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“Leg of lamb,” he says, merging left onto the highway. “Two, maybe three blows to the head. Then I roast and eat it.”
Scully considers this. “You could probably kill me with a leg of lamb,” she concedes. “But, as usual, you still have the problem of the body. You always fall apart there.”
Mulder sighs. “I still think the woodchipper would work. You’d fit into a woodchipper with no problem.”
Scully rolls her eyes, fussing with the air conditioner vent. “You’ve watched Fargo one too many times, Mulder. You know better than that. Bone and blood everywhere, completely aerosolized. Plus where would you store it?”
“I’m not an idiot, Scully. I’d pay cash for it, liquefy you, abandon it in a field, and burn my clothes.”
“Okay, well, how are you going to transport it? You want your license plate on a security camera with a woodchipper in the back? You’ll be a person of interest as soon as I go missing anyway.”
Mulder sets the cruise control, pondering. “I’ll get back to you on the woodchipper. What about succinylcholine chloride?”
Scully gives him an appraising look. “Impressive.”
“Don’t have to worry about the body, because it mimics a natural death.” He looks smug.
“Umberger and Halpern introduced the standard for succine acid testing as the SUX metabolite. They can find trace amounts in the brain and liver.” Scully’s eyes are bright; she is enjoying herself immensely. “And you still have to find a way to inject it somewhere no one will notice.”
“Thanks for avoiding the obvious little prick joke,” Mulder remarks, adjusting his rear-view.
“My gift to you.”
He grins at her, wondering how much longer he can avoid pulling the car into some abandoned clearing where he can tug her suit off. They have four more hours ahead of them. “Anyway,” he says. “I have that all figured out. Injection in your ear.”
Scully laughs. “That’s going to take some finesse. How are you going to get a syringe into my ear?”
“Oh, you know. Wear you out first. Kill you in your sleep.” He winks.
“Typical,” she says. “So that’s how word gets out at the Bureau, Mulder? Skinner finds you distraught in my apartment next to my dead body? Having obviously spent the night? It’s so…salacious.”
Of course the indignity of that would bother her more than a woodchipper. “What’s wrong with my apartment? Besides, Skinner owes me a get-out-of-dead-lady-in-bed free card.”
Scully flicks him in the ear. “Don’t be vulgar.”
He mimics her usual expression of skepticism. “Oh, come on, that was weird, Scully. Even for us.”
“It was.” She opens the glove compartment to remove two diet Cokes, a box of Raisinets, and a bag of baby carrots. “Hungry?”
Mulder holds out his hand and she tips some chocolate into his cupped palm without even asking. “Thanks,” he says. “Raisins are fruit, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She pops the Cokes open, puts them in their respective cupholders. She’d like another one when they arrive at the motel, one with some rum in it.
They ride in relative silence, Scully snapping at baby carrots while Mulder chews his candy and drums on the steering wheel to the classic rock station. “So,” he says after accompanying Lynyrd Skynyrd on a guitar solo, “you’re the expert. How would you do it?”
Scully slides her hand across his thigh, resting it at his crotch. “Oh,” she murmurs, squeezing lightly, “I’d hate to spoil the surprise.”