Title: ONE WARNING
Author: Jean Robinson (jeanrobinson@yahoo.com)
Disclaimer: Characters from the X-Files are the property 
of Ten Thirteen Productions and the Fox Television 
Network. All others are the property of the author. No 
infringement is intended. 
Rating: PG-13
Classification: S
Archive: Please ask permission.
Spoilers: "Pilot," "Deep Throat," "Fire," "One Breath"
Summary: Who is the Consortium really afraid of, after 
all?
Feedback: Would thrill me at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com
Author's notes at the end
*****************************


ONE WARNING (1/5)
By Jean Robinson


It happened right after the whole incident with Colonel 
Budahas and the Ellens Air Base UFO sightings.

In fact, Fox Mulder was sickeningly sure it was precisely 
because of the Colonel Budahas case, and the case 
before it in Bellefleur, Oregon, that it did happen.

They'd sent her to spy on him. To report on him. To 
invalidate his work and give them a reason to terminate 
the X-Files projects once and for all.

But for a group of such powerful people, with the 
resources and the background to create, run and analyze 
hundreds of theoretical models, simulations, and 
psychological character profiles to locate the most likely 
candidate to unwittingly aid them in engineering his fall 
from grace, they'd made one hell of a big miscalculation.

Because Dana Scully hadn't done any of the things she'd 
been 'instructed' to do. Her reports were straightforward 
and honest, and even if she didn't give his explanations 
any real scientific weight, she was not above admitting 
there were things she herself couldn't validate with 
empirical evidence. Worse than that, by the time the 
situation was resolved in Idaho, it was quite clear she 
was ready and willing to not only step over that fine line 
they'd drawn for her, but to broad jump it with both feet 
if it meant saving Mulder's ass. 

She might have escaped unscathed if her only 
transgression had been her willingness to go along with 
his crazy notions in Oregon. But when she pulled a gun 
on Paul Mosinger and forced their hand in returning her 
errant partner, she'd shown her true colors, and 
unknowingly sealed her fate.

Someone was watching. That wasn't news to Mulder; as 
far as he was concerned, someone was always watching. 
Despite the unsettling events in Idaho, Scully had yet to 
be convinced that anyone cared enough about the 
possible reality of life out there to pay them or their 
investigations more than a passing glance.

But someone was giving their activities a good deal more 
than a casual glimpse. As soon as they saw her take 
control at Ellens, they must have realized what a 
grievous error it had been to assign her to him in the first 
place. Suddenly it seemed that all their plans, all their 
careful machinations, might never come to fruition 
because of one diminutive redhead with a gun and a 
disturbingly deep streak of loyalty that no one had 
factored into the equation.

Now someone was mad.

It was time for a little lesson in obedience.
**************

Caribou Motor Court
Anacortes, Washington, 6:30 a.m.

The insistent beeping of the motel alarm clock radio 
dragged Mulder from sleep, reminding him once again 
just how much he truly despised that particular noise. 
Something about that audio frequency was so grating, so 
irritating that you just had to wake up, if only to smack 
the damn thing off.

Which, of course, was exactly what the manufacturers 
were hoping for. No sense making an alarm clock that 
didn't wake you up. Talk about defeating the purpose.

He could have tuned it to 'radio' instead of 'alarm,' but 
experience had taught him that most of the radio 
stations in the towns he tended to visit on business fell 
into one of two categories: country music, and more 
country music. With an occasional side trip into the land 
of gospel and bible preaching, just for good measure.

All things considered, he'd rather face that nerve-
shattering beep than Conway Twitty or any of his more 
modern cohorts.

Except The King, of course. But so far, he hadn't 
discovered that elusive 'all Elvis' radio station of his 
dreams.

Now he reached out and slapped the offending timepiece, 
being careful to push the button all the down. Others 
might like the snooze feature, but when Mulder was 
awake, he was awake, and that was it. Being reminded of 
his conscious status by yet another chirp in seven 
minutes was only an additional annoyance.

One of these days he'd have to get a travel alarm clock 
whose alarm he could actually stand. It was on his list of 
things to do sometime before he retired.

It was 6:30 a.m. Time to get up, even if he had only fallen 
asleep three hours ago. They had a meeting with some of 
the victims' families at 9:00, and he and Scully hoped to 
visit a few of the abduction sites before lunch. Or, the 
'scenes of the disappearances,' as his partner insisted on 
calling them. Whatever. No matter what nomenclature 
you preferred, it meant he had to get his sorry body out 
of bed and into the shower. Now.

Mulder sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed 
and paused, one ear cocked towards the wall behind the 
headboard. Scully was on the other side of that wall, in 
an adjoining room. He waited, heard nothing, and 
shrugged. The walls were thin, but it didn't mean 
anything. Chances were good that she was already up 
and dressed, going over the case file while she mentally 
prepared to decimate his working theory on what was 
really happening to the pets in the scenic small town of 
Anacortes, Washington. Either that, or her alarm was 
about to shrill any minute.

He headed for the bathroom. Forty minutes later, 
cleansed of ten hours worth of travel grime and dressed, 
he did his own mental in-depth review of the case and 
the last twenty-four hours.
**************

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington DC, one day earlier

"Scully, do you have a dog?" Mulder asked her as she 
came into his office.

"A dog? No. I'm not home long enough to take care of 
one," she replied as she set down her briefcase. "Why? Or 
were you just making idle conversation?"

"Nobody in Anacortes, Washington has a dog, either. At 
least, nobody that had a dog has one now. In the last 
month, they've all vanished."

Scully sat down. "And?"

"And we're booked on a flight to Seattle this afternoon to 
find out why."

She sighed and crossed her arms. "I can give you one 
very probable explanation right off the top of my head. 
Pet theft. Animals are commonly used in medical studies 
for pharmacological testing of new drugs and new 
surgical procedures. They're also used in product safety 
testing of household chemicals and cosmetics. The test 
subjects are mainly rodents, but dogs, cats, rabbits, 
monkeys and other small mammals are not unheard of. 
There is a black market for research animals, because 
the controls on obtaining them through legal channels 
makes it expensive and sometimes difficult to do so." 

"Scully, we're talking about 437 licensed dogs, and who 
knows how many unlicensed ones," Mulder protested 
mildly. "All pets. All ages, from a new litter of pedigree 
Border Collies to a seventeen-year-old spaniel mix with 
the enchantingly original name of Rover. All gone, all 
within four weeks. I don't know of any lab that would 
want that many different test subjects." 

She ran her tongue across her lower lip, considered his 
words, and tried again. "People dependent on hard 
results for grants and funding are not above doing 
desperate things if their cash flow is threatened. If a 
researcher is unscrupulous enough to traffic in stolen 
pets, he or she probably doesn't care what they get, as 
long as they have enough animals to proceed with some 
kind of clinical trials."

Mulder merely looked at her, letting his silence speak for 
him.

"=All= the dogs are gone?" she asked finally.

"Not exactly. The pound is still full of replacements, 
except they won't adopt them out anymore. After the first 
few disappeared, some of the grieving families came in to 
adopt a new dog. Within a few days of the adoption, all 
those dogs were gone, too. So the pound is basically 
sitting on the rest. Whoever - or whatever - is doing this 
only seems to like dogs in happy homes. The strays 
appear to be safe."

"No one has suggested that these dogs might simply have 
wandered away from their homes while unsupervised?" 
she countered. "Not everyone believes in the leash law, 
particularly in more rural or agricultural areas."

Mulder peered over the top of his glasses at her. "Leash 
law or not, they were all accounted for until four weeks 
ago." He smiled at her expression. "Cheer up, Scully. 
Maybe it's not aliens. Maybe the cat lovers out there have 
staged one heck of a hostile takeover."

"What time is our flight?" she sighed, giving in.

Bad weather delayed their plane out of Dulles, but the 
storm system extended to the midwest and the 
connection in Chicago was also late. Turbulence rocked 
both legs of the journey; Mulder watched in a 
combination of silent sympathy and amusement as his 
partner valiantly tried to read while fighting the urge to 
clutch the armrests at every bump.

She wasn't the world's greatest flier. He'd noticed that on 
their very first case. He wondered how someone with a 
degree in physics could have so little faith in the 
mechanics of air travel.

Halfway to Chicago, he plucked the file out of her hands; 
she was gripping it hard enough to dent the thick 
fiberboard cover. "You've been looking at that page for 
thirty minutes."

"Maybe you should do something other than stare at 
me."

"Maybe you should take something."

"I'm =fine=, Mulder," she snapped.

He gave up. Let her be airsick if she wanted to suffer. He 
already knew Scully didn't like being told what to do, and 
she would go to great lengths to conceal anything that 
could be construed as a personal weakness or character 
fault. She excused herself to use the restroom at O'Hare 
while they waited for their flight, leaving Mulder cooling 
his heels in the gate area. 

His eyes roved restlessly over the ebb and flow of the 
crowds passing by, a gentle tide of humanity on their 
way out to sea or returning to their home port after a 
journey. So many people, so many different, unknown 
faces. . .

Except one that was neither different nor unknown. It 
was disturbingly familiar and definitely out of place here 
in an airport a time zone removed from their regular 
stomping grounds. Short graying hair, loose jowls, and a 
prominent forehead topped a gray trench coat so 
nondescript it practically announced its wearer as a 
master of covert operations.

Deep Throat.

Their eyes met briefly, but before Mulder could even gain 
his feet, the man was gone. Vanished into the crowd like 
a shadow, camouflaged perfectly amid hundreds of other 
business travelers.

"Mulder?"

He realized he was sitting straight up, staring sightlessly 
at the distant point where his mysterious helper had 
been. If it indeed really had been him at all, and not just 
a product of his admittedly overactive imagination.

"Close your mouth, Mulder. You're drawing flies." He 
wasn't looking at her, but could hear the smile in her 
words even if it didn't show on her face. He closed his 
mouth obediently as she continued. "What are you 
staring at?"

"Nothing. Just thought I saw someone I knew."

"Oh." She lost interest and was about to sit down next to 
him when their flight was finally announced.

He didn't know why he hadn't told her who he thought 
he'd seen. It just seemed safer not to mention it until he 
was sure.

Scully dozed off shortly after they were airborne once 
more; he wondered if perhaps she had heeded his advice 
about the benefits of Dramamine.

She roused as the 737 settled slightly, signifying the 
initial descent from cruising altitude as they neared the 
King County area. Mulder nudged her and pointed out 
the window. "Mount Rainier."

"Mmm." Scully captured a yawn behind her hand. 
"Excuse me. What time is it?"

"Almost six o'clock, local Pacific time. By the time we 
land we'll be about an hour late."

She adjusted the time on her watch. "How long does it 
take to get to where we're going?"

"Anacortes is about eighty miles northwest of Seattle. 
We're going to hit rush hour traffic on I-5, though, so it'll 
probably be two hours or more before we get there."

"Terrific." Scully leaned back in her seat and closed her 
eyes again. "I still can't believe we've been sent all the 
way out here to investigate 'Lassie Come Home,'" she said 
sardonically. "I would think this is a job for the local 
humane agency, not the FBI."

Truth be told, Mulder had wondered the very same thing 
when Skinner had handed him the file and the tickets 
earlier in the day. He sat in front of his superior's desk 
and skimmed the case report, then raised his head to 
comment about the obvious lack of any apparent 
connection to an X-File. But there was something fleeting 
behind the usual deadpan expression on the A.D.'s face 
that stopped him. It all but screamed, "You're going. 
Don't even bother to ask." 

At the time, he assumed it was the Bureau's way of 
subtly punishing him for the Ellens Air Base debacle. 
You embarrassed us, Agent Mulder, therefore we are 
sending you to the other end of the world to investigate 
dog drool and pet dander as penance. Have a nice trip. 
Watch where you step. Literally.

He wasn't quite so sure it was that simple anymore, 
especially since his phantom sighting in the United 
terminal at O'Hare, but he shrugged off Scully's doubts 
and commented, "I hear the salmon is great in this state, 
too."

She gave him a sideways glance and responded dryly, 
"The last time you mentioned salmon, I spent three days 
running around in the rain, had my motel room torched 
and got a rifle butt in the head courtesy of the local law 
enforcement. Do me a favor, Mulder, do not discuss 
seafood with me again, okay?"

"You left out the best part of that trip, Scully. At least for 
me."

She sat up, a slight frown of confusion furrowing her 
brow, and then the penny dropped. Any other woman, he 
thought, would have blushed and made some smart 
remark back at him. Or sucker-punched him in the close 
confines of the two-seat row they occupied. Or possibly 
even burst into tears.

None of those histrionics applied to Scully. Her face 
cleared, and he could almost hear the 'bang' as her 
internal emotional barrier slammed down. She regarded 
him a moment longer with a completely neutral 
expression, her fathomless blue eyes gazing at him as if 
he was a total stranger, instead of her business partner. 
A total stranger who happened to be bothering her with 
unwanted conversation, that is. Then she simply turned 
away to look out the little oval window at the Cascade 
Mountains passing beneath them in all their majestic 
glory.

He realized, not for the first time, that he didn't really 
know her all that well. And her behavior to date indicated 
that maybe he never would know her very well, no matter 
how long they worked together.

He'd gone through a multitude of partners since joining 
the Bureau. Scully had lasted the longest so far; the 
record for the shortest time was held by Agent John 
Clyne, who had been in and out within five hours. 
Mulder actually didn't blame the man; it was a day near 
the very beginning of his involvement with the X-Files 
that had involved an investigation of mummy that 
allegedly came to life at night and ran rampant through a 
small museum in DC. 

That alone might not have caused Agent Clyne's hasty 
departure, but the mummy file came down immediately 
following four other phone calls to open cases on 
sightings of Frankenstein in Ohio, Count Dracula in 
Pennsylvania, the Creature from The Black Lagoon in 
Michigan and a werewolf report from North Carolina. 
Clyne, whose taste in movies tended towards action flicks 
with car chases rather than classic horror, beat a rapid 
path to the A.D.'s door and delivered an ultimatum - 
transfer me NOW or I quit.

By sheer coincidence, all of his previous partners but one 
had been men.

He was still feeling his way with Scully, trying to get a 
handle on her personality and her individuality to make 
this partnership work. Mulder had gotten a sense on that 
first case that it could work, and that it had the potential 
to be something more than good. It had the potential to 
be something great.

Contrary to what he had just implied to her, Mulder 
hadn't come to that conclusion at the sight of Scully 
panicking in her underwear that night in his motel room. 
The realization came a few hours later, when they'd been 
standing together arguing in a torrential downpour in 
front of two empty graves, drenched to the skin. She 
suddenly dissolved into laughter in the middle of his 
explanation. Real laughter. 'I can't believe you're saying 
this and I'm actually going along with it' laughter.

He hadn't heard her laugh like that since; there had been 
precious little room for hilarity during the Budahas 
kidnapping case. But the very fact that she could 
spontaneously lose it struck a chord with him.

Musically speaking, though, Scully was a melody with 
notes that ranged up and down the octaves, unexpected 
key changes and tempo variations. And Mulder's 
background was psychology, not orchestration.

Case in point. Was she embarrassed at being reminded 
how frightened she'd been? Annoyed? Furious? He had 
no clue. She participated willingly in verbal duels; her 
parries and thrusts were as skilled as any high end 
debater or attorney. She could - and had - given as good 
as she got in their short association.

But there were limits, as he was finding out. Times that 
she decided enough was enough, and that any further 
conversation would mean divulging more of herself than 
she was willing to share. At that point she would 
abruptly close herself off, and no amount of teasing or 
prodding could goad her into continuing the battle.

Like now.

The 'fasten seatbelts' sign blinked on, and the head flight 
attendant's voice came over the intercom announcing 
their arrival in Seattle. Mulder sighed and flipped his tray 
table up in preparation for landing, as instructed.

End part 1/5
________________________

ONE WARNING (2/5)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Scully's silence continued as they collected their luggage 
and trundled through the airport monorail to the main 
terminal and the rental car booths. She let Mulder sign 
for the Taurus and sat quietly in the Lariat shuttle, 
seemingly lost in thought.

After stowing her bags in the trunk, she went 
automatically to the passenger side, waiting for him to 
pop the door locks with the key. A silent clue to her 
condition, but a clue nonetheless. She =had= taken 
something to help her get through that second flight, 
then. Probably nothing more than an over-the-counter 
remedy with one of those 'do not operate heavy 
machinery while taking this product' warnings written in 
seven languages on the package insert. Although its 
effects had almost certainly worn off by now, she was 
enough of a professional not to risk driving on unfamiliar 
terrain in an unfamiliar vehicle after a stressful trip.

Especially since the weather here was only a slight 
improvement over the storm cells they'd just flown 
through. A fine, light mist fell around them, just heavy 
enough to saturate their trench coats, raise an oil slick 
on the road surface and dim the visibility.

For once, he decided to match her professionalism and 
not provoke her about it. Instead, he unlocked the doors 
and set about adjusting the seat and mirrors to his 
satisfaction. Scully buckled herself in and unfolded a 
road map. "We head up I-5 to the exit for Mount Vernon, 
and then turn west for about fifteen miles to Anacortes," 
she instructed. "Just follow all the traffic north and the 
signs for the ferry."

"Good. Although if we get lost, I understand this is a 
great state for Bigfoot sightings. . ." he glanced over at 
her, cautiously gauging her reaction.

He got that one raised eyebrow. The Scully hallmark of 
understatement. After seeing it the first few times, he 
wondered if it was just her, or if all her relatives 
communicated that well with their facial features instead 
of their mouths. If so, their family reunions must be 
some interesting events.

She favored him now with some conversation to go along 
with that brow. "Bigfoot," she repeated, in carefully 
neutral tone.

"That's right."

"Dogs, salmon, Bigfoot. . . I'm sensing an animal theme, 
here, Mulder."

"Um. . ." Where was she going with this?

"Dare I ask what's next? Lions and tigers and bears, oh 
my?"

He risked a grin. "Only if they claim to be abducted by 
aliens."

She ducked her head to hide her own smile and refolded 
the map. "If you're not careful they're going to rename 
the division Wild Kingdom."

"Scully, I'm not even going to touch that comment."

"Chicken," she taunted.

"Nobody's that brave."

Two hours later, they checked into the Caribou Motor 
Court. Although it was now inching past 9:00 p.m., 
Mulder called the Anacortes sheriff, Drew Bergman, to let 
him know they'd arrived. Bergman immediately 
suggested meeting at a local microbrewery to start a 
dialogue on the case.

Mulder was tempted to decline. Scully was drooping; 
their bodies were still on Eastern time, insisting it was 
midnight. He had a thundering headache from the 
tedious, wet drive up the traffic-clogged interstate. But 
there was stress in Sheriff Bergman's voice, the stress of 
a man who has been holding some 437 distraught 
families at bay. Mulder didn't have much of an 
attachment to his fish, but he knew plenty of owners 
who, if given the choice, would have readily sacrificed a 
spouse, a home, a career or even a child rather than give 
up the pet pooch. Poor Sheriff Bergman had a town full 
of bereaved canine lovers literally howling for some kind 
of closure.

Plus, neither he nor Scully had eaten much on the 
flights, and they hadn't stopped on the way up, either.

"Hold on, Sheriff." He placed one hand over the 
mouthpiece and said quietly, "He wants to take us out for 
some food and a drink to talk about the case."

"Tell him yes."

"You sure?"

She nodded. "I'm fine. We need him to help us. And I'm 
hungry."

His practical partner was reminding him in a not-so-
subtle fashion to play nicely with the town cops. She'd 
experienced first hand what could happen if the big bad 
FBI agents annoyed them.

"Okay, that'll be great. Where? Right, down the road and 
turn left at the light, two blocks and Grizzly's is on the 
right. Give us twenty minutes or so, and we'll see you 
there." He hung up.

"Rooms at the Caribou Motor Court, dinner at Grizzly's?" 
She was smiling now, really smiling.

Mulder grinned back. "Wild Kingdom, here we come. Who 
do you want to be Scully, Marlin Perkins who waits in 
the duck blind, or Jim who wrestles the angry alligator?"

Grizzly's turned out to be a small, cozy restaurant and 
microbrewery, featuring gleaming wood décor and no less 
than four stuffed namesakes, all mounted in different 
ferocious poses. Sheriff Bergman ushered them to a 
table, thanked them profusely for coming, and offered 
recommendations for their meal choices. When the waiter 
came over to inquire if they wanted a drink, Bergman 
immediately said yes.

"Just water, please," Scully replied.

"Oh, no you don't, Agent Scully," Bergman broke in, 
gesturing for the waiter to stop writing. "This state has 
some of the finest microbrews in the country, and you 
are going to seriously insult me if you don't try one. My 
brother even has his own label. I know we're supposedly 
all on the job, but this is just a friendly little chat and 
you can't tell me a couple drinks are going to hurt you 
after the day you've had. I didn't bring you here to 
sample the water supply. Humor me."

Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance. She cocked an 
eyebrow, and he shrugged imperceptibly. Bergman was 
right. At this point, a beer or two was hardly going to 
cloud their judgment, which was somewhat foggy from 
the trip already. Although the sheriff was neither tall nor 
physically imposing, with ordinary features and dark 
brown hair, he looked like someone who would take it as 
a personal affront if they refused. 

Mulder had encountered the attitude before. The rest of 
the country was on a different wavelength than the 
megalopolis that stretched from Boston down the eastern 
seaboard to DC. People who were not part of this 
hyperkinetic section of the country sometimes felt the 
residents put on airs. And in some cases, they did, 
viewing their small town, small city neighbors as rural 
oafs. Mulder could name at least three agents out of the 
DC office who unconsciously but habitually patronized 
anyone outside the metro area with a big city superiority 
attitude. 

But Scully, a nomadic Navy brat, had no such urban 
pretensions. His own isolated youth on Martha's 
Vineyard left him without any, either, but their contact 
wasn't privy to their personal histories. If a glass of beer 
was going to make this west coast lawman feel more 
comfortable with them, they would drink one and be 
enthusiastic about it.

Besides, he liked beer.

"All right. What's on tap?" Mulder asked.

The waiter, who looked barely old enough to drink 
himself, launched into a list some twenty names long. 
"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute," Mulder interrupted the 
rapid-fire recitation. "Just bring me something local 
that's dark and good."

"Agent Scully? What do you like?" Bergman asked.

"The same."

"Make it three," Bergman finished. "Thanks."

The waiter left dinner menus and vanished toward the 
bar. There were few customers at this hour; Mulder 
watched idly as the bartender pulled on the taps for their 
order. The waiter returned with the drinks.

They discussed the case over dinner. Mulder was 
surprised to find that both the food and the beer were 
quite good. He shot a glance at Scully, who also seemed 
to be relishing her drink and her fresh fish. As he 
watched her take another sip, he chalked up another 
thing he didn't really know about her: her drinking 
habits. Or if she even had any drinking habits. This was 
the first time he'd seen her imbibe anything alcoholic, 
come to think of it. She'd struck him as more the white 
wine type, but the beer seemed to be going down just 
fine, even though she didn't finish the second round. 
Maybe there really was a closet Irishman lurking behind 
that Celtic hair and coloring.

Sheriff Bergman didn't have much more to offer than 
what was contained in the original case file. The dogs 
were disappearing during the night; owners reported 
seeing their pets before the household went to sleep, but 
come the morning, Rex would be gone. Dogs vanished 
from outdoor doghouses, outdoor pens, basements, 
kitchens, hallways, bedrooms and in at least seventeen 
cases, right out of bed with the owners themselves. 

No one reported hearing, seeing, smelling, or otherwise 
noticing anything strange or unusual during the evening 
prior to the dog's removal. Bergman had arranged for 
them to talk to some of the bereft families in the morning 
at the police station, and to meet with the director of the 
animal shelter in the afternoon.

By the time they drove back to the motor lodge, it was 
nearly midnight. Scully yawned and rubbed her eyes. 
"I'm truly enjoying the fact that we have three more 
hours to sleep than my body thinks it does," she said.

"I'm enjoying the fact that you've survived the salmon 
without a head injury."

Seven hours later, he would bitterly regret that flip 
remark. For now, it just earned him a small, weary smile 
from his partner as she fumbled with her room key. 

"Seven-thirty for breakfast?" she asked, pausing with her 
hand on the doorknob.

"Fine. Good night, Scully."

"Good night." She slipped into her room and the door 
clicked shut behind her. He heard the telltale rattle as 
she fastened the chain and threw the deadbolt.

Mulder went into his own room, flicked on the TV out of 
habit, and lay down. Long day. Long day, long trip, long 
case ahead of them. At least Scully hadn't made any 
sarcastic comments about UFO chasing. Yet. He thought 
she might be right about someone taking the dogs for 
testing purposes, but he knew that come tomorrow they 
would engage in a strenuous disagreement about who - 
or what - was taking them. While he hadn't yet formed a 
paranormal alternative, he doubted these pets were being 
snatched for trying out experimental cancer drugs or 
heart valve replacement techniques. 

The muffled footsteps from the next room were nothing 
more than a small background sound that barely 
registered in his conscious mind: Scully getting ready to 
go to sleep, triangulating the space between her suitcase 
and the bathroom and the bed. He heard it, processed it, 
and filed it away without ever really thinking about it.

Mulder picked up the TV remote and checked the 
channels, settling on a late night cable show with a 
'mature audiences' rating. Watching the actors and 
actresses pant and gasp their way through one 
implausible sexual encounter after another, he came to 
the unsurprising conclusion that Phoebe could fake it 
better than the paid professionals groping away on 
screen.

It was 2:30 when he finally shut his light, and almost an 
hour later before his fuzzy, overtaxed brain quieted down 
enough to let him fall asleep.
**************

Caribou Motor Court
Anacortes, Washington, 7:30 a.m.

Mulder was surprised that she wasn't already waiting at 
the car when he left his room. Scully was nothing if not 
punctual. He walked up the little path to her door and 
knocked. "Scully? You ready?"

Silence. No sound of hurried footsteps, no "I'll be right 
there, Mulder," not even a sleepy "Who is it?"

A dog barked in the distance behind him, and Mulder 
jumped. One of the local lingering stray population, no 
doubt.

He knocked again, harder. "Scully?"

Nothing.

Mulder frowned and looked back at the car. It hadn't 
been moved, and anyway he had the only set of keys. 
Maybe she'd gone to the motel office for something? A 
message? A problem with her room?

A quick trip down the concrete sidewalk to the tiny room 
that served as the check-in point eliminated that option 
immediately. The desk area was devoid of any human 
life, red-haired or otherwise.

An icy finger of disquiet pressed against his spine as he 
walked back to their rooms. She'd been furious when 
he'd run off without her at Ellens Air Base; perhaps this 
was some elaborate attempt to turn the tables.

He rejected the idea almost as soon as it came to mind. 
Scully simply didn't do things like that. Improper 
procedure of any kind, particularly a practical joke, was 
just not her style at all.

He was the one with the reputation for juvenile acts of 
rebellion, and she was supposed to keep him in line.

Well, then, maybe she'd overslept and was in the shower, 
and couldn't hear him. Or maybe she'd overslept and was 
still asleep, oblivious to everything but the warmth of the 
covers and the seduction of a pleasant dream.

He smiled fondly at the mental image it produced. Time 
to wake up, Dr. Scully, he thought. We've got some 
puppies to find.

And maybe a Bigfoot sighting or two on the way back to 
the airport.

He went back into his room, intending to barge in on her 
through the connecting door. His mind began ticking off 
the possible poses in which he might find her:

Cuddled like a small child under the blankets, with only 
her tousled red hair visible.

Slamming the bathroom door shut with a startled scream 
at his abrupt intrusion.

Twisted into some obscure yoga position like a pretzel, 
eyes closed as she chanted a complex meditation ritual.

Sitting dressed and ready, reading the case file, ignoring 
him for some as-yet-unknown reason.

Despite his desire to find out which version of Scully he'd 
find behind door number two, Mulder hesitated once 
more and knocked on her room's connecting door before 
opening it. The last thing he needed right now was to 
walk blindly into a misconduct hearing or a lawsuit for 
sexual harassment.

He didn't =think= she'd do that, but it never hurt to be a 
little cautious with a new partner. A new female partner, 
even if said partner had already exposed herself to him 
previously. "Scully?" he called, pounding on the door 
with his fist this time so she couldn't help but hear it if 
she was anywhere in the small room.

No response.

The sense of disquiet suddenly surged into real alarm, 
blotting out all of the somewhat amusing possibilities 
he'd just finished visualizing. This isn't right, he thought. 
Something's not right.

He grabbed the doorknob and shoved the door open.

Of all the variations of just which unusual or 
embarrassing position he might find his partner engaged, 
this one hadn't made the top ten.

It hadn't even made the list.

Dana Scully lay sprawled face down on the floor next to 
her bed, motionless.

End part 2/5
________________________

ONE WARNING (3/5)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Caribou Motor Court
Anacortes, Washington, 7:35 a.m.

Fox Mulder had always wondered why almost everyone, 
including those who did not believe in any kind of god, 
immediately invoked some savior's name at the first sign 
of a crisis, as if the deity they summoned could in some 
way change the reality of the situation so the crisis was 
either resolved instantly or never happened in the first 
place.

He was a dues-paying member of the agnostic sect, yet 
he now succumbed to this phenomena and called upon 
the holiest of the Christian faith to vocalize his spiking 
panic.

"Jesus, Scully!" He dropped to his knees by her side, 
reaching frantically for a pulse in her throat. All the first 
aid courses he'd ever taken reminded rescuers to be 
careful if they did that; putting too much pressure on the 
carotid artery cut off half the circulation to the brain. 
Would-be Good Samaritans ran the risk of turning their 
patient into a human vegetable if they didn't watch what 
they were doing.

Scully had a pulse; even to Mulder's untrained fingers it 
felt steady and even. She was breathing.

She was also out cold.

He began to take in the entire scene, theories already 
clicking unbidden through his head. Her bed was still 
made up; there wasn't a dent or rumple to indicate she'd 
even sat down on the awful orange coverlet. She was still 
in the white silk blouse and gray wool skirt from the day 
before. He glanced at the little alcove that served as a 
closet and saw her suit jacket hanging neatly on the 
clothes bar and her shoes lined up beneath. Her 
holstered weapon sat serenely on the nightstand on the 
other side of the bed.

She'd been lying here all night.

Whatever had happened, it had been unbelievably fast, 
and extremely quiet. He hadn't heard a sound.

Don't move the victim, don't move the victim. You should 
never move the victim; you'll only cause more damage if 
you move the victim.

Mulder elected to ignore that advice. Scully didn't seem 
to be in any immediate medical distress. He took her 
shoulder and carefully rolled her over, cradling the back 
of her head in one hand to protect her skull.

The blood jumped out at him, not because there was a 
lot of it, but because he had been braced for much more. 
Her lower lip was cut and slightly puffy; blood crusted 
the corner of her mouth and painted a short rusty line 
down to her jaw, making a colorful decoration over the 
bruise forming there.

It was her only obvious injury.

Mulder ran his hands over her briefly, searching for 
broken bones, bumps, anything that might explain her 
lack of consciousness. When his madly searching fingers 
came up empty, he held a small, heated argument with 
himself and opted to go exploring for non-obvious 
injuries. Part of him screamed that this was stupid, and 
that this whole thing was a set-up to frame him in a 
compromising pose with his attractive, younger, female 
partner. 

It wasn't an altogether outlandish possibility, 
unfortunately. It had been known to happen to others in 
the Bureau, and Mulder knew he had enemies jealous 
and vicious enough to try it on him.

Her cuffs were already unfastened, the blouse itself was 
untucked and open two buttons down from the top. 
Suddenly a mental vision of the events that had taken 
place in this room after she'd bolted her door behind her 
started to scroll forward in his head, like a movie 
videotape.

Scully locks the door and turns on the lights. Unbuckles 
her holster and places it and the gun on the nightstand. 
Takes off her jacket and hangs it up. Kicks off her shoes 
and sets them ready for the morning. Undoes the buttons 
on her sleeves, loosens the collar, and pulls the blouse 
free from her skirt. Maybe she stretches long and hard, 
easing the knots and kinks in her spine and legs from 
the long hours sitting in the airplane, the car and the 
restaurant. Heads for the bathroom.

They must have been secreted in the bathroom. There 
was no other hiding place, and he would have heard 
something if they'd broken in or if she'd even let them in 
for some reason. In his mind it was already more than 
one person, because she would have been able to handle 
one assailant, or at least raise enough of an alarm to 
rouse him. Mosinger made the mistake of 
underestimating her, and he'd been standing between 
her and her weapon. His partner was short, but she was 
far from the helpless waif some people assumed her to be 
at first glance.

He pushed Scully's sleeves up one at a time and found 
the bruises on her upper arms. Five of them; two on her 
left arm and three on her right. Fingermarks. They were 
definitely recent, still more red than black or blue. Along 
with the cut on her lip, the small contusions added 
another piece to what was starting to take shape as an 
extremely frightening puzzle.

They'd hit her in the face to stun her, so they could 
overpower her and grab her. They'd done something else 
to her, that much was clear. The insignificant wounds 
he'd found so far would not have left her lying 
unconscious on the floor for going on seven hours.

Of course, he wasn't done looking yet.

Please, please, whatever is the matter with her, don't let 
her wake up now, because she'll kill me.

Still half expecting some slighted former acquaintance 
from the Behavioral Sciences Section to come dashing in 
with a camera to document his actions in vibrant Kodak 
colors, Mulder slipped the remaining buttons on Scully's 
blouse free of their holes and carefully separated the 
edges of the garment.

He gazed down at her dispassionately, checking for any 
sign of trauma, and only realized he was holding his 
breath when he found none. Her bra was still fastened in 
place; from her shoulders to her waist her torso was 
unmarked and she continued to breathe slowly and 
rhythmically.

He buttoned her shirt up again and closed his eyes 
briefly. So far, so good. It didn't look like she'd been 
beaten, beyond the initial blow to her face. 

Mulder turned his attention to her legs. Scully was still 
clad in her sheer pantyhose; he could detect no runs or 
rips to indicate they'd been removed and replaced. He 
gave one last glance over his shoulder for any passing 
voyeurs who might happen to look in the room's front 
window through the gauzy drapes and report him as a 
sex offender, grasped the hem of her skirt and shoved it 
up over her thighs.

And let out another gasp of relief at his inspection's 
findings. Scully had no additional bruises, no hidden 
hemorrhaging. The nylons were not torn anywhere above 
her knees, either, and the underwear beneath them 
appeared undisturbed.

He pulled her skirt back down and sat back on his heels, 
his mind flying ahead at a frenetic pace. His watch told 
him it had only been ten minutes since he'd found her; it 
felt like ten hours.

Okay. One unconscious female, no serious visible 
wounds, no blatant indication of sexual assault. 
Conclusion: Some kind of poison? Drugs? He hadn't 
found any needle punctures, but locating and identifying 
that kind of evidence was Scully's bailiwick, not his.

You've delayed enough. Get help. Now.

Mulder stood up, his knees popping, and went back into 
his room to call the paramedics and Sheriff Bergman. 
Scully's room could now be considered a crime scene and 
he didn't want to touch anything else in there if he could 
help it. He came back with the spread from his bed to 
cover her; she felt cold to him and if she went into shock 
the repercussions could be life-threatening even though 
her actual injuries seemed minor.

He knelt back beside her to wait for the ambulance.

Sheriff Bergman arrived first, took one look and promptly 
fulfilled the second axiom of Mulder's crisis response 
theory - if you're not in the mood to request divine help, 
a liberal smattering of oaths is an acceptable 
substitution.

"Shit, what the hell happened to her?!"

"I don't know yet. Can you have someone sweep the room 
for evidence of an intruder? I think she was attacked."

The sheriff cast a quick, dubious glance about the little 
room. "I'll call my team, but it doesn't look like anything's 
been disturbed, Agent Mulder. I'd feel a lot more 
confident if we were looking at some broken furniture, at 
least."

So would I, Mulder thought. Any indication of a struggle 
was preferable to this. Scully's briefcase, laptop and 
suitcase all sat neatly on the long, low dresser, all 
apparently undamaged and untouched. He'd already 
checked her weapon; it hadn't been fired and the clip was 
in place. Everything about this incident shouted out that 
it was some kind of personal vendetta, not a random 
robbery attempt. "Tell them to pay special attention to 
the bathroom," he directed. "Whoever they were, they 
must have been hiding in there when she got back here."

Bergman looked down at Scully's inert form. "You're sure 
she's not just sick? Food poisoning, allergic reaction, or 
something like that?" he asked. "Lots of people are 
allergic to seafood."

"I think she'd be exhibiting a lot more symptoms if that 
were the case. Depressed respiration, cold sweats, fever, 
nausea. . . and it would have been noticeable before we 
left the restaurant." 

"Right. Give me a minute." Sheriff Bergman pulled his 
radio from his belt and walked back into Mulder's room, 
issuing orders as the paramedics arrived.

Mulder rode with her in the ambulance, supplying the 
paperwork details of name, age, address, insurance and 
social security number, as well as specifics concerning 
her activities during the last twelve hours.

"Did she take anything? Medication, aspirin, anything 
like that?" the EMT asked him.

"Only this." Mulder handed over the small box of motion 
sickness pills he'd found in her briefcase while the 
paramedics were performing their initial assessment of 
her condition in the room. Only one tablet was missing 
from its foil bubble. "That was at three or so yesterday 
afternoon, Central time."

"Did she have anything to drink?"

"About two beers, around ten o'clock last night. What's 
wrong with her?"

The paramedic gave him a odd, sideways look. "You're 
her partner, right? FBI?"

"Yes. Sheriff Bergman called us to look into the dog 
disappearances."

The man relaxed a bit. "One of those dogs was mine. 
Mozart. A St. Bernard, just like that movie. My little girl's 
been crying herself to sleep for a week. You think you 
can find them?"

At this point, I don't care if I do or not, Mulder thought. 
I'm a little more concerned with why my partner is 
playing dead than why Mozart and his friends Rover, 
Rex, Spot and Fido and the rest of the pack have hauled 
paw out of this charming little harbor town. For all I 
know, they may all just be hanging out on the lower deck 
of the ferry having a great time playing poker, like that 
stupid painting that all the women I know think is 
horrible and all the men think is hysterical.

But he didn't say that. He didn't need one of Scully's 
well-timed, placating comments to remind him not to 
antagonize the man. "We're going to try, Mr. Scott," he 
said, reading the man's name tag. "Do you know what's 
wrong with Agent Scully?"

"I have an idea, Agent Mulder, but I'd rather wait until 
the doctors can confirm it."

Mulder tamped down on the urge to throttle him. "Look, 
Mr. Scott. . ." he began through clenched teeth.

"Pete."

"Pete, then. Just tell me what you think. Please."

Scott checked Scully again, and turned back to Mulder. 
"You know what roofies are?"

His mind froze at the word and its implications. No 
wonder this guy had seemed suspicious of him. "The date 
rape drug? Yes."

"You get someone who's been unconscious for this long 
after a night in the bar, even if they don't have a lot to 
drink, and that is at least one possibility."

He was sorry he'd asked. He stopped asking questions 
and simply sat staring at Scully's pale, still face, not even 
bothering to correct the man for his assumption that 
they'd spent the night boozing it up at Grizzly's.

End part 3/5
________________________

ONE WARNING (4/5)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Anacortes Community Hospital
Anacortes, Washington, 10:15 a.m.

It's that smell, Mulder decided idly. That truly disgusting 
combination of odors from undefinable and unpleasant 
chemicals used to heal and cleanse, that made hospitals 
such distressing places. He'd been injured in the line of 
duty more than once during his tenure with the FBI, and 
was no stranger to the process. He'd sat in similar chairs 
in other hospitals around the country, waiting on news of 
other partners and colleagues.

Experience didn't make it any easier.

It had been an hour and a half since they'd brought 
Scully into the emergency room, and he hadn't seen her 
or heard anything the entire time. Sheriff Bergman had 
called him once on his cellular, to report that the forensic 
team was at work, but not coming up with much.

"How's she doing?"

"I don't know. No one's come to tell me anything yet," 
Mulder answered. "About the interviews, Sheriff. . ."

Bergman cut him off immediately. "Don't worry. I got it 
covered. I know you can't leave until you hear something. 
I've explained it to the families; they're okay with it. We 
can reschedule."

"Thank you." Privately Mulder wondered if they would be 
rescheduling, or just leaving on the next flight out. He 
remembered Scully's words as she stalked away from the 
Budahas home. "Let's just get out of here, Mulder. As 
fast as we can."

This trip had the same eerie feeling. Was it just 
something about the Pacific Northwest, or were they 
going to have this kind of trouble on all their cases?

Why the hell had they been sent here, anyway?

"Agent Mulder?" A new voice broke into his reverie, and 
Mulder turned to find himself face to face with a blond 
woman in a blue scrub suit, a stethoscope looped 
casually around her neck.

"Yes."

"I'm Dr. Elizabeth Reardon. I'm here to talk to you about 
Agent Scully." She gestured toward the waiting area 
chairs. "Shall we sit down?"

"Is she going to be all right?"

Dr. Reardon smiled reassuringly. Up close, she wasn't as 
young as she'd seemed at first glance; there were tiny age 
lines surrounding her tired gray eyes. "She'll be fine. She 
has a few minor cuts and contusions, but she's starting 
to wake up now. I just need to get some more 
information."

"What happened to her?" he demanded.

"We just got the confirmation from the lab, I'm sorry you 
had to wait so long. Agent Scully was given Rohypnol. In 
combination with alcohol, it causes sedative-hypnotic 
effects, including muscle relaxation and amnesia." She 
looked at him steadily. "I understand you were the last 
person to see her last night."

Oh, great. He could see where this was leading. How 
many times was he going to have to repeat this story? 
"We had dinner with Sheriff Bergman. We drove back to 
the motel, and she went to her room and I went to mine. 
I didn't see her or talk to her again until I found her 
three hours ago."

Dr. Reardon made a note on the chart she held. "How 
was she when you last saw her? Did her behavior seem 
normal to you?"

Mulder shrugged. "She was tired. We both were. We just 
got here from DC. She wasn't staggering or slurring her 
words or anything obvious like that."

She eyed him cautiously and seemed to come to a 
decision. "You can see her now, if you like. We're going to 
keep her here for a little while longer, until she's fully 
conscious, but there's no need right now to admit her."

"How did she. . . how did it happen?"

"The bloodwork came up negative for anything other than 
the drug itself, Agent Mulder. It could have been 
dissolved in almost any liquid she ingested last night. 
Even a glass of water. What usually happens in a bar 
situation is that when a woman leaves her drink 
unattended to use the bathroom or even just turn 
around, someone spikes it. The stuff doesn't have a taste. 
Twenty or thirty minutes later, depending on how much 
alcohol she's had already, she starts feeling dizzy and 
faint, and the creep who knocked her out in the first 
place gallantly offers to escort her home. By the time they 
get to the parking lot, she's incapable of putting up any 
kind of resistance. And there you have it." Reardon 
looked at him calmly.

"It couldn't have been in the beer. Or even the water in 
the restaurant, for that matter," Mulder mused 
thoughtfully. "I saw the bartender draw our drinks, and 
the waiter poured the water at the table out of a 
communal pitcher. None of us got up the entire meal. 
And the time frame isn't right for the kind of reaction you 
described."

"I understand you're here about the dogs."

"Yes."

She smiled sadly. "His name was Brutus, and most of the 
squirrels in my yard were bigger than he was, but I still 
miss him. I hope you can find them." She stood up. 
"Come on, I'll take you to see your partner."

"Thank you."

They took four steps and then she stopped. "There is one 
more thing," she said hesitantly.

"What, Dr. Reardon?"

"How well do you know Agent Scully?"

Now there's a loaded question if I ever heard one, Mulder 
thought wryly. I know her well enough to understand she 
thinks everything has a plausible explanation no matter 
how strange it may look. I know her well enough to 
appreciate what an utter professional she is, and to 
realize that she sees a lot more than she lets on with 
those cool blue eyes of hers. But if you asked me what 
her favorite color is, or her favorite author, or what she 
likes to do in her spare time, or her views on nuclear 
disarmament or saving the rainforests, I couldn't help 
you. Because I know a lot more about what she doesn't 
believe in than what she does.

None of which was answering the doctor's question, of 
course.

Reardon misread his hesitation and rephrased her 
words. "I'm not trying to pry into any personal 
relationship between you two," she said carefully. "The 
reason I ask is because we'd like to perform a few other 
tests, and we need her consent. We would have done 
them before, but she was starting to wake up and we 
didn't want to alarm her. I want to know if you'd feel 
comfortable asking her to allow us to do the procedures."

"What kind of procedures are we talking about?"

She looked him square in the eye and said flatly, "An 
examination for indications of sexual assault."

He'd been expecting something along those lines, but it 
still made him wince. After all, he'd given his partner a 
cursory once-over himself, for that very same purpose. 
Because why else would someone go through all the 
trouble of subduing Scully and tranquilizing her just to 
leave her crumpled on the floor like a pile of dirty 
laundry?

Why indeed.

He'd done a great deal of thinking on that question while 
he waited for word on her, and none of his thoughts led 
in any remotely comforting directions.

Sheriff Bergman's people would not, despite their best 
efforts, come up with any evidence of intruders, because 
it was not a botched burglary attempt.

If Scully agreed to the examination he was certain it 
would show she had not been touched, because it was 
not an aborted rape attempt, either.

Skinner had as much as told him that no one, save their 
owners, was that distressed about the disposition of 
some 400-odd, unremarkable dogs, so it had nothing to 
do with the case, such as it was.

All that, combined with Deep Throat's little now-you-see-
me, now-you-don't charade outside Gate B17 at O'Hare 
convinced him it had everything to do with him. And the 
X-Files. And Scully.

Because it was a warning.

It was a subtle message from the shadow people who had 
neatly thwarted his moves in the past. The ones who had 
sent Scully down to his basement cubby just a few short 
months ago. The ones she was supposed to be working 
for.

The ones she didn't believe existed.

But he did believe.

And they knew it.

So they'd sent this little cautionary signal to him, like the 
ones on a railroad crossing. Keep your eye on her, Agent 
Mulder. Keep your eye on her, and keep your thumb on 
her, because if you don't, we will. We'll take her out just 
like that. We can do it. Next time, she won't just wake up 
confused.

So exercise some good judgment for once in your life, 
Agent Mulder. Or we'll make you pay. We'll make =her= 
pay. Remember, the gates are down, the lights are 
flashing and the bells are ringing. If you don't want her 
to get hurt, make sure she's off the tracks when the train 
comes through.

You won't get a second warning. Neither will she.

Got that?

He got it, all right. He got it very well.

The question was, would she get it?

Mulder didn't think so. In fact, he was sure she wouldn't. 
Scully the scientist, Scully the practical, Scully the 
rational would most certainly not believe that the covert 
group of powermongers who had delivered her to his 
doorstep was prepared to just eliminate her if she failed 
her appointed duties.

Not when there was a reasonable explanation available. 
For example, if he asked Sheriff Bergman if Anacortes 
had problems with drugs, would he get a shrug and an 
answer along the lines of, "Sure, we get people who move 
here from all over the country and bring their troubles 
with them. It's not a big thing like you might find in New 
York or Miami or Los Angeles, but yeah, we've got drugs, 
all kinds."

Mulder thought he would.

And, if they went so far as to question the other patrons 
and employees of Grizzly's, would he find one or more 
who not only had access to such recreational chemicals, 
but who had also noticed the pretty little redhead 
without a wedding ring and found her to his liking?

Probably. Intensive questioning might not conclusively 
prove whether anyone had followed them back to the 
motel, but it would cast enough doubt on his paranoia-
based theory to convince Scully.

Should he even tell her what that theory was?

All these thoughts blazed through his head in a fraction 
of an instant, and he made up his mind, both about 
whether to ask her to submit to an additional test and 
whether to inform her that, in his opinion, she'd just 
been issued a death threat.

"I'll talk to her about it," he said now to Reardon.

"Thank you. She's in there." The doctor pointed to the 
closed door of a small examination room. "She might not 
be awake; she's been drifting in and out. Also, be aware 
that she probably won't remember anything about how it 
happened. I know she didn't have much to drink, but she 
doesn't have a lot of body mass, either. It probably hit 
her like a ton of bricks." She shook his hand. "I'll be back 
in a little while to check on her."

Mulder opened the door and walked over to the bed. 
Scully was still sleeping, dressed now in a standard blue 
hospital gown about the same shade as her eyes. He saw 
that someone, with an eye towards a possible criminal 
investigation, had bagged her clothing and labeled it.

He sat down next to her to wait.

Her attackers couldn't have counted on them taking a 
drink with the sheriff. Their friendly little gesture to 
solidify harmonious east-west relations had also served 
to make their enemies' task that much easier.

The mind movie, which had been put in pause mode 
since the paramedics' arrival at the motel, clicked back to 
'play' again.

Scully steps towards the bathroom and is driven back by 
an unexpected fist in the mouth. Is restrained before she 
can muster a defense or summon the cavalry. If she 
remains conscious, is told in no uncertain terms to keep 
quiet or face dire consequences. Shut up and drink this, 
or else. If she's knocked out by the blow, maybe they 
simply tilt her head back and pour it down her throat, 
relying on her involuntary reflexes to keep her from 
choking.

Then what?

Judging from the unruffled state of her room, he figured 
they just held her still until the drug took effect and she 
passed out, then merely dumped her on the floor, 
departing as noiselessly as they'd arrived.

About five minutes into Mulder's silent contemplation of 
these events, Scully's eyes fluttered and opened slowly. 
She blinked, taking in her surroundings, tracking her 
gaze around to rest on his face.

"Hi, there," he said.

She wet her lips. "Either the Caribou Motor Court did 
some redecorating, or you changed my reservation," she 
said a little hoarsely.

"Want some water?"

"Please."

He poured it for her and held it out. She took the cup 
with a hand that trembled slightly and drank a few 
mouthfuls. "What happened?"

"Apparently you downed a rather potent nightcap 
sometime after you and I parted company last night."

She struggled to sit up. "Mulder, you're not making any 
sense. Tell me what happened," she demanded.

Well, the experience hadn't diminished her natural 
curiosity any. Or her stubbornness. It was a relief, 
actually, to know that she could go through something 
this traumatic and come out with her personality and her 
spirit intact. "What's the last thing you remember from 
last night?" he asked, instead of answering her directly.

Scully frowned, thinking back. "Driving back from the 
restaurant. In the car," she said finally.

"Do you remember talking to me outside the motel?"

"No."

"How about going into your room and getting ready for 
bed?"

"No."

She was good at hiding fright, suppressing alarm. He 
knew that. She was doing it now, and she was going to 
put an end to this line of questioning at any second 
before her fear became something too great for her to 
control.

"Mulder, just tell me what happened! Why am I here?"

He shifted on the uncomfortable chair. "You're here 
because I couldn't wake you up when I found you on the 
floor of your room this morning, dead to the world. The 
doctor says at some point last night you drank Rohypnol. 
That's what happened, Scully."

Her whole body went rigid. "=What=?"

"I found you laid out in your room in yesterday's outfit 
when you didn't keep our breakfast date. You don't 
remember anything at all?"

Scully shook her head slowly, eyes wide as the full 
meaning of his words sank in. "No. Nothing beyond the 
car ride."

"The doctor says you're going to be fine. They're going to 
let you go as soon as you feel up to it."

"Who did this, Mulder?"

He knew the question would come sooner or later, and 
with Scully, he always expected 'sooner.' Time now to 
face one of his decisions.

Time to lie.

He'd done it before; omitted crucial information, distorted 
facts. He'd done it throughout the Budahas case, and 
that had ended badly. Mulder hadn't wanted to be so 
secretive, but he also hadn't completely trusted what she 
might write in her field report. Protecting Deep Throat's 
existence had been one of his primary concerns at the 
start of the case. After the little highway shake-down, 
Mulder realized that he'd better let her know how the 
whole mess started. In case something else happened to 
him.

He'd never thought about what consequences =her= 
actions on that trip might bring. That somehow they 
perceived her as more of a danger than he was.

Telling her now, when he had no concrete, visible proof 
to lay in front of her, would accomplish nothing. She'd 
refuse to believe it. She'd refuse to back down, because 
she wouldn't believe anything she'd done would have 
triggered this in the first place.

She'd end up doing something else that would irritate 
them somehow.

And then she'd be gone.

Unless he protected her.

If that meant lying to her and then watching her every 
move from now on, so be it. Because he already had one 
lost woman in his life to feel guilty about.

Two would be unbearable.

He looked Scully directly in the eye and said, "I don't 
know."

End part 4/5
________________________

ONE WARNING (5/5)
By Jean Robinson
Disclaimer, etc. in part 1


Anacortes Community Hospital
Anacortes, Washington, noon

Mulder sat in the waiting area with Sheriff Bergman, who 
had come to bring Scully's suitcase and take them back 
to the motel when she was discharged.

Scully was still in the exam room with Dr. Reardon.

"They didn't find anything." Bergman spoke into the 
silence.

"I didn't think they would."

"No fibers, no mud, no dirt, no hairs. They must have 
brought their own set of crystal, too, because the glasses 
in the bathroom were still capped and dry. These guys 
are professionals."

Mulder sighed. You have no idea, he thought. Aloud, he 
said, "Thanks for trying, anyway."

"Are you going to tell her?"

He started and turned to face the sheriff, who was 
watching him through narrowed brown eyes. "What?"

Bergman snorted. "Don't give me, 'what?', Agent Mulder. 
Someone's out to get you, and I don't think it's because 
you came here looking for lost dogs. That was some kind 
of professional hit. We have predators here, but they're 
stupid predators. They leave something behind. We may 
not always find them, but at least we know they were 
there. You want to tell me you really think some idiot 
tried to put the moves on your partner and managed not 
only to screw it up, but also to get in and out of her room 
without you hearing it and without her slapping him 
silly? I only had dinner with you last night, but I think 
she does know how to use that gun of hers, am I right?"

"You're right, she does." She has. Thank God for small 
favors.

"And," the sheriff continued in the same slightly sarcastic 
tone, "I get the sense that she's far from stupid. 
Eventually, she's gonna figure this out. So why not just 
tell her?"

Mulder smiled crookedly. "Because she wouldn't believe 
me if I did. That's why she's my partner. To not believe 
me. Odd, but true. So far, it's actually worked to my 
advantage that she doesn't. And because we don't have 
any definitive proof. What you described is far-fetched, 
but not impossible. Scully prefers the not impossible over 
the unprovable, when given a choice."

"I still think. . ." Sheriff Bergman's words were 
interrupted by the sight of Dr. Reardon approaching.

"Gentlemen." She greeted them with a nod. "Agent Scully 
is ready to be discharged. If that's her clothing, I'll bring 
it to her and she'll be with you in a few minutes."

Mulder handed her the small case. "Dr. Reardon. . ."

"She's fine, Agent Mulder. She can tell you herself in a 
little while." Reardon went back into the exam room.

Ten minutes later, Scully came out, dressed in a beige 
pantsuit and carrying her overnight case. She spotted 
the two men waiting and came over to them. "Sheriff." 
She shook his hand. "I'm sorry about delaying the 
investigation like this."

He smiled. "No need to apologize, Agent Scully. I'm just 
glad you're all right. I'll take you two back to the motel 
now, and you can regroup from there."

"Scully. . ." Mulder began.

She looked at him. "I'm fine, Mulder. Let's go."

He read the relief in her eyes and nodded his 
acknowledgment. "All right."
**************

SeaTac Airport
Seattle, Washington, two days later

They sat in one corner of the waiting area, away from 
most of the other passengers. A severe rainstorm lashed 
water against big windows overlooking the tarmac; the 
angry rattling sound made many of the ticket holders 
glance uneasily at each other and the empty slot where 
their plane should have been.

"This is where we came in." Scully leaned back in the 
molded seat, eyeing the weather with misgivings.

"It's Seattle, Scully. It rains a lot here."

"Now I understand why this city has a slug festival."

"You've got to stop reading those in-flight magazines. 
They give you all the wrong ideas about a place."

She gave him a withering stare. "When I attempted to 
read the case file, somebody took it away from me on the 
way out here."

He grinned down at her, enjoying her momentary pique. 
"Well, this time take the damn pills before we leave, and 
I'll let you read anything you like."

Scully turned away and ignored him.

Okay, she really hates being teased about the afraid-of-
flying thing. Mulder sighed and filed that away for future 
reference. He looked out at the blowing rain and thought 
about the case.

Once they did regroup, as Sheriff Bergman called it, the 
interviews with the first five families revealed that all had 
used the same dog walking service at some point during 
the past year. Bergman immediately set three officers up 
to make random calls to sixty more owners, at which 
point they discovered that everyone, at one time or 
another within the last twelve months, had needed a dog 
walker or caregiver, even if only for a one-time feeding. 
From there, it was a short step to interviewing the dog 
walking company owner. 

The information lead them to the general manager, their 
main suspect. The company employed some thirty part-
time dog walkers, mostly teenagers. All of them had 
access to the dogs and the homes; they were usually 
given keys to take care of the pets while the owner was 
away on vacation or at work. And because they usually 
visited more than once, the dogs knew them and went 
with them willingly, without barking or biting.

It wasn't medical research or product testing that caused 
the general manager to suddenly direct some of his less 
principled employees to take their charges on one final 
walk, however, it was a dog fighting ring. Specifically, his 
brother's dog fighting ring, which had recently fled 
Nevada with the police on their trail. They'd set up 
business just over the Canadian border, and the brother 
had commissioned his relative for fresh training stock for 
their pit bulls and Rottweiler mixed breeds. 

They actually had been shipping the dogs to Canada on 
the Anacortes ferry.

The general manager confessed that he'd been making 
copies of clients' keys since the beginning, his first 
intention being to burglarize the homes. He had still been 
in the process of setting up a reliable fence for any stolen 
goods when the opportunity for a little impromptu dog 
exportation landed in his lap.

Mulder and Scully left the final details of jurisdiction to 
the sheriff; it was going to be a rather complicated set of 
charges involving theft of property, destruction of 
property, animal cruelty, felony dog fighting, transfer of 
stolen property across international borders, and a few 
others the U.S. Department of Agriculture, the Justice 
Department and the Washington State Department of 
Agriculture were still sifting through. When they 
departed, the Canadian equivalent of the USDA had 
joined the fray, as well as the local and provincial 
humane agencies from Skagit County and British 
Columbia. All in all, it was turning into a dogfight in 
more ways than one.

Of the 437 dogs that had disappeared, 129 were 
recovered. Mozart, battle scarred and malnourished, had 
been reunited with his family, and Pete Scott had 
dropped by the motel with his eight-year-old daughter 
Ashley to thank them personally. Mulder broke the news 
to Dr. Reardon that Brutus was not among the survivors. 
He had already been killed in practice bouts with the 
fighting dogs.

So it wasn't an X-File after all. Deftly anticipating his 
intention to indulge in a side trip to check out the last 
known whereabouts of Bigfoot, Scully flatly refused to let 
him drive the rental back to the airport.

She had requested the police report on her attack; 
Mulder sat and watched as she silently read through it, 
wondering when the questions would start. When she 
finished, she closed the file and raised her eyes to his. 
"Do you have anything to add to this?" she asked him 
quietly.

In other words, what's your bizarre theory that the police 
refused to include in an official document, Mulder? What 
wild nonsense about conspiracies and aliens were you 
spouting to Sheriff Bergman while I was being looked 
over for non-existent evidence of sexual assault? Is there 
anything I'm not reading in these pages that I should 
know?

"No, Scully, I don't. It's all there." He held her gaze firmly, 
and took the file from her. "Unless there's something else 
you can remember."

There wasn't. To her great frustration, Scully could recall 
nothing beyond the car trip back from Grizzly's.

"Then I think we'd better steer clear of the seafood and 
the beer from now on," he said lightly.

That was it. If she doubted the information in the police 
report or his assertion that it was complete, she kept it to 
herself. The questions were over.

But for him, the monumental task had just begun. How 
could he contain her without letting her know? Without 
jeopardizing his investigations? Without hindering his 
search for Samantha?

Could he really protect her if the shadow people decided 
to make a serious attempt on her life?

Scully touched his arm, interrupting his troubled train of 
thought. "The plane is here. They're calling our row."

Mulder stood up, gathered his belongings and joined her 
in the queue at the jetway.
**************

A.D. Skinner's Office
Washington DC, November 1994

A.D. Skinner stared at the agitated agent, both of them 
furious and nearly incoherent for reasons that were both 
the same and different. Skinner took a final hold on his 
temper and snapped, "We all know the field we play in 
and we all know what can happen in the course of the 
game. If you were unprepared for all the potentials then 
you shouldn't step on the field."

Mulder recoiled, his own anger evaporating in a flood of 
bottomless guilt at his superior's words. No matter where 
he turned, no matter where he looked, all he could see 
was Scully.

Lying motionless at Northeast Georgetown Medical 
Center, disconnected from the machines that had 
breathed for her. Returned miraculously after vanishing 
from her kidnapper on top of a lonely Virginia mountain.

Dying.

He couldn't understand the medical rationale behind her 
condition, but the reason she had ended up in this state 
had not eluded him.

After all, he had been warned. 

Skinner had dismissed him, and he stumbled towards 
the door. Halfway there, Mulder paused and turned back. 
"What if I. . . I knew the potential consequences, but I. . . 
I never told her?"

Skinner drew in a harsh breath and avoided Mulder's 
anguished eyes. "Then you're as much to blame for her 
condition as. . . the Cancerman."

Defeated, Mulder nodded and left the office. Hang on, 
Scully, he thought despairingly. You have to hang on.

End


Author's notes: I was always fascinated by Mulder's little 
speech in "One Breath," and often wondered if he did 
have some sort of warning prior to Scully's abduction. 
This is for my brother, who lives in Washington State and 
provided all the regional information. If it's wrong, I 
blame him. ;-) That's not to say, of course, that Anacortes 
is a hotbed of drug activity or dog fighting. I just needed 
a place in the Pacific Northwest with a ferry to Canada. 
Thanks to Jill for providing both beta reading and 
encouragement.

Feedback would thrill me at jeanrobinson@yahoo.com