Title:  Gutless (10/16)
Author:  Magdeleine
See Prologue for full headers; all posted chapters can be found at 
http://shannono.simplenet.com/gutless


GUTLESS

Chapter 10

Office of Jim Taymor
9:35 A.M.

Usually Mulder walked behind her.

Usually his hand settled lightly at the small of her back, his fingers 
painting delicate curls of heat along the curve of her spine, his thumb 
pressing gently between her lowest ribs.  Usually his breath barely stirred 
a few strands of her hair.  Usually she could feel his presence behind her, 
warm and reassuring.

... Not today.

Today, he'd just turned and stalked off, leaving her without a backward 
glance.  

It stung.  It felt, as a matter of fact, like the last time she'd been 
struck in the face, heat and blood-buzzing pressure exploding in her sinuses 
and a faint taste of copper in her mouth.  She gritted her teeth against the 
sensation and followed him with angry, measured steps.

When Mulder was storming around like this it was damn near impossible to 
keep up with him.  By the time she was halfway down the hallway he was 
already blowing through the open office door with only a perfunctory rap on 
the door frame to announce himself. 

She sped up, almost jogging for a few steps, then deliberately slowed to a 
walk.  The hell with it.  Better to arrive calmly and a little late than 
directly behind Mulder and out of breath.

Her heels sounded on the thinly carpeted cement almost as though the carpet 
wasn't there.  Calm footsteps.  Professional footsteps.  The footsteps of a 
woman who was perfectly in control of this situation, thank you very much.

Scully stepped through the doorway with her expression composed and her back 
straight.  

Mulder turned, overly casual and oozing arrogance.  He made a little "come 
in" gesture and gave her a jeering smile.

Scully felt her face turn to stone.  Automatically, almost without her 
noticing it, her hand slid into her pocket and snapped out her ID.  Mulder, 
she noticed, was still holding his own ID in his loose I-already-announced-
myself grip that always made her think he'd either drop it or toss it 
casually across the room.

"Special Agent Dana Scully," she announced, and belatedly focused on the 
person she was announcing herself to.

And blinked.

Who the hell was this?

"Jim Taymor?" she asked incredulously, staring at the man behind the desk.  
Jeans and a button-down shirt, thick blonde hair, dark blue eyes, clean-
shaven.  Twenty-five, at the most.  An infant.  He resembled Jim Taymor, 
sure, but he must be Taymor's son, his nephew, his --

"Yes, I'm Jim Taymor."  The man stood up, and Scully got another surprise -- 
he was short.  She'd somehow expected him to be almost Mulder's height, but 
she could see now that he was barely any taller than she was.  "Sorry about 
the wait.  Business call."

Scully just stared.

The picture she'd seen had shown Jim Taymor to be attractive enough, but 
nothing near *this*.  Closer inspection revealed fine lines around his eyes 
and a sprinkling of silver hairs among the gold -- this man was middle-aged 
and not the kid he appeared to be at first glance.  It must be his height.  
Or maybe the clothes.

Then Taymor's gaze met hers, and she realized that his height and clothes 
were barely half of it.  Those dark blue eyes were simmering with some kind 
of strange, magnetic energy; the intensity of the man was almost 
frightening.  He smiled at her, a slow, electric smile with just the right 
amount of teeth showing.  Scully could practically smell the pheromones 
wafting in her direction, dancing a hypnotic molecular dance among the 
camouflaging swirls of a subtle, dusky cologne.

Good God, this man was sex on a stick.  No wonder Marjorie Bailey had kept 
his picture next to her bed.

Scully tucked her ID back into her pocket as Taymor crossed the room.  Those 
compelling eyes searched hers as he took her hand in both of his.  "Very 
nice to meet you," he said in a lazy voice.  His hands were startlingly 
warm, and large for such a short man; she glanced at them -- the curious 
reflex of a trained investigator, or a single woman -- and automatically 
noted manicured nails and a wide wedding band.  

Taymor motioned at a pair of heavy-looking wooden chairs in front of the 
gleaming oak desk -- real oak, obviously well cared for.  "Please," he said 
cordially, "have a seat."  

"Thank you," Scully replied, carefully neutral.  She started toward the 
chairs and Mulder cut across her path, plowing past her like a battleship at 
full throttle.  Her head jerked back an involuntary inch, her diaphragm 
tightening as she put on the brakes and recoiled from the near-collision.  
Mulder stalked on past her, something dark and bitter in his eyes and the 
set of his shoulders, something arrogant and hurt.

He refused to meet her eyes.  

So that was how it was going to be.  Scully smoothed the vestiges of 
surprise from her expression and followed her partner, moving as silently as 
a deep-running submarine.

She sat in the chair next to Mulder's, her spine very straight and her face 
very still.  He was sprawled in his chair, an angry caricature of 
relaxation, his eyes hooded and his elbow crossing across his armrest and 
hers, jabbing into her space like an accusation.  The air between them was 
very close.  

A subtle attempt at scooting her chair over resulted in the discovery that 
these chairs didn't just look heavy; they *were* heavy.  So much for the 
subtle approach.  A second, much less gentle attempt netted an inch or so of 
space, but also drew a curious look from Jim Taymor.

Scully sighed inwardly and resigned herself to the close proximity.

"Would you like some coffee, Agent Scully?" Taymor asked, pausing with his 
ass halfway to the chair as though the thought had struck him in midair.

"No, thank you," Scully answered politely, too aware of the coil of tension 
and acid in her stomach to even contemplate adding more caffeine to the mix.  

Taymor continued to hover, his deep gaze never leaving her.  "I think we 
have some juice ... or some water?"

"I'm fine.  Thank you."  Scully was quickly losing track of the number of 
times she'd thanked this man.  Her smile felt stiff, as though her mouth had 
turned to plastic.  She felt the laser track of Mulder's glance at her, but 
when she stole a quick look at him out of the corner of her eye, he was 
staring straight ahead, expressionless.  A muscle in his cheek twitched 
once -- that was all.

He sat perfectly still.  So did she.  The tension sparked between them like 
electricity crackling between oppositely charged poles; given a way to 
harness the energy, they could power Tehtonka for a year.

Jim Taymor finished his descent into the well-padded chair and leaned back 
with a wide smile.  "So," he said, "what is it that the FBI would like to 
talk to me about?"

Scully folded her hands neatly in her lap.  "Mr. Taymor, we have been 
informed that Marjorie Bailey worked here up until the time of her death.  
Is that correct?"

"Yes ... this is about Marjorie, then?"

"Yes, sir, we're investigating her murder.  I understand that Marjorie was 
your secretary ... or was it 'assistant'?"

"Receptionist, assistant, whatever.  We don't have official titles around 
here.  It's more like ..."  Taymor pondered a moment, caught up in some rosy 
inner vision.  "... more like a *family*."

Scully arched an eyebrow.  A statistic scrolled across her mental landscape 
like numbers on a stock ticker, something about the majority of murders 
being committed by family members.  If all four victims were indeed within 
this 'family,' she was going to have to take a close look at the personnel 
files.  "Mr. Taymor --" she began.

"-- Have the police contacted you?" Mulder interrupted, running roughshod 
over Scully's half-formed question.  She snapped her mouth shut like a 
padlock.  

Breathe.  In.  Out.  Again.  

Taymor took a moment to focus on Mulder.  "What?  Oh.  Yes, I spoke with the 
sheriff on Saturday."

"Did the sheriff ask you about Marjorie's actions on Friday?" Mulder asked.

"No," Taymor replied, sounding surprised, "he didn't really ask me anything.  
Just set up an interview time for Monday -- this afternoon, I mean -- and 
warned me not to go telling people anything about what I know."  He 
scratched at the hinge of his jaw, his finger rasping loudly on dark-blonde 
stubble.  "Not that I know anything."

"You haven't been in to give your statement yet?" Mulder exclaimed.

"No, not until this afternoon.  I assumed he had a backlog or something."  
Taymor blinked slowly.  "... I take it that's not normal operating 
procedure?"

"I hope not," Mulder snorted.  

Taymor's eyes slipped sideways, back to Scully as though drawn there by a 
gravitational force.  "Well, then ..."  He was smiling like a game-show 
host -- a glib back-from-commercials smile, a smile that tolerated 
interruptions because they paid the bills.  "... You can ask me anything you 
need to know."  Another wave of cologne and pheromones.  "Anything."

Somehow the effect was less than convincing.  Scully could practically feel 
the man reaching out for her, grasping for the control panel in her psyche 
that would send her spinning down to crash-land in his bed.  Reaching, and 
*missing*, fumbling like a teenager who was bewildered by the clasp of his 
date's brassiere.

It was annoying.  Worse, Taymor didn't seem to notice that his efforts were 
going unrewarded; Scully saw lazy triumph brimming in the man's eyes.  She 
bit down slowly on the inside of her cheek until her molars almost touched, 
maintaining her bland expression by sheer force of will.  "Mr. Taymor," she 
said, emphasizing the formal title, "there are a few quest --"

"Was Lola Gruber employed with this agency?" Mulder asked, blithely 
interrupting again.  His casual tone of voice was belied by the fine line of 
tension drawn between his eyebrows.  He was doing this deliberately, oh yes 
he was.  Scully tasted blood and realized that she was gnawing at the inside 
of her cheek again, the points of her canines biting almost completely 
through a tiny fold of flesh.  She hadn't noticed the pain.

Breathe.  Breathe. 
 
"Was Lola Gruber employed here?"  Mulder asked again in a tone like carved 
flint.

Taymor looked at him then with the air of a man who had much better things 
to do.  "Occasionally."

"... Was she employed here *lately*?"

Taymor hedged.  "I believe so ... it's hard to keep track."

"What about Greg Marks?"

"On and off.  Not to speak ill, but he wasn't very dependable."

"Fred Schmidt?"

Scully's lips twitched.  There went any chance of that line of questioning 
yielding any useable answers.  

"Yes, until recently.  He's been hospitalized."

Mulder's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair; Scully expected him to 
jump out of the chair and start prowling around the office.  "Hospitalized 
for psychiatric reasons, you mean."

Taymor looked faintly irritated.  "I suppose so."

Drum, drum, drum.  "I can't help but wonder why anyone would keep a man with 
a history of psychiatric problems on their payroll."

"Fred's a good worker," Taymor shrugged.  "He loses a day or two every month 
or so, but the rest of the time he works like a demon.  We actually get a 
lot of repeat requests for Fred.  Harris Construction's requested him six 
times in the last year alone."

"I'd like to see his file," Mulder said.  His fingers continued drumming, 
falling into a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like the William Tell 
Overture.  Badabump, badabump, badabump-bump-bump ...  Scully's hands 
tensed, curving like claws in an involuntary spasm, the only outward sign of 
her strong impulse to crush those drumming fingers against the arm of his 
chair.

Taymor gave Mulder a cool, thoughtful look.  "Is that just a request or do 
you have some kind of warrant?"

Mulder's smile was almost predatory.  "I'll let you guess."

Taymor considered this.  He checked Scully's face for a second opinion; she 
lifted her chin, tilted her head slightly, and exuded confidence in the 
nonexistent warrant.  It seemed to be enough to convince Taymor.  He 
snorted, leaned forward, and punched a button on his phone.  "Amber?"

"Yes?" a familiar voice answered, slightly distorted through the intercom 
speaker.

"Could you get a file for me?"

A brief pause.  "What do you need?"

"Fred Schmidt's personnel file."  Taymor's gaze whispered back to Scully and 
he smiled, as though somehow he was doing her a personal favor by responding 
to Mulder's request.  She ignored it, letting it fade into the background 
like the pulse of traffic and sirens in a city.  Unimportant.

A shuffle of papers over the intercom.  "Do you want me to bring it in now?"

Mulder shook his head.  Taymor did not appear to notice; his eyes forwarded 
the question to Scully.  She echoed Mulder's silent negation.  Taymor tapped 
a single finger against the intercom.  "No, that won't be necessary.  Just 
have it on hand."

He punched the intercom button again to switch it off, his movements smooth 
and almost burlesquely casual.  "Anything else?" he asked, still gazing 
exclusively at Scully.  She felt Mulder shift his weight next to her, his 
elbow brushing up against her ribs before he yanked it away.  Her skin stung 
at the brief contact as though she'd been swabbed with rubbing alcohol -- 
uncomfortable, overly sensitive.

She sat up straighter and focused on Taymor.  "As a matter of fact, if we 
could get a list of --"

Mulder cut across her question with one of his own.  "How long was Marjorie 
employed here?"

Scully's tamped-down temper flared.  "Mulder!"

He looked at her at long last, eyes smoldering, daring her to make an issue 
out of this.  She glared back, matching his intensity, and a short silent 
battle of wills ensued.

Taymor, oblivious to the power play going on in front of him, leaned back in 
his chair and ran a hand over his jaw thoughtfully.  "She was here for 
something like four years ... five ... hell, hang on."  He punched the 
intercom button again.  "Amber?"

"Yes??" the girl snapped impatiently.

"How long did Marjorie work here?"

"Um ..."  There was a thump and a rustle of paper.  "Looks like ... nine 
years."

"Thanks."  Taymor turned the intercom off and shook his head in wonder.  
"Nine years.  I'll be damned.  How time flies."

Mulder and Scully were still locked in furious combat, each waiting for the 
other to break.

"... Agent Scully?"

Scully blinked and turned, feeling a wave of disorientation as she shifted 
gears.  "Hmm?"

Mulder took full advantage of her momentary lapse and charged in with 
another question of his own.  "Did Marjorie act any differently last 
Friday?"

Taymor's extraordinary eyes were puzzled.  "She came to work on time, she 
did her job, ate lunch here, went home at five.  Same as usual."

"I mean," Mulder said slowly, on the bare edge of patronizing, "was she 
upset, or disturbed, or anxious about anything?"

"I didn't notice," Taymor shrugged, another phrase shimmering like an 
overtone behind his answer: <*What?  Why would I notice that?*>

Mulder looked impatient.  One of his feet started tapping a staccato rhythm 
on the thin carpet.  "So what you're saying is that you didn't notice 
anything out of the ordinary?"  

"I didn't really notice *anything*," Taymor admitted.  His eyes were blank, 
windows to a complete void of understanding.

"You were in the office on Friday, weren't you?" Mulder demanded, openly 
sarcastic.

Scully winced.

"Of course I was in the office.  As a matter of fact, I was here until 
almost midnight, Agent ...?"  Taymor's voice trailed off on a questioning 
note.

Mulder's eyes were hooded.  "Mulder," he supplied darkly.

"-- Agent Mulder.  I had a great deal of work to catch up on."

"Is there anyone who could verify you were here that late, Mr. --"  Mulder 
let his voice trail off in blatant imitation of Taymor.

Taymor registered the hit with a slight tip of his head.  "You could ask my 
wife, Agent *Mulder*."

"She was here?"

"No.  She called around eleven."

"Was anyone else working late?"

A tiny pause.  "No."

Mulder considered it -- Scully could practically hear the gears turning in 
his head as he chewed over that pause, made the decision not to pursue it 
right now, and filed it away for future reference.  There was a long moment 
of silence.

"Anything else?" Taymor asked at last.

"That'll do it," Mulder announced, standing up without fanfare.

Scully remained seated, her face set stubbornly.  "*I* have a few questions 
for you, Mr. Taymor."

Mulder made a frustrated noise and stalked to the back of the office.  
Scully heard his footsteps change direction well before he reached the 
door -- not storming out, then.  The footsteps fell silent; she chanced a 
surreptitious glance and found him feigning interest in the view out a tiny 
window, his arms folded casually across his chest.  The view, however, could 
not possibly be that interesting -- the little window looked out on a brick 
wall across the alley, covered in the dusty stringy skeletons of dead ivy.

Taymor beamed at Scully as though he had won some kind of contest for her 
affections.  "Yes, Agent Scully?"

Mulder snorted.  Apparently he had registered the fact that the little man 
had no trouble remembering *Scully's* name.

Scully gave Taymor her most official look, her eyebrows slightly peaked.  
"First of all, we need a few more files."

"Oh, of course.  One moment --"  Taymor pressed the intercom button with a 
flourish.  "Amber?"

The intercom crackled.  "What do you need *now*?" Amber snarled, apparently 
near the end of her patience.

"A few more files for Agent Scully," Taymor announced.  He motioned grandly 
for Scully to speak into the intercom.  

She hesitated, not really comfortable with the idea, and at last shrugged 
and leaned forward a little awkwardly.  "Lola Gruber --"

"Lola Gruber!" Taymor repeated helpfully.  The game-show host image occurred 
to Scully again and she had to fight off the feeling that she would soon 
have to buy a vowel or phrase her reply in the form of a question.

"-- Greg Marks --"

"Greg Marks!"

"-- Joshua Schmidt --"

"Joshua Schmidt!"

"-- and Marjorie Bailey's file as well."

"And Marjorie Bailey!"  Taymor beamed at her again.  

Scully managed a weary, insincere smile and wondered what sort of insane 
twist of fate had bestowed such magnetic good looks on such an idiot.  
"We'll need to see a list of businesses that use your service, a list of 
people currently employed by your agency, and a list of people who have left 
in the past several months."

"Did you get that?" Taymor asked the intercom, after a vaguely confused 
pause.

Silence, fringed with static.

"Amber?"

"Yeah, I got it."  Amber did not sound happy.

"How long will that take?" Taymor pressed, bathing Scully with another one 
of those long, liquid glances.  "Agent Scully is in a hurry."

Scully shook her head.  "I'm not in a --"

Taymor waved the objection aside.  "Amber?"

"FINE," the girl hissed, and the intercom went dead.

Taymor seemed briefly puzzled by the girl's attitude but shrugged and 
returned his dazzling attention to Scully.  "What else can I do for you?"

Scully realized that she was still leaning slightly forward and corrected 
it, sitting straight and tall like a good soldier.  She crossed her legs 
neatly for good measure, dimly aware of Mulder pacing behind her, tiger-
padding back and forth across the back of the room.  "I'd like to ask you a 
few questions about your working relationsh --"

And suddenly Mulder was right behind her and his voice blasted out like a 
foghorn.  "Mr. Taymor," he said loudly, "do you sleep well at night?"

"Mulder --" Scully murmured in a low warning tone.

"Have you ever woken up and been unable to move or breathe?"

Taymor stared at Mulder, completely puzzled.  "I don't --"

"Or had sensations of being crushed or being pushed downward into the bed?"

"*Mulder*."  The warning in Scully's voice was more pronounced this time, 
but Mulder seemed oblivious.

"Have you ever had an out-of-body experience?  Or --"  Mulder was really on 
a roll now, crashing gleefully ahead without allowing Taymor to get a word 
in edgewise. "Or have you seen or sensed another presence in the room with 
you, or felt an invisible entity attempt to strangle you, or dreamed about a 
woman kneeling on your chest and crushing you?"

Taymor goggled at Mulder, flabbergasted by this lunatic masquerading as an 
FBI agent.  "Agent Mulder, I don't see what any of this has to do with --"

"I'll ask the questions, Mr. Taym --"

"MULDER."  Scully couldn't remember standing up, but she was suddenly toe-
to-toe with her partner, glaring up at him.  "Maybe you should wait 
outside," she hissed.

He didn't quite look at her.  "Really."  He pitched his voice low; like 
hers, it was inaudible beyond the sphere of their personal space.

"I believe so, yes."

He met her eyes then, and there was a bleak expression in them that rocked 
her back on her heels.  "I'm not surprised," he muttered, imitating her 
voice, tossing her own words back at her.  "*You'd believe practically 
anything.*"

With that, he stalked across the room and stared out that little window at 
the alleyway again, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.  Scully stared 
after him, the breath sucked out of her as though she'd been punched in the 
stomach.  The exhaustion settled back onto her like a lead cape as she sank 
back into her chair and turned back to Taymor.  Just get this done -- get 
this done, get this *done*, get out of here.

Taymor smiled possessively at her.  She did not smile back.  Something of 
her attitude finally seemed to filter into Taymor's awareness and his smile 
turned puzzled.

"Mr. Taymor," she began, "could you tell us about your working relationship 
with Marjorie?"

Taymor shrugged, still puzzled.  "We had a very good working relationship."

"Did you have any disagreements?" Scully pressed.  "Workload, salary, 
benefits, coworkers?"

"No, not a one.  Marjorie never complained."

Scully somehow did not find that surprising.  Complain?  About good ol' Jim?  
Never.  "Did you see one another socially?"

That earned her a startled look from Taymor.  "No, not really."

"Community activities?"

"No, can't say that we did."

"Church?"

Taymor smiled as though at some private joke.  "The wife and I aren't much 
for religion, actually."

Scully bit back a harsh response and tried one last time.  "Did you ever see 
Marjorie outside of the office?"

"No, I don't believe so.  My wife ran into her a few times at the grocery 
store, as I recall, but that's probably the extent of it."  His smile this 
time was hopeful; perhaps he expected that, having supplied Scully with what 
she wanted, she would reciprocate.  

She plunged ahead, impatient to get this last important question asked.  
"Mr. Taymor, were you and Marjorie having an affair?"

Taymor's jaw dropped.  "Excuse me??"

Scully spoke slowly and enunciated clearly, her face a mask of glacial calm.  
"Items were found at Marjorie's home that indicated that she may have 
been ... inclined toward a romantic relationship with you."

The businessman stared at Scully with wide, solemn eyes, gaping like a fish, 
the suave expectant attitude disappearing completely.

"Were you having an affair with her, Mr. Taymor?"

"No."  Taymor shook his head.  "No.  I had no idea that she -- I had no 
idea."  The expression on his face practically screamed surprise, but Scully 
did not see the guilt that she had expected.

"Well."  She stood up, giddy with relief that this endless interview was 
finally over.  "Thank you for your time, Mr. Taymor."

"Oh.  Oh, no problem."  Taymor also stood, still looking rather shell-
shocked but gamely rounding the desk with his hand outstretched for another 
handshake.  Scully gave him a wan smile and let him clasp her hand again, 
thinking vaguely that if this man's sexual stock always dropped like this 
between handshakes then the next time she saw him she might not even 
recognize him as human.  "If you need anything else ..." Taymor abruptly 
released her hand in order to dig around in his jacket pocket and came up 
with a business card.  He flashed a charming smile and handed it to her.

Scully accepted the card gingerly, with two fingers, and glanced at it.  A 
full half of the card was taken up by a color picture of none other than Jim 
Taymor, smiling the same oh-so-charming smile that she was currently 
experiencing live and up close.  The business name and address particulars 
were squashed into the remaining half, the tiny print looking much like a 
small troupe of army ants marching across the card.  "Thank you," she told 
him, and looked at Mulder.

Mulder gave Taymor a blatantly insincere smile.  "See ya," he said in his 
Plays Well With Others voice, and started for the door.

Scully smiled one last time at Jim Taymor and turned for the door.  Mulder 
was already through it and apparently long gone; she wondered just how fast 
she was going to have to walk to catch up with him before he got to the car.

Mulder, however, was standing right outside the office, his head slightly 
bowed, waiting for her.

Surprise flared through her and she stopped dead in her tracks, looking up 
at him wide-eyed.

He swept a hand toward the lobby in a courtly gesture.  "After you."

She examined his expression suspiciously, looking for a trap.  She didn't 
see one.  Mulder's eyes were weary and a little sad, tinged gray with 
regret.

Cease fire.

Some painful knot in her chest suddenly loosened -- not all the way, but 
enough to breathe again.  She looked at him for another moment and started 
down the hallway.

After a step and a half, Mulder's hand settled lightly at the small of her 
back.

<X><X><X><X>

Amber was waiting for them in the reception area, her arms piled high with 
file folders.  "Here," she announced, and dumped the folders in Scully's 
arms without any pretense of civility.  "Enjoy."  She pivoted neatly and 
stalked off.

Scully did a quick, awkward juggling act to keep the folders from tumbling 
to the floor in an avalanche of paper.  Mulder reflexively held out a hand, 
palm-out, as though he could control the situation with some kind of anti-
gravity super-power.  "Steady," he muttered.

Perhaps there was something to that super-power thing after all, because the 
folders stabilized just as Amber came back.  This time she handed Mulder a 
toaster-sized cardboard box with the legend "King's Parrot Food Yummy 
Tropical Mix" across it like a banner.

"For me?" Mulder asked, examining the box with sarcastic thoroughness.  
"Gee, I didn't get you *anything*."

"My dad says you have the parrot.  So."  She shrugged

Scully's eyebrows went up.  "Is this a ... present ... for the parrot?"

Amber's face contorted in disgust.  "Oh, God, no.  I hate that fucking 
bird."  She waved vaguely at the box as though she was trying to flick 
something nasty off her fingers.  "That was Marjorie's.  I'm still cleaning 
out her desk."

Mulder's fingers had discovered the open pour-tab on one side of the box.  
"I take it she brought the parrot over for a visit now and again."

"Visit, hell, that bird practically lived here."

The two agents exchanged a startled look.  "Here?" Scully echoed.

"*Yeah*,"  Amber intoned, stretching the word into a two-note phrase, high 
to low, a little song about the stupidity of adults.  "Marjorie brought that 
stinky bird in here almost every day.  She thought it would get lonely if 
she left it at home."  She looked pointedly at Scully.  "Didn't my dad tell 
you that?"

Scully shook her head, lips pursed.  "It seems," she said carefully, "that 
there's a lot that your dad hasn't told us."

<X><X><X><X>

End of Chapter 10  (10/16)

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