He looked drawn, and probably a little too pale. But he certainly didn’t look like a man who had almost been killed. Twice in the same afternoon. However a man like that is supposed to look, that is. He rose up on his toes and inhaled sharply when he saw the full extent of the size and shape of the bruise below his ribs. That, he knew, was going to be hell in the morning. He toweled off slowly so as not to aggravate either the bruise or the hammer and anvil gearing up in his skull. Deliberately slowly, because, as Scully had already sensed, he had begun to feel that electric spark of anticipation, the one that signaled the true beginning of the hunt. He suspected that right now, Webber was having fits, and Andrews was pacing whether she was standing up or not. It was only natural. A little ordinary poking around had ended up in a deadly firefight, and they probably couldn’t stop the adrenaline from flowing. Action, they no doubt thought, was the key now, not methodical investigation.
