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probably Bournell, would have complained that Mulder was trying to steal the case, and thus the credit, from under them.
    â€œSir?” It was Scully.
    Skinner shifted his eyes; the rest of him didn’t move.
    â€œAs I understand it, there’s a serious time constraint here. By his already established schedule, the killer is due to strike again within the next two weeks. Possibly sooner. Anything Agent Mulder is able to give them at this stage, any guidance he can offer, despite the pressure of his own caseload, can only be helpful, not an interference.”
    Mulder nodded carefully; his other reaction would have been to laugh.
    â€œBesides,” Scully added blandly as the Director replaced his glasses, “I doubt Mulder thinks this one is strange enough to tempt him.”
    Skinner looked at him, unblinking. “I can believe that, Agent Scully.”
    Mulder couldn’t decipher the man’s expression. He couldn’t forget that it had been Skinner who had once shut down the X-Files on orders from higher up, from those who didn’t like the way Mulder learned too much of what, from their point of view, didn’t concern him; nor could he forget that it was Skinner who had ordered opened the X-Files again, and Mulder suspected the Director hadn’t had much support.
    It was confusing.
    Skinner was neither all-out enemy nor all-out ally. Despite the profile of his position, he was a shadow, and Mulder was never quite sure what the shadow was, or what cast it.
    â€œExcuse me, sir,” he said carefully. “Am I being reprimanded for lending requested assistance?”
    â€œNo, Agent Mulder,” the Director said wearily. “No, you’re not.” He rubbed the bridge again, this time without removing the glasses. “The record shows I called you in. It doesn’t have to say what we talked about. But next time, do me a favor—save me some trouble andphone calls, and let someone else figure it out for a change. As Agent Scully suggested, be the guide.”
    He didn’t smile.
    Neither did the others.
    Finally, he slapped the folder closed and indicated with a nod that they could leave. But as they reached the doorway, he added, “Greek, Mulder?”
    â€œClassical Greek, sir.”
    The man nodded. “Of course.”
    Mulder resisted the temptation to salute and followed Scully into the hall, where she suggested coffee in the cafeteria, iced tea for him.
    â€œYou know,” he said as they made their way down the hall, “I appreciate the support, Scully, but I don’t need defending. Not really.”
    She looked up at him and sighed. “Oh yes you do, Mulder.”
    He looked back blankly.
    â€œTrust me,” she said, patting his arm. “On this one you’ll have to trust me.”
    Â 
    His temper didn’t flare until later that afternoon.
    He had been halfheartedly sorting through a half-dozen new cases dropped on his desk for evaluation. His Oxford-trained expertise in criminal behavior, and his natural talent fordiscovering patterns and traces where none seemed to exist, were natural magnets for investigations that had suddenly or inevitably run into a roadblock.
    He didn’t mind it; he enjoyed it.
    What made him angry now was the admittedly unfounded suspicion that Bournell and Neuhouse had deliberately set him up for a reprimand. They were not incompetent. They were definitely not stupid. Given enough time, they would have undoubtedly seen what he had seen; and the Bureau was crawling with experts—either here in the city or out at Quantico—who could have reached the same conclusions.
    He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, and stared at the closed door.
    A droplet of sweat rolled untouched down his cheek.
    He couldn’t help wondering if They were after him again—the unseen powers he had labeled the Shadow Government; the people who knew more than they let on about the truth he