Dana woke up cold. Very, very cold. So cold she was shaking, not just shivering. The warm bulk of the body next to hers seemed all that stood between her and hypothermia. It took her a moment to remember where she was and what was going on, but finally she did. She looked up and saw the slight gleam of Bailey's eyes in what little light there was.

"I'm sorry to wake you," he said softly, "but I need to tend the fire before it goes out completely. I don't want to lose the embers."

He moved his hand from her shoulder, and only then did she realize that the shaking had been his doing, not her own involuntary reaction to the cold. His words finally sank in and she nodded groggily, then belatedly realized he probably couldn't see her, and spoke.

"'S'okay. No problem."

Her breath clouded the air with a vague white fog as she disentangled herself from around him. He moved away to work on the fire and she dragged his coat closer around her, glad she at least had that. Despite her attempts to keep it at bay, he cold seeped through now that she didn't have anyone to block it from her. She started to shiver hard. The lack of food, the cold, and the continual damp were really beginning to tell on her. It seemed to take forever for him to get the fire going again. By the time the light brightened and the smell of smoke strengthened, she felt like an icicle. Bailey moved over to where the water bottles were and he uncapped one and drank. He turned to her, holding out the bottle.

"You thirsty?"

She tried to reply but her jaw seemed locked shut with cold so she shook her head instead. He nodded and used a little of the water to wash the soot off his hands, then put away the bottle and came back to where he'd been sitting before. Settling into place, he gestured for her to join him. She didn't hesitate, scrambling quickly over to where he sat. Beyond embarrassment, she plastered herself tightly against him, wondering why it was that men never seemed to get cold. She tucked her hands under his arms, seeking the warmest spot, and hid her face in his vest, trying to warm up her nose.

"It should get warmer in here pretty quickly," he reassured her. "The fire's going well, even though we lose some of the warmth out the front of the shed." He took a moment to tuck the coat under her feet, then wrapped his arms around her. "Better?" he asked.

"Yesssss! S-sorry!" she managed to chatter. "Ju-just so c-c-cold!"

"I know, it's okay, I'm not offended," he said. "Believe me, I'm definitely not offended. Far from it."

There was amusement and something else in his voice. Something that caused her to suddenly become aware of the form against hers as more than just a convenient heat source, but rather the warm, solidly masculine body of Bailey Malone. The thighs beneath hers seemed tense, and where her hip rested against his groin there was an unmistakable hardness. Warmth that had nothing to do with the fire rocketed through her. She was intensely conscious that they were completely alone, isolated, no one to approve, or object.

The thought came to her that she was being impulsive, and that was unlike her, but there was so little impulse in her life, so little self-direction. Perhaps it was time. She moved, turning to face him, letting her thighs slide down the outside of his until her knees rested on the planks. The change in position brought her intimately against him. A tremor of desire shook her as she lifted her good arm and put her hand behind his neck, her palm against the soft darkness of his hair.

For a moment he was passive, unresponsive, then his hands slid up her back, one pressing her closer, the other moving to cup the back of her head and move her to a better angle. Their lips met, tongues meshed, the kiss slow, silent, and incredibly intense. Though she'd guessed from early on that there was this potential between them, they had both banked it deep. Exposed to the air, it flared hot and fast. She drank him, her body rocking against his, a little murmur of desire escaping her.

Abruptly, Bailey pulled away, his breathing ragged, his face taut with control, his hands on her shoulders to hold her at a distance. The firelight sent shadows to soften the harshness. Dana felt dazed, but managed to collect enough wits to speak.

"Why?"

He looked at her and she saw startling insecurity in his eyes. "I need to be sure you're not doing this for the wrong reason," he said quietly.

Dana didn't understand. "What wrong reason?"

"Fear."

Ah. That made sense. In a situation like this, how could he not wonder? Slowly she shook her head. "I can't deny that I'm afraid, but that has nothing to do with this."

She kissed him again, softly, then a little harder. Freeing her hand from the sling she put that arm carefully around his waist as the fingers of her other hand drifted down the back of his neck, feeling the strength in his shoulders. He no longer resisted. His hands moved from her shoulders, sliding down her back moving to her waist, resting there a moment, then continuing downward to cup her bottom and draw her forward against the heavy fullness of his arousal. She gasped into his mouth, her skin going taut as desire shocked through her.

His hands moved upward, to her hips, past her waist again, this time up her ribcage, then curving over her breasts. Feeling the warm resilience of his fingers through blouse and bra, and she wanted to feel them on her skin. Reading her sigh and her body, his fingers moved to her buttons, slowly opening them until he was stopped by the waistband of her skirt. He drew his hands upward, spreading the fabric apart, then his thumbs traced a path along the upper edges of her bra, down to where it dipped to the fastening between her breasts.

Dana pulled her mouth from his and watched as he opened the clasp, watched him gently ease the lace and satin aside, and she gave a shuddering sigh as he ended her anticipation, his long fingers stroking the tight peaks of her nipples. She took one of his hands in hers, urging his palm against her skin, her hips moving against him as he caressed her. In her mind's eye she saw him bend to her, and a moment later her dream was echoed by reality. His mouth touched her breast, and the silky heat of his tongue should have eased but only worsened the aching tension in her. She held his head against her as he suckled, fingers stroking through his hair.

When Bailey moved his mouth back to hers, Dana let her hand drop from his neck to open the buttons on his shirt. She was clumsy, her fingers shaking a little. Not being able to use both hands made it even more difficult, but finally she managed. She leaned forward, brought her bare torso against his, her breasts flattening against the firm planes of his body, his skin warm and silky against her own. He put one of his hands beneath her shirt to stroke and soothe her back, the other hand moving to her thigh, sliding up the smooth outer curve, straying beneath the edge of her skirt, pushing it higher, higher. She sensed his surprise when his fingers reached her hip without finding anything to hinder his exploration, and she smiled against his mouth. Now he knew the answer to the question he hadn't dared ask earlier, but she knew he'd thought.

Committed now, she let her hand move down, finding the arch of his cock separated from her palm by a layer or two of fabric. Her fingers curved around him, learning the dimensions of his desire. He went very still, barely breathing, as she opened the button of his slacks, then eased down the zipper. She smiled again, feeling fine-woven cotton under her fingers, somehow unsurprised to find this man wore boxers. She searched, found, and slid inside, pushing fabric aside to free him. Smooth, hot skin burned her palm. She stilled, suddenly practical.

"I... don't suppose Jack left anything in your pockets besides aspirin?" she asked, her voice a bare whisper.

Bailey looked at her, plainly puzzled, then she saw understanding fill his eyes, and he shook his head. "No. I don't think he planned on this," he said. "But, if it helps..." he made a scissoring motion with his fingers. "Snip, snip."

It was Dana's turn to be confused for a moment. "Snip... oh!" she got it, and laughed. "I see. Well, that's one problem down."

"The other's not a problem. Not for me."

Strangely, she believed him. It wouldn't be. He wasn't a risk taker. Neither was she. It took her only a moment to make up her mind. She moved her hand on him, stroking. He made a sound, a whisper of breath, then the hand beneath her skirt began to move again, stroking, seeking. She lifted on her knees to give him access, and sighed in pleasure as he touched the core of her. She might have been embarrassed by the lush welcome her body prepared if she had been somewhere else, but here, now, it was right and she knew it. God, it had been such a long time!

When he parted her, she caught her breath, anticipating... oh yes, that. She heard herself moan as he stroked through the silky wetness, his sensitive fingers learning her, teaching her. She collapsed forward, her head on his shoulder, hips moving to the rhythm of his exploration. More... she thought, more. He heard her silence and responded. Unable to concentrate, she let go of her prize and clutched at his back as a single finger touched, probed, then slid deep. She made a little cry, and he hushed it with his mouth as he slid another finger into her, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot at the top of her cleft. Sensation narrowed down, concentrated low in her belly, washing through her in waves. Now, she thought, now.

His other hand pressed against her lower back, angling her forward and down. She understood, and reached to guide him. Momentary confusion... there. That strange, aching slide of delight. Filled. Beautifully, perfectly, filled. His hands were on her hips now, firmly urging her into a gliding roll, a sea-surge and ebb. She kissed his throat and tasted salt, and smoke, and felt the abrasion of stubble. She moved her lips across that roughness, welcoming the burn, distracting herself, trying to make it last. She was trapped by more than wire and concrete, she was held captive by her desire, by his as well.

"Bailey..." she whispered. "Please?"

He laughed, not at her, but in pleasure. "Take it, it's yours."

She took it. Moving from his too-gentle pace, she became bacchante, her teeth on his bare flesh, filling her mouth with his taste, her nose with his scent, her ears with the harsh cadence of his breath. Unaccustomed freedom tightened her skin like a cold breeze, making her shiver, and the shiver was the last sensation she could bear. It seemed the fire reached out and licked into her, spreading in jumps and sparks, setting off explosions that echoed and roiled through her body. Head back, she gasped twice, stunned by the power of it, then slowly she sagged, every muscle in her body relaxing, warmed by the embers of her pleasure. Her breathing and heartbeat slowed as the last tremors of delight drained out of her. Vaguely she was aware of his long, deep sigh, and a shudder that seemed to pass through him and into her. Then there was stillness, both of them quiet and replete.

After a few moments, he pulled her forward against him so the air couldn't slide its damp, icy fingers between them, his arms solid and strong around her, his fingers stroking her hair. She sighed, strangely content, for the moment able to ignore her hunger, and the fact that they were trapped in a cage with scant hope of rescue. It just didn't matter. Dana nuzzled into the hollow of his shoulder, closed her eyes, and yawned hugely. He chuckled. She felt the vibration of his laughter against her cheek.

"No, don't do that, not just yet."

She felt him push her away and she started to protest, until she felt his fingers tugging her bra back into place across her breasts.

"What?" she asked, confused.

Bailey smiled and dropped his head to place a kiss on the upper curve of each breast. "You really don't want to wake up and find these are frozen solid. Come on, cooperate a little."

Realizing he had a good point, she leaned back and let him fasten her blouse, then tuck her arm back into her sling, which had ended up looped behind her back. She would have buttoned his shirt, but her one-handed attempts made him laugh and he ended up doing it himself. She laughed back, serenely unoffended. He did let her fasten his pants, once he'd safely rearranged himself. Finally dressed again, they settled back into their warmth-sharing pose. He started to stroke her hair, and like a cat, Dana found her eyes drifting closed. She sighed, snuggled closer, and decided that if she ever met Jack, she'd have to thank him before she shot him.

* * *

This felt better, Sam thought, looking around the table at her co-workers, her friends. She hadn't realized how much she had come to rely on them. They all looked tired. None of them had gotten more than an hour or two of sleep since Jack had struck the previous morning. Mulder looked uncomfortable, not surprisingly, since he was used to working either on his own, or with only one other person. She suppressed a smile as she wondered if his kindergarten teacher had marked him off when it came to "working and playing well with others." It felt odd to be sitting at the head of the table, though, like she was usurping Bailey's place. She pushed away the fear that accompanied that thought, and took a deep breath.

"Okay, let's do this. We all know that the car was pristine. No prints, other than those that should have been there. Jack also left both Bailey and Scully's weapons and ID's in the back of the car, along with both Agent Mulder's and Agent Scully's luggage. Leaving the weapons and ID's seems to indicate a kind of disdain for them, as if he didn't consider them a significant threat. Grace? What did you find out about the residue on the door handle?"

Grace nodded. "I got several things off that. First, analysis of the adhesive and fibers confirms that it was a common type of duct-tape. There was also a small amount of human blood, and a chemical agent. The blood is type A-positive, which is not only one of the most common Caucasian blood-types, but it also happens to be Bailey's. The chemical was something else we're familiar with. Curare."

John straightened from his habitual slouch, eyes narrowed. "Curare? Like with Cronenberg?"

Grace nodded grimly. "Exactly."

Brubaker whistled. "Cute. He's copycatting. That's a new one."

Samantha nodded. "He's telling us he's watching. He's paying attention to what we're doing. There's no way to know if that was Bailey's blood, is there?"

Grace shook her head. "Not without doing a genetic match, and that'd take weeks, assuming we could even find a sample to match it with."

Sam looked over at Mulder. "I don't suppose you happen to know Scully's blood type?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, frowning a little, then nodded. "O positive."

"So, that rules her out. I think we can assume it was either Bailey's or Jack's. Most likely Bailey's, because of the presence of curare. That also tells us how Jack did it. He rigged the door handle. So, what else have we got? Nathan? Anything on the paper?"

"The paper-guy says it's not commercially manufactured, which makes it hard to trace. There are hundreds of people doing home papermaking these days. Apparently it's one of the 'in' things in craft circles. Jack could even have made it himself. I guess it's not too hard."

Sam tried to imagine Jack meticulously making paper on which to write her a note. She failed. "It doesn't feel right," she said, shaking her head. "I think he bought it somewhere, and it's probably local. Start calling around to art stores and get names of people in the area who are doing this. John, what have you got?"

John grabbed a piece of paper and glanced at it before replying. "The rose. It's a variety called 'Taboo.' The grower's publicity says 'it's the closest you can get to a black rose.' Get this, it was patented in 1988. It's number 7665, if anyone's interested."

"1988?" Sam asked, stunned. "You're sure?"

John nodded. "I'm sure."

"My God... the same year Jack started killing. You don't think he might have been the person who patented it, do you?"

"I've got the Patent Office doing a search on it, it's a longshot, but we can't ignore the possibility."

"A patent?" Nathan asked. "I didn't know you could patent a plant."

"Sure you can," George put in. "That's how the developer of a given variety or hybrid makes back their development money. There are a lot of fruits and vegetables that have patents."

"The name is far more interesting than the patent." Mulder said thoughtfully. "Taboo. What kind of taboo? Who does it apply to? Is it a taboo Jack is breaking, or one he thinks someone else broke? And what's the symbolism of the broken stem?"

"If we're going for obvious, a broken stem cuts off the source of life." Grace said.

"That's pretty obvious." John agreed, grinning.

"Maybe too obvious?" Sam asked. "Let's go a little subtler. What do you do with a cut flower when you get one?"

"Put it in water." Grace replied promptly.

"So, by breaking the stem, is he saying they either have no access to water, or only limited access to it?"

They all looked at each other. A person could go without food for quite a while, but not without water. If her intuition was on-target, this could be a serious problem. Mulder ran a hand through his hair and looked at John.

"You said that rose is patented, does that mean there's only one supplier? Maybe we could get a customer list."

John shook his head. "I thought of that. While we could get a list of their mail-order customers, they also sell to greenhouses all over the country. There's no telling who they might have sold them to. I did ask them to get me a list of mail order and greenhouse customers in the Atlanta area who've purchased that particular variety of rose. They said it would take awhile but they're working on it. I also got on the Web and contacted the local rose society... told 'em I was interested in seeing how that type does here and asked if they know of anyone in the area who's growing them."

He was so clearly proud of himself that Sam had to hide a smile. "Good work, John. Hopefully we'll get something useable out of that. Grace, do we still have that list of pharmaceutical curare suppliers we used on the Cronenberg case?"

Grace looked at her oddly. "You have it, Sam. I gave it back to you for the case file."

Sam made an "oops" face and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, I forgot. I'll go get it, and I'd like you to start checking them, we're looking for mail order customers, I suspect, or possibly outright theft."

Grace nodded and Sam stood up. "Feel free to discuss my inept performance while I'm out of the room," she said, trying to ease the tension. "I know I'm not Bailey."

She heard chuckles as she headed over to her own office. She opened the file cabinet with the Cronenberg files in it and quickly riffled through it until she found the document she needed. Closing the drawer, she was about to leave the room when something caught her attention. She stopped, looking around the office. Something was wrong... out of place. There was a faint but noticeable scent of roses in the air.

She turned slowly, sniffing, and her gaze lit on a loosely rolled newspaper on her desk. Time seemed to compress, her heart rate jumped as if she were running. A hint of crimson shadowed the interior of the roll. She took two steps back, looking around. There was no one in the office. She glanced around the bullpen, and saw no one she didn't recognize. Trying to quiet her suddenly clamoring senses, she walked back to the conference room and stood in the doorway. They didn't notice her at first, they were talking, exchanging theories and information.

"Excuse me," she said loudly. They all looked. "Did one of you leave something on my desk?"

John grinned. "I've left a lot of things on your desk. What thing in particular did you have in mind?"

She knew the answer already, though she didn't want to know it. "Grace, would you bring an evidence kit and some extra gloves?"

From their expressions, she knew they guessed what she had guessed.

"Jack?" Nathan asked incredulously. "Here?"

"I think so," she said, surprised her voice sounded so normal.

It was instant chaos in the office as everyone got to their feet simultaneously.

"How the hell did he get in here?" John demanded of no one in particular.

Nathan headed for the door. "I'm going to go kill me a security guy..."

"Nathan, stop. We'll deal with the security issues later. Right now I want to check this out before we jump to any conclusions." Sam's level approach worked. Everyone calmed down.

Grace hurried to her lab, the rest of the group followed behind Sam as she returned to her office. A moment later Grace was there, handing her a pair of gloves. She drew them on, and poked the paper with a finger. It moved freely, and seemed the right weight. She picked it up and cautiously unrolled the paper. As she'd thought, it did contain a rose. its petals the same incredibly deep crimson as the one which had been pinned to the note in Bailey's car. This one, too, had its stem broken, this time closer to the head. She handed it to Grace who sealed it in a bag.

Next she turned her attention to the newspaper. A closer look revealed that though it was newsprint, it wasn't a paper. It was a racing form from the Birmingham Kennel Club, a greyhound track about a hundred miles west of Atlanta. From the wrinkles and red fade-through on the outer surface, it looked like something had been written on the inside in large, wet strokes. Steeling herself, she opened it. No lemon juice this time, or black-light paint. Red ink or paint spilled across the pages. She could tell by the smell that it wasn't blood, thank God. She managed to focus on the letters.

"You're chasing the wrong rabbit, Sam! I thought better of you." She read out loud. "Below the letters are a series of successively smaller red rings."

Mulder said something under his breath. Sam looked up. "What did you say?"

"Dogs, it's dogs again! I thought I was being weird, even for me when I made that connection, but here it is again. In the first note Jack said Malone had been 'bad', the way most people talk about an animal. He also said you'd have to 'fetch' them, and he emphasized the word. Now he's sent a note on a racing form from a dog track, and rolled it up, like you'd roll up a newspaper to punish a dog. He even used a dog-racing metaphor. How much clearer could it be? He's telling us where they are!"

"At the track?" Nathan asked, incredulously.

Mulder shook his head. "Probably not, though it wouldn't hurt to check it anyway. But you can bet that wherever they are, it has something to do with dogs."

* * *

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