Whirlwind Read Free Page A

FBI head-quarters, a narrow corner shop with a long Formica counter and a half-dozen window booths, most of the decor done in pale blues and white. The windows had been tinted to cut the sun's glare, but it still threatened Mulder with a drumming headache whenever he glanced out at the traffic.
    Once done with the sparring duo, he had grabbed his tie and jacket and fled, stomach growling unmercifully, his head threatening to expand far beyond its limits. Even now he could hear them arguing, with each other and with him, telling him, and each other, that he was out of his freaking mind. Killers did not write their names on victims' bodies; at least, they sure didn't do it in classical Greek.
    And when they finally, reluctantly, accepted it, they demanded to know who the killer was and why he did it.
    Mulder didn't have any answers, and he told them that more than once.
    When it had finally sunk in, they had stormed out as loudly as they'd stormed in, and he had stared at the door for nearly a full minute before deciding he'd better get out now, before the echoes of their bickering gave him a splitting headache.
    The trouble was, stomach or not, the nattering and the heat had combined to kill his appetite.
    The burger and fries looked greasy enough to be delicious, but he couldn't bring himself to pick anything up, even for a taste. Dumb, perhaps, but still, he couldn't do it.
    A siren screamed; a police car raced down the center of the crowded street.
    In the booth ahead of him, two couples chat-tered about baseball while at the same time they damned the heat wave that had been sitting on Washington for nearly two weeks.
    On his right, on the last counter stool, an old man in a worn cardigan and golf cap listened to a table radio, a talk show whose callers wanted to know what the local government was going to do about the looming water shortage and con-stant brownouts. A handful were old enough to still want to blame the Russians.
    Mulder sighed and rubbed his eyes.
    In calmer times, it was nice to know his exper-tise was appreciated; in times like these, exacer-bated by the prolonged heat, he wished the world would leave him the hell alone.
    He picked up a french fry and stared at it glumly.
    The radio announced a film festival on one of the cable channels. Old firms from the forties and fifties.
    Not at all guaranteed to be good, just fun.
    He grunted, and popped the fry into his mouth. All right, he thought; I can hole up at home with Bogart for a while.
    He smiled to himself.
    The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. In fact, he thought as he picked up the burger, it sounded like exactly what he needed.
    He was finished before he realized he had eaten a single bite. A good sign.

    He grinned more broadly when a woman slipped into the booth and stared in disgust at his plate.
    "You know," his partner said, "your arteries must be a scientific wonder."
    He reached for the last fry, and Dana Scully slapped the back of his hand.
    "Take a break and listen. We're wanted."
    She was near his age and shorter, her face slightly rounded, light auburn hair settling softly on her shoulders. More than once, the object of one of their manhunts had thought her too femi-nine to be an obstacle. Not a single one of them had held that thought for very long.
    Mulder wiped his mouth with a napkin, the grin easing to a tentative smile. "Wanted?"
    "Skinner," she told him. "First thing in the morning. No excuses."
    The smile held, but there was something new in his eyes. Anticipation, and a faint glimmer of excitement.
    Assistant Director Skinner asking for them now, while they were both in the midst of cases still pending, generally meant only one thing.
    Somewhere out there was an X-File, waiting, "Maybe," she said, as if reading his mind. She snatched the last fry and bit it in half. An eyebrow lifted. "Or maybe you're just in trouble again."
    Twilight promised the desert, and the city at the base of the Sandia Mountains, a