"I want to bring him into the lab. I'd like for you to examine him more closely, Scully."

She stared at the body, then at Mulder. After a moment she nodded. Together they pushed the gurney out of the freezer, and through the swinging doors that opened onto the pathology lab. Mulder pushed the gurney over to the wall. Scully flipped the lights on, taking in the familiar array of equipment, dis-secting tools, and refrigerators for storing sam-ples, glittering hemostats and neat stacks of freshly laundered sheets, boxes and boxes full of latex gloves, surgical masks, aprons, scrubs— all the tools of her trade. Finally she walked over to where Mulder waited alongside the gur-ney.

"You knew this man didn't die at the bomb site before we got here."

Mulder gave her a noncommittal look. "I'd been told as much."

"You're saying the bombing was a cover-up. Of what?"

"I don't know. But I have a hunch that what you're going to find here isn't anything that can be categorized or easily referenced."

Scully waited to hear if there was going to be more in the way of an explanation—or apology. When there wasn't, she tugged at one latex glove and sighed, shaking her head. "Mulder, this is going to take some time, and somebody's going to figure out soon enough that we're not even sup-posed to be here."

She closed her eyes for a moment, opened them and said, "I'm in serious violation of medical ethics."

Mulder pointed at the body on the gurney. "We're being blamed for these deaths, Scully. I want to know what this man died of. Don't you?"

She stared at him, then back down at the body. His words hung in the air between them, something between a challenge and an entreaty. Finally she turned to the tray table set up on the wall behind them, the rows of sterilized scalpels and scissors and tweezers and knives that lay there, waiting. In silence she began gathering what she would need to do her job.

• • •

D-UPONT CIRCLE WASHINGTON, D.C.

Connecticut Avenue was nearly empty when Mulder crossed it, stepping up onto the sidewalk and winding between stacks of plastic garbage bags heaped onto the curb, waiting for collec-tion. His cab pulled away behind him, joining a meager parade of vehicles: garbage truck, another Yellow Cab, police cruiser. Mulder scarcely noticed the latter, until he started down R Street and saw two other cruisers pulled up in front of a brick row house. He glanced at the address scrawled on the paper in his hand, then started up the walk. Cheerless gray light spilled onto the front stairs; the door to the row house was open. Mulder slowed his steps, hesitating at the entrance, then went inside.

It was a typical Dupont Circle apartment. A lot of money bought you a little space and a nice address, and that was about it. An unmade futon bed occupied one corner of the room; a kitchenette still held the remains of breakfast. In the main room several uniformed officers milled about, examining a stack of videotapes in black plastic slipcovers, rifling through desk drawers, peering into the disk drive of a com-puter. A small office had been set up in what was intended to be a bedroom. Here a police detective contemplated stacks of what ap-peared to be OB/GYN journals. He looked up as Mulder's shadow fell across the doorway.

"Is this Dr. Kurtzweil's residence?"

The detective eyed him suspiciously. "You got some kind of business with him?"

"I'm looking for him." Mulder's tone was noncommittal.

"Looking for him for what?"

Mulder pulled out his ID and flashed it at him. The detective glanced at it, then looked up and called to his partners in the next room, "Hey, the Feds are looking for him, too." He turned back to Mulder.

"Real nice business he's got, huh?"

Mulder frowned slightly. "What's that?"

"Selling naked pictures of little kids over his computer."

Mulder nodded, trying not to show his sur-prise. He stepped into the middle of the small office, staring at the bookshelf by the detective. On each lurid dust jacket the same name appeared in big, gold-embossed letters.

DR. ALVIN KURTZWEIL

Mulder slipped alongside the detective and withdrew one of the books. Surprisingly light for such a big volume—five hundred pages, at least—printed on cheap paper that was already yellowing. He flipped through it, then read the cover.

THE FOUR HORSEMAN OF THE GLOBAL DOMI-NATION CONSPIRACY

Mulder glanced over as the detective appeared at his elbow. "You looking for him for some other reason?'

"Yeah." He replaced the book and gazed at the detective through narrowed eyes. "I had an appointment for a pelvic examination."

The detective and other policemen stared at him with undisguised repugnance. When Mulder smiled they suddenly broke into rau-cous laughter.

"You want a call if we turn up Kurtzweil?"

Mulder turned and started back for the door. "No. Don't bother."

Outside the sky had its customary livid, near-dawn glow: yellow crime lights, lavender exhaust, the city's inescapable humidity all conspiring to give the landscape a bruised look. Mulder exited the apartment building, hoping it wouldn't take too long to find a cab, then he noticed a lanky silhouette gesturing furtively at him a few yards away. Mulder looked over his shoulder, then back at the fig-ure. It was Kurtzweil, standing with obvious unease in front of a narrow gap between two row houses. When he saw that Mulder had noticed him he nodded, then stepped back and disappeared into the darkness.

Mulder hurried after him.

He found Kurtzweil halfway down a dank alley that smelled of urine and spilled beer. Broken bottles and crack vials crunched under-foot—not Dupont Circle looking its best. Kurtzweil huddled up against the brick wall and shook his head furiously.

"See this bullshit?" he said contemptuously. "Cloak and dagger stuff… Somebody knows I'm talking to you."

Mulder shrugged. "Not according to the men in blue."

"What is it this time? Kiddie porn again? Sexual battery of a patient?" Kurtzweil spat. "I've had my license taken away in three states."

Mulder nodded. "They want to discredit you—for what?"

"For what?" Kurtzweil threw his head back and stared at the liverish sky far overhead. "Because I'm a dangerous man! Because I know too much about the truth…"

"You mean that end-of-the-world, apocalyp-tic garbage you write?"

A spark flared in Kurtzweil's eyes. "You know my work?" he asked hopefully.

Mulder took a deep breath. "Dr. Kurtzweil, I'm not interested in bigoted ideas about race or genocide. I don't believe in the Elders of Zion, the Knights Templar, the Bilderburg Group, or in a one-world Jew-run government—"

Kurtzweil grinned. "I don't either, but it sure sells books."

Disgusted, Mulder spun on his heel and headed out. Before he reached the sidewalk Kurtzweil collared him.

"I was right about Dallas, wasn't I, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder sighed and stared at him. "How?" he demanded.

"I picked up the historical document of the venality and hypocrisy of the American govern-ment. The daily newspaper."

Impatience flickered across Mulder's face.

"You said the firemen and the boy were found in the temporary offices of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Why?"

Kurtzweil pulled his raincoat tight about his chest and glanced nervously down the alley. "According to the newspaper, FEMA had been called out to manage an outbreak of the Hanta virus. Are you familiar with the Hanta virus, Agent Mulder?"