Disclaimer: I could be Chris Carter. Really. All it would take would be a Y chromosome, rugged good looks, scads of talent, sizable financial backing, and the support of some legal types whose parentage probably includes sharks and snakes. So the next time you see Chris Carter, look closely. It might be me.

I stand here on D Street, braced against the bluster of the wind, peering at the knots of federal employees.

Counting noses.

Kimberley taps me on the elbow and wordlessly passes me the clipboard with today's agent roster. I have to hold the bottom edges of the pages to prevent them from ripping around in the wind. Wolverton walks by, doing a head count of his own agents and checking them off on his Bureau issue Palm Pilot.

I suppress a shudder and turn my attention back to the clipboard.

Davidson and Suarez are out-of-town. I'm perversely grateful for that. Charge code 451 is going to take enough of a hit today. At least I can say that not all of my agents are getting a couple of hours off at taxpayer expense for a damn fire alarm.

I do a slow 360, another visual tally. Two of my agents still unaccounted for.

It occurs to me that it's probably a good thing that there are distinct and separate alarms for the security threats. Everyone takes the evacuation alarm seriously, especially since the Oklahoma City bombing. But the fire alarms are like a scene from grade school, in which the exasperated teachers stand on the blacktop in a sea of milling pre-teens while the class clowns hide in the boys' lavatory.

The similarity of this situation to grade school hasn't escaped someone else. A familiar voice pipes up behind me in an impertinent falsetto.

"Mr. Skinner, you won't believe what happened to my homework."

Agent Mulder is all innocence and little smiles when I turn around. His partner has the good grace to look embarrassed and then favors Mulder with some pointed private remark wrapped up in a single hard look.

Watching that, I now know the meaning of the expression "putting the fear of God into someone." So does Mulder, apparently.

"Sir," Scully's voice carries above the rush of the wind. She repeats to me what she's getting over her cell phone, struggling to hear above the noise around us. "It looks like...a computer malfunction in the fire control system...It's a floor-by-floor at this point to assess water damage. So far...just minor injuries from a collapsed suspended ceiling."

Mulder is looking back along 9th in the direction of E Street. The whole emergency management complement turned out this time.. I can pick out the Fire Command team in dayglo orange, Hazmat in their yellow vests, the Bomb Squad in royal blue and red accents, a couple of ambulances in case of casualties. There's a steady stream of personnel and equipment from the trucks to the building and back. Even a floor-by-floor survey should go quickly with that many men.

Water damage?

Scully edges a bit closer. "We were still in with Kersh when the alarm went off." I can tell that Mulder is listening to every word, even as he fidgets carelessly and seems to stare at the show up the street. "The sensors tripped the sprinkler controls on several floors. I'm afraid your outer office..."

I nod distantly, already possessed by the image of a saturated and sodden office and the beginnings of mildewed swamp underfoot. Quarterly manpower assessments went up last week, fortunately. Get Kimberley a new computer, restore from the network. At most we lose today's mail and a few files.

The emergency services are packing up, wheeling gurneys and carts and tanks back to the transports. We hover now, closer to 9th, waiting for the all clear. Mulder and Scully hang back, absorbed in an animated discussion. At this distance, the only audible words are 'nameplate' and 'desk.'

I mentally cross off one of the remaining names on the clipboard. It's my suspicion that Agent Diana Fowley is among the victims in the El Rico hanger, since Agent Mulder confirmed that she was on her way there and she's not been seen since.

Which leaves one question for me to ponder as the two ambulances speed off on 9th, the dual wail of sirens bearing away those the ceiling fell on.

Where the hell is Agent Jeffrey Spender?

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