Luckily, Skinner wasn't worried about that. "Good. Then she won't
become a potential target if she should happen across him, and we
won't have to divide our back-up contingent between the two of you.
But, armed with a composite of the suspect, she might be able to ID
him so we can shadow him back to his lair."

"I'll need a partner, though," Scully said. "I need the freedom to
pick up and go without wasting precious seconds making a graceful
exit."

"Don't look at me!" Krycek exclaimed. "The last place I'd hang out is
a straight dance club."

"Well, *I* could escort you," Skinner volunteered. "I have been known
to cut a rug in my day."

"*I* wouldn't mind signing up for that duty," Graham grinned. 

"I'm the closest to her in height," Wong pointed out. "We'd be
well-suited dance partners."

"Hey! She's *my* partner!" Mulder whined. "*I'll* dance with her."

"So long as you understand that there's to be no contact with the
suspect," Skinner emphasized. "There will be no Popeye Doyle stunts on
this operation, is that clear, Agent Mulder?"

"Yes, sir," Mulder said dispiritedly, practically pouting. "But where
does that leave Percival? I mean, if our perp only goes dancing in gay
bars when he's ready to kill someone, where is he going to troll his
hooks?"

"Couldn't I just hang out in a gym or something?" Krycek asked.  "I
mean, he's vain, he keeps himself in good shape, and dancing may be
good aerobic exercise, but it doesn't build up those he-man biceps,
you know?"

Mulder shook his head. "I don't see him as the sweaty, boxing sort."

Krycek shook his head. "Not *that* kind of gym. The juice bar, meat
market, sauna kind."

"Oh, a *health club,*" Mulder nodded. "Yeah. He might even scope out
the male bodies subconsciously...it would be a good place to rev his
fantasy engines."

"Another good idea," Graham said as he scribbled 'health and dance
clubs' into his casebook. "I think you missed your calling, Val."

Krycek and the three D.C. fibbies looked as if they had sucked lemons.
"...Yeah, well..., what with, uh, losing my arm, and all, I'm just
happy to be able to tend bar," Krycek said as he ducked his eyes to
his plate.

"Sure. We can't all play Wyatt Earp," Graham rationalized. "I, uh,
don't mean to pry --well, actually I *do* mean to pry-- " Graham
chuckled, "But you don't have to indulge me with an answer if you
don't feel like it, uh, Val. But, how did you go from rentboy to
bartender?"

Krycek cocked his head. "Well, I skidded my Harley out on a curve in
the rain, got hit by an on-coming truck, and lost my arm. After
that...I was only good for rough trade, but after my 'adventures' with
Dr. Nut-job --well, I couldn't handle it... So, one day, at loose
ends, I wandered into this weekender's bar I had occasion to
patronize. When the owner found out about my accident and that I'd,
uh, lost my old 'job' as a consequence, he gave me a shot at tending
bar. Been there ever since." He smiled.

Mulder huffed. He'd known Krycek was a smooth operator, but he was
galled by how easily the lies tripped from his lips. Worse, he was
expected to corroborate Krycek's cover story, not blow it. His every
instinct screamed at him to pound the lying Rat Bastard into the
hardwood floor for his temerity. However much he tried to cool his
passions with thoughts of Skinner's disapproval, though, his fists
continued to itch and his temper to boil, till he shot up from the
table, mumbled something about the toilet, and fled the room.

He did, in fact, go into the rest room, but only to calm down. He
splashed his face with cold water, paced and muttered direly, then
repeated the ritual until he ran out of things to say, repeating
himself became boring, and the water actually cooled him off. He
returned to his seat, the epitome of self-possession.

Krycek pretended not to understand that Mulder's absence was on his
account as Graham turned the talk to motorcycles, then hot rods, then
those luxury Italian sports cars that an 'auto-phile's' wet dreams
were made of.

Krycek was charming. He was quick to follow the slightest
conversational lead to topics about which Graham and Wong could wax
enthusiastic. He kept the men at their ease, effusive, content,
allowed them to expound on pet topics at length, and smoothly
alternated his attentions between the two men, never letting them
chafe for an outlet.

Skinner listened and learned. Krycek's survival had once depended on
his ability to read people and their moods, to charm people until they
let down their guard and spilled valuable information without even
realizing it, to be pleasing, yet remain in control, attentive without
seeming calculating. It was an art. And if Sharon had ever done
anything for Walter in her lifetime, it was to teach him how to
appreciate art.

In the interview techniques of 'good cop, bad cop,' Krycek was
definitely 'good cop.' Witnessing how effortlessly he mediated the
conversation was educational and eye-opening. He found himself
forgiving Mulder for falling under Krycek's spell.

The Well Manicured Man had made an astute assessment of Krycek's
character when he had determined, from one brief conversation, that
this was more than mere street trade talent, more than the ability to
sell one's body to any taker. This was the ability of escorts and
gigolos --and, yes, spies-- to blend in, charm, please, and manipulate
anybody for any reason under any circumstances. It was a dangerous
talent.

Knowing how Krycek had lost his arm, it was easy for Skinner to
imagine Krycek allowing his life-long ability to charm people blind
him to how obsessed the peasants were about their prospective
oppressors --and how single-minded their belief that amputation would
protect them against captivity and death-- even when the prospective
victim was an American who could have easily escaped back to his life
of supposed ease in America.

Skinner was sure Krycek had never made *that* particular mistake
again.

They topped off the meal with some almond gelatin, a milky, custardy
concoction firmed with agar-agar rather than beef cartilage, garnished
with fruit cocktail and chased by orange and lemon wedges. Wong and
Krycek both insisted the treat was not to be missed, but to Skinner it
was just jellied, flavored water. Pleasant, but hardly worthy of so
much fuss.

"It's not exactly zuppa inglesa: five layers of yellow cake, separated
by layers of rum creme, strawberry jam, vanilla creme, and cherry
filling, smothered in whipped creme icing and coated with sliced
almonds. Now *that's* a dessert," Skinner declared.

Krycek laughed. "Death By Chocolate is a fabulous dessert, too, --I
mean *seven* kinds of chocolate? Food of the Gods!-- but I wouldn't
want to top off a seafood feast with it. Would *you* want a slice of
zuppa inglesa right now?"

"Well...since you put it *that* way....no, you're right. The Almond
Jell-O was a perfect end to this particular meal. Clean, simple,
delicate, not too filling--"

"--Oh my God, he's turned into Julia Child!" Krycek interrupted
teasingly.

Skinner guffawed, enjoying the way the corners of Krycek's eyes
crinkled when he laughed.

"Yeah, all right!" He checked his watch. "Ah! Well, it's nine oh six
--read six minutes past midnight D.C. time. I say we go back to the
hotel and get some sleep. What time did you want Mr. Tucci to come in,
tomorrow, Inspector?"

"Well, I'm due in at seven. If Agent Mulder would meet me at the
office, I could drive him out to the crime scene. It shouldn't take
long, there's not much to see. I think Willis has an opening on the
computer identi-kit at eight. You could bring Val in then, if you
don't mind?"

Krycek sighed. "If you don't mind, I'd rather come in about nine.
Unlike these guys, I work nights."

"No problem," Graham said. "As much as the thought of time and a half
thrills, *I*, however, am going to have to hit the hay. See you
tomorrow morning, Agent Mulder.

"Stanley, here's my half of the bill --we decided us West Coast
operatives would treat you East Coasters to dinner tonight," Lloyd
explained as he stood to dig into his wallet and, when it looked like
they would object, he held out an arresting palm. "Hey, this is the
most fun I've had with the F.B.I. in my entire career."

"At least let me pay the tip," Skinner insisted.

Graham exchanged glances with Wong. "OK, Assistant Director. If you
really feel like you've got to contribute something, knock yourself
out."

Skinner smiled grimly and pulled out his wallet. Wong quickly added
his half of the money to the bill so Graham could carry it out to the
cashier on his way.

"Night all." Lloyd said as he exited the room, cash-ladened bill tray
in hand. The walls echoed with their fondly returned farewells.

"Uh, I'm at your disposal, sir," Wong told Skinner as they replaced
their respective wallets. "What are your instructions for tomorrow?
Should I pick up Agent Mulder and drive him and Inspector Graham to
the crime scene, or drive you and Val to police headquarters for the
identi-kit session?"

"Mulder?" Skinner inquired.

"Well, like Inspector Graham said, I doubt there will be much to see
at the crime scene. And two pair of eyes is going to be one pair too
many, as is," Mulder confirmed.

"OK. I don't think using a trained field agent as a chauffeur is
utilizing our resources to our best advantage, myself," Skinner said.
"How about you get on the surveillance equipment requisitions and
computer route maps instead, Agent Wong? Agent Scully can help
Inspector Graham's men compile the list of health and dance clubs in
the area, Mulder can find his own way to the PD and Inspector Graham
can escort him to the crime scene."

"Very good, sir." Wong nodded.

Scully slid a look over at Mulder, then canted her head. She would
have to make a concerted effort to get off East Coast time if she was
going to end up trolling dance clubs at night. "I think I'll be lucky
if I can sleep till seven a.m."

"If that's it for tonight, may I at least drive you all to your hotel,
now?" Wong asked.

"Sounds like a plan, Agent Wong," Skinner nodded. 

They rose, grabbed their coats off the backs of their chairs, and
filed their way through the half-empty restaurant, down the stairs,
and out to the sidewalk.

It was foggy, as per usual in San Francisco, just as humid as the
swamp known as Washington, District of Columbia, and just as nippy for
the time of year.

Krycek turned the collar of his coat up as they headed up the street,
trailing Wong to the van. "Um, does anyone know if Derek's body has
been released yet?" Krycek asked.

"Uh, Derek? You mean Derek Fiennes, the last victim?" Wong asked. "You
knew him? Gee! I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Yeah," Mulder said irritably. "Why am I just hearing about this now?"

Krycek hunched up as if to brace himself for an expected blow. "I told
Skinner!"

"You did?" Mulder said nonplused, and turned towards his boss.

"Yes, he did, Mulder," Skinner said. "So, if you want to scold
someone, scold me."

"Does our perp know you knew his last victim?" Mulder asked.

"I don't think so," Krycek said. "I mean, how could he, and why would
he? It's just a gruesome coincidence Derek had the background and the
bad luck to look like me. It has to be. Coincidences *do* happen, you
know?"

"Yeah, sure. So, how long and how well did you know the vic?" Mulder
asked.

"Um...we met when I came west to, um, find Raoul. Raoul's family had
sent him to stay with relatives near Camp Pendleton until his dad
could transfer out from Quantico Combat Development Command and, uh, I
figured, since I was in California, I may as well check Frisco out. I
mean, it's like the gay Disneyland: everybody wants to go at least
once, you know? 

I met Derek on the road. He was a throw-away, too. Really sweet and 
naive and new to street life. So...we hitched up together and hung out 
for a couple months, till, uh, he got settled and I decided to head back 
east. We kept in touch, so, when I came to Frisco during the 
Kallenchuk business, I stayed with him."

"So, you were what: a couple of rentboy fuck buddies?" Mulder asked. 

"No! I mean,...yes, we were whores and we fucked each other, but we
were *friends,*" Krycek stressed. "I do have friends, you know!"

"According to you. And thanks so much for telling me up front that you
had more at stake here than you let on," Mulder said snidely.

"Yeah, well, thanks for finally getting around to asking!" Krycek
retorted with equal venom.

Mulder looked at Krycek murderously, then forcefully expelled a
lungful of air in disgust and stomped to the van without a backward
glance or further comment.

"Er, I don't know the current disposition of the body," Wong admitted,
getting back to the thread of the original conversation despite
Mulder's detour, "but I'll check on it and get back to you, tomorrow
morning, OK, Val?" Wong promised as he stepped over to Mulder and
unlocked the van's doors.

"I'd appreciate it, Stanley, thanks," Krycek said quietly.

"Thinking of attending the funeral?" Skinner inquired as they piled
into the slighter warmer interior of the van.

"Yeah. If I could?" Krycek asked.

"In disguise and with an escort," Skinner acquiesced.

Mulder growled disagreement. "Many serial killers enjoy attending
their victims' funerals. If we can get Percival wired up in time, I
think it would be better if he came as himself. We could have the
whole site monitored and scan the attendees from several angles, and,
with any luck, while our perp is eying Percy, we can latch onto him."

"OK. If the body hasn't been released yet, or the funeral hasn't taken
place already, we might be able to gear up in time to use it as a bait
location, or delay the ceremony until we are ready to do so," Skinner
decided. "That means you need to get on it first thing tomorrow, Agent
Wong. Call me as soon as you find out anything. And don't forget to
let Inspector Graham know what's going on."  

"Yes, sir," Wong assured him as he pulled up to the front entrance of
their hotel. "Here you are. See you tomorrow, Agents, sir, Val."

They exited the van and waved Wong off, then trooped into the lobby,
marched straight to the elevators, and up to their rooms. Skinner
passed Mulder and Scully their magnetic card keys as they reached
their respective doors, then swiped his own key in the slot and
allowed Krycek to precede him into their room.

"Well, home sweet hotel," Skinner said, as he sank onto the right side
of the bed.

"Yeah," Krycek said, as he followed suit on the left, tearing off his
wig and tossing it onto his night table dispiritedly. Krycek jerked
his head at the honor bar. "Want a night cap?"

"Yes!" Skinner said a little too eagerly. "Scotch, please."

Krycek opened up the mini fridge and liberated one tiny bottle of
scotch and one cinnamon schnapps. "Glass? Ice?"

"Yes, to both."

Krycek disappeared into the bathroom to retrieve the glasses there,
added ice from the mini-fridge to one of them, and handed it, then the
little bottle of scotch, to Skinner. He put his own bottle in his
mouth and cranked the bottle with his hand to open his own drink and
poured it into the ice filled glass. "Umm...."

Skinner took a sip of his scotch and agreed with the unspoken
sentiments of his bed mate. Yes, they really needed that. "I apologize
for getting you into trouble with Mulder," Skinner said. "I didn't
mean to. I guess I was too preoccupied with other aspects of the case
to mention your connection to Derek."

Krycek shrugged. "I assumed you'd told him. I mean, I would have told
him if he'd asked. I guess I should have known there was something
wrong when he wasn't ragging me about it. But, if it was so damned
important to him, he should have asked me if I knew any of the victims
in D.C."

"I agree.... So...did you ever catch up to Raoul?" Skinner asked
casually.

Krycek's fingernail ticked his glass as he decided whether or not to
answer. "Yeah.... He told me he never wanted to see me again, that I'd
ruined his life," he said flatly. "About a week later a bunch of
marines gang-banged him 'cause word had gotten out about us. He
committed suicide when he got out of the hospital...." he shook his
head. "Lucky for me, I detoured to Frisco or one of our fathers might
have taken the news out on my hide. As it was, they bloodied each
other up pretty bad, then collapsed in the street crying in each
others' arms...."

He snorted. "I guess the moral of that story is: if I'd beaten Raoul
up before I wrapped him in my arms, I'd still be in Jersey, right?"
Which no doubt explained Mulder's behavior toward him since his cover
was blown: hit first, fantasize later. He sighed into his glass as if
pondering the inexplicability of it all, then took a gulp. "Wanna
watch TV?"

Skinner tried to be as stoic as Krycek. He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Krycek rummaged for the remote on the end table, turned on the TV, and
channel-surfed, hoping that something would catch his eye. He settled
for an early local newscast.

Skinner sipped his scotch as he sorted it all out in his mind, then
checked his messages, and tried to act casual as Krycek began toeing
off his shoes, then his socks.

Krycek shucked his jacket and shirt during a commercial, then, half an
hour later, at program's end, his pants and T-shirt joined the
collection of clothes piled tidily on the carpeted floor. He left his
briefs on. He finished his drink, shut off the TV, got up, lined his
shoes up neatly at the side of the bed, slung his jacket and slacks
over the back of the nearest chair, tossed his socks and T-shirt into
a plastic sack in his carry-all, carried his glass into the bathroom,
filled it with water, used the toilet, flushed, brushed his teeth,
fiddled noisily for another minute, then returned holding the glass,
fake arm tucked under his real one.

He set both items on the end table, climbed under the covers, rolled
onto his left side, as Skinner had suspected he would, as far to his
side of the bed as he could manage, and courted sleep.

Skinner sighed, finished his own drink, shucked and folded his own
clothes and, keeping his own briefs on, climbed into bed, rolled onto
his right side, shut out the lights, and tried to keep his mind off
the creeping warmth advancing towards him from the other side of the
bed.

Krycek reached over and turned on his table light, then curled back
under the covers.

###

CHAPTER FIVE

#
"Although men flatter themselves with their great actions, they are
usually the result of chance and not design." --La Rochefoucald
#
Galleria Park Hotel, San Francisco, Ca.
Saturday, March 11th
#

Skinner woke up at 6:30 a.m. D.C. time, which made it 3:30 a.m. Frisco
time. He had turned in his sleep, but Krycek had migrated and was now
molded to his body, nose tucked into his armpit, his own arm tucked up
with the back of his palm pressing against Skinner's right breast.

Skinner's right arm had circled Krycek's waist and was tugging him
close. His first thought was //Oh, shit!// His second thought was that
he should thank Krycek for leaving the light on so he could admire
Krycek's face, so innocent in repose. His one visible eye's lashes
caressed his cheek like a butterfly sunning on a rosy petal. His
fingers danced in dreamy sleep, like a puppy dreaming of chasing
rabbits, and his breath fluttered Skinner's pit hair with warm, serene
puffs.

It was so perfect, Skinner dared not breathe. He certainly couldn't
move. All he could do was drink in the features of this sleeping
contradiction, his killer. No doubt, the killer of Mulder's father.
This would-be savior of the human race. This lost child, gay man,
trickster god.

He wasn't aware of falling back to sleep.

Krycek woke up inhaling the musky scent of Skinner. It was a calming
scent, somehow, although, when he realized where he was, his first
instinct was to flick his eyes up to see if the AD was aware of his
encroachment. His reluctance to actually see the look in Skinner's
eyes froze him in place, however, until his other senses told him what
he wanted to know. Skinner was relaxed, breathing deeply and evenly,
blessedly sound asleep.

Krycek heaved a sigh of relief and eased himself carefully out from
under the sleeping man's arm before he lifted the covers and rolled to
his own side of the bed, then he escaped the confines of the bed
altogether and went to the bathroom to take care of his morning hard
on under cover of hot, cascading water.

Skinner reawoke missing Krycek's warmth. He sighed with some inner
sense of disappointment, but gleefully pictured Krycek's panic at
finding himself nose to pit hair with him. The sound of the shower
alerted him to Krycek's location, and the thought of falling water
sent an urgent message to his brain from his bladder, which forced him
to wonder if The Rat had locked the bathroom door. His bladder pressed
him, and he sat up under its prompting with the intention of testing
the bathroom door.

Then the phone rang. Skinner put his bladder on hold as he picked up
the receiver. "Skinner here."

"Assistant Director Skinner? Agent Wong. I just wanted to let you know
the Memorial service will be at ten a.m. today at the Eternal Rest
Funeral Home, in Daly City, followed by a graveside service at eleven,
at the Greenlawn Memorial Park in Colma. I've talked to the funeral
director and Blake Fields, the, er, family's liaison, and both are
willing to delay the ceremony an hour or two to accommodate our
investigation if need be, but no more than that."

"Great. Good job, Agent Wong. I'll have Val in to pick up his
surveillance gear ASAP."

"About the surveillance devices, sir?" Wong asked. "Agent Mulder had a
few thoughts on the matter. He, uh, wants to put a device *in* Val,
that Val doesn't know about, so, uh, if he's taken, he won't know
about it and therefore won't be able to betray its presence to the
suspect."

"Sounds like Mulder. And, as I said, I *like* redundancy."

"Yes, sir. But, uh, it's going to involve a bit of deception on my
part, not to mention the pain and discomfort Val will endure."

"Believe me, Agent Wong, Val is one tough cookie. He's not going to
mind a little pain and discomfort, especially if it ends up saving his
life."

"You're right, sir. But, uh, the deception involves Agent Scully, as
well, which means she'll need to be the closest, uh, first aid giver
in the vicinity when it's time to do her part."

"Ah, OK, Agent. I won't bark at her to get back to work if she starts
hovering about."

"That's uh, pretty much what we needed you to do, sir. See you soon."

"Um-hmm. Bye." Skinner hung up, groped for his glasses, put them on,
found his wristwatch, slipped it on, and glanced at the time: 7:27. He
smiled grimly. Krycek's day was going to start a lot earlier than he'd
hoped it would. He hurried to the bathroom and raised his fist to
knock on the door. It swung in before his knuckles could reach the
wood, and he had to check his swing before he hit Krycek in the face.