *~*~*~* Most days, he enjoyed being Walter Skinner. He was Sharon's husband, Anna and Walthari's oldest son, and his late Uncle Sergei's namesake. He was no one's father, but that didn't bother him as much as people often assumed it did. He had a nice house, a nice car, and a nice boat, though it seldom left the dock. He was the guy all the other guys in the neighborhood borrowed tools from. He could grill a mean T-bone, rebuild a transmission, tell if a dress would fit his wife just by eyeballing it, and, if push came to shove, iron his own shirts. He'd enjoyed being Walter Sergei Skinner for roughly fifty years. He just didn't enjoy being Assistant Director Skinner these days. He put his back to the diner, staring at the stretch of wet asphalt that led through the one-horse town. The claustrophobic phone booth was cold, and smelled of old cigarettes, damp wool, and mud. Outside it, the heavy clouds masked sunrise, and a layer of fog lingered over the gravel parking lot. "Just left of Middle-of-Nowhere. Somewhere in northwest Oregon, I think. There was a mechanical problem with the plane and we had to put down here." "Are you all right?" Sharon asked, her voice muffled by the long distance line. "I'm fine. We landed fine. A deputy's going to drive us to Portland. We'll get a flight there and be home tonight. You won't even have time to miss me." "Of course I will. Take care of yourself." "Sharon-" He glanced over his shoulder, making sure his agents weren't eavesdropping. "It's pretty here. Quiet. Lots of forests, mist, sky. We could build a cabin in the woods." "Would you wear flannel?" "I would wear flannel every day," he promised. "And I'd stop shaving and spend all my time splitting firewood." "Is there a Macy's near our cabin?" "Don't they have a catalogue, City Girl?" "Hum. I'll think about it." She paused, and it sounded like she took a sip of coffee. "See you tonight?" "I'm not joking." "You've been saying that for months, Walter." "I've meant it for months. Hoover's had his twenty- five years out of me. Let's get as far away from Washington as we can." There was a long pause, then a lukewarm, "We can talk about it when you get home." He nodded, said goodbye, and then opened the phone booth door so the cold, damp air rushed in. The bell on the diner door jingle-jangled as he entered, sliding into the booth as their order arrived. His two agents picked up their forks, but Skinner looked at the platter of greasy eggs, limp toast, and burnt hash browns warily, then up at the blonde waitress. "Change your mind, sweetie?" He wondered what about his scowl and terse black suit had screamed 'pat my ass, pinch my cheek, and call me sweetie.' He shook his head. There wasn't anything but a heart attack on the menu anyway. She cracked her gum and sauntered away, giving his two agents something to look at. Once the view was over, the agents dug into their food, discussing the Seattle investigation between mouthfuls, and gesturing with their forks to make points, emphasizing their own brilliance. Bored, restless, Skinner poured cream in his coffee, watching it swirl gray. "Would you like a fresh cup?" another waitress offered as she passed. "That one looks pretty old." "How can you have old coffee at seven in the morning?" he asked, looking up at her. "We work at it," she answered, then returned a moment later with another steaming mug. "Can I get you gentlemen some coffee?" she asked his agents, and they shook their heads without glancing up. 'Can I get you gentlemen some coffee?' he heard the same voice echo in a corner of his mind. 'You look like you just came from the office; can I get you gentlemen some coffee?' Whatever the memory was, he shook it off and answered, "Thanks…" He checked her nametag. "Laura." "You're welcome." She hesitated a half-second, then quickly walked away with his old mug, clutching it with both hands. Lacking anything better to do, he watched her with the customers at the counter, refilling cups and delivering and removing plates. She seemed familiar, but he couldn't place who she was. Her mousy brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and she wore black-rimmed glasses and no makeup, making her look like a bookish teenager, though she wasn't. Over her blue uniform, she had on a baggy brown cardigan in an attempt to conceal a shapeless figure. She wasn't eye catching, but he got the sense that was the idea. She didn't look like a beautiful woman, but she gave the impression of one. "Sir? See something on the menu you like, sir?" one of his agents taunted, and was greeted with an icy stare. Skinner would lay money both the agents were dirty, but they were Hoover's pets. There were too many of those these days; too many men looking to make a name for themselves at the expense of innocent people. It was too easy to point a finger and say 'communist' or 'homosexual,' then form an investigative committee, look patriotic, and let a career unfold. Without a word, Skinner got up, picked up his mug, and headed to the counter, bypassing their blonde waitress, who'd finally decided to make the rounds with the coffee pot. "How 'bout a warm up?" he asked, straddling one of the revolving stools at the end of the counter. Laura nodded, turning to pick up the pot, then adding half an inch of hot coffee to his cup. The little metal cream pitcher was empty, and she brought him another, keeping her head down and seeming uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to bother you, but do I know you?" he asked politely, feeling awkward. He didn't make a practice of striking up conversations with strange women. "No, I don't think so." "I'm Walter Skinner," he said, offering his hand, which she shook hesitantly. "My wife Sharon and I live in Alexandria. What's your last name?" Her mouth twitched to say one thing, then answered, "Samuels. Laura Samuels. I can't imagine how you'd know me." "I can't either. You seem familiar, but obviously, I don't. Again, I'm sorry for bothering you." At seven-thirty, the deputy sheriff arrived to pick them up, and his agents took their checks to the register, chewing their toothpicks while the owner rang them up. Skinner slid off the stool, still watching Laura at the other end of the counter. Why he would know a truck stop waitress in a no-name town was beyond him, but he couldn't shake the feeling he did. 'A truck stop waitress. The others he nailed like a truck stop waitress,' he kept remembering a voice saying. Agent Dales' voice. 'The other descriptions he nailed like a truck stop waitress. Oh, sorry, sweetie. Sorry, sweetie.' "Mulder," he mumbled. It was Mulder's girlfriend Dales had been apologizing to. He looked at the waitress again, trying to get the overlay of the woman he remembered to fit her. She noticed him watching and vanished to the back of the diner. "What?" his agents responded in unison. "Nothing. Go with the deputy and I'll catch up." He waited until they were outside, leaning on the hood of the squad car and smoking their cigarettes impatiently. "Miss Scully?" he said quietly, catching her in the hallway as she came out of the ladies' room. "You're Dana Scully, aren't you?" "No, I-I don't know what you're talking about." She tried to step around him, but he blocked her path, putting his body between her and the rest of the restaurant. "Mulder brought me the film. It's safe. You're safe. Your daughter's safe." She took a shaky breath and repeated, "I don't know-" "Yes, you do. I know who you are. I'm a friend, Miss Scully." "I don't know you. I don't know who Dana Scully is," she said forcefully. "I'm trying to do my job, and I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me alone." He backed away, apologizing. Maybe he'd made a mistake. He'd seen Mulder's girlfriend once, a year ago, and he'd been focused on Mulder. The only attention he'd paid to Dana Scully was to note she was attractive, in love with Mulder, and to answer that he preferred white turkey meat to dark. He paused in the parking lot, looking through the diner window. She was still standing in the hall outside the restroom, watching him. One hand rested on her stomach, stroking protectively. She wasn't dumpy, he realized: she was pregnant. As soon as she saw him watching, she dropped her hand and turned away. "That didn't take long," one of his agents said snidely as he joined beside the deputy's patrol car. "Go with the deputy. I'll call Portland and make arrangements for someone to pick me up later." They opened their mouths to protest, but he cut them off, saying it was an order. Inside the diner, across the street, Laura was behind the counter again, waiting on the truckers. He wasn't mistaken. That was Dana Scully. *~*~*~* He'd given the case one glance and decided, 'Dales.' An ex-baseball player's girlfriend vanished, most likely with a purse full of cash and jewelry, the love-struck player started making noise about kidnapping and conspiracies, made a few calls to some high-placed baseball fans, and the file wound up on Skinner's desk. It was a waste of time and effort just waiting to devour Bureau resources. Special Agent Arthur Dales, please report to Assistant Director Skinner's office. Three months later, the woman was found near a railroad switching station in DC after a botched abortion. Dales had tossed out a few wild theories, and no one had listened. Announcing he'd seen an alien lobster creature crawling out of a man's mouth a few years back had pretty much blown Dales' credibility with the FBI. The case was closed in April, and Skinner hadn't given it another thought. But, by December 1954, Dales had a gleam in his eye that foretold inclement weather better than any barometer. "Fox Mulder, the baseball player?" Skinner had asked in disbelief, resigning himself. Nothing Dales had to say was ever brief. "The one who was just shot? Is he even out of the hospital?" "No, Fox Mulder the tooth fairy," Dales retorted impatiently. "Of course, Fox Mulder the baseball player. I told him we'd drop by tonight. He has a house in Georgetown." "Sure. Then, after, maybe we'll drop in on Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster and see if they want to look at Bureau files. No," he said forcefully. "Go waste someone else's time." "It'll take ten minutes," Dales insisted, looking like a kid about to be turned loose in a toy store with his birthday money. "And you'll get to see Mulder's little honey in the flesh." "Agent Dales, I can't begin to convey how little interest I have in seeing Fox Mulder's 'little honey.'" "It will take ten minutes. Maybe twenty," he hedged. "Ten minutes." It had taken three hours. *~*~*~* The elementary school was within walking distance, but then, everything in Bellefleur was within walking distance. It was a typical small town: trusting, friendly. People waved. No one gave a second thought to a man in a trench coat standing at the edge of the school playground, watching. At ten-thirty, children filed out of the building, zipped into a kaleidoscope of winter coats, with their mittens pinned to their sleeves so they wouldn't lose them. In the end of the line, next to the teacher, was Emily Scully. *~*~*~* Hoover kept files on just about everyone of any importance, but he had an especially thick one on Fox Mulder. After spending the evening at Mulder's house, Skinner went back to the Bureau and read through it in amazement, trying to figure out why a man with such a brilliant forensic mind had spent more than a decade playing centerfield for the New York Yankees. The answer was simple: Mulder had turned the FBI down. He'd declined, married, dropped out of school, moved to New York, and, in January 1939, become a father. It wasn't hard to do the math. The file went on to record a stellar baseball career interrupted by a stint in Europe during WWII. There was the usual blackmail material: a short list of women he'd been to bed with, some well-known starlets, but most not; a note he occasionally went to AA meetings. A few minor scrapes with the law that he'd called in favors to fix, including getting abortion charges dropped against Dana Scully, which was all but admitting he'd fathered the child she'd aborted. And he'd paid her hospital bill. Skinner was interested to learn Mulder wasn't Emily's father. He'd assumed Mulder and Dana were long-term lovers, though she hadn't struck him as the type of woman cocky, newly-wealthy athletes tended to keep as mistresses. Then again, Mulder wasn't a cocky, newly-wealthy athlete. He'd have been perfectly happy behind a podium at Oxford, buried in academia and wondering why his lectures were so popular with the undergrad girls. Curious, he pulled the file on Dana Scully and found it empty except for cross-references to files 1949 DKS-ALK and 1954 DKS-FWM, which weren't codes corresponding to any government agency Skinner was aware of. *~*~*~* For the first time in his career, he flashed his badge to gain access to something he had no authorization to investigate. The school principal hesitated, but finally relented, summoning Katie Samuels to the office. "I can't imagine what the FBI wants with her," the woman protested while they waited. "Katie's new here, but she's a bright girl. She's quiet. She's never any trouble." "I'm sure she isn't," he answered, spotting the hall monitor returning with Emily. "Thank you. This will only take a few minutes." He walked to meet Emily halfway, noticing the principal watching him with her arms folded and her lips drawn thin in disapproval. Everything in the school seemed undersized, as though he'd stumbled into Munchkin Land. Miniature water fountains and desks and bookshelves: it was an entire world eye-level with his waist and he felt awkwardly out of place. He squatted down, and Emily regarded him warily. "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," she informed him, her forehead creasing. "But I'm not a stranger; I'm Mulder's friend, remember? You told me about Bub, and George's Town, and flashing flashlights, and Mulder and your mommy getting married. Remember? I'm Walter. I'm more than six." She shook her head 'no,' looking around nervously. "Yes, you do. Emily, I need to ask-" "That's not my name!" "Shush," he hushed her. "I promise I won't tell anyone. Do you remember who I am?" She bit her lip, looking over his shoulder at the principal. "Do you remember me coming to your house to talk to Mulder? After he was shot? Your mommy was taking care of him." "My real Daddy shot Mulder. And then Mulder shot him," she said uncertainly. He blinked. At no point in Mulder's odd narrative of the events leading up to bringing Skinner that autopsy film was there any mention of shooting anyone. "Did your Daddy die?" he asked. "Emily, when Mulder shot him, did he die?" "You're finished now," a woman's voice said sharply from behind him. "Katie, come here," she ordered, and Emily hurried past him. Skinner glanced back, then stood, finding himself eye-to-eye, or rather, eye-to-top-of-her-head with Dana Scully. Or Laura Samuels. Or whoever she was. The principal must have called her when he'd asked to speak to Emily. "You have no right to question my daughter," she said icily, making him glad she wasn't holding a gun. He'd always had the gut feeling Dana Scully was far more dangerous that Fox Mulder. *~*~*~* He was one of the Assistant Directors of the FBI, for God's sake. He'd protected politicians, business tycoons, famous actors, generals; he was fairly jaded to the appeal of fame and fortune. Not much shocked him and not much impressed him, especially not celebrity. And then there was the eight year-old boy inside him who wanted to jump up and down and squeal, 'It's Fox Mulder, oh my God, it's Fox Mulder!' and ask for an autograph. The man was a legend: not because he was an incredible athlete, although he was, but because he made it look effortless. He made baseball a gentleman's game, and made every American boy sure they could grow up to be him. Unfortunately, Mulder seemed unaware he was supposed to be exciting. Larger than life. That there should be a movie soundtrack playing around him at all times: something by Sousa. "Come in," he'd invited when Skinner showed up on his doorstep with a stack of unsolved cases. Mulder had been wearing an old gray flannel shirt and blue jeans, no shoes, and holding a half-eaten turkey sandwich. In the background, American Bandstand blared from both the television and the radio, and a dark-haired teenage boy was sprawled in the sofa, the telephone cradled against his ear. "Let's go to the kitchen," Mulder had suggested, "It's quieter." "Dad, I can't hear!" the kid snapped in a British accent. "I wonder why?" Mulder snapped back, throwing a cushion at his son. "We have a guest. Can you get your feet off the couch, Will?" The boy ignored him in favor of whoever was on the other end of the telephone line. Mulder leaned close to Skinner and whispered a request. "No, my dad's just being square. It's nothing," Will muttered into the phone, knowing they could hear him. "So where you wanna go?" A pause, then an expectant grin. "Of course I have wheels, baby." As per his instructions, Skinner whipped out his badge, flashed it at Will, and said tersely, "I'm Assistant Director Skinner with the FBI. I'd like to speak with you about plagiarizing a term paper. Do you realize that's a federal crime, son?" "Oh, shit!" the kid responded, dropping the phone and scrambling up. "That wasn't my idea!" Behind Skinner, Mulder doubled over laughing, one hand clutching his chest. His son's mouth hung open, then, realizing he'd been tricked, frowned angrily. "You're not funny!" Will protested, hurling the cushion back at his father much harder than it had been thrown at him. "You scared the hell out of me! That's not funny!" "Neither is that little line on your report card changing a D to a B," Mulder said, "That's forgery, right Mr. Skinner?" Skinner nodded helpfully. "I hate you both!" "You're good," Mulder had told him as they pushed through the kitchen door to the relative silence there. "Usually he has to know someone for several minutes before he hates them." "Is it always this exciting around here?" Skinner asked, opening his briefcase. He kept waiting for the pomp and circumstance, but there was only a regular guy, with sock feet, an old shirt, messy hair, a rebellious son, and breadcrumbs on his counter, doing regular guy things. With a Porsche parked in front of a house that probably cost more than Skinner would make in ten years. A Yankee's cap hung beside the kitchen phone, and he had the urge to touch it, just to see what it felt like. He'd sniff it, but that would make him a pervert. Mulder shrugged his good shoulder. "Scully and Em will be back in an hour," he'd offered. "They went to the grocery store." Skinner waited for 'and then we're flying to Paris for champagne cocktails.' "We're having macaroni and cheese," Mulder added, nodding enthusiastically. *~*~*~* "Please just answer me. Does he know where you are?" Skinner persisted, following her across the schoolyard and down the sidewalk. Inside the five- and-dime, customers stopped browsing to watch them; this was the dramatic highlight of the winter season in Bellefleur. "He doesn't, does he?" She ignored him and kept waddling as fast as she could, clutching her daughter's hand. Emily looked back nervously, stumbling as she tried to keep up. "Does Mulder even know about that baby?" She whirled around, five feet, two inches of ferociousness. "Leave us alone!" "Or is it not his baby?" That seemed unlikely, but there was a wedding band on her finger. "How dare you!" she exploded, making him take a step backward on the snowy sidewalk. "Who do you think you are?" "I told you: I'm a friend." "You're not our friend. If you were, you'd leave us alone!" She turned away again, pulling Emily after her. When Emily stumbled, her mother bent to pick her up, started to stand, then gasped and put her daughter down quickly. Dana put one hand on her belly, then awkwardly fell forward onto her hands and knees, her face contorted in pain. *~*~*~* Mulder had been recovering from gunshot wounds to his chest and shoulder, and often Skinner could see him pushing to finish reading a file or creating a description of a suspect. "Why are you doing this?" he'd asked one afternoon, after hearing Mulder lie to his girlfriend over the phone. She'd called from school, and he'd assured her he was resting, had taken his pain pill, and eaten the lunch she'd left, when he'd done none of those things. "I mean: I'm glad you are. This is groundbreaking forensic science, but-" The 'but' was 'the FBI isn't going to give an ex- baseball player credit for solving their cases.' Skinner had paid him the Bureau's consulting fee, which Mulder probably used to have someone put a new wax job on the Porsche. It wasn't about money or glory, and Mulder's dissertation involved using solved cases, not being the one doing the solving. "I had a sister," Mulder answered after a long pause and two sips of tea. "We were in the woods behind my parents' summer house, I turned my back, and she vanished. They never found her body. And they never caught whoever took her." "How old was she?" "Nine," he responded softly, then cleared his throat and picked up the file again, sifting through the stark crime scene photos of a half-dozen victims. "I'm sorry," Skinner said uncomfortably. It was awkward to see the cracks in the hero's armor. Instead of giving some pat answer, Mulder leaned forward, putting three of the photographs in front of Skinner and pointing out some obscure detail present in all three. He moved on, speculating on the killer's MO, and wanting to act like his sister had never been mentioned. So Skinner had let him. *~*~*~* Just as he'd seemed too large for the Bellefleur Elementary, Emily seemed too small for the oversized chairs in the hospital hall. She sat alone, her feet swinging far above the floor, encased in white anklets and little black and white saddle shoes. She wore a plaid wool jumper, and she was arranging the pleated skirt neatly so the plaid lined up. "Your mommy's going to be fine," he said awkwardly, sitting on the chair beside her. "Do you want something to drink? Coffee? No," he immediately amended, "Hot chocolate. Would you like some hot chocolate?" She shook her head 'no,' not looking up. "Are you hungry?" he tried. Another nod. "Emily- Katie, your mommy's fine. The doctors are taking good care of her. She had, uh, a bellyache." Emily raised her face, looking at him like he was stupid. "My mommy's going to have a baby. It's growing in her belly. Inside the womb." "Oh," he said, embarrassed. "Yes, that's right." He took off his eyeglasses, wiping them with his handkerchief, wondering what the hell he was doing here. So Mulder got his girlfriend pregnant. Again. So, for whatever reason, they parted ways. Again. So Dana wanted to live in Nowhere, Oregon under an assumed name. Skinner could be halfway back to DC by now, but he was sitting in a hospital just left of Middle-of-Nowhere, interfering with something that, unless a crime had been committed, wasn't his business in the first place. "Is Mulder going to come?" Emily asked quietly, watching the doctor enter her mother's room at the end of the hall. "I don't know. Do you think I should call him?" She shrugged that she didn't know. "He came last time. When Mommy got sick." "Mulder came to the hospital when your mommy was sick?" The plot thickened. "What happened?" "They had a fight." "Who had a fight? Your mommy and Mulder?" "No, Mulder and Uncle Bill. The police came and made Mulder leave. And then we weren't supposed to talk to Mulder. But he called Gammy's one time while Mommy was sleeping." She leaned forward, taking him into her confidence. "And I talked to him. Mommy doesn't know." "Oh." "Gammy said not to tell her and never do it again. She said it was Mulder's fault Mommy was sick." "Oh." "Bub says a womb is an elephant fart," she added. "Oh." *~*~*~* He'd known he was in trouble when they didn't invite him to sit. The men around the conference table let him stand while they finished their cigarettes, as if he were a junior agent. Hoover stayed behind his desk, focusing on something outside his office window, and never said a word. "We have a question about one of your expenditures," the Deputy Director finally informed him, leafing through a sheaf of papers. Skinner waited. "George Hale," he said casually. "The Bureau's contracting with him as a forensic expert?" Skinner waited. He'd filed all the paperwork, gone through all the channels, and made no attempt to hide who George Hale really was. It was just a name to go on the reports. Anyone in the FBI could easily crosscheck the files. "George Hale died in 1938, Assistant Director." "Yes, he did. It's an alias for Fox Mulder. Surely you recall that, sir. You signed off on his background check." The Deputy Director's cheekbones broadened as he gritted his teeth. "You will cease contact with Mr. Mulder. I will instruct him to return all Bureau materials immediately and you will refrain from contacting him in the future for any reason. If he contacts you, you will refer him to me." Skinner put his hands on his hips is disbelief. "May I ask why?" "It's a matter of national security," another man answered, smoking his cigarette languidly. "National security? Fox Mulder? If you've read his file, you already know the FBI tried to hire him once. Now, after he's a veteran and a national icon, he's a risk to security?" His only answer was a puff of smoke from the old man at the far end of the table. "How is he possibly a threat to national security?" Skinner demanded. "He's a homosexual," came a response, and a pile of glossy photographs slid smoothly across the table. Skinner picked it up the top one, examining it for a few seconds. It was unquestionably Mulder, bare- chested, spooned up in bed to a smaller figure. The person lying in front of him was covered with a sheet from the waist down, and Mulder's arms were around the chest, but the face belonged to a young man. The arms and shoulders, however, were decidedly feminine. "His girlfriend wears a little gold cross around her neck," Skinner responded, tossing the photograph back and tapping the base of his throat. "Whoever glued that together: it would be more convincing if he'd take it out of the photograph." "Then he's a pedophile." Skinner tilted his head, realizing how this game was played. "And I suppose you have incriminating photos of him reading a bedtime story to his kid? Why are you doing this? What has he done, aside from help solve some of our toughest cases?" "Would you like to see his communist party membership card?" "No, I'd like some answers," he shot back. "I know this man. He's about as far from a security risk as you can get." "With all due respect, Assistant Director Skinner, if you know him so well, maybe we should look a little closer at some of your associations." "Are you threatening me?" "Let's say we're cautioning you," the smoking man responded. *~*~*~* His only experience with small children was having been one himself. When they'd married, he and Sharon had been eager to start a family, and had applied themselves wholeheartedly to that end. If effort counted, they should have a dozen children, but months, then years, then decades slipped past. The doctors scratched their heads and told them to keep trying: all the plumbing seemed to be in working order. Eventually, they'd grown tired of focusing on the plumbing and decided to just enjoy the facilities, leaving post-WWII America to boom without them. Emily had finally accepted a cup of hot chocolate from the vending machine, but wrinkled her nose at the layer of chocolate sludge at the bottom and drank barely half. The nurses offered cookies, but she shook her head, not hungry. She sat quietly, arranging her pleats or watching her feet, then fell asleep, her head on one plastic chair and her backside on another. He covered her with his coat, not sure what else to do. Mulder had never shared the details of the girl's illness, but Skinner knew it was serious. Possibly terminal. He didn't know if she was supposed to have medicine or treatment or if there was someone he should call, and when he asked Emily, she mumbled that her name was Katie now and he should ask Mommy. "Sir?" the doctor said, coming toward them. He left Emily and went to talk to the doctor privately, in case the news was bad, but she woke and trailed down the corridor after him. To his surprise, she reached for his hand, slipping her warm fingers between his. He glanced down at her, wondering how so much composure fit into such a small package. "Your wife and baby are going to be fine. She's just a little rundown, but we're giving her fluids. We'll monitor her overnight, but everything should be fine. She can go home in the morning." "She's not-" Skinner started, then just nodded. "I'm glad." "She's resting, but you can see her," the doctor said, holding the door to Dana's room open for them. "Just for a little bit." She was propped up on pillows, her head tilted to one side as she slept. Under the sheet, her belly was more obvious. Her glasses were gone, as was the brown wig, and her face seemed thinner, more shadowed and hunted. Her auburn hair fell in waves across the pillow, and there was a series of ugly purple marks on her arm where someone had tried unsuccessfully to put an IV in before finding a vein in the back of her hand. A small gold cross hung from her necklace, with a filigree engagement ring beside it. Even from a distance, the diamond was impressive. He hesitated at the door, but Emily went to her mother, standing beside the bed uncertainly for a moment. Dana opened her eyes groggily as Emily sat, making the mattress dip. "Mommy?" she said apprehensively, looking at the IV. "Are you all right, honey?" Dana turned her head, trying to focus on her daughter's face. In response, Emily lay down beside her mother, resting her head on her shoulder. Dana put one arm around her, stroking her hair, and put her other hand on her belly. She bit her lip, looking at the bare hospital walls as though trying to remember what had happened or where she was. "She's exhausted," Skinner said from the doorway. "It's after ten o'clock at night, but I wasn't sure where to take her. Is there someone who can keep her tonight?" "No, there's-" She stopped, trying to gather her thoughts. "There's-" Dana shook her head slowly, trying to clear it, and looked around the room again. Her gaze stopped on him, and she blinked as she tried to place who he was. "Assistant Director Walter Skinner with the FBI. We met last fall at Fox Mulder's home in Georgetown." She inhaled and started to sit up. "Don't. You're supposed to rest. I'm just here to help. Emily's fine. The baby's fine, but the doctors want you to rest overnight. Do you want me to call Mulder?" "He said he should," Emily whispered to her mother. Dana nodded slowly, but it seemed to be an 'I understand' rather than a 'yes, call Mulder' nod. "Could you give us a minute, Mr. Skinner?" "Of course," he answered, backing out of the room and closing the door. He leaned against the smooth wall beside her door, folding his arms. He needed to call Sharon again. He needed to check in with the Bureau. His stomach growled, reminding him he needed more sustenance than hospital vending machine coffee. A nurse approached, her shoes squeaking against the floor. "Is Mrs. Scully all right?" she asked, pausing, clipboard in hand. "She's fine. She just wanted some privacy." "Of course, Mr. Scully," the nurse responded, smiling sweetly, then moved on. 'Mr. Scully,' he mouthed in tired bemusement. The admitting nurse had gotten what he said turned around and assumed he was Mr. Dana Scully: Dana being his first name, not hers. It didn't seem worth correcting them. The whole day had taken on a surreal tone and that capped it. He rested the back of his head against the cool, solid wall, then turned as the door opened. Dana emerged, dressed in her waitress' uniform, and shrugging her winter coat over it. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she pressed a Kleenex over the place on her hand where she'd just removed the IV. Emily held onto her mother's skirt, looking both ways to make sure the coast was clear. "Where are you going Miss Scully?" he asked in disbelief. "You're supposed to be resting." She responded by walking calmly away from him, to the elevator. "Miss Scully?" he called, following her. "Where are you going?" Emily glanced back at him, then up at her mother. "Miss Scully?" he repeated, hands on his hips, as she waited for the elevator. Dana stared straight ahead, then, as the doors opened, stepped inside. She turned, pushing the down button. Beside her, Emily waved bye-bye as the doors closed. *~*~*~* Sharon teased him that at heart, he was an overgrown hall monitor with a badge and a big gun. He'd told her he'd gone to grammar school in a one-room schoolhouse: they didn't have monitors, much to his disappointment. He liked order, though: having a clear distinction between right and wrong, duty and dishonor. But following the rules wasn't always the best way to protect the public. He was aware the world wasn't black and white, but shades of gray. The older he became, and the further he rose in the FBI, the more the moral high ground was a slippery slope. It was getting hard to tell the heroes from the villains, but he still tried, damn it. Yes, Agent Dales had been out of line showing Bureau files to a civilian, but Jesus: it was Agent Dales. Bigger fish to fry and all that. Yes, Skinner had involved Mulder in cases before Mulder had security clearance, but the background check had been a formality. Fox Mulder was a good guy. Maybe not an angel, but on the right side. He certainly wasn't a threat to democracy. Or heterosexuality. The Deputy Director instructed Mulder to return all Bureau materials, which he'd done immediately. Dales had been suspended for two weeks without pay, then returned to his cubbyhole to mutter about aliens and conspiracies. The morning after his conversation with the Deputy Director and the smoking man, Skinner unlocked his desk drawer to find dog-eared paperback novel with two men embracing on the cover. To reinforce the point, a communist party card bearing his name served as a bookmark. It didn't matter that he wasn't a communist, or that the closest he came to being a homosexual was having a third cousin who liked show tunes. He was if They said he was. That was when he'd begun making noises to Sharon about leaving the FBI. Then the Mad Bomber Case had made its way to his desk. The bombings had plagued New York for more than a decade, but were rapidly escalating. Previously, the bomber targeted only Consolidated Edison office buildings, but by spring 1954, was striking libraries, subways, stores, and theaters. The bomber wrote to the police, taunting them. In each instance, the area was evacuated and the bomb found, but the entire city was wary of going out. With each bomb, there was less warning, and more chance someone would be harmed. An hour's notice before a bomb would have exploded in Grand Central Station had been the final straw for Skinner. He'd left his agents to scratch their heads, and gone to The Plaza. After several unreturned messages, the helpful concierge mentioned Mulder wasn't there, but was expected that evening. When Skinner ambushed him, he expected Mulder to tell him to kiss his ass, but Mulder hadn't. He'd told him to watch Emily, and, in five minutes, gone through the case like he was reading the bomber's mind. Mulder had barely even seemed to be paying attention. The hotel as buzzing about he and Dana getting married, and Emily was chattering away, then complaining about her stomach, yet Mulder's description of the bomber had been dead on. When the FBI arrested George Metesky a month later, he'd been exactly the man Mulder described. Skinner had begun to suspect that was the FBI's objection to Mulder: not that he couldn't help catch the bad guys, but that he could. And there were some bad guys the FBI didn't want caught. "Mr. Skinner," he'd heard the smoking man said from behind him, in The Plaza lobby. "You're a long way from home." A chill ran down his spine at the unspoken message: 'And your wife's home alone.' Skinner had probably seemed perfectly cool on the outside, but inside, the moral mechanisms of his conscience jammed and grated like an over-wound watch. Mulder looked confused and slightly hurt at Skinner's sudden formality. Skinner had stammered something about Dana and Emily being very special before the polished doors closed and the upholstered elevator carried Mulder and Emily to the penthouse. When Skinner turned, the smoking man was gone. There hadn't been a fast enough flight out of New York, so he'd borrowed a car and drove back to DC, seldom dropping below ninety miles per hour all night. He found Sharon asleep in their bed, her reading glasses sliding down her nose and her book open in her hand. He'd stripped nude and curled up behind her, holding her tightly in the darkness and pulling the covers over them. *~*~*~* He'd passed the point of common sense without a backward glance and was approaching the signs for Point of Ludicrous. Even if Mulder had killed Emily's 'real Daddy,' Skinner had no jurisdiction. He wasn't Agent Dales; he didn't just investigate any crime that interested him. There was protocol. Procedure. It was a local matter, not an FBI investigation. "Open up or I'll come back with a warrant," he told the battered door, the light from inside seeping out beneath it. He doubted he could really get a warrant, but she didn't know that. Dana opened the door, positioning most of her body behind it. The apartment sat atop a bakery, a block off the main road through Bellefleur. An old pickup truck drove past, its headlights temporarily illuminating the dark street. "I just need to clear something up," he assured her. "That's all. I got your address from the diner. I told you: I'm a friend." Her old eyes seemed out of place on her young face. She'd changed onto slacks and loose sweater, and her hair was twisted into a hurried knot on top of her head. "I don't understand what I've done," she said evenly. "Why are you bothering us?" "I want to talk to you. Please, may I come in?" Dana looked at him, then over her shoulder. Nice girls didn't invite men into their apartments at night. It wasn't proper, whatever the circumstances. "Or we could go get a cup of coffee," he amended. "Or something to eat. I just need to talk to you." "About what?" "About Mulder." "Mommy?" Emily called from behind her, emerging from the back of the apartment in her pajamas, with a toothbrush in her hand. It had to be long past the child's bedtime, and she sounded cranky. "Do you have slippers on?" Dana asked without looking, and Emily answered that she did. "Find your coat. Please wait just a minute, Mr. Skinner," she requested, starting to close the door. Skinner put his hand on it, keeping it open. He'd played this game once before. She'd managed to vanish from the hospital lobby, and he didn't want her shimmying out the back window of her apartment. Dana reached for her coat, wrapping it around her shoulders, then slipped her feet into a pair of canvas shoes. She took her house key and her daughter's hand, then instructed him to follow her down the old wooden steps and around to the back door of the closed bakery. Shivering, she unlocked the steel door, and he followed her through the kitchen, to small booth near the front window. The glass display cases were lit, casting an eerie glow behind the register. The air was thick with yeast and sugary icing, and the tiled table was cool under his fingertips. Emily slid into the booth, laying her head on the table tiredly. "If I get you a muffin, will you eat it?" Dana asked. "What about a doughnut?" Emily nodded, and Dana retrieved one from the case, leaving a nickel beside the register. She put the stale doughnut on a napkin in front of her daughter, where it sat uneaten. "Please understand I'm not trying to pry into your private life," he assured her awkwardly. "Whatever's happened between you and Mulder is your business. My concern is: I know there was an attempt made on his life last year. It was my understanding the man who shot him was never identified. But today, Emily told me her 'real Daddy' shot Mulder, and that Mulder had shot him. That's what concerns me: if a crime has been committed. Or if Mulder's shooter can be identified." "If you think a crime's been committed, why not call the police?" "Because I'm not sure one has. Or the circumstances involved. I have no proof Mulder shot anyone. There's no body, no missing person's report. The only evidence I have is the word of little girl." Dana hesitated, putting her hand on her daughter's back and making sure she was asleep. "I don't know who her father is," she said quietly. "Neither does she. There is no 'real Daddy.'" "You didn't quite answer me, ma'am." She still hadn't admitted to being Dana Scully, or to actually having known Mulder. It still struck him as odd that she'd have an empty FBI file referring him to another file so top-secret he didn't know of its existence. Watching her with Emily, it seemed out of character for her to have aborted Mulder's child, or to conceal this one from him. Or, even if Mulder wasn't interested in this baby, he couldn't see him refusing to support it. The story: a tempestuous romance between a young woman with questionable morals and a wealthy ball player who'd had his fun and moved on, didn't ring true. It reminded him of a play with poorly cast leads: still an interesting story, but he didn't buy the actors in their roles. He paused to adjust his glasses, trying to remember all of Dales' nonsensical theories about aliens and experiments and Dana Scully. Skinner hadn't really been listening; Dales had so many nonsensical theories that they all blended together. "You're afraid of something," he finally said, trying to sound trustworthy. "I understand that, and I will do everything in my power to protect you and your daughter. And your baby. But I need you to be honest with me. I need to know what's happening. I need to know about that film Mulder brought me. I need to know where he got it. Or, or where you got it," he added, considering that possibility for the first time. She looked at him, her eyes giving away nothing. "I can keep you safe, Miss Scully." A car rolled past the bakery, and she turned her head, watching it, a hand instinctively going to her belly. "Do you really think so?" she asked evenly, and Skinner swallowed. Dana slid put of the booth and stood awkwardly, jostling Emily's shoulder to wake her. "We aren't finished," he said in his stern voice. "I think we are," she answered, managing not to cower in fear. Asleep, Emily mumbled for her mother to carry her. "I can't, honey. Mommy can't. You have to walk." "Can't; hurts," Emily muttered, raising her head sleepily. Two red streams trickled from her nose, becoming heavier until blood flowed over her mouth and chin. "Uh-oh," Dana said, quickly reaching for a paper napkin and pinching her daughter's nose shut. "Tilt your head back." Emily complied. Not knowing what else to do, Skinner retrieved more napkins, then hovered helplessly. "Is she all right?" Dana stroked Emily's hair soothingly. "Fine. Just sprung a leak, right?" she said gently. He heard choking, and Emily leaned forward suddenly, struggling to breathe. She coughed, spraying crimson blood everywhere, then looked to her mother helplessly, starting to cry. "Shush, shush, shush. Just a nosebleed. Just a leak. No shots. No more doctors," Dana assured her, moping up the mess. "I wan' Mul'er," Emily pleaded nasally. "I wan' go home." "We can't go home, Em. It's not safe." Dana squatted in front of her, wiping off some of the blood, but mostly just smearing it. Skinner offered another napkin. "It's stopping. It's stopping," Dana assured Emily, giving her the napkin to hold under her nose. "All over. Let's put some ice on it: make it feel better." She leaned forward to pick up her daughter, but Skinner stopped her, holding out his hands. Dana nodded that it was all right, so he picked up Emily and followed her mother through the dark bakery and up the frozen stairs to her apartment. The interior wasn't what he'd expected. An unwed mother on a waitress's salary: he'd expected poverty, but there was no sign of it. The apartment was sparse, but comfortable. A vaporizer purred, scenting the air with Vicks, and a radio was on, tuned to the news. The radiator kept the rooms slightly warmer than he found comfortable, and warmer than many poor families were able to afford during the Oregon winter. It wasn't the overall picture that told him there was money, but the little amenities: a new toaster, a blender, a telephone. Emily's thick coat and well-made saddle shoes. A basket of oranges in the kitchen in December. Dana seemed to be able to afford the things she wanted to afford, and she wasn't doing that waiting tables in a truck stop. Mulder could have written her a check and told her to get out of town when he found out about the baby, except that didn't sound like Mulder. Or she could have blackmailed him, except that didn't sound like Dana. Or explain why she on the other side of the country, living under an assumed name. Or wearing her engagement ring on her necklace. Or why Mulder wasn't moving Heaven and Earth to find her, her daughter, and his baby. When she'd disappeared before, Mulder had done everything in his power to find her, and this time he wasn't lifting a finger. No matter how Skinner did the math, it didn't quite add up. His eyes stopped on an open, half-filled suitcase on the bed at the end of the hall. Dana must have been packing when he'd knocked on the door. "Put her on the sofa," Dana requested, heading for the kitchen. Skinner set Emily down, and heard the freezer open and close. Water ran, a cabinet banged, and metal pots clanged. "Ice," Dana said, returning. She passed a cube-filled dishtowel to him to hold. "A washcloth. And a bowl." "What's the bowl for?" he asked as Emily leaned forward, vomiting blood into the metal mixing bowel. She must have swallowed it when she was choking, and what had been a little going down looked like a lot coming back up. "Is she all right?" he asked nervously. "Just fine," Dana murmured, setting the basin aside and wiping her daughter's face with a wet washcloth. "We're just fine, aren't we?" she added, like she was trying to convince herself as well. Emily nodded unconvincingly, her lip trembling. Dana wiped away the last few smears, then reached for the ice pack. "It's all over. Close your eyes, honey." "I wanna go home," Emily pleaded. "I want Mulder." "Honey, we can't." "Why can't you?" Skinner asked softly. "Why can't she call him? It's just a phone call." "You aren't helping," Dana hissed through her teeth, and he stepped back. "We can't call him, honey. You know why. It's too dangerous." "Grammy?" "No, we can't call Grammy, either." Emily's face crumpled, and she started to cry tiredly. Dana sat on the sofa beside her, putting her arms around her daughter and holding her close. Skinner reached for the telephone on the end table, dialing the FBI switchboard. "This is AD Skinner. I need a secure line out," he told the operator, then handed the receiver to Dana. "Tell her to put you through to whoever you like." She took the receiver, staring at it. "It's secure," he assured her. "No one's listening. The call will look like it originated from the FBI in Washington." Emily stopped crying and watched her expectantly. Dana nodded, put the receiver to her ear and said shakily. "New York City, please. The Plaza Hotel." There was a paused, then Dana nodded again. "Fox Mulder, please." She bit her lip, holding the phone with one hand and rubbing Emily's back with her other as she listened. "William Mulder?" Another pause. "No, no message. Thank you," she said softly, then handed the receiver back to him. "They're not there?" She nodded 'no,' and Emily curled into a ball again, sobbing miserably and mumbling about doctors. "Try the house in Georgetown." She nodded 'no' again. "I know Mulder. I know what kind of man he is. And whatever's happened, as soon as he knows where you are, as soon as he knows about this baby, he'll be here within hours," he assured her. She looked at her tearful daughter, then at the phone, then down at her swollen belly, biting her lower lip. As he watched, trying to figure out what else to say or do, Dana covered her face with her hand and began to cry silently. *~*~*~* The assumption was that he was an early riser, but it was really self-defense: if he was in the office by seven, he might be able to wade through the meetings and paperwork and be home by seven at night. That meant getting up around five, and Sharon had long since stopped making him breakfast. On weekends, when he got up at eight, she cooked. Weekdays, she made sure there was orange juice and English muffins before she went to bed. He reached up, wrapped his fingers around the top of the doorjamb, and stretched. The sun wasn't up yet, and the yard was still covered in cool dew. Alexandria was silent. He scratched his chest and yawned, getting ready to meet a long day. Every other house on the street had a newspaper on the porch, but his waited smugly in the center of the wet front lawn. Every damn morning. 'It's a conspiracy,' Skinner told himself, squishing barefooted across the grass, getting the hems of his pajama bottoms wet. Across the street, a car door opened, and he looked up. Nothing had happened since the smoking man caught him talking to Mulder at The Plaza Sunday night, but he could feel it coming, like an approaching storm. "Mulder?" he said in disbelief, as a man emerged from a new, black Chrysler, bringing a small metal canister and a handgun, which he tucked into the waistband of his trousers. William was in the driver's seat, and he watched nervously as his father approached the house. "Mulder?" Skinner repeated. "I'm sorry. I was afraid to go to your office," Mulder said quickly. Skinner didn't bother to ask how Mulder had discovered his home address or what he was doing parked across the street at barely five in the morning. "Is something wrong? Has something happened?" "I need your help. Will you help me?" "Of course. Of course I will. Come inside." Mulder turned back to the car, nodded curtly, and his son nodded back. Mulder had a dangerous air about him, like a lion when his pride was threatened or a soldier when the enemy hit too close to home. Feeling naked in his t-shirt and pajama bottoms, Skinner picked up his own gun from the table beside the front door, carrying it to the kitchen in case the bad guys were in the pantry. "I need you to take this to the smoking man," Mulder said rapidly, handing him the canister of film and sounding like he'd rehearsed his words. "She said you'd know how to find him. Tell him I want to make a deal. Tell him there are copies, and if anything happens to Dana or Emily Scully, or to Will, or me, this film will play on the evening news. Can you do that? Do you know how to contact him?" "I have a pretty good idea. Mulder, slow down and tell me what's happened. What is this? Where did you get it?" "It doesn't matter. Just tell him that: if anything happens to them. Or us," he added, gesturing to the car outside. "Anything. You'll do that?" "Yes." "Thank you," Mulder responded, turning toward the front door. "Will and I will be away for a few days. A few weeks, maybe. I'll call you." "If you think you're in danger, I can take you into protective custody. Let me just get dressed and-" "Last year, They tried to kill me. Yesterday morning, They pointed a gun at my son's head. My phone's tapped. My friend's phones are tapped. Yesterday afternoon, someone searched my rooms at The Plaza, looking for that film. Forgive me, but you can't even come close to keeping us safe, Assistant Director. Just make the deal." "Mulder," Skinner called after him, following. "These men are the major leagues. What is this film that you think They're going to make a deal?" "It's Pandora's box," he answered simply, then repeated, "Thank you," as he walked out. Skinner stayed at his heels. "What about Dana and Emily? You said you and your son would be away. What about Dana and Emily Scully? Where are they? Are they safe?" Mulder hesitated, his shoulders bowed from the weight of the world. "I don't know." "You don't know?" Skinner echoed in disbelief, talking to the back of Mulder's head as he jogged across the street. As he got in the passenger side, Will started the engine, then pulled away from the curb. Skinner stared at the car as it drove away, then at the film canister. It gave no clue as to what might be inside except the label: 'Roswell, New Mexico 1947: Project Blue Book'. Still barefooted, he trudged to the basement, reaching to turn on the bare light bulb. It took him a few minutes to find their dusty old projector, then he opened the canister and threaded the film through the machine. He found an extension cord, plugged the projector in, pointed it at a dark, bare wall, and flipped the switch. He leaned on a workbench, squinting uncertainly as he watched doctors examine a creature on a table, seeming to be conducting some sort of autopsy. Halfway through, he stopped and rewound the film, watching it again. He knew what it looked like he was seeing, and what he couldn't possibly be seeing, and his mind struggled with all the possibilities between the two extremes. He knew there was a base near Roswell, New Mexico, and Project Blue Book was a top-secret military aircraft project based in the Nevada desert. In 1947, the Air Force claimed to have retrieved a UFO near Roswell, then amended that, saying it was a weather balloon. Either the government lied and it had been a UFO, and he was watching a film of an alien being autopsied, or it was a hoax created by the government to cover up something larger. Either way, Mulder was right: the grainy, flickering film stock was Pandora's box. *~*~*~* He remembered Dana offering him Aspirin and a glass of water. She'd said her head ached and gone to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. She'd offered, and Skinner, temples throbbing, had taken two of the white pills she shook out of an Aspirin bottle and into his hand. He could have sworn he watched her take two as well. But he didn't remember falling asleep. He'd carried Emily to bed for Dana, then returned to the living room and thought he'd rest his eyes until she finished tucking her daughter in. When he opened them it was dawn, and he was sprawled on an armchair in her apartment. The taste in his mouth indicated he'd been snoring, and his neck was stiff on one side. Skinner looked around, expecting Dana to be nearby, but she wasn't. He pushed up from the chair, going to the back of the apartment. Emily's bed was vacant, and the blanket and pillow were missing. He checked, finding the dresser drawers and the medicine cabinet empty. The crayon drawings and worksheets that had been on the refrigerator were gone. The suitcase was missing, but everything else was exactly the same. The radio still played the morning news, the radiator still rumbled its warm belly, and the basket of oranges was still on the kitchen counter. He stumbled outside, squinting at the weak winter sun. The bakery was busy, as was the hardware store beside it. His head felt groggy and he shook it to clear it. Those must have been some Aspirin. No one in Bellefleur seemed to know where she might have gone, or where she'd come from: only that Laura Samuels and her daughter Katie had been in town a few months and kept to themselves. The school was still waiting for Katie's records to arrive, but said she was a bright little girl, though often ill. There was no checking account, no library card. The diner paid Laura in cash. She'd paid her rent and utilities in cash; big bills, the woman at the electric company remembered. Her boss at the diner had a theory she was running from her husband, and quietly confided in Skinner that she was going to have a baby in a few more months. The diner owner wished her luck. Not sure what to do, he returned to Dana's apartment, checking for some sign as to where she might have gone. There wasn't one, but he hadn't expected there to be. Skinner tilted his head from side to side, then rolled his tense shoulders. He picked up the telephone, debating on having the police put out an APB. A pregnant redhead and a sick little girl shouldn't be too hard to locate, and she'd pulled a slight of hand and given him something besides Aspirin to make him sleep so soundly. That had to be some sort of crime: annoying a Federal Agent. He dialed, then hung up before the police answered. Whatever Dana was running from, he couldn't save her. He couldn't protect her, her daughter, or her baby. The best thing he could do was just let her run. He pulled a chair from the kitchen table, turned it around, and sat down heavily at the edge of the abandoned living room. Reaching for the phone again, he asked the operator to connect him to Alexandria, and after a dozen rings, was rewarded with Sharon's sleepy, "Hello?" "Hi," he said softly. "Walter? What time is it? Where are you?" "Early. Oregon." She yawned. "Still in Oregon?" "Why don't you fly out, Sharon? It's beautiful." "Fly out?" "Get on a plane. I'll explain when you get here." She hesitated. "Walter, what is it? You sound different." He looked around Dana's apartment. "I'm not going back to the Bureau. Ever. Whatever they're doing, I don't want to be a part of it anymore." She laughed nervously, then stopped laughing. "You mean it this time, don't you?" "I mean it. My next call is to Hoover. Get up, shower, pack a bag, and get on a plane to Portland. I'll find a car and meet you there." "Portland. That's just left of Middle-of-Nowhere, isn't it?" "No, Portland's the social hub of Oregon, City Girl. Where I am right now: I'm just left of Middle-of- Nowhere. And there's a store across the street that sells flannel, and one next door that sells axes." "Walter," she mumbled in disbelief. "I'll be at the airport. I love you, Sharon." "I love you," she answered quickly. She didn't hear that nearly enough these days. For the last few years, she hadn't heard much besides 'I won't be home for dinner (breakfast, the weekend, Christmas),' and 'It's work; you know I can't talk about it.' "I'll have to find my blue jeans," she added. "I think I own a pair. And my manicurist will be horrified. I'm telling her this is your idea." He laughed softly, then noticed the deputy sheriff's car rolling to a stop in front of the bakery. "Assistant Director," the sheriff greeted him as Skinner descended the wooden steps. "Someone said you were looking to make a missing person's report, sir. About that waitress: Laura Samuels." "No," he said, shaking his head. "There must be some mistake." *~*~*~* End: A Moment In the Sun: Bellefleur