From: Kel <ckelll@hotmail.com>
Date: 13 May 2001 19:52:09 -0700
Subject: [all-xf] NEW: Angular Momentum (1/7)
Source: atxc

TITLE: Angular Momentum
AUTHOR: Kel
FEEDBACK: ckelll@hotmail.com
WEBSITE: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Realm/9374/
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: The Blessing Way, One Breath, Teso Dos Bichos, The Calusari
KEYWORDS: Casefile, MS Friendship.
SETTING: Season 3

THANKS: To my master beta, Erin.  To Linda, of the eagle eye and gentle
heart. To Tre--if only she didn't spend so much time making pictures, we
could get her to write more.  To Foxsong, for encouragement and
technical guidance.  

DISCLAIMER: Just because I'm demented enough to contrive stories about
characters from a TV show doesn't mean I'm crazy enough to submit an
invoice.

SUMMARY: "I have been on the bridge that spans two worlds, the link
between all souls by which we cross into our own true nature."
-- Fox Mulder, "The Blessing Way"






Angular Momentum
part 1


Detective Jones steered left into the Longridge Condominiums and parked
next to the squad car, in front of unit twelve.

"What have you got there, Donnie?" he asked the patrolman who opened the
door for him.

"We've got the dead guy, Neil Deutsch. Plus one suspect, buck naked and
too stoned to tell us how he how he offed him. Couldn't even give us his
name. We've got Deutsch's wife, Lauren.  She was upstairs, heard nothing
out of the ordinary."

Donnie finished his recitation and looked up from his notes.

"A couple of pals go down to the family room to share some drugs, and
one of them turns psycho and takes the other out," he theorized.

"Could be," Jones agreed.  "We'll know more after the autopsy."

= = = =

Mulder wasn't tired enough to sleep, but it was too late to do much of
anything else.  He lay on the couch, switching channels to hopscotch
around the commercials.  When the phone rang he picked it up as if he'd
been expecting a call.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Uh, it's Langly."  His tone was flat, without the usual edge.

Mulder sat up on the couch.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"A friend of mine. Bob Adkiss.  He's been arrested for murder," 
Langly said, his voice full of disbelief.

"Got a lawyer?  Good."  Mulder rummaged through the papers on his coffee
table, finally locating a pencil and something to write on.  "What's his
name, and where are they holding him?"

= = = =

About the only times Scully arrived at work earlier than Mulder were
those days when they were scheduled for some administrative meeting.
Other than that, his absence in the office generally meant another
ditch.

Scully was starting to suspect that she and Mulder had a very unhealthy
relationship.  True, both of them were committed to the X-Files, but
what were the X-Files?  Scully had to conclude that the X-Files equaled
anything that happened to grab Mulder's attention.

Her mother thought she was missing out on the most important thing in
life, having a family.  Scully didn't think so, but perhaps that was
simple denial.  What Scully resented consciously were the little
frustrations.  Like avocados.  Every time she bought an avocado, she'd
find herself dragged out of town while it was still hard, only able to
return after it had turned to mush.

If it were Scully's interests that defined the X-Files, she and Mulder
could investigate that unfortunate phenomenon. Or--and this was even
sweeter--she could assign Mulder to keep an avocado under surveillance,
with orders to call her the minute it was ripe.
 
But it wasn't just avocados.  There were liquefied lettuces and withered
little lemons. Dentist appointments missed and rescheduled.  Dry
cleaning that hung in the store for months because she never had time to
pick it up. Her neighborhood Starbucks had a bulletin board, and she
used to gaze at it longingly.  Tango lessons at the J.  Be a mentor for
a high school student.  Feminist book club.  All out of the questions
because of her erratic schedule.  

Would the world really grind to a halt if Scully insisted on pursuing a
life outside of work?  Mulder wouldn't object in principle, but it would
never happen. There would be autopsies that couldn't wait, flights to
catch, mutants to chase.  Mulder and the X-Files were all or nothing.

Why was she so committed to Mulder?  Because she knew how it would feel
to lose him.  When Scully thought that Mulder would die without her,
that wasn't histrionics.  That was playing the odds.

= = = =

Detective Jones sipped a can of Pepsi as he watched Mulder study the
file on the Deutsch case.  Mulder read the statement by Lauren Deutsch
and examined the sketches and photos from the crime scene.  The
statement by the suspect was all but incoherent.  The lawyer's 
request for a psychiatric evaluation had been granted immediately.

Mulder closed the folder and looked across the desk to the detective.

"You have no evidence against him," Mulder said.  

Jones snorted. "You've got that right.  We can't even show it's a
murder."  He ran a hand over his head, pushing the thinning,
sandy-colored hair back from his forehead.   

Mulder would be able to reassure Langly that his friend was no longer a
serious suspect. He gathered his notes and stood to leave, but Jones
stopped him.

"Why do you suppose he was naked?" Jones asked.

Mulder shrugged.

"What about the wooden bowl?" Jones persisted.  "Containing
'unidentified plant alkaloids,'" Jones read from his notes.  "The same
plant alkaloids found in the, uh, vomitus of the witness."

"That's a preliminary report," Mulder reminded him.  "Final results
pending."

"Do you have a theory, something for us to go on?" Jones pressed him. 

"No evidence of ingestion by the deceased," Mulder reminded him.  

"Agent Mulder, who is this Robert Adkiss? What's the FBI's interest in
the case?" the detective asked impatiently.

"The FBI has no official interest," Mulder answered,  "and I don't know
anything about Adkiss."

Jones frowned.

"Friend of a friend," Mulder added.  "If I learn something useful, I'll
pass it on."

"He's got a lot of friends, for a nobody," Jones observed.  "We found
him lying on the floor next to the body, stark naked and too stoned to
tell us his name."

"I read that," said Mulder.

"He makes his phone call, and suddenly he's got a top lawyer and an FBI
agent looking out for him," Jones said pointedly.

"Thanks for your help," Mulder said, and Jones gave him a sour look.

"Wish I could say the same," he replied, rubbing his forehead.  

Mulder responded with a shrug that was the perfect blend of apology and
indifference.  Back in the car, he took out his cellular and hit the
number for The Lone Gunman.


= = = =

When she received the summons to Skinner's office, Scully knew what his
first question would be.  This time she wouldn't have to lie.

"Where's Mulder?"

"I don't know."

A few seconds of eye contact.

"Do you know where he was last night?" Skinner asked.

"No," said Scully, and waited.

"Clearbrook, Maryland," he informed her.  "Investigating a possible
homicide."

Scully couldn't be sure what was coming next.  If it was a warning to
Mulder to drop the case, she wondered why Skinner was wasting his
breath.

"I see," she said.

"Detective Tecumseh Jones of the Clearbrook police informed me of
Mulder's visit," Skinner said.  

"And?" she responded.  Skinner wasn't going to order Mulder off the
case, she decided.  There was no exasperation behind his steely facade.

"Detective Jones requests further assistance from the Bureau," Skinner
said.  "His people are unable to pinpoint a cause of death."

"I'd be happy to repeat the examination, sir," she said.  Why wouldn't
she be?  A fresh body close to home with a police department that wanted
her help.  Doesn't get much better than that.

= = = =

Frohike was normally the earliest riser of the three lone gunmen, but
this morning when he started his day, he found a half-full pot of coffee
and his two comrades already hard at work.

"Hey," he inquired.

Byers looked up from his terminal.

"A friend of Langly's is in trouble," he explained.  

"Female?" Frohike asked.

Langly was surprisingly successful as a pick-up artist, and Frohike's
first thought was that he'd made that cardinal error of bedding a woman
with more problems than himself.

"Male," Byers said.  Frohike nodded.

"Bob Adkiss, from SSNOR," Langly said.  "He's a suspect in a murder."  

SSNOR.  The Society for the Study of Non-Ordinary Reality.  Frohike kept
his opinions to himself this time:  They were a bunch of freaks who
liked to get high on exotic plants and pretend it was something
spiritual.  Langly had a genuine interest in meditation and primitive
religion, but the others ranged from sanctimonious phonies to
out-and-out psychotics.

Frohike sat down by his regular terminal.

"What do you need?" he asked.  

"I'm working up a bio and time-line for Bob.  Langly's doing the same
for the dead man, Neil Deutsch," Byers answered.  "Deutsch was a
not-so-rising executive with EdwardStoltz, Inc.  You dig into Stoltz."

Frohike nodded.  Stoltz--popularly known as Big Ed. Taking over the
world one molecule at a time.  You'd have to live in a cave to avoid
contact with their products, because they were everywhere.  They'd
operated in blissful anonymity until a couple of years ago.  These days
they broke into the headlines regularly, one huge scandal following
another.  The effect on their earnings and world dominance was
undetectable.

"The FBIs must have mountains of dirt on Big Ed," he reminded the
others.  "Restriction of trade, remember?  Price-fixing, industrial
espionage..."

"Yeah, well, you know Mulder," Langly said. "Let him think of that
himself."

Byers looked up from the terminal as inspiration struck him.

"Try this, Langly.  Mulder said they were going to clear your friend,
based on the evidence.  Call him up and thank him for his help.  Tell
him you're glad it's over," he suggested.

"Yeah.  If he thinks I'm shutting the door, he's gonna want to keep it
open."  Langly smiled for the first time in hours.  "Once we get this
information printed up, maybe we can put it somewhere for Mulder to
steal."

"He's not *that* bad," Byers defended him.  "He just doesn't like to be
lead around."

"Mulder's not our only friend in the FBI," Frohike said with a Groucho
Marx-style leer.  Byers only grimaced but Langly groaned out loud.  

"Hey! I just like to look."  Frohike took a second to give them his hurt
expression, and then he went to work.

= = = =

Mulder arrived in his office around eleven-thirty, and he knew right
away that Scully would be in a foul mood.  The desktop was covered with
histology reports and other lab results, plus there was the tell-tale
folder from the legal department.  She was preparing to testify, and
Scully hated going to court.

She looked up when he entered.

"Where were you?" she snapped.

"I had my phone on," he replied defensively.

"I had no reason to call you.  It's simply a matter of courtesy for you
to inform me when you're going to be out all morning," she said.

"You're right," Mulder agreed humbly. "I was in Maryland."  He walked
behind her and put a hand on her shoulder.

"You're about to ask for a favor," Scully said suspiciously.

He'd expected her to ask him what he was doing in Maryland. This was
going to be tough, Mulder thought.  

"Just because I admitted I was wrong?" he asked innocently.  He could
feel the tension in her muscles, and very gently he used his fingertips
to knead away the tightness.

"I'm not stupid, Mulder," she said.

No, just bitchy, Mulder thought, continuing the massage. She was
supposed to ask him about his case, and then he could have eased her
along into doing the autopsy.  He heard her sigh--with relief,
hopefully.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"Have you?" She shifted a little to take advantage of the neck rub. 

"Not since breakfast," he said, failing to clarify that breakfast was
about an hour ago.  "Let's go get lunch."

"Hm," she agreed.  "I want something sweet."

No kidding, thought Mulder, who knew PMS when he saw it.

"Au Bon Pain?" he suggested.  

"All right."  She leaned forward and went through a series of stretching
maneuvers before she stood up.  "Now, what are you going to ask me to
do?"

He was holding her coat as he answered.

"I'm just trying to be thoughtful," he said.  She had softened a lot,
but he wanted to get some pastry into her before he asked her to examine
Deutsch's body.

She smirked at him.

"Would you mind carrying my purse?  It's awfully heavy."

He had to laugh.  

"Sure," he said, actually slinging it over his shoulder.  "You know what
they say about single men in DC."

She tried to take it back from him, but he was making a point now. 

"Admit it," he said.  "You find my androgyny intriguing."

"He wants an autopsy," Scully mused out loud. 

= = = =

"Bob Adkiss earns minimum wage and rents a room in southeast DC. Neil
Deutsch lived in a luxury condo in Clearbrook, Maryland.  His annual
income was in the six figures.  What's the connection?" Frohike asked.

"They both have science backgrounds," Byers answered.  "Adkiss has a
B.S. in physics from Cornell University.  Deutsch was a chemist from Cal
Tech."

"A dishwasher with a college degree.  What's the story there, Langly? 
Drug problem?" Frohike asked.

Langly finished cleaning his glasses on his black T-shirt before he
answered.

"Bob says dishwasher is the perfect job," he explained.  "He can hop off
a Greyhound in any city in America and find work the same day. He can
wash dishes all day or all night, with his mind free to travel and his
hands immersed in the stream of life."

A nutcase, thought Frohike.

Byers cleared his throat. "Different drummer," he observed.

"You could say that about us, too, you know," Langly replied
defensively.

"What about the drugs, Ringo?  The cops said he was stoned. His own
lawyer thinks he was tripping," Byers pressed him.

"Ayahuasca isn't a drug, it's an entheogen," Langly said emphatically.
"A substance that lets you expand your consciousness and find the truth
within."  

"Ayahuasca?  Is that what you do in your non-ordinary reality club?  You
drink yage?" Frohike asked angrily.  

"Ayahuasca, yage, what are you talking about?" Byers looked from Frohike
to Langly, eyes narrowed with confusion.

"Ayahuasca, also known as yage, is a sacred brew made from vines and
seeds.  It is part of a ritual that can bring about healing and
understanding."  Langly was addressing himself to Byers.

"It's a hallucinogen?" Byers asked.

"You wouldn't use it that way," Langly insisted.  "You have to approach
it with respect, and you have to prepare yourself.  Besides, it makes
you puke."

"What you freaks don't understand is that the CIA loves it when you get
stoned!  While you're off in your non-ordinary reality, they get
free-reign in this one."  Frohike was enraged, but speaking in a
whisper. 

"Shut up, Frohike!  You'd be the first one in line if the CIA was
handing out Seagrams!"  Langly hissed.  Talk of the CIA always made them
drop their voices.

"Guys, this ayahuasca... Could that be the connection?  Could a food and
chemical giant like Big Ed have a commercial interest?" Byers asked with
concern.

"Maybe so," Frohike speculated.  "Big Ed sends their young executive to
make friends with crazy Bob so that they can learn more about
ayahuasca."

"But Bob wouldn't allow that!" Langly protested.  "Ayahuasca must be
treated with respect.  He'd never let someone misuse it."

A motive for murder, Frohike thought.

The three exchanged glances.

= = = =

Au Bon Pain was directly across from the Hoover Building, but today
Mulder didn't recognize anyone from work.  It was overpriced but not
expensive, and he insisted on paying for lunch.

Now was the time to ask Scully to perform the autopsy.  An autopsy he
couldn't justify in terms of FBI involvement or paranormal
circumstances. 

"You want another sticky bun?" he asked.

"God, no, I'm stuffed.  But thank you." She smiled; all was forgiven.

Maybe he should ask her if she'd lost weight?  No, don't overdo it. 
Just make the pitch.

"I know you think the X-Files is all about me, that I just drag you
along for anything that piques my interest," he began.  There!  Now
she'd know he really listened to her gripes.  "But this is legitimate,
Scully, a dead body with no apparent cause of death.  And it's right off
the Beltway." He paused for a breath.

She seemed surprised by his tension.

"Just what is your involvement here, Mulder?"  

"As I told you, the forensics issue--" he started to sputter.

"Your involvement, Mulder.  Honestly," she said, drumming her fingers on
the tabletop.

"Langly.  He asked me to help.  The suspect is a friend," Mulder said,
leaning back.

The eyebrow rode up and the corners of her mouth drew down.

"You take the cake, Mulder," she said angrily.  "Your egotism borders on
megalomania."  She grabbed her purse from the chair beside her and rose
from the table, her chair squeaking on the floor as she pushed it back.

"It's still legitimate, Scully," he protested.  Her sharpness mystified
him.  

"I don't dispute that," she said over her shoulder as she hurried toward
the door.

"Then you'll do it?" he asked, striding after her.

"Of course I'll do it!  For Langly!" Her cheeks were flushed.

Probably PMS as well, Mulder thought.  The hot temper and the hot
cheeks.

"Then there isn't a problem?" he asked hopefully.

"If you think you have to coax me to do a favor for Langly, we have a
problem. He's my friend too! Of course I'll try to help," she said.  

"I'll drive you," he offered, but she was walking the wrong way. 
"Scully?"

"I'm going to stop at home to get my car," she explained.  "I don't know
how long this will take."  

"Okay, I'll drive you home," he said, but she kept walking, and he kept
following.

"The Metro will be fine," she said.  "You should try it."

"But I want to brief you on the case," he said, his long stride letting
him hover just a bit ahead of her so that he was perpetually in her
face.

"Your briefings are selective, if not downright self-serving." She
stopped short and he had to take a step back.

"Scully?" PMS or not, that hurt.

"I'll call you later, Mulder," she said.

"But you don't know where you're going," he said.

"Clearbrook.  Skinner gave me the assignment this morning."  She stepped
around him and continued on her way.

Once again he trotted after her.

"Skinner did?  What's he got to do with it?" Mulder asked.  

She really was heading for the Metro.  Which didn't even go to
Georgetown, so she'd have to walk the rest of the way. All so she could
avoid him.

"What did he tell you, Scully?" he asked again.

"A lot more than you did, Mulder," she answered.  "I'll give you a
call."

= = = =

Detective Jones tried a sip of tea and set the cup on its saucer on the
coffee table.  He waited until Lauren Deutsch put her cup down as well. 
Then he asked her:

"Was your husband in good health?  Was he under a physician's care at
the time of his death?"

She answered very slowly.

"He was in excellent health.  There was absolutely nothing wrong with
him."

The emphatic content of her statement contrasted with the hesitancy of
her delivery.  Numb with grief, Jones thought.  He'd seen it before.

"I wonder, Mrs. Deutsch, how you can be so sure of that," he commented.

Her face crumpled and her shoulders hunched as if she was about to cry,
but she merely sighed.

"He just had a complete physical.  He was in the hospital overnight. 
Every probe and scan known to man, he told me."  She smiled, and then
her face collapsed into a grimace.  "He said, Thar wasn't even no part
untouched."  She used a deep voice and some indeterminate regional
accent to repeat her husband's words.

A battery of tests for a healthy young man, Jones thought.  But he'd
checked hours ago, and there was no new insurance policy.

"Why?  Why did he have to have an exam like that?" Jones asked.

"Oh, that was Neil.  I guess you could say he was a hypochondriac," she
explained.

Except he's dead, Jones thought.

"A headache was a brain tumor, the flu was leukemia," she continued.
"Ever since I've known him."

Lauren Deutsch wasn't a suspect.  She was doing her best to cooperate
with the investigation and her sorrow was genuine, as far as Jones could
tell.  Maybe she really hadn't heard anything that night.  Maybe there
was nothing unsavory behind her continued insistence that Bob Adkiss
wasn't a murderer.

"Did he believe he was ill, at the time of his death?" Jones asked. 
Maybe Deutsch did have a brain tumor or some other problem that his
doctors couldn't find.  The victim's complaints might be helpful to the
pathologist that the FBI had promised him.

Mrs. Deutsch was crying quietly now, and Jones pushed the box of tissues
closer to her on the coffee table.  She spoke through her tears.

"He felt fragmented.  Unwhole." She shrugged.  "His doctor offered him
antidepressants.  I told him to quit his job."

"Trouble at work?" Jones probed.

"Neil didn't think so.  He told me everyone at Big Ed understood why
he'd blown the whistle, that their operations were clean now," she said.

Big Ed was EdwardStoltz, Inc., Jones knew.  A year ago, Neil Deutsch had
cooperated with the Justice Department in an antitrust investigation. 
There were fines and firings and a new executive board, but no prison
terms, of course.  Jones took a second to thank God that his work didn't
involve white-collar crime.

"What do you think, Mrs. Deutsch?" he asked.

She shrugged.

"I think there had to be hard feelings.  I thought he'd do better with a
fresh start somewhere else," she said.  And then her face clouded.  "You
don't think they'd kill him, do you?"

"There's no evidence of that," he assured her.

There's no evidence of anything at all, he thought.  

"Neil never wanted to be an executive, you know.  He was a scientist, an
engineer.  The new management put him back in the lab, and he was
relieved," Lauren Deutsch said.

Jones thought that sounded like a demotion.

"Relieved, but not happy?" he asked.

"Neil wasn't what you'd call a happy person.  He was always restless,
always looking for something.  I think that's why he and Bob hit it off
so well," she said.

Bob Adkiss had the mental acuity of a grapefruit, as far as Jones could
make out. 

"Did they have a lot in common?" he asked.

"Not on the surface.  But deep down, they shared a belief.  A conviction
that if you could learn all the secrets, everything would make sense." 
She sighed.  "Right now I'd like to believe that myself."

= = = =

Scully snapped off her gloves and stopped the tape recorder.

Neil Deutsch was the healthiest dead man she'd ever seen. Thirty-plus
years on earth had failed to mark him with any signs of degeneration,
disease, or trauma.  

No swelling, no thrombi, no bleeding, no infarcts, no lesions, no
plaquing, no ulcerations.  Nothing.  He looked like an illustration in
an anatomy text.

The Clearbrook ME had suggested a lethal arrhythmia.  Deutsch didn't
fit the pattern, but Scully had nothing better to offer.

She washed and dried her hands and donned fresh gloves to close the
incision.  Nothing fancy, just some thick running stitches. 

Scully frowned as she sutured, and she began to consider her lack of
findings in a different light.   

If all scientific explanations were eliminated, it might be time to seek
answers beyond standard science.

Many of the lab results were still outstanding, though, and maybe she
would find some answers there.

"Agent Scully?  I'm Detective Jones."

She looked up and found the source of the voice.  A slight, sandy-haired
man with a shoulder holster over his short-sleeved white shirt.

Scully, still gloved, nodded her greeting.

"What did you find?" he asked.

"Nothing, I'm sorry to say.  I collected a few more specimens, but
unless we get lucky...."  She pulled the plastic drape  up over
Deutsch's body and began to sort through her instruments, dropping the
disposable items into a large red container labeled "Sharps."

"Well, Doc Barnes said he couldn't find a single thing wrong, not so
much as a hangnail," Jones offered.

Scully's review had turned up a slight inguinal hernia and an ingrown
whisker.  Completely insignificant, but at least she could tell herself
she'd been more thorough than the original examiner.

"I'd like to go over your notes, if that's all right," she said.

"I'd appreciate it," said Jones.  "I'll be in my office."

After she finished the clean-up and changed out of her scrubs, Scully
met with the detective.

"I've got something for you," Jones said.  "Hot off the presses.  Mr.
Deutsch recently checked himself into the hospital for a complete
physical.  Here's his chart."  He passed the thick envelope across the
desk to her.

"Insurance?" Scully asked.  "Increased coverage on his life insurance,
or maybe a change in the carrier on his medical coverage?"

Jones shook his head.

"I checked.  His wife said he had some vague complaints, wanted some
reassurance that everything was okay."

"Maybe we will get lucky," Scully said, although she doubted it.  "Maybe
they found some aberrant pathway."

"Oh, lord," Jones laughed.  "Now you sound like my only suspect."

Scully smiled.

"Sorry.  Your ME suggested a lethal arrhythmia as the cause of death. 
An abnormal EKG could support that finding."  She grew thoughtful. "Did
your suspect really talk about aberrant pathways?"

"Mostly he chants, or he doesn't say anything.  But sometimes he gets
going on things like spirit journeys and soul retrieval.  Very
frustrating," Jones said.

"My AD said he was being held for a psych evaluation," Scully said.

"I don't know what I'm going to do with him after that," said Jones. "If
there's no murder, he's not a suspect.  There's nothing to say he's
dangerous."

"You'll have to release him," Scully said.

Jones snorted.

"He scrapes through on a mental status exam, but there's no way this guy
can take care of himself.  I'd love to send him home to the Lone Gunman,
whatever the hell that is."

"I'm sorry, what about the Lone Gunman?" Scully asked.

"That's the outfit that's paying for the fancy lawyer.  I have a theory
about it, if you want to hear it," Jones said.

"I'm all ears," Scully said, very curious.

"Kind of twisted, but here goes.  Neil Deutsch was a loose cannon at Big
Ed--EdwardStoltz, that is.  If Big Ed found a way to put an end to him,
they'd have to keep their distance from his killer," he began.

Scully let him finish, although she could guess where he was leading.

"They'd have to arrange an intermediary to hire the lawyer, stuff like
that.  I think the Lone Gunman is a secret arm of Big Ed," Jones
finished.

"I don't think so, Detective," Scully said.  

"Maybe I'm being paranoid," said Jones.  "Just keep it in mind."

= = = =

Angular Momentum, by Kel
part 2

Disclaimer, etc., with part 1


= = = =

Mulder pressed the buzzer a second time and bounced on his heels
impatiently.  At last the bolts slid aside and Langly opened the door.

"About time," Mulder greeted him.  "What's that, the new name for your
tabloid?"

Langly wore a black T-shirt whose lurid letters proclaimed, "Circle
Jerks."

"Come on in, Mulder.  That is, if you can spare the time before your
photo shoot at GQ," he answered.

They walked into the gunmen's main work area, and Byers and Frohike
glanced up from their terminals but didn't speak.

"What's new in Geekland?" Mulder asked.  Langly looked down, and Frohike
began to type rapidly.  The silence stretched until it couldn't be
ignored.

"Lots of developments in superconductors," Byers said at last.  "From
Portugal, of all places.  They've had a breakthrough with the use of
titanium alloys."

Mulder moved a pile of manuals from a desk chair and sat down.

"What's going on, boys?" he asked quietly.  This time Frohike answered.

"Look, Mulder, we're grateful for your help, what you did for Langly's
friend.  We've got a few loose ends to clear up, and then we'll be glad
to give you the scoop," he said.

"You'll give me the scoop?" Mulder asked incredulously.

"It's not that we don't trust you," Frohike began.

"But the fact is you're a federal agent with certain sworn obligations,"
Byers picked up the thread.

"You called me," Mulder reminded them.  "You brought me into this."

"We did, and we appreciate your help," Byers said.  "But right now, I
don't think you should be here."

"Let us handle it," Langly mumbled, eyes downcast.

"You can talk to me right here or I can bring you in for questioning,"
Mulder said coldly.  "I'm not in the mood for games."

Frohike didn't look at Byers or Langly because he didn't have to. Mulder
was hooked tighter than J. Edgar's girdle; time to reel him

"We're not trying to hold out on you, Mulder," Frohike said.  "We don't
have any proof, just a lot of suspicions."

"All right," said Mulder.  "Give me what you've got."

Frohike leaned back as Byers started to bring up a file.  Langly looked
Mulder in  the eye and began his recitation.

"Have you ever heard of a company called EdwardStoltz, Inc.?" he asked.
It was a rhetorical question.

"EdwardStoltz--Big Ed.  Formed in nineteen sixty when Stoltz Mills
merged with Edward Grain and Feed.  Dominates the world market in food
additives, pesticides, and synthetic hormones.  Known to the public
largely for their philanthropic activities, but their generosity is most
notable in the area of campaign contributions," Mulder related.

Mulder must have picked up on the Big Ed angle without their prodding,
Frohike noted.

"Looks like you've been sniffing along the same trail," he said.

"Not really," Mulder admitted sheepishly.  "I spent four months
transcribing surveillance tapes from Big Ed."

"Last year?  The big antitrust case?" Byers asked.

"About five years ago," Mulder answered.  "We had some strong evidence
of industrial espionage, but the whole investigation fell apart.  One of
the ringleaders died and our witness fled the country."

"That seems awfully convenient," Frohike said.

"It was for me," Mulder said with a grin. "They let me take off the
headphones."

Pure Mulder, thought Frohike. A minute ago he was the consummate G-man,
threatening to bring them in for questioning.  Now he sounded like a kid
excused from math class.  He'd probably leave Bin Laden handcuffed to a
parking meter while he ran after a woman who reminded him of Samantha.

"No, really," said Langly.  "Or maybe you don't know that Neil Deutsch
was a cooperating witness in that price fixing case."

"That's interesting," Mulder said.

"Or that the CIA has used executives from Big Ed as informants, possibly
even spies," Byers added.

"Big Ed has a vast empire offshore.  They can make a billion dollars
disappear from one continent and reappear around the world," Langly
said.

"Are you getting all this?" Byers asked.

Mulder grimaced impatiently.  "Listen, boys, the FBI was chasing after
Big Ed back when Skinner had hair.  There's a permanent division that
does nothing else. A bunch of tight-ass accountants that make you guys
seem like lumberjacks."

"Maybe you could talk to them," Langly suggested eagerly.  "We have a
strong suspicion that Big Ed had something to do with Deutsch's death."

Mulder laughed.  "No doubt the boys in White Collar Crime would agree
with you.  Of course they also think Big Ed killed Kennedy."

This is personal, Frohike thought.  He doesn't get along with the guys
in White Collar Crime, so he's not going to talk to them.  I'll call
Scully later and ask her to look into it.

"They're paranoid," Mulder insisted.  "Hey, their ASAC died of a stroke
last week, and some of them think it was a hit by Big Ed."

Frohike saw he'd have to try a different spin to catch Mulder's
interest.

"Have you ever heard of ayahuasca--or yage?" he asked.  "It's a
psychedelic drug first used by the Indians of the Amazon."

"Also popular with anthropologists," Mulder said dryly.  "At least up at
Boston University."

"That figures.  They can get high and pretend it has something to do
with ancient wisdom," Frohike said.

Langly whirled around in his chair.

"You don't know what you're talking about!" he exploded.  "If you would
just shut up no one would know how ignorant you are." 

"Maybe if you had to watch while all around you people traded in their
futures for a line of blow you'd have some idea what I'm talking about,"
Frohike shot back, his index finger inches from Langly's face.

"Guys," Byers said warningly, but Langly interrupted.

"Yage isn't blow!"

"It's a drug, Langly!  Don't be naive!" Frohike shouted.

"Telephone," said Byers, and as the voices dropped it rang again.  Still
glaring, Frohike flipped the switches to record the call and answered
the phone.

"I'll tell you about yage," Langly said to Mulder.  "He's just nuts."

Frohike cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and offered the phone to
Byers.  Byers spoke for a minute before hanging up.

"The lawyer," he informed the others.  "He says the cops are ready to
release Bob if someone's willing to accept responsibility."

"I guess that's us," Frohike said.  "He may be a hophead but we still
can't let the CIA get to him."

"I'll go pick him up," Langly said.  "*I've* never been pulled over for
driving under the influence."

"I'll go, too," Mulder said.

"That's not such a good idea," Byers observed tentatively.

"A federal cop wants to go for a ride with an incompetent suspect,
without his lawyer, and you think that's not a good idea?" Frohike asked
sarcastically.  "What's the problem?"

"Come on," Langly said to Mulder.  "I can tell you about ayahuasca on
the way."

= = = =

Studying Neil Deutsch's medical chart consumed a couple of hours. 
Scully forced herself to read not only the reports, where specialists
had interpreted the results, but the raw data on the tests themselves.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.  She was frustrated and annoyed.

Even Robert Modell, who could kill with a word, left evidence behind. 
Before she understood or believed how he did it, she could explain the
proximate causes of death--burns, multiple trauma, myocardial
infarction.

If Bob Adkiss was a murderer, he was subtler than Modell.  It was as if
he had discovered an "off" button.

Time to move away from the victim, Scully thought as she climbed behind
the wheel.  Her need now was to learn more about Bob Adkiss and Big Ed.

Big Ed should be easy, because White Collar Crime had been targeting
them for a decade or more. She had a friend in the division, Brent
Milligan, a classmate from the Academy.  She'd seen him a few days ago,
at a wake, sadly enough.  Maybe she could take him out to lunch. 

Bob Adkiss was a little trickier.  She wouldn't talk to him without his
lawyer.  Clearly the guy was going for an insanity defense, and she
refused to help his cause by breaching his rights.  Her next best source
was Langly.

Langly would want to protect his friend, but Scully didn't believe he'd
go so far as to lie.  Langly respected the truth and the search for the
truth; if Bob turned out to be a killer, Langly wouldn't cover for him.

She didn't bother calling ahead to the Gunmen because someone was always
there.  The place reminded her of Tau Delta Rho.  Back in the day, Delta
U was the "cool" house, with the jocks and the face-men, but Scully had
gravitated to TDR, where the guys were shy but bright.  Like her.

Scully did some of her best thinking when she drove.  Not when Mulder
drove; that put her to sleep.  

If Mulder had asked her about it, she would have blamed his soporific
rants and lectures, but alone in her car, she could admit the truth. 
She felt safe with him.  She was all too willing to let him control the
car and the investigation.

In his more splenic states, Mulder would urge her to leave the X-Files,
for the sake of her career and reputation.  Even if she had wanted to,
she couldn't.  Mulder would die without her.  Someone would kill him.

She had to stay on the X-Files.  And the X-Files were the embodiment on
earth of Mulder's will and whims.  No wonder she let him drive.  No
wonder she fell asleep.

But back to Langly.  She'd be there in five minutes unless...
Inspiration struck, and she parked her car by Nola's Kitchen.  A rack of
ribs would help her cause immeasurably.  

Most of Nola's business was takeout and Scully sat at an empty table to
wait for her order.  You could watch your food being prepared, but
Scully never did.  She didn't want to know what made the greens so
delicious; she wanted to pretend that it had nothing to do with pork.

Finally, balancing two large paper sacks, Scully arrived on the doorstep
to the Lone Gunman and managed to ring the buzzer.

Frohike opened the door and assisted with the burden.

"Hello, pretty lady," he said, grabbing a bag. "But it's just Byers and
me.  The human trash compactor isn't here."

Byers began clearing off a space for the food, removing papers and disks
from a table and stacking them on the floor.  Frohike left the room and
returned with a jug of water.

"I just tested it this morning," he said as he put it down. Scully set
the table with the paper plates provided with the order.  Frohike pulled
some desk chairs over for the unscheduled feast, and they took their
seats.

"This is ridiculous," Scully acknowledged, looking at the mountain of
food.

"It won't go to waste," Byers assured her.  "Langly's not too proud for
day-old ribs."

"I wish he was here," Scully said, reaching for a biscuit.  "I wanted to
ask him about Bob Adkiss."

"Langly would tell you that Bob Adkiss is a modern-day shaman who
dropped out of society to pursue the wisdom of the universe," Byers
said. "Or something along those lines."

Scully looked at him quizzically.

"I get the feeling that you'd describe Bob Adkiss differently," she
said.

"I don't really know him," Byers said carefully.  "I do have some
concerns."

They were worried about Langly, Scully realized, but they didn't want to
talk behind his back.

"Is there anything you can tell me?" she asked softly.

"At least we can tell her what we told Mulder," Byers said, and Frohike
accepted that answer.

"Bob Adkiss drinks yage.  It's a drug used by the Indians of the Amazon.
Have you ever heard of it?" he asked Scully.

"Yage--the vine of souls," Scully said.  "A powerful hallucinogen and
potentially deadly."

"Really?" Byers asked.

"Absolutely.  It's a monamine oxidase inhibitor.  In combination with
tyramine-rich foods, it could cause a hypertensive crisis," she said.  

Is that what killed Neil Deutsch? Scully wondered. No, she concluded,
because she would have found the evidence.  Infarction or hemorrhage of
the heart or brain. Still, it was intriguing.  She'd order some extra
screens on the serum samples.

"I wonder if Langly knows that," Frohike said.

"He did say you had to be careful," Byers said.  "That you had to
prepare yourself and treat it with respect."  They both sounded anxious.

"What kinds of foods, Scully?" Frohike asked.

"Products that are aged or fermented, like cheese or beer. Anyone
familiar with ayahuasca would know about that effect," she reassured
them.

Byers gave a twisted smile.

"Poor Langly, torn between the urge to explore other realities and the
desperate need for pizza and beer," he said.

"Seriously, guys, yage's a poor choice for a recreational drug," she
said.

"What are you saying, Scully?  Bob really is a shaman?" Frohike asked.

"Of course not, and I don't think he's an assassin either.  But he
doesn't sound like a guy who would pal around with a corporate type like
Neil Deutsch," she mused.

"We have some theories about that," Byers offered.  "Have you ever heard
of a company called EdwardStoltz?"

= = = =

"Pull over, Mulder!" Langly shouted, and Mulder squealed across to the
right lane and then bumped the car up onto the shoulder of the road.  He
jumped out of the car and ran around to open the rear door on the
passenger side.

Langly was holding Bob Adkiss by the shoulders, and together with Mulder
managed to swing him out of the car.

Langly, still supporting his friend from behind, turned his head to the
side, and Mulder turned his back entirely.  

Bob vomited.  

"Ugh.  What a wonderful drug.  Why don't you invite me over next time
you use some?" Mulder said with great disgust.

"I don't understand," Langly answered.  "It shouldn't last this long."

Bob finished vomiting and looked up at the moon.

"La purga," he said. 

"Bob?  Feeling better?" Langly asked, but Bob didn't reply.  Langly
loosened his hold, and Bob stood on his own.

"Let him air out," Mulder said, leaning against the car.  "Is he gonna
keep going like this all night?"

"I don't know.  I told you, the effect should be over by now," Langly
said impatiently.  "Bob?  What happened, man?  Why are you acting like
this?"

Bob raised his arms to his side and turned his palms skyward. Then he
began to whirl in a circle.

"You use this garbage, Langly?  You're an asshole," Mulder said.

"This is all wrong.  He ought to be able to talk to us," Langly said.

"Shaman heal thyself," Mulder quipped.

Langly gazed up at the moon, then back to his friend.

"What do you see, Bob?" he asked.  "Where are you?"

"Ahhhhhhh-ohhhhhh-ahhhhh," Bob sang tunelessly.

"Shaman-chanted evening," said Mulder.

"Your sympathy is overwhelming." Langly said with irritation. "He's lost
and he can't get home."

"Not in my car," Mulder agreed.  "Not until he stops vomiting."

"The purge is an affect of the yage, perfectly normal. But he's caught
in the lower world," Langly said earnestly.

"Get off it, Langly," Mulder said sharply, watching as Bob stopped his
spinning and lay down on the grass.  "This is your basic bum trip."

Langly looked at him stonily.

"Journey.  Not a trip, a journey," he said.  

"Shaman-tics," Mulder said.  

Bob stood up, put his hands behind his back, and shuffled his way to
Mulder.

"You hide in the cold away from the hearth," he said to Mulder. "Open
your eyes and see."

"Thanks.  I'll remember that," Mulder said sarcastically.

"With drums and vines you shall call me home," Bob said.  He got into
the car.

"Bum trip?" Langly asked pointedly.

"Who knows?" Mulder answered.  "Maybe just a good act."

"You could test him," Langly said.  "Ask him something."

"You're really serious about this stuff," Mulder commented.  

"His journey in the lower world gives him hidden answers," Langly said. 
"Ask him a question."

Mulder shook his head dismissively.

"This isn't the Amazon, Langly.  Your friend Bob is a dilettante at
best.  At worse he's delusional, or a fraud," he said.

"That's your objection?  There are other worlds, but only for the
Indians of the Amazon? A different reality for different people?" Langly
pressed.

Mulder looked as if he might answer but apparently decided against it.

"Get in the car," he said.  

Langly opened the door and joined Bob in the back seat.

Mulder guided the car back onto the highway.

"That's wild, Mulder.  You believe in all this crazy shit, but you don't
think it has anything to do with you," Langly said.

Mulder gave a long-suffering sigh and turned on the radio.  

"If I was an anthropologist, I could map this out," Langly mused. "Like,
vampires are real. Flukeman--real. But Voodoo only works for Haitians. 
And yage only works for Indians."

"Feel free to shut up any time," Mulder said, cranking up the volume so
he could listen to Tom Petty instead of Richard Langly.

"The Blessing Way--it's not just for Navajos anymore," Langly said.

"For anyone.  By Navajos," Mulder called back to him.  "I could make all
the sand pictures I want and nothing would happen."

"But something did happen," Langly shouted over the pounding music.
"Neil Deutsch is dead."

"Drums," Bob said. "Drumming."

"At least someone in this car makes sense," Mulder observed.

"Tell me, Mulder.  How was he killed?" Langly persisted.

"Neil?" Bob asked.  "He's dead?"

Langly had been leaning forward to argue with Mulder, but now he turned
his attention to Bob.

"Yeah, Bob, he's dead," Langly confirmed.

"Whoa, dude," said Bob.  "This is bad."

Mulder tried to catch Langly's eye, but Langly was watching Bob.

"You've got to tell us what happened," Langly said.  "They think you did
it."

Bob spoke softly. 

"Somebody's down there," he said.

Mulder turned off the radio.

"No, dude, keep the drum," Bob said.  "Tryin' a hang on up here."

"You met another journeyer?" Langly asked. 

"The lower world's getting crowded, now that anyone at all can go
there." Mulder observed.  The radio started blasting a commercial, and
Mulder scanned for something else with a backbeat.  

"Shut up, Mulder.  Just let him tell it," Langly said impatiently.

"I saw his artifice, the hand of man in the world of spirits," Bob
said.

"You think he did something to hurt Neil?" Langly asked.

"Oh yeah.  Dude, someone's gotta go after him, undo what he has done,"
Bob said.  

Langly paled.

"I've only been there a couple of times, Bob.  And it's not going to
bring Neil back," he said.

"Neil can't finish his journey until his spirit is released," Bob
explained. "But you can't do it, dude, you haven't been called."

"Do you know anyone who's had the Call?" Langly asked.  

Bob thought.

"There's a woman in Baltimore.  There's a guy in Akron I chat with
sometimes.  But what about him?"  His arm extended with a graceful
flourish as he indicated the driver of the car.

"Mulder doesn't drink brew.  He's not even a believer," Langly said.

"He was called," Bob insisted.

"Maybe I wasn't home," Mulder said.  

"He was called and he will be called again," Bob said.

"Called twice?  That's rough," Langly said, grimacing with sympathy.

"More than twice.  More than called.  Called and chosen," said Bob.

= = = =

"And good morning to you too," Scully said brightly, carrying a paper
sack from Au Bon Pain over to Mulder's desk.  He looked up.

"You're unusually cheerful," he said, sounding unusually grouchy.

"I don't have to go to court," she announced.  "And here's your coffee,
so you can share in my celebration."

She studied his face as he took the cup.

"You look like hell," she said.

"Long night, Scully, and not very pleasant," he said.  "First of all, my
partner, who had said she would call me, never did."

Scully sat down and peeled the top from her coffee.

"I'm sorry, Mulder.  I was with the Gunmen until eleven," she said.

"It's not a problem.  Frohike was kind enough to apprise me of your
findings--or lack thereof."

Scully sipped her coffee, staring at Mulder without answering.
Weathering Mulder's foul moods was part of the job, and Mulder's bitchy
spells were easier on her than his dark depressions.

"You didn't tell me you were going over to the Lone Gunmen," he said.

"Is that a problem?" Scully asked.  He must have skipped his run this
morning, she decided.  He seemed critically low on endorphins.

"No," he said, his tone suggesting otherwise.  "But it's a rough
neighborhood, not the safest place for you to go alone at night."

Scully burst out laughing, and a second later Mulder was joining in.

"I withdraw that last comment," he said.  "But seriously, Scully, I'd
like to think we're working together on this."

"Okay.  Here's what I learned," she said.  This would be interesting;
this time it would be Mulder telling her that the story was crazy.  

Mulder placed a yellow pad on his desk and moved his coffee to the side.

"Neil Deutsch was a chemical engineer at EdwardStoltz, Inc.  A couple of
years ago he was tapped by the Justice Department to be a witness in a
price-fixing case against his employer," Scully began.  "Justice
triumphed; the company was fined and the scoundrels were replaced."

"God bless America," Mulder said.  "Go on."

"Neil, a reluctant executive by his own admission, was relieved of his
management responsibilities and returned to the lab," she said.

"I didn't know that," Mulder admitted.

"Neil was unhappy.  He complained of some intangible loss of self.  He
consulted medical specialists, who pronounced him healthy but
depressed," Scully said.  "For the record, nothing in his chart suggests
that he'd be prone to a sudden arrhythmia."

"So the ME was full of shit," Mulder said.

"Not at all," Scully said.  Lethal arrhythmia left no evidence. The ME,
finding nothing, had made his best guess.  Pathology was one area where
Mulder totally trusted her, and most of the time she was content with
her perch atop the pedestal.

"Discontent, Neil began to search for answers in unlikely places.  He
looked to the wisdom of the primitives," Mulder said, picking up the
thread.  

"He consulted a shaman," Scully continued.

"Aha.  Strictly speaking, Bob Adkiss is not a shaman. He's a 
practitioner of shamanistic ritual," Mulder said.   

"You could give Chuck Burks a call," Scully suggested.  Burks was a
friend of Mulder's who had assisted them on a very sad case.  Scully
wondered how Charlie and his mom were getting along these days.

"I might.  But Scully, I have a problem with this.  I understand the
power of the shaman.  I saw those dead bodies in the steam tunnels of
Boston, but that case involved a genuine Amazonian Indian shaman. Bob
Adkiss and Neil Deutsch, while arguably alienated, are definitely
post-industrial Americans," Mulder said.

Scully nodded thoughtfully.

"I think I'd have a bigger problem if they did claim a connection with
the Indians, because then they would be lying," she said.

Mulder half-smiled.

"If they're sincere in their beliefs and they experiment with the
rituals and botanicals of another culture, perhaps they would stumble
upon another truth," she said.

"You're unusually open-minded today," Mulder said.

Scully thought about telling him of her own experience.  Adrift in a
pleasant haze in a rowboat on a lake, ready to choose eternal peace,
until a voice convinced her that her time had not come.  

She wasn't ready to share the memory, so she gave him a different reply.

"I saw the same bodies you did, and the same cats and rats and
intestines.  If there is a lower world, Mulder, I don't think it's only
for Indians. Any more than heaven is only for Christians," she said.

"What about the drugs--oh, sorry, the 'botanicals'?"  Mulder asked.  

"They are powerful and potentially dangerous," Scully said.  "It's not
inconceivable that Big Ed would have an interest in them.  Or the CIA."

"We're spending way too much time with the Gunmen," Mulder said, shaking
his head.

"I had a very pleasant evening," Scully said brightly. "But you know,
they're worried about Langly.  Frohike thinks he's going to burn his
brain out on yage."

"I spent most of the night listening to Langly and Adkiss," Mulder said.
"They have nothing to worry about."

"He admits he's used it," she said.

"Yes.  Twice.  He's not a big fan," Mulder said.  "First of all, he
can't get past 'la purga.'"

"La Purga?" Scully raised an eyebrow.

"The purge.  Yage makes you vomit like crazy.  Bob asserts that it's
pleasantly cleansing, once you stop trying to fight it.  Langly's
not convinced," Mulder explained.  "He says the stuff tastes bad enough
the first time."

"He should tell them," Scully said.  "Frohike's afraid he's an addict or
something."

"Then there are certain preparations, before you perform the ayahuasca
ritual.  You have to be pure in your body and mind," Mulder said.  "You
have to avoid certain foods."

"That's for safety," Scully explained.  "In combination with tyramine,
the yage could cause a hypertensive crisis."

"Like the MAO inhibitors?" Mulder asked.  "I see.  But the other
preparations don't seem to involve drug interactions.  The ritual calls
for a week of abstinence."

"Oh," Scully said, trying not to snicker.  "Are you telling me Langly
has a problem with that restriction?"

"That's what I'm saying," he confirmed.  Mulder seemed equally amused.

Leave it alone, she told herself.  But she couldn't.

"Langly can't endure a week of abstinence?" she questioned.

"Yeah, Bob was ragging on him about it too," Mulder said.  "See, Langly
finds it difficult to ignore an opportunity."

"Langly has... opportunities?" Scully asked incredulously.

This is absolutely none of my business, she thought.

"Langly's a love machine," Mulder said in a his deepest bass.

= = = =

"Dude?" Bob said.

Frohike looked up from the monitor.  If he was as tall and blond as
Langly's friend, he thought, he'd be running IBM and hiring guards to
scrape the women off his doorstep.

"What is it, Bob?  Do you need something?"  He tried to sound friendly.

Byers was meeting with Adkiss's lawyer, trying to "structure the payment
of fees."  Langly was over at GWU, belatedly educating himself about the
darker side of shamanism.  That left Frohike to baby-sit.

"I was, like, sleeping.... and I had a journey," Bob said.

"Does that mean someone has to change the sheets?" Frohike asked.  He
sighed, annoyed with himself.  Shouldn't pick on an idiot.  

"I journeyed to the lower world," Bob continued.  "The greening fern
showed me where to find Neil."

Frohike turned his chair away from his terminal, and pointed at another
chair.

"Sit down, Bob," he said.  "You know, it's natural that we dream about
people we've lost.  Because we're still thinking about them."

"I feel so bad for Neil," Bob said.  "His soul is complete, but the
Thorn blocks his path and he can't journey on."

"That's sad," Frohike said.  "Maybe if you go back to sleep you can help
him."

"Gonna try," Bob said.  "First I need your car."

"Dude, are you on drugs?" Frohike asked.  His precise enunciation and
exaggerated facial expression suggested a very patient kindergarten
teacher addressing a very stupid child.

"Dude, no," Bob answered.  "Neil's got a wife.  He's gonna try to talk
to her. The reign of terror has only begun."

Frohike thought that the last thing Mrs. Deutsch needed just now was a
visit from a witch doctor.

"The Thorn's in the lower world, Bob, isn't that right?  And Neil's wife
is in this world.  So she'll be safe," he explained.

Bob shook his head.

"Dude," he said reproachfully.  "Nothing happens in just one world."

"Why don't you call her, then?" Frohike suggested.  Probably not the
kindest thing for Mrs. Deutsch, but better than dropping in on her.

= = = =

Angular Momentum, by Kel
part 3

Disclaimer, etc., with part 1




= = = =

Byers was always polite and deferential, but it took more than that
before his cousin Larry agreed to accept his fee in monthly payments.

"They make jokes about us, but who's the first person you call when you
get into trouble?" Larry asked.

"A lawyer," Byers acknowledged humbly.

"We haven't talked in what, three years," Larry said.  "But when you
need a favor, I don't let you down."

"Thank you," Byers said.  "I knew I could count on you."

"You're not exactly rolling in dough, are you, John?" Larry asked.

"I do all right," Byers said defensively.

"In that case--" Larry began.

"No, you're right, Larry.  My income is somewhat less than I would have
hoped," Byers said.

"My income is huge, but no one seems to realize that I have expenses,"
Larry started to explain, but at that point Langly sauntered into the
office.

He nodded at Larry before he spoke.

"Let's go, Byers, I had to leave the engine running. Damn solenoid's
acting up again," he said.

Larry beamed benevolently.

"I'll give you a break, John.  Just send me the first check by the
fifteenth," he said.

They hurried out to the van, and fortunately, even with the engine
running and the keys in the ignition, no one had stolen it.

"Byers, thanks," Langly said as they got in.   Byers, gazing out the
window as if lost in thought, nodded.

"I thought your research would take longer," Byers commented as they
pulled into the traffic.  

There was a pause before Langly answered.

"I took karate lessons, as a kid," he said.

"I did too," Byers responded, looking mystified.

"Cause you were getting picked on," Langly suggested.

"Yes," Byers admitted.  "An older boy, an oversized brute--"

"I know all about it," Langly broke in.  "Same story."

"Did it help?" Byers asked.

"I guess.  But I always wondered about something.  What would happen if
the bully took karate lessons, too," Langly said.

"Karate calls for discipline and respect for others," Byers said.  "You
learn principle along with the techniques.  Not that I was ever very
good."

"Yeah, there's that.  And the bully always played football or little
league, so he didn't have time for something wussy like karate," Langly
said.  

"As Mulder would say, Bring it home," Byers encouraged him.

"Shamanism teaches that the journey requires respect for others, respect
for everything, in fact. It doesn't usually appeal to bullies," Langly
said.  "But it turns out that bullies can do it too."

"That's what you found out at GWU?" Byers asked.

Langly drove like a cabbie, switching lanes to take advantage of
perceived gaps and tailgating without mercy.  His deliberate recitation
contrasted sharply with his aggressive driving.

"I wanted to talk to Professor York.  He specializes in primitive
religion and he's written a couple of books about non-ordinary reality.
But he skipped his lectures and office hours this morning, and I didn't
get to see him," Langly began.

Byers nodded, even though Langly was fixed on the traffic ahead.

"I explained to his secretary I wanted to learn about Shamanism.  I
bought her a cup of coffee," Langly said.  

"I see," said Byers.

"She's engaged," Langly added.  "But she told me the professor was
usually willing to talk to people outside the academic community, if
they showed a genuine interest.  Several years ago a businessman came to
him for some informal instruction.  At first Professor York was
delighted to work with him."

Langly glanced over to confirm that he had Byers's attention, and then
he continued.

"The businessman made it worth his while, too.  Funded some fieldwork,
helped him get published.  Professor York became uneasy, however,
because the businessman showed little interest in the traditional goals
of shamanic journeying."

"Which are...?" Byers asked.

"Well, you know.  Self-knowledge, healing, reading the future..."

"Of course," said Byers.  "What did the businessman want to learn?"

"How to hurt his enemies," Langly said.  "How to punish people who got
in his way."

"Sounds like a bully," Byers commented.

"Powerful guy, used to getting his own way," Langly agreed. "Chairman of
the board of EdwardStoltz, Inc."

Byers's eyes widened, and Langly continued.

"Of course, the professor didn't know anything about using the journey
to hurt people.  In all his research, that wasn't something his shaman
sources were willing to share."

"Very wise of them," Byers remarked.  "But you think the chairman of the
board found someone else to instruct him?"

"Yeah, I'd say there would be a lot of suspicion on the chairman of the
board, but he's got a great alibi," Langly said.  "He's dead."

= = = =

"The Ed Hunters. People call us the X-Files of the antitrust division,"
Milligan said.

Scully's friendship with Brent Milligan was forged at Quanitico during
late night study sessions and early morning roadwork.  With his
accounting credentials and quick mind, Milligan had been hand-picked for
the EdwardStoltz task force.  He'd been an Ed Hunter ever since.

Milligan's work area looked nothing like the basement office.  The
microfilm reader and double-row of book shelves suggested a library.

"That's a compliment," Scully assured him with a sardonic smile.  "It
means you're incorruptible and you never give up."

"What a relief.  I thought it meant we had outrageous expenses and never
managed to make a dent in the enemy."  Milligan tried to soften his
bitterness with a smile.  "Sorry.  Mike.  You know."

Michael Hudson had been Milligan's ASAC from day one.  His death,
unexpected and sudden, left the future of his division in question, and
his colleagues were angry and discouraged.

"I was shocked when I heard," Scully said, settling into a chair.  Even
Mulder had been shocked, she remembered.  "I thought he was too mean to
die," he'd commented.

"This was his whole life, Dana," Milligan said quietly.  "A hero with
nothing to show because his enemy has rigged the game."

"Tell me about the enemy," Scully said.  

"Very simple.  You can't get to them," Milligan said. "The fines they
paid were less than loose change to them.  Throwing out the board of
directors was like cutting the head off the Hydra.  They have a piece of
just about everything bought and sold in this country."

"You won, Brent.  That must count for something," Scully said.

"Yeah.  Tell that to Neil Deutsch," he replied.  "He put it on the line
for us."

"What makes them so untouchable?" Scully asked.  "Is it just the money?"

"The money and what it can buy," Milligan explained.  "They pour
tremendous amounts into political campaigns and lobbying.  They draft
the laws and they place their own loopholes."

"Would they resort to murder?" Scully asked.

"Wouldn't put much of anything past them.  Do you think they killed Neil
Deutsch?" he asked pointedly.

She didn't know how to answer that, and her face showed it.

"I'm not asking if you have proof," Milligan pressed her. "Gut feeling."

"Yes," she answered.  "But how?"

"What have you got?" he asked.

"Since you ask, what I have is a primitive ritual involving a tropical
vine," Scully said.

"I don't believe it," Milligan said, his voice rising.  "Gerstbloem."

"No, Banisteriopsis caapi or Peganum harmala, most often," Scully
corrected him.

Milligan took a deep breath.

"About five years ago, we thought we had Big Ed by the balls.  We had a
well-placed employee ready to testify, we had one of our own agents on
site under cover, and we had miles of tape," he said.

Mulder had been a reluctant transcriber in that operation, Scully
remembered. Five years later and he still complained about those miles
of tape and that slave-driving bastard, Hudson.

Milligan continued, "Our man was invited to a get-together with Woodrow
Wilson Gerstbloem, the chairman of the board. He's thinking it's going
to be a cocktail party or something."

"But it wasn't," Scully said.

"No.  Turned out to be just the two of them.  The chairman offered him
some of that yage brew--Jim turned him down.  Chairman asked if he'd
mind doing the drumming.  So Jim's there wearing a three-piece suit,
banging on a big wooden drum.  And the chairman, he's stark naked,
drinking brew and throwing up."

"What happened?" Scully asked.

"Jim kept drumming, and the chairman kept puking, and after a while the
chairman fell asleep and Jim went home," Milligan said.

Scully let out a huge sigh.

"The next morning Jim got out of bed and phoned in his resignation.
Became a painter.  Very good, from what I hear," Milligan said.

"Midlife crisis?" Scully asked.

"Whatever it was, it wiped out our investigation.  The witness got hinky
as hell, and then the chairman died," he related.  

"From drinking yage?" Scully asked.

"I don't suppose we'll ever know.  He was out of the country at the
time.  I'm not sure exactly where this leads you, Dana, but it can't be
a coincidence," Milligan said.

"The chairman of the board drinks yage," Scully said.  Unbelievably, it
was very believable.  "I bet they didn't put that in their annual
report."

"Obviously.  Close as they came was in his obit.  Something like,
'Woodrow Wilson Gerstbloem was an avid student of primitive religions.'"

"In all your tapes, Brent, is their any discussion about developing
products from the different vines?" Scully asked.  The components of the
ayahuasca brew had numerous physiologic effects and the potential seemed
obvious.

"I think it was just a hobby," Milligan said.  "Unless you've heard
reliable reports on the price of ayahuasca climbing through the roof and
shamans forced to hock their drums."

= = = =

"Hey, Chuck, do you have a minute?" Mulder asked, the phone held
between his neck and shoulder, leaving his hands free to play with a
latex glove.

"Just about," Chuck Burks answered.  Mulder could hear music in the
background, something lively and tinny. "If you can wait until later, I
can give you as much time as you need."

Scully had this way of making latex gloves shoot into the trash can, but
Mulder couldn't get it to happen.  He sighed at his latest failure.

"Just a quick question for now," he said.  "It's a term in Shamanic
practice.  The Call."

"The Call is the process by which a shaman is summoned to become a
shaman," Burks began.

Mulder twisted the glove into a rope as he listened.

"The Call can occur in several ways.  Understand, Mulder, that shamanism
as it's used today covers a range of traditions and modern practices."

"Uh-huh."  Mulder rolled the rope into a ball.

"Most often the Call involves a serious illness or injury.  The shaman
achieves the first part of his training by recovering.  Or her
training--it's an equal opportunity vocation," Burks said.

"A serious illness or injury?" Mulder echoed, remembering Bob's
prediction.  He unfolded a bit of the glove to wrap around the coiled
part, twisting and doubling it until it held.

"Has to be life threatening.  Traditionally something like a high fever
or being struck by lightning.  Could be anything.  You could be stabbed
or drowned or crushed or burned--hey, gotta go.  Talk to you later."

Mulder dropped the little ball onto the desktop and let it bounce back
into his hand.

Don't call me, I'll call you, he thought.  He was looking for a target
for the little ball when the phone rang.  Frohike.

"Just how much of a kook is this Bob guy?  He claims we have to talk to
Deutsch's wife, she's got a message from her dead husband," Frohike
said.  "If we don't, more people will die."

"What people?  How?" Mulder asked.  Drop, bounce, catch.

"I know exactly how stupid it sounds, Mulder.  You can do whatever you
want about it,"  Frohike said impatiently.

"Well... I'll give her a ring."  Catch, bounce, catch.

"Not home, or not answering.  Like I said, you can do what you want."
Frohike hung up without saying good-bye.  Mulder only noticed because
people complained about him doing that.

Interviewing Lauren Deutsch wasn't a bad idea, Mulder thought.  He
needed to learn more about Neil.  He tossed the latex ball into the
trash and headed out the door.

He'd brought his car today.  The Metro wasn't quite the modern miracle
that Scully believed.  First of all, it shut down at midnight.  And
worse, one time he'd found himself jammed elbow to elbow with Skinner
for the whole ride.  They'd smiled awkwardly and then Skinner had stared
at the door while Mulder memorized the advertisements.

More than half the cars in the Hoover garage had been backed into their
spaces.  Whether it was paranoia, prudence, or peer pressure, Mulder had
done the same thing.  Out of habit, he scanned the front of the car
before opening the door.

The car looked fine, but Mulder noticed something else that made him
uneasy.  Further down the row, a man was standing by his car.  He looked
at his watch and then at the car door.  When he reached for his cell
phone, he used his left hand--the same hand that was wearing the watch.
His right hand stayed in his coat pocket.

"Do you have the time?" asked a harsh, deep voice behind him.

Mulder whirled around--dark suit, dark glasses.  Where had that guy come
from?

Mulder slammed his left fist up into the man's nose, but his gun hand,
just inches from its destination, was grabbed and jerked up behind his
back.

There were two of them behind him and common sense told him not to
fight, but adrenaline and rage made him twist and struggle.  When one of
them leaned in to lift his gun, Mulder was able to trip him with a
sweeping kick, but then it was over.

He could raise his face off the concrete but his hands were pinned
securely behind his back, and they'd removed the gun from his ankle
holster even before they'd patted him down.

"I don't think I'll be able to check my watch like this," he complained
hoarsely.

= = = =

"Agent Scully?  Detective Jones here."  

A crackle of static broke though the line and then cleared.

"What can I do for you?" Scully asked.

"That wooden bowl, from the Deutsch house?  When do you think your crime
lab will be ready to release it?" Jones asked.

"I'll find out and get back to you," she said, and then she felt a tinge
of guilt.  She had yet to fax him the latest reports.  "It's a gourd, by
the way.  I think they were using it as a cup."

"Mrs. Deutsch is eager to have it back," Jones explained.  "Sentimental
value, I suppose."

Scully was about to respond sympathetically, but suddenly Mrs. Deutsch's
request struck her as very odd.

"Detective, has she also asked about releasing her husband's body?"
Scully asked him.  

"That didn't come up," Jones said.  "Hm..."

"It might not mean a thing," Scully conceded.  "I'll see what I can do
about returning the gourd."

She hung up with Jones and made the necessary arrangements.  She tried
to call Mulder to see if he wanted to ride out to Clearbrook with her,
but he wasn't answering his phone.

= = = =

"I regret the misunderstanding, Fox, but it was imperative that I speak
to you at once."  Senator Matheson had dismissed his thugs and
returned Mulder's weapons.  Now Mulder sat awkwardly in a visitor's
chair, holding an ice bag to his jaw and hoping like hell that whatever
was hurting his back would get better by itself.

Mulder didn't answer, but they both knew the script.  If Mulder had
commented on the Senator's pointless brutality, Matheson would have
reiterated the urgency of the situation and suggested that the physical
confrontation only occurred because of Mulder's resistance.

Matheson walked from behind his desk to his stereo.

"I want you to listen to something," he said as he slipped in a CD
and started it playing.  "Do you recognize it?"

"Drums," Mulder said.

"Shamanic drumming," Matheson confirmed with a nod.  "I imagine you know
the basics by now.  The shaman enters a state of ecstasy in which he
imagines that he journeys to other worlds.  To return to his own world,
he must follow the sound of the drumming."

Matheson rehashed the basics of shamanism without telling Mulder
anything new.

"Whatever you may think about these practices or the plants that support
them, the plain fact is that they are demonstrably effective," Matheson
said.  "I'm sure you can see the potential for abuse."

"Neil Deutsch is dead, Senator.  If you know something, it's your duty
as a citizen to come forward," Mulder said in a discouraged drone.

Matheson wasn't going to say anything publicly, he knew.  He was going
to give Mulder a little piece of the puzzle and ask him to clean up a
little piece of the mess.  

"Deutsch's death is regrettable, but Deutsch is just one man.  I'm
talking about the potential for wholesale mayhem," Matheson said.

"The Senate Select Committee on Intelligence oversees the CIA, isn't
that right, sir?" Mulder said.  "Your committee, sir."

"Good point," said Matheson.  "The CIA might very well have an interest
here.  That's another reason to put an end to it right now."

So it's not the CIA, Mulder thought, just Big Ed and its big, deep
pockets.

"How much of your war chest comes from Big Ed?" Mulder asked.

"Don't be distracted by the flow of dollars.  The refinement of these
products and techniques is a separate and serious concern," Matheson
said.

"What would happen if you stood up on the Senate floor and called for a
limit on the shipment and commercial exploitation of these plants?"
Mulder challenged him.

"I could do that," Matheson agreed readily.  

He would, too, Mulder thought.  And a lawyer from Big Ed would draft the
bill for him, to make sure it was either meaningless or unpassable.

Matheson returned his stony gaze with a fond smile.  

"We have a special relationship, you and I, one that's endured over the
years," Matheson began.  Mulder shook his head but the Senator held up a
hand to forestall interruption.  "It is based on the art of the
possible. I'm your protector and, on occasion, your informant.  You, on
occasion, are my operative."

Mulder stood up slowly and put his ice pack on the desk. 

"I am not your operative," he said bitterly.  

"We share so many goals and ideals," Matheson said urgently.  "And I
assure you, this is not about money.  Big Ed supported my campaign, but
they also supported my opponent, and far more generously."

"I'm leaving," Mulder said icily. "And if you ever sic your goons on me
again I'll kill them.  Learn to use the fuckin' phone."

He was halfway to the door when Matheson caught up with him.

"Take it, Fox.  You might need it."  

The CD recording of the shaman's drums.

= = = =

No wonder Bob Adkiss had so much trouble finding his way back from the
lower world, Frohike thought sourly.  He could barely find his way
around this one.

"I'm going to stop for directions," Frohike said sternly.  "You just
keep your mouth shut."

"I know I could find it if you'd let me drive," Bob complained.  "Just
hard to explain."

Frohike had buckled under Bob's insistence on talking to Lauren Deutsch
in person.  Now they were jolting along in Bob's '74 Pinto, but Frohike
wouldn't let him drive.  He didn't have a license.

His edgy passenger was humming loudly to himself when Frohike finally
pulled in at the Longridge Condominiums.  Bob's sense of direction was
enough to lead them to Lauren Deutsch's doorstep, and Frohike breathed a
sigh of relief when she was not only at home but willing to receive
them.

Lauren Deutsch was a babe, but she didn't dress like one. She wore
khaki slacks with a blue cardigan and her smooth blond hair was clipped
back into a ponytail.

The three of them sat down in the living room, the middle level of the
triplex.  The furnishings were tasteful and expensive, but their
blandness made Frohike think of a motel room.  

"I'm very sorry about your loss," Frohike said.  Lauren Deutsch
acknowledged him with a little nod of her head.

"Are you a real shaman?" she asked.

"No, I'm a... journalist," Frohike answered, and at once she turned her
attention to Bob.
 
"You have to teach me," she said.  "Teach me everything you taught
Neil."

"Whoa, Lauren.  That takes time," he said.  

"Will you go back?"  Her voice was shaking. "The policeman said you
couldn't come out of the ecstasy.  Aren't you afraid?"

"D-uh, yeah, I'm afraid.  Last time my guide took off and I was alone
when the drumming stopped," he said.

Lauren bowed her head.

"I can drum for you, on Neil's drum," she said.  "But I don't have the
gourd."

"I've got a drummer, and dig this:  his name is Ringo," Bob told her. 
"But I can't go back so soon.  He'll whip my ass all over again."

Frohike startled at the name, remembering what happened to the last guy
who had that gig.

"We have to do it tonight," Lauren said. and then her voice dropped. "I
saw him.  In a dream."

"He talked to you?"  Then he turned to Frohike.  "Neil says it has to be
tonight."

Bob was a lost cause.  Frohike directed his response to Lauren.

"Ma'am, you look like an educated woman. I know you're suffering a
terrible loss, but it can't make things better to fool around with
dangerous chemicals," he said earnestly.

Lauren looked at him sadly.

"I know exactly how you're thinking.  That was me, a week ago,"
she said.  "My husband was under attack and I was no help to him."

"Mrs. Deutsch, that doesn't make sense," Frohike said.  

"You know what?  I don't have time for this," she said firmly.  "Excuse
me, I have something on the stove."

They're both crazy, Frohike thought.  How do you argue with a crazy man?

"You told her you weren't ready," he reminded Bob.  "You'll just get
your ass whipped again."

Bob looked pensive.

"The Thorn's a bad dude, right?" Frohike continued.

"Dude, you're right," Bob said.  "We have to find a real shaman."

Frohike nodded his agreement.  Next he'd try to coax Bob back to the
car.

The doorbell interrupted his thoughts and Lauren Deutsch hurried through
the living room to answer it.  

"Lauren Deutsch?  I'm Special Agent Dana Scully..."

What's she doing here? Frohike wondered.  

"...I have your gourd, Mrs. Deutsch.  I know you were eager to get it
back."

Frohike sat quietly, listening to the conversation at the door.  Bob was
waving his hands, trying to get his attention.  Frohike motioned him to
be quiet, but Bob couldn't hold back.

"Dude!  That chick's been called!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

"Sh," Frohike told him.

"She has done the journey!" he insisted.  "That's some high-power
chick!"

"You can tell that just by listening?" Frohike asked.  Maybe that was
Bob's gift--he could pick out a babe by the sound of her voice.

"I know it," Bob answered.  "We have our shaman."

= = = =

Mulder took a cab back to the Hoover Building.  The pain in his back had
settled into a nagging ache and his jaw was only a little tender.

The word "operative" troubled him in a way that made no sense.  He was
aware that Senator Matheson's protection and information came at a
price. He was used to it.  X had never let him forget that their
relationship was unequal, and Deep Throat had used him as well.

Maybe that was why he was so eager to help, when Langly asked.  Those
guys didn't try to control him. They were his operatives. Mulder smiled,
then winced because it hurt.

When he returned to the office, he was annoyed and disappointed because
Scully wasn't there.  He'd been counting on her to help him hash out two
questions.

First, that whole "operative" idea.  She'd suggested once that he
enjoyed being played.  They'd been talking about Deep Throat and the way
he'd let the clues fall in a trickle or a torrent.  She'd been blunt
enough to suggest that Mulder "got off" on it.

He was ready to entertain the theory.  

He wanted to ask her about something else as well.  Chuck Burks's talk
about life-threatening events was bringing back the memories.

"Scully, remember all the times I almost died?" he could ask her.  Or
maybe he could get right to the point:  "Remember when the Navajos dug
me out of the rubble and took care of me?  Remember how you said you saw
me in a dream? Remember what you heard me say?"

He couldn't remember saying it, but he could remember what she told him:

"I have been on the bridge that spans two worlds, the link between all
souls by which we cross into our own true nature."

It sounded like something Bob would say.  Mulder took the Shaman Drum
CD out of his jacket pocket and popped it in the player. Maybe he and
Scully could use it as background music for their morbid little chat.

"Remember all the times I almost died?" he could ask her, and then she
could say the same thing to him.  And they could reminisce.

If loving someone meant it hurt like hell when you thought you would
lose them, he loved Scully a lot.  Dying would be cake compared to
losing her. He didn't doubt that she felt the same way about him.

Where did the love go when nobody was dying?

He snapped off the CD.  He was getting creepier than Bob.

= = = =

Bob was in the kitchen, helping Lauren Deutsch.  After all, she'd never
brewed yage before.

Frohike was Scully's unwelcome companion in the living room of the
triplex. He was cramping her style big-time.

"I cannot believe you're even considering it," Frohike said harshly.  

"Just go home," she beseeched him.  "I promise I'll bring Bob back
myself.  You don't have to wait for him."

"Promise me you won't do anything stupid," he asked.  Scully had never
seen him so worked up.

"I promise," she said, but Frohike pursed his lips and shook his head.

"I don't believe you," he said.  "We'll leave together."

"I am here to gather information," she informed him as emphatically as
she knew how.  "I am not a shaman, no matter what these people think,
but I need to learn more about their beliefs."

"Their beliefs are nonsense. Upper world, lower world, what difference
does it make?  None of it is real," he said in frustration.

Frohike sounded so sure of that, but Scully was not. She thought again 
of the placid lake in the pretty forest and the voice that guided her.
Whether or not it was real, that place was very important.

Lauren and Bob came back to the living room together, Bob drying his
hands on his T-shirt.

"Ready to go?" Frohike asked him hopefully.  No one replied.

"She should eat," Bob told Lauren.  "Cause you don't want her eating
later on."

"I'll fix her something," Lauren said, nodding knowingly.  "No cheese,
no smoked meat or fish.  Anyone else hungry?"  Without waiting for a
reply, she left the room again.

At least the kitchen was on the same level as the dining room, Scully
thought.  What a lot of stairs for a two-bedroom apartment.  Bob sat
himself on the sofa next to Scully and began to instruct her.

"When you journey, you need to minimize distractions," he said somberly. 
"Night time is good, cause the ordinary world is less insistent.  You
have to be comfortable.  No tight clothing--naked is good."

Scully gave Frohike a big smile and a wink.

"No way around it, you're going to vomit," Bob continued.  "Don't fight
it.  I'm kind of a hardhead, so I need more brew and then I vomit more. 
You probably won't need as much."

"I am learning more about your beliefs," Scully said, pointedly staring
at Frohike so he wouldn't get the wrong idea.  But maybe he wasn't
wrong. Maybe this was something she would have to do.

"I'm calling Mulder," Frohike announced, but Lauren Deutsch interrupted
him, summoning them from the doorway.

"Everyone into the dining room.  Dinner is served--or maybe lunch," she
announced.

"Wonder what they eat in the Amazon," Frohike asked Scully under his
breath.  "Sloth kebobs?  Anaconda stew?"

Scully answered with a warning frown, and he sighed and followed the
others into the dining room.

"It's just what I had in the kitchen," Lauren explained apologetically.
"Soup and salad."

Soup, salad, and a basket of biscuits.  The kind from a cylinder that
you keep in the fridge for unexpected company.  And a small platter with
sliced onion, tomato wedges, and perfect green avocado halves.

= = = =