"Well, we don't have any *hot* tapioca pudding, but we have some
cold?"

Krycek shrugged. "That'll do," he said, as he handed back his menu.

"All-righty. Are you gentlemen ready to order?" she asked the other
men.

The two fibbies shook their heads. "I'll go ask Mabel about the
buttermilk, then, and be right back with your coffee and tea. OK?" She
sashayed into the back.

Piotr Kapustcha came out of the bathroom and started back to his
table. He froze as he caught sight of Krycek, then back-stepped to the
Ladie's Room which was closer to the dining area than the Men's Room.
Krycek, who was busy dictating his order to Daisy, did not notice the
man lurking in the hallway. By the time he took another glance around,
Kapustcha had retreated all the way down the hall and slipped out the
back door.

The Consortium scientist had not recognized Skinner or Mulder. He
assumed they were friends of Krycek's, there for the funeral.
Fortunately for him, he had parked his car in the restaurant's parking
lot, on the opposite side of the building from the Funeral Home, where
the trio would be unlikely to see him.

Kapustcha settled into his car and unzipped his pants. Just thinking
of his luscious little whore made his penis swell. He smiled,
imagining those lush lips worshiping his manhood and fondled himself,
caressing, teasing, stroking harder and harder till his cum shot over
the floor mat. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. He had to have him. Once and for all,
no matter the risks. He daubed himself clean with a tissue and plotted
his next move.

Back in the diner, Skinner was ploughing his way through two
buttermilk pancakes, two strips of bacon and two eggs over-easy
besides his glass of buttermilk, while Mulder was munching on
alternate bites of cherry pie and french fries, which he washed down
with his black coffee.

"Quite the necropolis, huh?" Mulder said over a mouthful of fries.

"Hm?" Skinner grunted, and dredged up his legal Latin to translate.
'City of the Dead.' "Oh. Yeah." He shook his head. "Ten cemeteries and
a golf course! Who thought that one up?"

"Well, whoever did, it doesn't exactly make Alexandria's necropolis
pale in comparison," Krycek said dryly as he had a sip of weak tea and
a nibble of toast.

"Maybe not, but you've got to admit: it makes an interesting 'noise
barrier' for the Interstate," Mulder said.

Skinner snorted. "Yeah, well, one thing for sure: if more cities
followed suit, those annoying little crosses people put up on the
shoulder of the road where unfortunate motorists died would, at long
last, fit right into their environment."

"Yeah, and maybe it would have a sobering impact on travellers at
large to have strips of cemetery land border all heavily trafficked
areas like freeways and airports," Krycek added.

"Nah, people would ignore the tombstones with the ease of an urbanite
over-looking the bums at his feet," Mulder opined.

"Leastways, the dead never complain about traffic noise," Skinner
said. "Or mis-hit golf balls."

"If they did, the X-Files would have an office in every transportation
hub," Mulder grinned.

"If that happened, you'd be transferred out of the F.B.I and into the
Department of Transportation, and end up interviewing mediums to run
the nation's toll booths," Skinner declared.

"The good news is: with all those employees, you'd be bumped up to a
GS-14," Krycek said.

They all laughed at that, and Mulder mercifully let the subject drop.
When they finally finished their meal and returned to the Funeral
Home, it was one minute past the hour.

Skinner handed the flyers over to Mulder. "I'm going to eyeball the
crowd inside. You'd better get these to the cemetery before the
mourners get there."

Mulder nodded. "Good thing I parked on the street; half the cars in
the lot are blocked in." He looked at Krycek one last time. "Remember:
you're here to be seen, so don't be shy."

"Yeah, yeah," Krycek acknowledged.

From his vantage point inside the mini-mart of the neighboring gas
station. Kapustcha observed the younger man climbing into his car and
departing, while Krycek and the older man made their way into the
Funeral Home.

Krycek walked into the packed room and took a seat in the back, while
Skinner prowled the aisles, finally easing to an inner door to thank
the funeral director for his cooperation.

A pastor who did not appear to have known anyone in the service
personally, delivered a dry and standard recital reassuring all in
attendance that Derek was happier dead, in a much better place, and in
no pain. Then a motley group of singers, also obviously all friends of
Derek's who had never sang together in their lives, graced the
congregation with a few favorite songs of Derek's.

Then they played a tape of Derek singing a love song to Blake
Fielding, Derek's significant other, who tearfully made his way to the
podium to give a heartfelt, wrenching eulogy filled with confusion and
loss and pain, which basically cursed his parents for throwing their
son out and never reconciling with him, and the nameless devil who had
gotten Derek into prostitution, ending in a gush of sobbing and tears.
Several of the men in the first pew jumped up to escort Blake back to
his seat.

The pastor hurried back to the podium to elicit spontaneous
testimonials to Derek's character, their friendship, and their loss.

Mindful of Mulder's admonition, Krycek waited until the last minute to
accept the open invitation to stand before those gathered and eulogize
his friend. Blake, who had been tearfully daubing his eyes in the
front pew, snarled: "You've got some nerve showing up here!" when
Krycek faced the crowd, flowers in hand. Krycek hemmed nervously, but,
when Blake remained quiet and in his seat, he cleared his throat one
last time, and began.

"Umm,...Derek never really understood how special he was. He always
felt like the young kid who was thrown out of his house by his
disappointed parents. He always wanted to go back to that home, but he
never dared to try," Krycek paused to scan the crowd, noting that
Skinner was also scanning the crowd, like a good cop, and did not
appear to be paying him any attention.

"They're not here today, either.... But Derek tried to reproduce the
best parts of his old home in his own home. Yes, I *was* the guy who
first turned Derek out for tricks. We were both throw-aways, and we
needed money. But I'm not the reason he kept his hand in. He told me
once, I was lucky that fear could force me out of the life...because
the dichotic lure of degradation and acceptance was irresistible to
him. That's why, even after he became a dancer, even after he found
Blake --who he knew was the love of his life-- he couldn't stop
whoring himself. Because he could never get over the torment of that
most personal rejection. Well, he didn't deserve to be cast out. And
he didn't deserve to die the way he died. And even though we never saw
each other much, he was a true friend, and I'll miss him."

Afterwards, the congregation followed the body as it was marched out
the door into the waiting hearse. They reduced the number of cars
heading into the cemetery by packing the outermost cars with
passengers before allowing them to line up behind the hearse, which
lead the way to the grave site. Since Krycek's was one of the last to
arrive, his car was pressed into service. Skinner was not among those
who accompanied Krycek to the cemetery, catching a ride with Blake
instead, the better to be among the first to arrive.

It was a short, three minute drive along F street and down El Camino
Real to the main entrance of the Cemetery, and another two minutes
through the narrow lanes wending through the cemetery to the actual
burial site.

They lined their cars along the nearest curb and walked across the
mowed lawn to where chairs and a canopy which only accommodated half
the mourners had been set out.

Skinner escorted Blake to a chair, then walked back to the line of
cars so he could hook up with Mulder.

Krycek preferred to stand, leaving the canopied chairs to those closer
to Derek and/or more infirm than he. He scanned the area, looking for
Kapustcha, while Skinner and Mulder walked the perimeter of the site
to where Graham and one of his men were discreetly taping the
proceedings.

Derek's wasn't the only service being performed that day, at that
hour, in Greenlawn, or the other cemeteries, either, and earlier
services' set ups were being dismantled, their chairs and canopies
transported via truck to later services' locations, to be set up once
more.

As Skinner searched the nearby surroundings, he could see three other
services in progress in the neighboring cemeteries. No sign of
lurkers, strays, dawdlers, or lost mourners, though. Nor were there
any the entire length of the ceremony. The green tarpaulin 'hiding'
the dirt mound was pulled back halfway, exposing the side nearest the
grave, and the seated mourners stood and began lining up to file past
the grave, throwing in flowers, a handful of dirt, or just a sorrowful
look as they paid their respects to Derek for the last time.

Skinner sighed curtly, sorry that their ploy had failed. He watched as
Krycek started to throw in the flowers he had brought, only to have
Blake put a hand out to stop him.

Krycek bristled, but Blake shook his head and pointed to a spot in
front of the green tarpaulin. Krycek deflated, nodded. Both stepped
out of line to set the bouquet in the stand at the head of the grave
instead. Then they hugged.

Krycek got back into line and threw in a handful of dirt before
following the trail of mourners back to their cars. His passengers
were already waiting for him.

Blake just walked back to his limo.

Mourners were milling about Blake's limo, wanting to get last minute
directions to the house where the informal wake was going to be held,
or to give their condolences before they piled back into the
procession cars and headed back to the funeral home, where they sorted
themselves out and claimed their own vehicles.

Krycek deposited his passengers at the sidewalk in front of the
parking lot, then headed back to the freeway, reversing the route he
had used to reach the funeral home. His hadn't been the first car from
the service to head for the freeway, nor was it the last. The wake was
going to be held in San Francisco, so most of the cars were heading
back the way he had come. Added to the number of tourists heading for
Frisco, it was not hard to miss the one car that followed him back to
his hotel.

Kapustcha watched Krycek pull into the parking lot of the Galleria
Park Hotel, then, when he headed for the lobby, brazenly pulled into
valet parking and allowed his car to be taken away. He rushed inside
in time to spot Krycek taking the elevator up, and watched the floors
it stopped on as it went up. Three. Six. Then it started down again.

Kapustcha wondered how he could find out what room Krycek was in
without alerting Krycek. He decided to think it over right there in
the lobby, bought a newspaper from a convenient kiosk, and settled
himself onto a plush banquette where he could keep an eye on the
elevators.

###

The police waited till all the mourners left and the maintenance crew
had come in and broken down the equipment and loaded it into their
truck. Then the back hoe came in and filled in the grave. The
surveillance tapes had filmed everyone, mourner or maintenance man, 
before they called it a day.

Lloyd agreed to let Mulder scan the tapes, since his eidetic memory
was as good as a facial recognition program. Better in this instance,
in Lloyd's opinion, since the computer didn't have a real face to
compare the by-standers to. No one was optimistic about his spotting
their perp in the miles of surveillance tape, even so.

To that end, Mulder rode back to Frisco with the tapes in Franklin and
Jardine's unmarked car. Jardine asked Franklin to make a side-trip to
a local film kiosk to pick up the pictures from his daughter's
birthday party, and happily passed them to Mulder while he regaled
them with cute stories about his kid.

Mulder could barely contain his enthusiasm. Jardine had hired a clown
for the party, and they had bought all manner of accessories for the
kids to dress up in. Jardine had, of course, taken at least one
picture of each child. The birthday girl in question had out-fitted
herself in a purple sheath dress, a gold crown, and enough plastic
necklaces to make Mr. T look conservative.

Mulder stared at the picture like a seer consulting a crystal ball.
//Purple. Gold. Plastic necklaces. Crowns. Masks...// "Mardis Gras!"
He blurted.

"Huh?" Jardine said, interrupting his narrative.

"Our perp has *two* kill dates: Halloween, which is an anniversary
date, and Shrove Tuesday!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Franklin said. "I remember some of those dates,
they were in November or *before* Halloween."

"Right. They're in the first weeks of November, because he keeps them
alive a few days before he kills them, and they have to be found once
he dumps them, and the cases are opened on the day the bodies are
found. Sometimes they're found *before* Halloween, because he picks
his victims up on the weekend *before* Halloween, *because *he *works
*during *the *week* and that's when working people hold their
Halloween parties, on the weekend before the actual day.

"But Derek Fiennes was murdered March 7th, on Shrove Tuesday, the day
before Lent, and I'll bet you a week's pay that all the vics that
weren't anniversary kills were on Shrove Tuesday, as well."

"OK. Say you're right," Jardine said. "How does that help us catch
him?"

Mulder sagged back into the seat cushions. "It doesn't. Damnit."

"Well, anything we learn about this perv has to be for the good,"
Franklin shrugged as he pulled the car into the PD's garage. "You keep
working on it. Maybe you'll come up with something we can use."

Mulder nodded glumly. "Yeah." In the meantime, he had tapes to scan. 

###

Skinner had Lloyd drop him off at the hotel since they didn't want
Krycek to be alone for too long. He went up to their room, and found
Krycek hunched on his side of the bed, back to the door, pre-tied
necktie laying on the bed beside him, collar button undone, shoes off,
ostensibly staring at the wall.

"Hey?" Skinner said.

Krycek grunted but didn't turn. 

"You OK?" Skinner asked.

Krycek straightened his back. "Yeah, sure. Why?"

"Your back is to the door. And you didn't move when I came in. I could
have shot you before you even knew I was in the room."

"Hmm...," Krycek agreed listlessly.

Skinner frowned and moved around the bed to look Krycek in the face.
It almost looked as if there were tear tracks on his cheeks. Skinner
sat down beside the assassin. "Hey, they have a rooftop garden, here.
What say we go up and take some sun, huh?"

"Sure," Krycek said, but didn't move.

Skinner smirked and started undoing the buttons on Krycek's shirt. 

Krycek jerked away with the sudden enthusiasm of a Calaveras Jumping
Frog, slamming his back against the headboard. "What the fuck do you
think you're doing?"

"Waking you up, apparently," Skinner rejoined. "Unless, of course, you
think a three piece suit is proper sun-tanning attire."

"Huh?"

Skinner sighed patiently and pointed his finger upward. "Rooftop.
Garden. Sun. Ring any bells?"

Krycek gaped for a moment, then reddened. "Um. Yeah. OK." His right
hand unconsciously stroked the join between his stump and prosthesis.
"I don't have anything to wear."

"It's OK, Kr-- Val. Keep your T-shirt on, if it'll make you feel
better."

"No, I mean I don't have swim trunks or shorts or even zorries. Just
slacks and jeans and bucks and boots."

"Well, that won't do. Time we dipped into Mulder's trust fund and
bought some fun gear, don't you think? Come on, there has to be a
boutique in this joint somewhere."

Skinner herded Krycek out the door and into the elevator. He scanned
the lobby, spotted the concierge standing self-importantly at his
little podium, and walked over to ask about places to buy swim wear.

Kapustcha rustled his newspaper and strained his ears. //Bathing
suits? For the rooftop garden?// He waited until the pair had exited,
then folded his newspaper under his arm and took the elevator up to
the rooftop.

He stepped out to explore, strolling around the umbrellaed tables with
patio chairs clustered like ducklings beneath, their semi-private
nooks partitioned off by huge flower pots with trees and raised flower
beds festooned with plants that offered spectacular views of the city
while seeming ideal for moonlit trysts; all in all, the perfect blend
of county-club cachet and the allure of semi-public sex.

Kapustcha took particular note of the location of the service
elevator, the fire stairs, and the air conditioning ducts. Then he
found an empty, umbrella covered table within sight of the elevator
and called a waiter over, ordering lunch. Then he took his coat off
and relaxed. He remembered seeing Krycek's partner at the diner. //So,
Krycek has a boyfriend,// he thought.

An hour later, Skinner and Krycek, decked out in matching yellow
shorts, tie-dyed T-shirts and baseball caps, and rainbow-colored
thong slippers emerged from the elevators sipping iced tea. They
strolled around the rubberized jogging track that circled the rooftop
until they discovered an end table flanked by a pair of lounge chairs
tucked into a shrub and flower bordered alcove and laid back to bask,
letting the more dedicated athletes jog by.

The 'garden' was filled with all manner of sun-worshippers and
athletes, people who fancied a rooftop picnic catered by room service,
and smokers who had been exiled to the out-of-doors by California's
smoking laws.

Krycek took advantage of the need for sunglasses to hide his grief. He
sipped sporadically on a tall glass of sweet mint tea and stretched
out on his chaise lounge in that singularly dissipated swoon
cultivated by the heroin chic. The fact that this managed to keep his
prosthetic out of the direct sight of passers-by was a minor
consideration, of course.

Skinned sipped his own tropical fruit blend tea and admired the view
Krycek had managed to inadvertently offer him. His cell phone rang and
he put down his drink to answer it. It was Mulder. He had waded
through the tapes in record time. No suspect. Skinner sighed. "Have
Inspector Graham set up a few appearances at the local health clubs.
Then you and Scully can go ask the dance club set if they recognize
our composite." He beeped off. "No Kapustcha."

Krycek sighed. "So I gathered."

Skinner sat up as a waiter approached with their lunch, which he had
ordered downstairs when they'd purchased their tea. Since they had had
breakfast not too long ago, he had ordered a light meal of fresh fruit
and grilled fish. The waiter unloaded his cart onto the end table,
which Walter had shifted to a more median position, refreshed their
drinks, and accepted payment in the form of a signed voucher,
including a promissory gratuity.

Kapustcha let the waiter who had delivered their food roll his serving
cart towards the service elevator, then motioned him over as he passed
by. He held up a fifty dollar bill. "The men you just served?" The
waiter nodded. "I would like to see their meal voucher." The waiter
thought about it all of two seconds. He pulled out the voucher.
Kapustcha noted the name: Skinner, and the room number: 317. He smiled
and handed over the fifty. "Thank you, very much."

"I like it up here," Krycek allowed. "You think you could buy me some
sweats and running shoes? I think I'd like to do some jogging," he
explained as he sucked a huge red flame grape into his mouth. Then he
practically orgasmed on it. "Oum! These grapes are so sweet!" He
grabbed another one and rolled it over his tongue before biting into
it. His head tipped up to let the juices trickle down his throat as he
mashed the pulp against his palette. He grabbed a slice of  cantaloupe
next, and poked it end-wise between his puckered lips. In. Suck. Out.
In. Suck. Out. In. Nibble, nibble.In. Nibble, nibble. In. Suck. Out.
In. Suck. Out.

Skinner almost dropped his fork. He shifted quickly to hide his sudden
erection with his beach towel. "Whatever you want," he croaked.

Krycek set down his cantaloupe and opened his eyes. "Really? Great!
How's the fish?"

"Fish?" Skinner glanced at the morsel of fish speared on his forgotten
fork. "Good. Really good. You, ah, ought to give it a try."

"Sure," Krycek chirped as he deployed his own fork and poked his
tongue out to catch a drop of white Hollandaise sauce before it
dripped off the orange flesh of the salmon. The tongue then curled up
to lap the flesh into his mouth. He withdrew his fork, and a little
white cream speckled his bottom lip as it withdrew, quickly followed
by that clever tongue, which swiped it clean. "Hmm. Yeah. Nothing
better than fresh fish and ripe fruit." He squinted at Skinner. "I
think you got a sunburn, man. Your face is all red."

//Nothing a little ice water down my shorts wouldn't cure,// Skinner
thought miserably.

"If you're not used to being outside, maybe we'd better go down to our
room to finish our lunch?"

//If I'm able to walk, that is,// Skinner thought. 

"Then you'd better call room service for some aloe. Wouldn't do to
peel in front of the troops," Krycek grinned.

"Yeah, rub it in," Skinner said brusquely, then an image of Krycek
doing just that: rubbing lotion over his naked body, blazed over his
mind's eye. He grabbed his penis, hoping the pain would help keep
himself contained, but it was too little too late. He exploded over
the inside of his shorts. //Well,// he consoled himself, //at least I
won't have to take a cold shower.// Good thing he had the beach towel
to hide behind.

"You OK?" Krycek asked, as he whipped off his sunglasses and leaned
forward worriedly. "Can you speak? Got a fishbone in your throat?
Having a heart attack? Need CPR?"

"No! No. I'm fine.... I will be fine.... Just...need to breathe.
There. All better," he said wanly.

Krycek frowned, continuing to watch his companion. Finally he had to
admit Skinner was OK. He went back to his meal. "Thanks for dragging
me up here. It really is nice."

"Yeah. No problem. You looked like you needed a bit of a distraction,"
Skinner said easily.

"Yeah. I did." He graced Skinner with his most dazzling smile. 

Skinner felt his penis stir to life. He was shocked. //You traitorous
bastard! Don't you dare come back to life so soon! You're forty-seven,
God damnit. You're not supposed to do things like this!// Fortunately,
'Sergei' seemed to take heed and sagged quiescently in his shorts. His
sticky, gummy, wet shorts. Skinner sighed. His pleasant lunch had
become an ordeal worse than ten back-to-back board meetings with
Deputy Director Kersh.

"Hey, maybe we should forget lunch and just go back to our room, huh?
You're not looking well," Krycek said solicitously.

"No! No, no! I want to finish lunch," Skinner insisted, the thought of
Krycek abandoning the meal...that sensuous way he had of making love
to each tidbit of food....  "No. I'm fine, really. I like it up here,
too. Let's just enjoy it, hm?" He couldn't deny himself such small
pleasures. //Besides, maybe by then my pants will have dried. Fat
chance with this humidity.// One more reason to be thankful he'd
brought along the towels. He smiled.

Krycek looked dubious, then shrugged. "Well,...OK." He picked up
another slice of cantaloupe and sent Skinner into orbit.

After the food was devoured, Skinner made sure his towel was securely
tied around his waist, then escorted Krycek back to their room. Krycek
flopped on his side of the bed and hummed contentedly. "If we're going
out later, I'd better take a nap," he said, and promptly fell asleep.

Skinner shook his head. There was a time he could fall asleep
anywhere, any when, too. In Nam. When you didn't know the next time
you'd have the chance to sleep. Too many years of safety had robbed
him of the ability, however. He shook his head, opened his dresser
drawers and rummaged for a change of clothes, which he took into the
bathroom where he washed up.