========
Category:  Story/Conspiracy
Rated:  PG-13
Spoilers:  For all eps up to US Season Five
Disclaimer:  Don't own 'em.  CC does.
Archive:  COLB okay.  Nowhere else, thank you.
Feedback:  Any and all is appreciated.

Summary:  A death -- one year later.

==========
DECEIT
by CiCi Lean, 1998
cicilean@yahoo.com
==========

"Nice office."

Dana Scully whirled in her desk chair at the sound of an unfamiliar
voice.  Standing in the doorway of the X-Files office was a tall
woman, wearing a tailored black suit and holding the largest briefcase
Scully had ever seen.  She watched with curiosity as the woman lugged
the bag into the office and then hauled it onto her desk where it
landed with a *thunk*.

"Excuse me," Scully began, in a somewhat annoyed tone, trying to
gather up the papers that went flying in all directions in the wake of
the briefcase's arrival.  "May I help you?"

"Yhesh," replied the woman through a huge mouthful of candy.

"Pardon me?"

The woman nodded and swallowed the candy with a gulp. She held out her
hand -- a huge palm surrounded by five slim fingers.  "Sorry.  I'm
Special Agent Choate.  Kay Choate.  I'm with the Director's Office of
Internal Affairs.  How are you?"

Scully took her hand and shook it, somewhat startled at the iron grip
that returned the handshake.

Still chewing, Choate pointed mutely at a chair and Scully motioned
for her to sit.  "Thanks. Been running around all day.  Nothing like
grunt work for DOIA."

Choate looked around the office with an interested expression.  "_I
Want To Believe_, huh?" she said, pointing to Mulder's wall hanging. 
"Nifty poster."

"How can I be of service?" asked Scully, carefully, her words
measured.  The DOIA was an annoying department, the definition of a
bureaucratic nightmare, but unfortunately, it was not one that could
be taken lightly.

Choate appeared not to be listening, instead, she merely pulled out a
small yellow and blue box. "Lemonhead?" she asked, shaking the
container of sweets in Scully's direction.

Scully shook her head.  "No, thank you."

"They're very good," replied Choate, tilting the contents of the box
into her hand and then, flinging the tiny yellow candies into her
mouth.  "They get all five parts of the palette working at once."

"No, thank you," repeated Scully, shifting in her chair with obvious
annoyance.  "Now, you were here for..." she prodded.

"Ah, yes," began Choate, snapping open her briefcase and pulling out a
huge file.  "As you may or may not know, I'm investigating the murder
of Special Agent Sean Pendrell, of The Sci-Crime Laboratory, a crime
that you were witness to on March 23rd, 1997."

Choate pulled out her notes and began reading from them, putting on a
slim pair of glasses that immediately began sliding down the bridge of
her nose as she read.  "At the Headless Woman Pub...etc, etc."

She sniffed, trying to push the glasses back into place with a wriggle
of her nose.  "I'm sure you know all the minor details, so I won't be
going into them here.  But this is what I'm here to talk to you
about...basically."

"I didn't know the Director's office was investigating the case," said
Scully, with surprise.  "I thought that local law enforcement was
handling it as a district homicide."

Choate looked up and fixed Scully with a firm gaze through her
glasses.  "While local law enforcement is involved, I'd assume you'd
realize that the Bureau doesn't allow the murder of one of its own to
go unpunished, Agent Scully.  It's in our best interest to find the
killer and bring him to justice, if only from a public relations
standpoint. The Board is most interested in wrapping up this case ASAP."

"I see," said Scully, measuring her words carefully.  "But as far as I
know, Agent Pendrell's death, while a murder, was an accident. He was
an innocent bystander, one who happened to walk into the line of fire.

But Choate no longer appeared to be listening to Scully.  She stood up
and walked over to the office wall, slowly lifting photographs and
newspaper clippings.  She ran a hand over a large article that sat
directly behind Mulder's desk.

"_Bigfoot Eats Camper_, huh?" she said, clearing her throat.  "That
must have been some cheap tent."

"Agent Choate, did you hear anything I've said?" said Scully, her eyes
narrowing.

"Uh, huh.  _Face on Mars_.  Well, I'll be. Look at that."

"Agent Choate -- Agent Pendrell's death was an accident.  He was in
the wrong place at the wrong time."

"I suppose that would be one way of explaining it."

"Really? And what would you surmise to be another?" asked Scully archly.

Chaote sniffed, wrinkling her nose, still trying to push up her
glasses with the effort.  "Well, there are only two choices here. He
was either shot accidentally or intentionally. That's a clear 50/50,
I'd say. Has to be one or the other, right?.  Now, you say he was shot
accidentally."

"And you believe?"

Choate smiled at Scully.  "Oh, he was most certainly the gunman's
target."

Scully gaped.

But Choate merely yawned and continued her examination of Mulder's
clippings. "No doubt about it.  Say...The Flukeman!  Did you know I
used to live in New Jersey? I always wondered what the hell was in
those sewers."

"Excuse me.  Do you have any evidence to support this theory?"  asked
Scully, with slight difficulty, as she felt her windpipe begin to
tighten.

Choate shook her head.  "Nope.  Not a shred.  That's where I was
hoping you could help me out."

Scully felt the hair on the back of her neck rise in frustration.  "I
see.  I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid that I not only don't agree with
your theory, I'm at a loss how I could help you possibly prove such a
thing.  Now, if you don't mind..."  Scully cleared her throat, and
made a show of turning back to her work.

The tall agent slowly pulled off her glasses. Examined Scully for a
long, silent moment. "Oh.  Sorry to be a bother," said Choate finally,
as she picked up her briefcase, scattering various papers and reports
once more, much to Scully's annoyance.

"Sorry I couldn't be of more help," said Scully coldly, almost
growling as she gathered her files back together.

Choate shrugged.  Casually.  "No problem.  I guess I was barking up
the wrong tree."

"I'd suppose so," Scully replied, staring pointedly at the report in
front of her.

"Yep," said Choate, heading toward the door.  She stopped. Turned
around. Her voice suddenly sharp.  "Oh. Just one more question, Agent
Scully."

Scully didn't look up from her report, but began to write with an
irritable hand.  "Yes?"

"Is there any particular reason why Agent Pendrell would have been in
possession of your personal medical records?"

The pen fell from Scully's hand.

==========

"This is only portion of what we've found."

Scully watched as Choate sat behind Pendrell's confiscated terminal
and keyboard.  Typing quickly, the DOIA agent brought up scanned
copies of written reports, x-rays, MRI scans...everything related to
Scully's battle with cancer nearly six months before.  Scully tried to
keep her demeanor placid, coldly professional, as the documents
flashed by, but her heart was racing.

Choate didn't seem to notice.  "So, Agent Scully. When were you
diagnosed?"

"February, 1997. " whispered Scully, unable to tear her eyes away from
the monitor.

"And yet these are dated as saved in late January.  How odd.  May I
ask how well you knew this man?" asked Choate, curiously.

"Not that well...I mean, he was a co-worker," began Scully. 
Hesitantly.  Not exactly sure if that were truly the case.

"Well, he seemed to have taken a healthy interest in you," said
Choate, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "But that's pretty
typical, all things considered."

"What things considered?" asked Scully, her eyes narrowing.

Choate looked up from the monitor.  Flushed.  "Oh.  Um...never mind."

Scully took a deep, cleansing breath.  "Agent Choate --  Agent
Pendrell was a trusted co-worker who had the terrible misfortune to be
in the wrong place at the wrong time.  I'm sure anything you find
here..."  Scully stopped cold as a scan of the first MRI results of
her tumor came into focus.

Choate didn't seem to notice her distress.  "So it doesn't bother you
that he had your medical records on here, even before _you_ saw them?"
 Her voice was sharp, without an ounce of the humor that had
previously colored it.

Scully swallowed hard.  "I have no proof those files were his," she
replied. Acidly.  "So I can't really comment on them."

Choate threw her a narrow glance.  "I can assure you that these are
his files, Agent Scully.  I have no reason to lie to you, I'm just
trying to solve a murder here."

Scully nodded. Tried to focus.  "Agent Choate, have you spoken to
anyone else?  Any member of his family? I mean, I can't be the only
person he knew."

Choate's eyebrow arched.  Scully saw her mouth quirk into a smile. 
"Well, I already talked with his wife in Montana."

Scully blinked.  "His wife?  He was married?"  She couldn't hide her
surprise.

"Yep," nodded Choate.  "I then had the distinct pleasure of talking to
his -other- wife in Albany, New York."

Scully's mouth fell open against her will.  "He had *two* wives?  I'm
sorry. You must be mistaken."

"No, he didn't have two wives," replied Choate bluntly. "He had three.
 Including four kids between them all.  He was a busy boy."

Scully gaped.  Shook her head furiously. "No. No, that's impossible. 
That's...that's just... incomprehensible.  I mean...he...he.. wasn't
that type at all."

Choate coughed, her hand barely covering a very obvious smile.  "Yeah,
that what's all his wives thought too.  Until they all met each other
in the funeral parlor to plan the ceremony.  They were introduced
right over the display caskets.  The funeral director thought he was
going to have a heart attack right there and then."

The tall agent turned to Scully with shrug.  "I'm sorry, Agent Scully,
but he was a classic bigamist.  Mister Shy and Wonderful right up to
the altar, then he gets a job *and* another wife out-of-state. 
Besides, with the access he had here at the Bureau, he was able to
keep all his records clean and straight.  You should see his frequent
flyer miles."

Scully stared without seeing, her hand covering her mouth.  "I'm so
shocked.  I thought...I thought..."

"You thought that he was such a sweet, little guy, huh?"  nodded
Choate, chuckling.  "Well, that's what they all say.  Wouldn't be
surprised if you were on tap as Mrs. Pendrell Number Four."

"Oh, my God," said Scully, covering her eyes.

"But while his personal life was fascinating in its own screwy sort of
way, it's his extracurricular business activities that I became
interested in.  Because as you can imagine, supporting all those
families can be rather difficult on a lab tech's salary.  When I
finally cracked into his personal financial records, which was no easy
task, mind you, I found a rather interesting amount of money."

"How much?" Scully asked, almost not wanting to know.

"Nearly fifty-eight million, give or take a few hundred thousand."

Scully's head began to throb. "Oh."

Choate shook her head thoughtfully. "Now, you have to ask yourself,
why on earth would a guy with that sort of wealth even bother fooling
around here?  You could argue he wanted the Bureau computer access to
hide his, shall we say, excesses...but still. He could have done that
through graft or by some other means.  So, I began to believe there
was something -much- more interesting going on."

Choate turned.  Looked Scully straight in the eye.  "And I think it
had something to do with your work.  And you."

Scully felt the hair on the back of her neck rise, but said nothing.

Choate clicked the enter key once.  "So, I started digging through
your cases.  And that's when I found the real deal. In one file I
found a shipping manifest that he purportedly researched and found for
you."

Scully nodded.  Tried to cover the shaking in her voice.  "Yes, for
Zama Technologies."

"Yeah. Well, Agent Scully, guess what?  It's a fake. UPS has no record
of that shipping manifest and according to the tech who actually
examined the chip, there was no name in the silicon matrix either."

Scully remained silent, but her lips trembled.

"So, it appears that he just *knew* who made that chip," said Choate
with wide, sardonic eyes.  "Isn't that special?"

"Oh, my God," repeated Scully softly, her mouth turning very dry.

"It gets better," said Choate, flipping through various windows, the
mouse clicking furiously underneath her hand, as Scully groped for a
seat.  Tried to sit casually, but her legs were starting to shake.  "I
have a supposed drawing made from an impression left on the inner
particles of an airbag.  Which, of course is the biggest load of
bullhoey I've ever heard of.  I've asked crime techs from here to the
moon if such a thing can be done, and guess what?"

Scully forced herself to reply.  To breathe.  "It can't be done," she
whispered.

Choate shook her head.  "Nope.  It can't be done.  You can *pretend*
it can be done, and give someone the *results*, but no, Agent Scully,
it can't be done.  It appears that anything that this man ever handed
to you was information that he already had waiting for you and Agent
Mulder.  There was no research done here.  Just a passing on of
information.  From who, or for what reason, I have no idea."

Choate rose from the computer chair.  Towered over Scully, who was
blinking back the burning salt-water that was filling her eyes.  God,
how could she have been so blind?

But there was no sympathy in Choate's expression.  "So, Agent Scully. 
Since he was your contact, working to assist -your- agenda, you -must-
have some information on the identity of his killer.  And that's what
I need."

Scully blinked hard.  Drew herself up.  "Yes.  I understand."  Looked
up and met Choate's eyes.  "But I'll need time."

Choate shrugged.  Picked up her briefcase.  "I've been working on this
for a year and a half, Agent Scully. I can wait a little while longer.
 But, I suggest, for your own interest, you find out what the hell was
going on here."

Scully felt a surge of energy,  a wave of angry determination fill
her, like it so often did.  She set her jaw before replying.  "Oh, I
will, Agent Choate.  I will."

=========

//Hey, Birthday Girl...//

It had taken a bit of coaxing, but in the end the night officer had
succumbed to Scully's bright smile.  She bestowed an even bigger one
on him when trying to convince him that she would be just fine on her
own, and would he mind leaving her alone for a few moments with the
evidence box.

The evidence box that contained the personal effects of Case Number
3428-27348.

Homicide.  Male.  Caucasian.  Date of murder:  March 23, 1997.

Name:  Pendrell, Sean B.

//Hey, Birthday Girl.//

After the officer was long gone, Scully pulled the lid off slowly,
waving away the small cloud of dust that rose in the dull light.  She
peered at its contents, and saw the glitter of metal, along with the
dull shine of a leather wallet and badge holder.

//I've been waiting for you.  Where have you been?//

Carefully, Scully pulled out item after item.  Stared at each one,
examining them closely.  She flipped open the wallet, saw pictures of
red-haired children smiling out from underneath the dull plastic,
perhaps to be pawned off as nieces or nephews.  Saw business cards for
brokers, and bankers, and accountants, no doubt to help hide a mass of
wealth that no one would have believed possible.

There was no money in the billfold, and Scully shut it with a snap,
picking up the badge holder next.  She winced at the picture that
stared back at her; a picture of a man much more innocent-looking than
she even remembered him being.

But looks -- they were deceiving.  Weren't they?

The next item that she picked up was much brighter than the others.  A
box, wrapped in shiny tissue, a small green bow still in place. 
Scully's mouth went dry at the sight of it, and she tried to shake the
voice, that ghostly voice, from her mind, but it refused to go away.

//I have something for you.//

With a trembling hand, she lifted the box's cover.  Saw white cotton,
and making sure that no one was behind her, she slowly lifted it.

A bright glint of silver caught her eye, a circle of metal that caught
the light reflected from above her and turned it into a rainbow of
refracted colors.  Barely daring to breathe, she pulled it out and
stared at it.

It was a compact disc.

A compact disc that was most likely holding a vast amount of
information, information possibly beyond the scope her imagination. 
With a shaking hand, she quickly glanced around, and snuck the disc
into a hidden fold of her trenchcoat.  Quickly, she put the evidence
box back together, and called for the night officer.

Thanked him profusely when he arrived, and then...

Special Agent Dana Scully took off like an avenging fury, let loose
from the depths of Hell.

========

Later that evening, in a darkened room on the other side of
Washington, Special Agent Katherine "Kay" Choate turned to man next to
her, and waited for him to speak.

As customary, she only spoke to him when spoken to.  It was more a
sign of respect than fear, even though there were still many things to
fear from the man who sat before her in his electric wheelchair, his
respirator tube forcing each and every breath through weakened lungs.

He hadn't always been like this, she thought dully.  But, even after
those bastards did what they did to him, he'd still refused to let
them win.  She admired that, admired his tenacity, even while not
daring to say it to his face.

She heard the rasp from the respirator mold into words. "Did you give
her enough to follow up on?"

"Yes, sir," replied Choate quietly. "I'm confident that I gave her all
that will be required.  She was difficult to pique, but once hooked,
she won't let go."

"Good.  Did you make sure everything was in place?"

Choate nodded.  Gravely.  "Yes, sir.  She has enough there to at least
bring down the lower circles.  If she and Agent Mulder are clever,
they'll go far with it."

The man sighed.  It was a strange, electronic sound. "They actually
thought they could get away with this one, you know."

Choate shook her head.  Grimly.  "Not in this lifetime, sir."  She
drew her blazer back, a Sig Sauer revealing itself at her hip,
dangling in its own deadly, casual way.

"No," the man agreed. Somewhat sadly.  "Not in this lifetime." 
Another electronic whisper.  "Your check is in its usual place, Kay. 
I've doubled it this time.  Remember that I appreciate -- and reward,
loyalty."

Choate smiled, and bowed slightly.  "Thank you, sir," she said before
turning and quietly heading toward the door.  She stopped short. 
Turned around.  Her face sincere.  "I would have done it anyway, sir."

She saw a half smile draw over the face of the man in front of her. 
"I know, Kay.  Thank you."

She nodded again and left.

The man in the wheelchair, sighed, as well as he could through the
tube that kept him alive.  The wheeze of the respirator wasn't exactly
a comforting sound, but he took it in stride.  Felt a slight surge of
energy when he looked at the gold framed photograph sitting on the
cherry wood table in front of him.

The photograph of Special Agent Dana Scully.

His birthday girl.

The one he'd just given a singular -hell- of a present to.

Smiling again, in spite of it all, he turned his chair to face toward
the broad window, and simply waited.  Waited for the moon to finally
lower, and the sun to rise...

As the bright herald of a brand-new day.

========
The End!

CiCi Lean, 1998
cicilean@yahoo.com