II

I didn't see him again until the next morning, although after I got up I vaguely remembered him coming in and checking on me during the night, standing over the bed watching me until I'd turned to look up at him. I'd fallen asleep less than an hour after he'd left and woke up without an alarm at six a.m., starved but feeling a hundred percent better. The cold water and ice had done wonders for my throat, and now if I could just find some food the world would be my oyster.

It wasn't long before I realized that I didn't have the car keys in my room, and I didn't recall seeing a restaurant or 7-Eleven close enough to walk to when we drove to the motel--though by that time I'd been in no condition to notice a UFO landing in the street. I had no clue what time Mulder had gone to bed and I hated to wake him up, but I had to eat and eat soon.

I dressed in jeans, a heavy dark green sweater and ankle boots, found my room key on the bedside table next to the unset alarm, then threw my Burberry around my shoulders and left the room. It was bitterly cold but windless, the sun barely above the horizon and not a creature stirring, not even a mouse. I did walk to the end of the L-shaped motel and look up and down the street—lots of businesses, not a single light in any of them, and no vending machines around the hotel. If this town didn't have a Starbucks, it at least had to have a 7-Eleven, right? Right?

Walking back to our rooms, I dialed Mulder on my cell but his was turned off. That left me no choice but to wake him up although I felt bad about doing it when he'd been so considerate of me the day before. But as I reached our rooms, my door swung open and a tall figure in jeans and a familiar worn black leather jacket stormed out, nearly bowling me over. "Mulder!"

"Scully, where have you been? I came by to see if you wanted to go get some breakfast and you weren't in your room." He grabbed me by the shoulders so I wouldn't stumble into the front grill of our rental car as I tried to avoid running into him.

"How'd you get in my room?" I shrugged off his hands and pushed past him to get out of the cold and back into the aforementioned room.

"I requested a connecting door," he followed me in and pointed to a door I hadn't even noticed on the wall between the bathroom and bed. "I left it unlocked in case you needed anything during the night."

"So that's how you got in to check on me last night," I said, relieved. "I thought you'd taken my room key and left it in here afterward."

"I didn't mean to wake you, but I was worried. You looked bad yesterday." He crossed his arms and leaned against the dresser where he'd set the Evian bottles last night, looking like nothing more than a hip hood from a James Dean movie in his leather jacket and jeans and black boots with a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. I noted that the two Diet Cokes I hadn't drunk were gone, presumably down his throat.

"I really am fine now, but if I don't eat soon I am going to start chewing on my shoes," I told him, putting my hand on the doorknob. "Feed me, Seymour."

His clear hazel eyes lit up and that grin would rival the sun when it made its appearance over the eastern horizon. "'Little Shop of Horrors'? Scully, you never fail to amaze me—and keep me guessing."

"That's my job," I grinned up at him as I opened the door and we left the room, walking the few steps to the car. "Wouldn't your life be boring if I'd decided that I didn't like that basement office with the pencils in the ceiling seven years ago?"

He paused and looked at me over the top of the car, both grin and humor gone from his face. He was as deadly serious as I'd ever seen him. "It'd be unbearable, Scully," he said seriously, holding my eyes with his inscrutable dark ones. "I meant everything I said in the hallway that night you threatened to leave, you know. I still do."

The look in his eyes caused a deep jolt in the pit of my belly. This was not the time or place for this conversation, and though I wanted it to continue we had to be in a warmer place after I was fed. "Mulder..."

Just then my stomach growled rather noticeably and he grinned, ducking into the car. "Okay, we can talk later. Come on, Scully, let's go find you some breakfast."

All during breakfast at a 24-hour Denny's I tried to think of how to get the conversation back around to that night in the hallway when the worst-timed bee sting in history had interrupted our first real kiss, but never did find the opening. Instead we discussed the case even though we'd left the paperwork back in the room, and as we left the restaurant I said, "It's still pretty early and I'm not sure that the veterinary clinic will be open yet. There's only two left to interview, right?"

"Right, Dr. Julian Bryant, DVM and a Miss Janice Coppolia, both witnesses. I talked to the others yesterday while you were sleeping and you can read my report while I shower and change," he said as we drove back to the motel. "I did tell them that we might be back in case you see something I missed, or just want to talk to them yourself."

I was so warm and stuffed full of waffles and coffee and orange juice that I'd rather have gone back to bed, but I just agreed and that's exactly what I did. Then he had to wait while I showered and blow-dried my hair and changed, but by that time it was after nine and a more reasonable hour to be knocking on people's doors.

We arrived at the Soo Veterinary Clinic at nine-fifteen and there were only three cars in the lot, two at the far end and one near the door. When we walked into the clinic I saw that there was a single woman with a small fuzzy white dog on her lap in the waiting room, then Mulder was striding up to the receptionist's desk behind a low half-wall and introducing us. Before I even got my badge out, a stocky blonde man came through a doorway behind the receptionist's desk and said rather brusquely, "I'm Dr. Bryant, I've been expecting you. Please, come back to my office."

Mulder and I exchanged a glance, then followed him down a long narrow hallway to a room near the back, passing a half-dozen doors along the way. Most were closed, but the open ones appeared to be a kennel area and lab. The clinic was spotlessly clean and clearly well-maintained though the building appeared to be from the 1950s.

Dr. Bryant stood back and ushered us into his office, and the first thing I noticed was a wall painted bright orange to the left of the door. On this unusually-colored wall were photos of animals, their patients I assumed, ranging from framed professional shots of show dogs, horses, and cows to a taped-up blurry Polaroid of a turtle in a box and everything conceivable between. The pictures were pretty well spread out, filling maybe a third of the available space.

"Hey, Scully, check this out," Mulder said from behind me, and I turned to see what he was looking at. On the other side of the doorway were two large framed photographs, both showing an orange wall covered in photographs—obviously the same wall that was now on my right but in different eras. The first one was a bit faded but looked to be in the 1950s or '60s, the second in the 1980s or early '90s by my guess. The latter one featured quite a few framed photos of show dogs and I glanced over at the real wall to verify my guess: yes, they were almost all black German Shepherds. "This is unusual, Dr. Bryant," he said, smiling over at the vet who was now behind his desk. "I've never seen anything quite like it."

Bryant grinned back, lighting up his face and green eyes. I noted his sudden change of attitude and filed it away for later consideration. "My grandfather founded this clinic, and I found the first photo in my grandmother's belongings when she passed in 1980. My father retired in 1995 and when I took over, I photographed the wall before I took his photos down," he said, gesturing at the real photo wall. "My kids are only five and eight, but I have hopes for a fourth generation orange picture wall."

"Why orange?" Mulder asked.

"Burnt orange was an 'in' color when this building was built," he explained. "You'll note that the color in the first photo is a bit darker and on the other walls that you can see as well. My father painted over the others but left this one alone, and eventually brightened the color just because he thought it was funny. Trust me, if you meet him you'll know what I mean."

I walked back over to the real wall and studied one of the large, framed dog-show photos that caught my eye. It showed an attractive but somber-faced woman with hair almost the same color as mine, only much shorter, kneeling next to a large black-and-tan German Shepherd, a huge golden trophy on her other side and three beaming men—judges, I guessed—standing behind them. The small black sign by her feet read: Best in Show, North American National All-Breed Dog Show, 1987.

"That's my stepmother, Lauren MacLaine-Bryant," Dr. Bryant said, coming over to stand beside me. I caught a rather flat tone to his voice and wondered about it. "That's how she and my dad met, she was—well, is—one of our clients."

"She looks really familiar," Mulder said from close behind me. "Where do I know her from?"

"She did a series of Dog Chow commercials in the late eighties," he said, again in that flat voice. "And wrote some books on dog training and breeding that are pretty well known to dog people. She's our local celebrity." Again that odd tone, but not as if he disliked her... I just couldn't put my finger on it.

I turned to find Mulder standing right behind me although there was plenty of room in the vet's office, distracting me from my thoughts. I glared up at him and he grinned down at me as he moved away saying, "So, Dr. Bryant, why don't we go over the statement you gave the police..."

The interview went about as usual with a willing participant, Dr. Bryant sticking to his story with almost military precision even when we cross-examined him. There was something just the slightest bit strange about the way he talked although I couldn't put my finger on it. It wasn't a problem with his story, which seemed pretty straightforward, but more in the way he told it.

As we walked to the car I said, "Mulder, is it just me, or is there something odd about Dr. Bryant? Something he's hiding, maybe?"

"I don't know," he said, opening the door and sliding in as I waited for him to pop the lock on my side. It was still windless and very cold out, and I was glad to get in the car even if it wasn't warm inside anymore. "I don't think he's really hiding anything but yeah, I did pick up on something odd. He was very open and willing and even friendly, but... abrupt, I think is the best way to describe it."

I nodded as he started the car. "Let's do a follow-up interview, maybe at his home?" I suggested. "We should go take a look at where he saw it, anyway."

"Good idea, Scully. Where to, next?"

I opened the file that I'd carried in and out of the clinic. "The home of Janice Coppolia, who's had several sightings in the last few weeks," I said. "Deputy Grant gave directions, so turn right out of here and then go south on I-75, the entrance ramp should be just a couple of miles down." While I was sleeping yesterday Mulder had also checked in with the local police and talked to the detective in charge of the case.

We didn't talk much on the drive out and it was nearly as far as we'd driven the day before to talk to the Kneeses but going east instead of west. When we got off the freeway we took a long, winding, tree-lined road for almost twenty minutes to her driveway, which was a rutted dirt track that wound up and down over a series of small, open hills that I didn't know existed in this state. I'd always thought that Michigan was as flat as Kansas or Nebraska, but it was a bit hilly out here. We didn't see a sign of civilization until finally the house came into sight, and Mulder and I exchanged a glance that needed no words.

It was a low, long ramshackle ranch house surrounded by trees, bushes and extensive flowerbeds wreathed in patchy half-melted snow, smoke wafting from the chimney. There were several outbuildings and a falling-down barn around the house, with other partially-snow-covered lumps that I would guess were abandoned cars and the like. It had a sad, almost abandoned air about it despite the smoke.

Mulder pulled up in front of the attached double garage next to a battered brown car that was all but falling apart from rust. "Deputy Grant warned me that we should treat Ms. Coppolia carefully," he said as he switched off the ignition and turned to me, draping one arm over the steering wheel and the other along the back of the seat between us, his hand a bare inch from my shoulder. "She's had some kind of trauma in her life and, to use his words, 'isn't quite all there anymore'. He said she's not dangerous, but lives in her own little world and can get upset if we say the wrong thing. He recommended we be very friendly and don't react to anything odd she may say."

"She's mentally ill or unstable?" I said, turning to face him. "I didn't see that in the report."

He nodded, turning to pull the keys from the ignition and reached for his door handle. "Apparently she's been like this for some time. Everyone around here is used to her and apparently don't think about it much. She pretty much stays out here on her property and only goes into town when she needs supplies."

"How does she support herself?" I asked as we got out of the car. "Does she work?"

"No, all her bills are paid by a mysterious third party out of a trust fund," Mulder wagged his eyebrows at me over the roof of the car. "I got the impression that no one seems concerned about it, either, which is odd in itself."

"Hmph," I said, feeling Mulder's warm hand at the small of my back even through my coat and blazer as we walked over to the front door, which was flush with the ground. As we got closer a dog began to bark and we glanced at each other, looking around, then I saw a curtain move and a pair of large ears in the ground-level window. "In there, Mulder," I said, pointing.

Just then the inner front door opened and we were confronted with a person who had to be Janice Coppolia through a glass storm door. The first thing I noticed was that there was a second large dog standing next to her—as with the first one it was a German Shepherd, looking remarkably like the ones in the photos at Dr. Bryant's office which were more black than the more common brown or gray. Then my attention turned to the woman, and I was glad that Mulder had warned me so I didn't react to her appearance.

I knew from the police report that she was in her early fifties, but it was difficult to tell through the tangled rats'-nest of graying black hair that surrounded and partially covered her face. It looked like she had not washed or combed her hair in years, and it was a thick matted blanket around her head. A few long strands hung loosely down her back to her waist, and I could only imagine how long it must be if it was combed out. She had a gaunt, too-thin look about her, although her face was naturally round and had a faint scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She wore a stained, moth-hole-spotted faded pink sweater and lime green summer-weight capri pants with a pair of what appeared to be brand-new tan leather moccasins on her feet. She looked like a faded Benetton ad after the apocalypse.

"Miss Coppolia? We're agents Mulder and Scully from the FBI. Deputy Bill Grant said he'd call and let you know we were coming to talk to you?" Mulder said as we slowly approached the door holding our badges out. The dogs had stopped barking but both watched us closely, one from the left window and one from in front of us. "May we come in?"

"Yeh, sure," she said, turning away from the door and slapping her leg. "C'mon, Lard, leave 'em be. They're friends."

We glanced at each other again and Mulder reached for the doorknob, both of us watching the dogs as I followed him in. They were beautiful animals, as well-groomed and fed as their owner was decrepit, but we'd had more than one run-in with dogs and weren't taking any chances—both of us had our coats pushed back for easy access to our guns if need be.

To my surprise the house was neat and clean, sparsely furnished with a kind of homey country charm. From inside the front door I saw three rooms, what appeared to be a den or family room to the right at the same level and the living room to the left down two deep steps, with what looked like a kitchen past that visible over a half-wall. I saw two other narrow, closed doors leading off the living room, which were probably the bathroom and/or closets. The furniture was golden wood and dark brown plaid, the floors clean if unpolished wood, the walls plain white plaster with wooden molding. The house smelled of fresh baking, some kind of fruit pie if I wasn't mistaken. I noticed Mulder sniffing too, and we exchanged a glance as he waved me in past him.

The dog she'd called Lard—what a lovely name, that--walked over to the couch and laid down in front of it, putting his head on his paws and watching us with ears up. The other one, which stood in a recliner in front of the window, whined softly as the woman went by. "It's okay, Lard, they're friends," she repeated to the second one. "Be good boy, now, you hear?"

"Miss Coppolia, are both of your dogs named Lard?" I asked in a calm, quiet voice. Mulder shot me a warning look and I frowned briefly back at him. "They've got to be the most beautiful German Shepherds I've ever seen."

"Yeh, that's Lard Six and that's Lard Seven," she said, pointing at each of the dogs as she sat down on the couch near Seven. It appeared that he was the lighter-colored of the dogs, Six being almost solid black where Seven had tan legs and patches on his chest and face. They weren't the more common grizzled wolf-color or type with a black patch on the back that I was familiar with. "Their dad Lard Five died just a few years back, you shoulda seen him if you wanted to see a really gorgeous dog. Of course my first GSD, War Lard, was the best of the bunch—but he died a long long time ago. You shoulda seen how well he recovered after the werewolf attack, he was my best friend in the world for a long time."

"Lord, Scully, she's saying the word 'lord' with a regional accent," Mulder hissed in my ear as he helped me off with my coat. "War Lord."

I got it. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Ms. Coppolia," I said, smiling in a friendly manner over at her as I remembered Mulder's advice. He handed me my coat and I laid it across my lap as I sat down in a recliner across a wooden end table from the one that Six still sat in, watching us carefully but relaxed. Mulder remained standing as the only other seat was on the couch behind where Seven was lying on the floor, and I wouldn't have sat there either.

"Well, yah, sure, gotta do my part to keep the world safe for democracy," she shrugged, sitting back and crossing her arms. "Whatcha need to know?"

"If you could just tell us what you saw, like you did the deputy, that would be great," Mulder said, also smiling as he leaned one shoulder against the doorway leading to the rec/family room. He gave the impression of being relaxed yet confident without looming or being threatening.

"Oh, sure, the werewolf you mean," she nodded easily, crossing one leg over the other at the knee. "Place is infested with them, you know, this whole area is. Would like it if not for that, but can't leave my friends. I owe them all so much, and then there's the garden and the flowers and the oil tanks, not to mention the earwigs in the corn. I can't leave all that just because of a few werewolves now can I?"

"It is beautiful up here," I agreed when no one said anything after that. I swore she reminded me of Barnard Hughes at the end of "The Lost Boys"--the "all the damn vampires around here" line that I couldn't exactly remember. I'd have to tell Mulder about that later; if he liked my Seymour reference he'd probably gibber at my feet after that one. "So where was it exactly that you saw it?"

"Where haven't I seen it is more like it," Janice cackled, shaking her head. Her thick mat of hair, other than those few loose strands in the back, barely moved at all. "Darn things're all over the place. There was one wandering around last night, but Lard knows her so he didn't bark at all. Wish she'd come in for coffee and cake, I wouldn't even mind if she smoked. I miss her. I've still got her cookie jar, too, I wonder if she'll ever take it back. It's Snoopy on his doghouse."

I glanced over at Mulder but his face was impassive. As a psychologist I wondered what he made of her ramblings; as an MD, I wondered if she was on any illegal hallucinogenics. I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, but he said smoothly, "So your dogs know the werewolves that come around?"

"Oh, that's right, Lard Six and Lard Seven, right?" Both dogs looked up at their names, Seven getting to his feet and standing in front of her with tail waving slightly. "You want a treat, dollface? Come on, biscuit time."

At the word 'biscuit' both dogs leapt from their places and flew from the living room to disappear into the kitchen with a clatter of claws on wood. Janice heaved herself to her feet and with a big grin at me, said, "Be right back. Good dogs and werewolves deserve to be rewarded, don't you think?"

I mumbled something affirmative as Mulder sauntered over to take the chair that was across the end table from mine which Lard Six had vacated. Turning to him, I hissed, "This is a waste of our time, Mulder. She's living in 'The Lost Boys' universe, seeing werewolves everywhere and wanting to invite them in for tea."

"Scully, bear with me, there's a method to my madness," he whispered back, then sat up straight as one of the dogs came trotting around the corner from the kitchen licking its chops. It went straight to Mulder and sat down in front of him between his open legs, looking up at him with its head cocked and large black ears up, brown eyes bright and curious. I couldn't remember which one it was, but Mulder sat back looking alarmed. The dog's head was only inches from his crotch, but I knew already that they would only be dangerous on their owner's command or if she was threatened. I'd had enough experience with dogs to recognize highly intelligent, well-trained animals.

"Lard, come here, c'mon over here, girl," I cajoled, patting my knee, having already seen that this one was a female. The dog got up and trotted over, sitting down in front of me without being told and letting me pet her while she sniffed around my legs and knees. She really was a stunningly beautiful animal; while I've always preferred smaller dogs, I did admire the regal beauty of this one. I put a hand out and asked her to shake and sure enough, she gently placed one large tan paw in my hand. Her clear brown eyes were so expressive that I half-expected her to talk to me. It was then that I knew Janice Coppolia's mental illness must be getting to me and it was time to leave.

The other Lard poked its head around the divider and barked, which caused the one I was petting to jerk around and then both of them disappeared around the half-wall, claws scrabbling on the clean wooden floors. Mulder and I exchanged only a brief glance before getting to our feet and following them. I felt a cold breeze as we rounded the wall and wasn't surprised to find the glass patio door standing wide open, neither Janice nor the dogs anywhere in sight though tracks in the patchy snow gave an idea of their whereabouts. Forgetting that I had left my coat in the chair, I tore out the door after them with Mulder hot on my heels.

The patio doors let out onto a wooden deck with a railing and three shallow steps, which led out into wide, snowy fields behind the house with outbuildings and unidentifiable snow-covered lumps scattered here and there. I had two seconds to curse the fact that I hadn't changed into the rubber boots before my Cole Haans sank into the half-inch or so of snow. There were dog and human prints everywhere so it was next to impossible to tell where they'd gone, but I thought I saw some that seemed to be on top of the others and followed them towards the back of the property.

We reached a small rise just past the barn when I spotted three dark spots in the snow some distance away. "This way, Mulder," I called, waving my arm then wrapping both of them around myself. He'd veered off to the right a bit and now jogged towards me as I slowed to a walk the rest of the way to the three figures in the snow.

I walked up to find Janice on her knees in the snow, digging at it. No, I saw she was petting a set of prints, what looked like large dog tracks, which came from the far trees, stopped where she was, then went back. But what really got me was how the dogs were acting—Lard Six and Seven were trotting back and forth around the tracks, sniffing them with tails wagging. Whatever had made these tracks, the dogs knew and liked it. "See, I told you she still comes around, but she never comes any closer than this," Janice said, smiling up at us and patting the tracks almost to oblivion. "We used to be such good friends... but them days is long gone."

As all three of us began to trudge back to the house, I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself a little tighter—a medium-weight blazer and silk-blend blouse weren't adequate protection from a maybe twenty degree cold wind. I felt something warm drop around me and looked up to see Mulder now without his suit jacket, which he'd put around my shoulders, and his arm followed, pulling me against his firm body. I started to protest, then shut my mouth and enjoyed the contact, leaning into him to share my warmth. It wasn't often that I got to be this close to my partner--allowed myself to be this close to my partner—and I reveled in the feel of his hard, warm body against my side and his arm around my shoulders even as both of us shivered our way back to the house. I couldn't help but note how well I fit beneath his arm, then banished the thought with an effort.

Janice followed at a slower pace with the dogs, mumbling happily to herself. She had put on a thick black woolen shawl and shin-high heavy green gumboots before leaving the house; perhaps she wasn't as out of it as I'd first assumed.

"So you really think those were dog tracks, Scully?" Mulder asked as we drove back towards Sault Ste. Marie. "I know you saw how large they were."

"Great Danes and mastiffs have bigger paws than that," I said. "I've run across a few dog attacks in my time in the morgue." It was warm and dry in the car, and this time I didn't put up my hand up to feel how cold the glass was. My brief time without a heavy coat, even under Mulder's arm, was good enough for me. Old rock'n'roll played low from the car's speakers, something with a familiar beat and stuttering in it, but I couldn't think of the song name or band.

"It was our beast in the night," Mulder said with his usual certainty before he knew what he was talking about. "And I'm getting an idea of who to talk to next."

"That's it for the police reports, right?"

"Yes, unless you want to talk to anyone I saw while you were sleeping."

"No, you covered it pretty good. Who else are you going to talk to?"

"First I want to do some checking, find out who's paying Janice Coppolia's bills."

I recognized the next song, Takin Care of Business, although I didn't know who sang it. Missy had loved this song and played it over and over on the 8-track player she'd gotten for Christmas sometime in the late 1980s. I felt a pang at the thought of her, but then it was gone and I knew she wouldn't have minded that I was getting over her death more every year. "Why's that?"

"Because I'm suspecting that it's the one person we keep running across and who is the originator of all the black dogs in this town: Lauren MacLaine-Bryant, the local celebrity."