Then he had committed the protocol error of taking a seat without being asked. When Skinner walked in, his face flushed with exasperation, Mulder wasn't quick enough to get to his feet, and the a.s.sistant Director's curt greeting wouldn't have melted in a blast furnace.

It had been all downhill from there, even after Scully arrived, with Skinner raging quietly against those whose carelessness had imperiled an important investigation.

Mulder bore it all without comment.

At least the man wasn't raging against him for a change, which had not always been the case in the past.

Then, as now, the bone of contention between them was usually the X-Files.

The FBI's law enforcement mandate covered a mult.i.tude of federal crimes, from kidnapping to extortion, political a.s.sa.s.sination to bank robbery; it also permitted them to investigate local cases when local authorities asked them for a.s.sistance and the affair was such that it might be construed to be of potential federal interest, generally involving national security.

Not always, however.

Occasionally there were some cases that defied legal, sometimes rational, definition.

Cases that seemed to include instances of the paranormal, the inexplicable and bizarre, or the allegation that UFO activity was somehow involved.

X-Files.

They were Mulder's abiding, often single-minded, concern, and the core of his conviction that, X-Fileor not, the truth was not always as evident as it appeared to be. Nor was it always liberating or welcome.

But it was out there, and he was determined to find it.

And expose it.

The cost was immaterial; he had his reasons.

Skinner thumped a heavy hand on the folder. "Mulder ..." He paused, the lighting reflecting off his gla.s.ses, banishing his eyes unnervingly until his head shifted. "Mulder, how in the name of heaven do you expect me to believe that this murderer is actually writing his name on his victims' chests?"

It was the tone more than the words that told him the Director was actually concerned about something else.

"I thought it was obvious, sir, once the patterns had been established."

Skinner stared at him for several seconds before he said, flatly, "Right."

A glance to Scully told Mulder he wasn't wrong about the Director's focus; it also told him he had somehow stepped on someone else's toes. Again. As usual.

He was, as he had told her more than once, a lousy Bureau dancer.

There in fact were few things that frustrated him more than internal Bureau politics. He sup-posed he should have known, given the personal-ities currently involved, that it would have been more politic to let either Neuhouse or Bournell come up with the solution on their own. He should have only been the guide. Suggesting instead of declaring.

And, given the personalities involved, he should have also guessed that one of them, prob-ably Bournell, would have complained that Mulder was trying to steal the case, and thus the credit, from under them.

"Sir?" It was Scully.

Skinner shifted his eyes; the rest of him didn't move.

''As 1 understand it, there's a serious time constraint here. By his already established schedule, the killer is due to strike again within the next two weeks. Possibly sooner. Anything Agent Mulder is able to give them at this stage, any guidance he can offer, despite the pressure of his own caseload, can only be helpful, not an interference."

Mulder nodded carefully; his other reaction would have been to laugh.

"Besides," Scully added blandly as the Director replaced his gla.s.ses, "I doubt Mulder thinks this one is strange enough to tempt him"

Skinner looked at him, unblinking. "I can believe that, Agent Scully."

Mulder couldn't decipher the man's expres-sion. He couldn't forget that it had been Skinner who had once shut down the X-Files on orders from higher up, from those who didn't like the way Mulder learned too much of what, from their point of view, didn't concern him; nor could he forget that it was Skinner who had ordered opened the X-Files again, and Mulder suspected the Director hadn't had much support.

It was confusing.

Skinner was neither all-out enemy nor all-out ally. Despite the profile of his position, he was a shadow, and Mulder was never quite sure what the shadow was, or what cast it.

"Excuse me, sir," he said carefully. "Am I being reprimanded for lending requested a.s.sistance?"

"No, Agent Mulder," the Director said wearily. "No, you're not." He rubbed the bridge again, this time without removing the gla.s.ses. "The record shows I called you in. It doesn't have to say what we talked about. But next time, do me a favor-save me some trouble and phone calls, and let someone else figure it out for a change. As Agent Scully suggested, be the guide."

He didn't smile.

Neither did the others.

Finally, he slapped the folder closed and indi-cated with a nod that they could leave. But as they reached the doorway, he added, "Greek, Mulder?"

"Cla.s.sical Greek, sir."

The man nodded. "Of course."Mulder resisted the temptation to salute and followed Scully into the hall, where she suggested coffee in the cafeteria, iced tea for him.

"You know," he said as they made their way down the hall, "I appreciate the support, Scully, bu1

1.

don't need defending. Not really"

She looked up at him and sighed. "Oh yes you do, Mulder."

He looked back blankly.

'Trust me," she said, patting his arm. "On this one you'll have to trust me."

His temper didn't flare until later that after-noon.

He had been halfheartedly sorting through a half-dozen new cases dropped on his desk for evaluation.

His Oxford-trained expertise in criminal behavior, and his natural talent for discovering patterns and traces where none seemed to exist, were natural magnets for investi-gations that had suddenly or inevitably run into a roadblock.

He didn't mind it; he enjoyed it.

What made him angry now was the admittedly unfounded suspicion that Bournell and Neuhouse had deliberately set him up for a reprimand. They were not incompetent. They were definitely not stupid.

Given enough time, they would have undoubtedly seen what he had seen; and the Bureau was crawling with experts-either here in the city or out at Quantico-who could have reached the same conclusions.

He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and stared at the closed door, A droplet of sweat rolled untouched down his cheek.

He couldn't help wondering if They were after him again-the unseen powers he had labeled the Shadow Government; the people who knew more than they let on about the truth he himself knew existed in the X-Files.

It wasn't paranoia.

On more than one occasion, they had tried to discredit him, and thus have him fired.

On more than one occasion, they had tried to kill him.

And Scully.

Only the fact that he had somehow attracted friends in that same gray land of shifting shad-ows kept him alive and functioning, and he knew it.

Now it was possible They were at it again. Nibbling at him this time. Distracting him. Possibly hoping to force him into a careless mis-take on one of the eases he needed to study. He had learned the hard way that there was only so much Skinner and the unknowns could do to pro-tect him.

"I should have told them it was Russian" he whispered to the floor.

And laughed.

Suddenly the door slammed open, nearly spilling him out of the chair. Bournell stood on the threshold, pointing at him.

"Mulder, who knows old Greek?" the agent demanded hoa.r.s.ely.

Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. Old Greeks?"

Bournell blinked slowly, took a step into the office just as a hush of cold air spilled out of the vents. He made as if to close the door behind them, and changed his mind. Instead, he slipped one hand into a pocket.

"Priests, Mulder. Seminarians. Teachers in a seminary. Preachers, Mulder. Ministers." His free hand took a slow swipe of his tie. "People, Mulder, who study the Bible."

Mulder waited patiently, unmoving. He sus-pected it wouldn't exactly do to mention that the list might also include professors of ancient lan-guages, archaeology, and who knew what else. Not to mention immigrants who had been schooled in Greece. Or nonacademic scholars of at least a dozen different disciplines, both scientific and otherwise. The man was excited about some-thing, and he didn't want to throw him off.

"I got to thinking," the agent continued, a fin-ger tapping the face of the closest filing cabinet. "You were right about the Greek part, and I've kicked myself a dozen times for not noticing it before. But Inave to tell you I think you're wrong about the name."

Mulder sat up slowly, drawing in his legs, tilt-ing his head, eyes slightly narrowed. "How?"

"I was in a fraternity in college."

"A sorority would have been more fun."

Bournell glared at him in faint disgust until he lifted a hand in apology.

"Okay. So you were in a fraternity. What does that have to do with-"

"Alpha Chi Rho, it was." He held out his right hand; on it was an impressive signet ring, a faceted dark ruby centered in gold. He took a step closer so Mulder could see it more clearly. "On the rim, Mulder.

Check out the rim."

He did, saw the three raised letters, and held his breath.

The hand dropped away, "Chi Rho. The sym-bol for Christ, Mulder." There was glee in his voice, in the way his hand danced at his side. "That's what he carved: Chi Rho." A sharp nod, a slap of the hand against his thigh. "Those women aren't hookers, that would be too easy. But I'll bet the farm and farmhouse there's something about them, a connection, that a reli-gious fanatic might find to be ... I don't know, sinful."

Mulder sat back, admiration clear. "I'll be d.a.m.ned."

Bournell smiled, rubbed Ms palms together, and glanced toward the vent. "Man, it's like an icebox in here. Your thermostat busted or what?" He headed for the door, grabbed the k.n.o.b, and paused before leaving.

Mulder watched his shoulders tense, and relax.

"Hey, thanks, Mulder. No kidding. To be hon-est, I don't know if I really ever would have seen that Greek stuff. I've had this ring forever and hardly ever looked at it. But I just had it cleaned, and when I was putting it on this morning . . . well, it got me thinking, you know? And the next thing I knew I was looking at it like I'd never seen it before."

He hesitated, about to say something else, then nodded his thanks and closed the door behind him.

Mulder didn't move for a long time.

Sheriff Chuck Sparrow took off his hat, wiped a forearm over what was left of his hair, and slapped the hat back into place, yanking the brim down hard.

"What do you think?" the woman beside him asked, her voice tight with the effort not to lose her dinner Sparrow shook his head. The best he could fig-ure, either somebody was in sore desperate need to practice his tanning skills, or there was another one of those d.a.m.n cults holed up in the hills again. Either way, it didn't take a brain surgeon to see that he was in for a h.e.l.l of a lot more work than his inclination wanted.They stood side by side near the mouth of a small cave, on the west side of a solitary low hill two miles west of the Hatch ranch. Sprawled in front of it was what was left of a steer, ants and flies now vying for the right to rid the dead ani-mal of whatever they could take.

"What do you think?"

"Donna," he said, "I wish to h.e.l.l I knew."

She was a tall woman, her figure hidden in boots, baggy jeans, and a man's shirt about a size too large.

Her short brown hair was brushed back over her ears, and on her right hand she wore the biggest silver ring Sparrow had ever seen. Her Cherokee was parked on the shoulder, fifty yards away; his patrol car was behind it.

She jutted her chin toward the cave. "You look in there?"

"Yes," he answered with exaggerated patience. "Yes, I looked in there."

"And?"

"And fourteen different kinds of s.h.i.t is all what I found, all right? Bones. Little bones," he added hastily.

"The usual c.r.a.p."

"I read that they use them, you know. Kind of temporary, so to speak."

He scanned the hillside, squinted at the vehi-cles. "Now don't take this wrong, all right? But there hasn't been a d.a.m.n mountain lion around here for nearly as long as I've been working this job. And in case you hadn't noticed, they don't generally skin their meals before they eat them."

"I don't need your sarcasm, Chuck."

No, he thought; what you need is a good swat upside the head, keep you from bothering the h.e.l.l outta me.