TITLE: Injuries to the Spirit AUTHOR: MystPhile@aol.com CLASSIFICATION: T, SA, MA, UST SPOILERS: Anything up to season six SUMMARY: Scully is captured by a psychopath; Mulder investigates. The story explores the effects of being held captive by a vicious madman. RATING: NC-17. Under 17, stay away. This is about a vicious, violent man who commits atrocities. Every effort has been made to convey the actions without gratuitous gore. I have no wish to revolt the reader. But he is nasty, and so is much of the language. Disclaimer: Most characters property of 1013. INTRODUCTION: Although the story is violent, the true intent is to explore the effects of suffering on the human spirit, particularly a strong one such as Scully's. The story details her attempts to maintain her humanity and strength of character under the most inhumane conditions, and to extricate herself --using her brains, her faith, her training, and her connection to Mulder. He, on his end, does no less. Injuries to the Spirit by Mystphile@aol.com "A...being such as he lives for the discomfort of others. He feeds off any degree of pain....one might even call him a connoisseur of pain--both physical and, through the body, the spiritual agony of guilt and shame. Certainly he understands that injuries to the spirit tend to be longer lasting than those of the body." ---------Description from "O Jerusalem" by Laurie R. King, a Mary Russell/Sherlock Holmes novel DAY ONE She did not know how it had happened. She was not even sure what *it* was. One minute she'd been knocking on a motel door to meet her e-mail friend Beth, suddenly present in the DC area on business. The next, well, there was no "next"--until now. Now. Her vision was clouded and her head ached. Why? Knocked over the head? Drugged? Squinting, she could discern the dim furnishings of a generic room. It contained a double bed, a kitchen off to the side, separated from the main part of the room by a counter, and some ugly, tattered chairs. No decor to speak of. Not even the usual paint-by-number beach scenes. Nothing except empty cork boards covering almost all of the wall area. No windows. Why no windows? It occurred to her that she didn't even know if it was day or night. Maybe one of the corkboards was covering a window. She shook her head in confusion, then quickly halted the motion as her head throbbed. She had: A. Knocked on a door. B. Wound up in a seedy room. What had transpired between point A and point B? As her head cleared slightly, she tried to shift her body. For some reason, she could barely move. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down. Her world rocked and swirled at the sight of her naked body, bound to the arms and legs of a wooden chair. Dazed, Scully stared at her pubic hair. Christ, she thought, and her stomach plunged. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> FIVE DAYS EARLIER "Scully, you ready?" Mulder, like a little boy desperate to go to the bathroom, was practically dancing on his toes in his eagerness to get out of the office and on the road. "Almost." Scully was absorbed in her e-mail correspondence with a member of her mystery-readers' list, the Agatha. She and Beth had been discussing what Scully saw as an interesting phenomenon--the many couples in mysteries who choose to address one another by their surnames. "One more minute," she murmured, glancing at the message on her screen: Scully had written: <>an attachment, but not whether it was romantic. <. And an excellent mind it is, with all >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> THAT NIGHT Inside Scully's apartment, Mulder was pulling his files together. Scully, worn out from a day of fruitless silkie patrol, was yawning and stretching. Each held down a corner of her couch, the coffee table crowded with papers, a laptop, and five or six cardboard cartons of Chinese food and discarded chopsticks. Neither looked like a special agent at the moment. Mulder had jettisoned his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and unbuttoned his shirt. His hair stood on end. Scully had changed into jeans and a tee- shirt and washed her face, rinsing off about five years in the process. "Tired?" Now *here's* a great detective, Scully thought. She nodded and curled into her corner of the couch, tucking her bare feet beneath her. Mulder looked up. "Okay, okay," he said. "So you were right. It was tiring, and it was a waste of time. No silkie, just an excess of imagination." He leaned back and glanced at Scully. "Silkies," he said, in the contemplative tone he'd used when seeking out Big Blue. "They're said to kidnap women. That reminded me of what Joe--you know him? Joe Greenfield, a guy I used to work with in Violent Crimes? He showed me some stuff the other day, just to get my take on it. They've discovered a possible serial killer, one who kidnaps women. He preys on mystery readers. That's why I was asking all those questions when we were in the car." Scully squinted. "How the hell did they discover he preys on mystery readers? Did they examine the victims' bookshelves? That isn't the kind of stuff that gets entered into the database." Mulder shoved some of the boxes on the coffee table aside to make room to prop up his legs. He leaned his head against the back of the couch and turned his eyes to meet Scully's. "Well, that's why it took them so long to pick it up. He's been doing this for four years, one victim a year. At least as far as they can tell from the data they have now. Someone finally entered the victims' computer contents. And each victim was killed in a different way. Nutty, bizarre, but different. So there was no clue there, no hint of an MO. But their computers all showed they engaged in discussion groups, mystery lists, chat rooms for mystery readers, that sort of thing. That was the common denominator." "Hence your interest in my list," Scully remarked. Mulder nodded and raised his hand to fend off the objection she was drawing breath to make. "No, I'm not going to lecture you about the potential serial killer on your list. I want to tell you how these women were killed." Scully quirked a brow. "A consultation?" "Yeah. Always consult an expert," he smiled. He sobered abruptly. "The murders were about a year apart. Each woman was an avid mystery reader. Unmarried. Mid-thirties to mid-forties. Professional woman, usually something high-powered and responsible. A Dean of Women at a university. A senior vice-president at a bank. A restaurant owner. A public relations consultant, a very successful one. All forceful, intelligent women." "So there *are* commonalties?" "Well, yeah, once you know enough to look. Also, each woman just...disappeared off the face of the earth. Since they were in highly visible professions, the search was...thorough. Then, three or four weeks after the disappearance, each was discovered. Recently murdered, under bizarre circumstances." Scully moved her feet to the floor and sat forward. "Bizarre, how?" "Let me check my notes." He fished into his pocket and read from a small notebook. "Victim number one. Lived in a small town outside of Boston. Found in a belfry, knifed in the heart. The knife was also skewering a pink rose." "I've read that scenario in a book!" "That's why I brought this up," Mulder reminded her. "Where?" "I think the title is 'The Body in the Belfry.' All the author's titles are 'the body in the'--whatever. Page. That's the author's last name. I think. When you read a lot of mysteries, they all start to blend together. You know?" Mulder nodded and scribbled in his little book. "Okay. You're batting a thousand. So far. Victim two. Outside of Phoenix, found dead of a rattlesnake bite in a sleeping bag. She *didn't* go camping. She'd never camped in her life. Read one like that?" Scully sat forward, propped her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. "I did. I know I did. The first book in a series about a woman and her son. This is at the beginning of the book when she becomes widowed. That's her husband's death you've described. Someone concealed a rattler in his sleeping bag. Knight. I think the author's last name is Knight. Can't remember the title, but I'm sure you can get a list of her books and figure out which one it was." Mulder moved closer to her and squeezed her shoulder. "You're doing great! Okay, for the prize behind door number two, identify this scenario." He squinted at his notes. "Now this is where we get really weird. I'm surprised we weren't called in on this one. Sounds like an X-File." "Move it along, Mulder. Forget the buildup." Her smile took the sting from her words. "Right. The victim, who lived in Detroit and had no connection with horses or the collection of medieval instruments of torture, was found in a scold's bridle. This was to--" "Keep scolding women quiet!" Scully finished. "It's the title of a book. 'The Scold's Bridle' by Minette Walters." "Jesus, you're good. And these mysteries you read sound pretty kinky. Maybe I should look into them." Scully sat back and hugged her knees. "Maybe you should. You might learn something." He turned a burning gaze on her. "You coming on to me?" Her brow arched, they exchanged smiles, and Mulder reluctantly tore his gaze away to return to his notebook, his voice huskier. "For the grand prize, an all-expenses-paid trip to the Balkans, give me the book for victim number four. She was in Atlanta, found in a motel room that she had certainly not been in for the previous three and a half weeks. She was found hanging from the light fixture, nude, with porn pics at her feet. Apparently a victim," he paused, "of auto-erotic asphyxiation." Remembering Clyde Bruckman's prediction, Scully glanced at Mulder, who remained expressionless. Mr. Triple-X, she thought. Someday I will make you blush, she vowed, the envious wish of a redhead who blushed too easily. But, back to business. "I suppose forensics showed she was already dead before she was hung up, probably killed at another scene, right?" He nodded. "One of my favorite books," Scully said. "'Unsuitable Job for a Woman' by P.D. James. The detective, an inexperienced young woman, is hired to investigate a young man who died in that circumstance. It's a terrific book." Mulder was silent, lips pursed. "In the books that, uh, served as this guy's inspiration, the victims weren't necessarily women, right?" She nodded. "The hanging guy, yeah, obviously not a woman. And the man bit by a rattlesnake. I don't recall who wound up in the scold's bridle. It was a woman who was found in the belfry though." "Were all the books written by women?" "Yes. So what do you think that means?" He shrugged. "I don't really know. I'm just glad I mentioned this to you. Now I can go back to Joe and tell him his perp models his murders on mystery novels." He touched her shoulder. "I'll give you full credit." "It doesn't matter. The important thing is catching the guy. That's creepy, having someone going around emulating fictional murders. I *hate* predators." Mulder got up to leave. He gathered his tie, jacket, and briefcase, then absorbed himself in piling up boxes and stuffing dirty napkins inside. "Maybe you should un-subscribe from your list," he said tentatively, not looking at Scully. "You're a professional woman in the proper age bracket on a mystery list." "Wouldn't hurt, I suppose," she said, getting up to see him to the door. "But I hate to have one of my harmless pleasures destroyed by some wacko, you know?" "Uh-huh. I use the Internet to discuss the fields I'm interested in, too. So, I know how you feel." He bent down to her level to meet her eyes. "But think about un- subscribing, will you? Just to humor your paranoid partner." He lowered his voice, remaining so close that she could feel his breath warm her lips. "Please?" She patted his shoulder and smiled. "I'll think about it. Let me know if I can do anything else to help with that case." "Yeah." His fingers brushed her hair and he was gone. Scully leaned against the closed door, thinking. He really *was* concerned. He'd actually said 'please.' With his breath warming her lips, a substantial aid to persuasion. And he knew it, of course. All those considerations aside, though, why *not* be sensible and cautious about this? The way those women died was no joke. Torture had most likely preceded their deaths, given the time lapse between their disappearance and the discovery of the corpses. Why hadn't she thought to ask Mulder about signs of rape and physical abuse? Because these were sensitive subjects to her, she answered herself, given her own "lost time," which had resulted in missing ova and, at the very least, medical rape. Ever since her mysterious return, she had a tendency to bury her head in the sand where abuse of women was concerned. It always hit her hard emotionally. Always had, always would. And also, right now, when she longed for a good night's sleep, she just didn't want to know the sordid details. This was not their case. Maybe it should be an X-File; certainly kidnapping and murdering women *should* qualify as unexplainable behavior. Monsters were often human beings, she'd found. They could be worse than flukemen and other mutants. But it'd been a long day and she was beat. Why invite nightmares or risk insomnia pondering the victims' ordeals? She could ask him for details later. She went to her computer and un-subscribed from the Agatha list. Then she wrote a message to Beth: Hey, Beth--On my way to bed. Just wanted to tell you. I've heard of some murders of women who subscribe to mystery lists, visit the chat rooms, newsgroups, etc. So, I'm off Agatha for a while. You might want to consider taking a break as well, just to be safe. More tomorrow. D. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY ONE Tied up, nude. How could this be? Scully studied her chest, expecting to see her galloping heart pound at her flesh, trying to break out. She tested the ropes and found them taut. Any pressure brought only pain. She bit her lip, trying to control her panic. A prisoner. Not again. Had she not served her time-- and more? She closed her eyes, wrestling with a kaleidoscope of emotions--panic, despair, terror, bewilderment. Even though she knew it was foolish, she kept hoping to wake up and get dressed for work. She might even mention this ridiculous dream to Mulder. Maybe he could tell her what it meant. He'd probably warn her about ordering anchovies on her pizza. A noise. Her fantasies dropped away with a dull thud, the sound of sinking hopes. Fighting against the conflicting poles of blind panic and drugged passivity, she forced herself to concentrate. God, it was such an effort. She focused on the door knob, which was turning. Slowly. She bit harder at her lip, trying to control the waves of fear that were threatening to pull her under. She caught a flash of outdoor light, a quick glimpse of trees; then a man entered the room. Tall, late thirties maybe, a bit bulky. Muscular arms emphasized by a tee-shirt that fit like a tattoo. Sparse blonde hair. He reminded her of the villain in the James Bond movie, "From Russia with Love." Short hair, bulky body, hard, cold eyes. Glacial blue. Cruel smile. One who would inflict injury for the pleasure of it. Her mind, apparently drugged, conjured images. She could see him in his youth, torturing frogs. Curious, he would cut off one leg to see if the hop would be lopsided. Curiosity plus sadism. This did not auger well for her, she thought hazily. She was in deep shit. *Deep* shit. She felt sweat break out everywhere on her body. He continued to stare at her, gleaming eyes raking her body, pausing to study her breasts and pubic area. The cruel smile widened, revealing gleaming white teeth. Wolf-like, she thought. A predator who would tear his victim to shreds, licking up the blood afterwards. She tried to meet his cold stare with her own icy gaze. Unfortunately, she was still having trouble focusing. And she also suspected that her eyes held more terror than the cool curiosity she wished so desperately to present. Then she felt sweat trickling down the side of her neck. No, not cool. Her body was ablaze with fear, primitive and paralyzing. "Dana," he said. His voice was bright and melodious. He sounded positively delighted, maniacal in his joy. His smile broadened. "I'm Beth," he said in tones of social parody. "So glad we could finally meet." Scully closed her eyes. So she was number five. As thoughts of what she'd learned about the other victims crowded into her mind, she was almost grateful to be tied up. Otherwise, she might have toppled from the chair. Unlike the previous victims, she knew what to expect. The prospect robbed her of oxygen, her breathing becoming shallow and rapid. She wondered if she was going to pass out. A humiliating prospect, but minor when compared to what she expected--dreaded-- from this monster. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< TWO DAYS EARLIER Scully and Mulder were driving to northern Virginia. Ghosts of the Confederacy had been reported on the battlefields. The old man who'd filed the report had been most spooked by the fact that the outcomes of the battles had been changed: the North was winning. Revisionist ghosts were truly scary. "I wanted to ask you about the victims of the mystery reader serial killer," she told Mulder. She was driving. "Do we take a left here?" "Yeah, I think so. What about them? I passed on what you told me, but I'm really not following the case. Just talked a bit with some guys from the BSU." "Were they tortured? What kind of treatment did they suffer while he held them? How long before he killed them?" She frowned, not really wanting to know the answers. This wasn't her case, she would never have heard about it if Mulder hadn't run into a former colleague, and her interest wouldn't be helpful to anyone, she thought. But still, something in her wanted to *know,* to waft a bit of fellow feeling toward her battered sisters, women who sounded...like her. It was like the MUFON women; she felt an identification mixed with a repulsion. If I close my eyes, it won't happen to me. Right, she told herself. But still, as a law enforcement officer....Stop trying to justify it, she ordered herself. Shut up and listen. "From what I've been told," Mulder began, "he's escalating. The first victim had a broken wrist, a few cuts, some bruises and abrasions. The last, if I'm remembering this correctly, had...I think at least a dozen broken bones, deep gashes and stab wounds, and a lot of scabbed-over, infected burns." "Cigarette burns?" "Yeah. And there was more beating too. I think the last victim had a broken jaw, broken nose, and some missing teeth." Scully felt sick. People who used and abused women in any way always brought a visceral response. Even when the women in question were lying on her autopsy table, she was sometimes overcome with feeling for the victim. "Sexual assault?" she asked. He nodded. "More aggressive every time, with the last two pretty damaged. Not by any objects, if I'm remembering this right. You know, no penetration by stuff like baseball bats or broken bottles. But damage, yeah." "How long between the disappearance and the death?" "Well, sometimes they weren't found immediately, so the time-of- death estimates came from doctors like you. I think he tends to kill the victim around three weeks after the snatch. The times ranged from about 21 to 25 days." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY ONE Behind her closed eyelids, Scully was giving herself a heated pep talk. He's escalating, she reminded her stubborn self, who wanted nothing more than to curl up into a fetal ball. No matter how paralyzed you are, you have to come out of this alive, with as little damage as possible. Do what you have to do. Get to know him. Understand why he does what he does. Do what you've been trained to do, damn it. Profile him! But, of course, he was the one who had profiled her. Hooked her like a wide-mouthed bass. Baited the hook with a tempting fly the color of friendship, spent months letting the hook sink firmly into her lips, tightening its hold daily, reeled her in inch by inch, so subtly that she had no idea she was hooked until she felt the mesh of the net. And now he was preparing to fillet her. She shuddered as he spoke. "It was great corresponding with you, Dana," he was chortling. "It's a pleasure to exchange ideas with a really intelligent woman, like you. I *only* like intelligent women." He chuckled and stepped closer. "Aren't you flattered?" he whispered, bending down so that his face was level with hers. She forced herself to meet his eyes, reading the madness glinting in his bright gaze. Desperately, she longed to figure him out, spare herself pain, make her escape. But of course, that's what *all* of them had wanted, and they were all competent, intelligent women. And look where they had wound up. He would expect her to do exactly what she was going to do--get him talking, seek to prevent injury to herself. But she didn't see any other alternative. So, she played. "You know the answer to that," she said in a level voice. "I have no doubt you know exactly how I feel. If you're smart enough to get me here, you're smart enough to know what I'm thinking." She managed a faint smile. "And what do I call you, now that you're not Beth?" His smile broadened. His teeth gleamed like the wolf's in Little Red Riding Hood, to Scully's fevered imagination. "Death," he said. "Beth rhymes with Death." He laughed and straightened up and turned away. "Ah, Dana, we have weeks to get to know each other," he said. "This will be so much fun. You have no idea." He swiveled. "Oh, I forgot for a moment. You *do* have some idea, don't you." He chuckled again. She sensed that this was a sound that would soon affect her like a root canal from hell. "It'll lend a certain piquancy to the situation, don't you think?" he smiled. She imagined fangs, drool. "You're the first who *knows* what to expect. It'll be interesting to see how that affects your behavior." Christ, she thought. He *does* study his victims like a kid torturing a frog. And he knows I'm going to be forced to study him. He wants the attention. Remember that, she told herself. It's important. She cleared her throat and began her task. "Do you take notes? Videos?" she asked. "How exactly do you study your victim's response?" He glided back to lift her chin, moving very lightly for a large man. It was as if he wore castors. He squeezed. Hard enough for her to realize that she was acquiring her first bruise. "I study pain. And its effect." He dropped her chin and opened a suitcase. "You'll see," he promised. She cleared her head, tamped down the encroaching terror, prepared to pay attention to every nuance, every movement, every gesture, every word, every tone, every----everything and anything that could help her figure out how to outsmart this maniac. It was clear that he prided himself on his intelligence. It was also possible that he was some sort of super intellect who was indeed much more brilliant than she. And he was experienced. Any errors he'd made with his earlier victims, he would have learned from. Well, me too, she thought. I'm not a novice at being a captive either. I'm a trained agent, and unfortunately, I've got experience at being on this end. She would have to walk a very fine line, she decided: to respect his intelligence, never underestimate him, realize that many of her ploys would be predictable to him. On the other hand, she couldn't fall into the trap of thinking that he knew it all and she had no hope of escaping. She must not let herself fall into a victim's mindframe, of fearing her captor to the point that she *respected* him, was cowed by him, thought it hopeless to fight him. Yes, it was a fine line. Scully prepared to take up tightrope walking. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TWO When Scully didn't show up at the office by ten o'clock the next morning, Mulder's neck hairs stood on end. The previous day, Scully told him that Beth had unexpectedly flown into DC to help a company in Arlington with its webpage design. Scully had gone to meet her for lunch at her motel in Arlington. She'd said she was excited to meet her friend at last and hoped Beth would have some free time for sightseeing. When Scully didn't return to the office after lunch, Mulder assumed that she'd spent the afternoon with Beth and hadn't bothered to call. With the hours they worked, they had no need to punch a timeclock. Frowning, Mulder yanked the phone toward him. No answer at her apartment, no response from the cell. He broke a few traffic laws getting to Scully's apartment. Finding no sign of her there, he checked the answering machine. There were two messages from the night before that had gone unheard. He knew that Scully's routine, no matter what time she came home, included punching the answering machine as she walked by. Therefore, he concluded, she hadn't come home last night. He took a deep breath. Okay. Before panicking and bringing down the wrath of Scully, who could have simply gone out for a few drinks with her friend and decided to stay for a longer visit, he searched his memory for the name of the motel. Got it. The Cross Keys. Okay. Now, what was Beth's last name? Shit. No, that wasn't it, he thought with a grim smile. Famous woman. Famous witty woman. Dorothy Parker. Okay. Beth Parker. He moved to the phone. Yes, they had a B. Parker registered. Yes, they would ring the room. A dozen rings later, Mulder called the front desk again and launched into his special agent routine. After a wait that had Mulder wearing tracks in Scully's carpet, the manager returned to the line. No sign of anyone in the room, sir. The key was sitting on the bureau. Mulder considered. Scully would kill him for interfering if she was safe and enjoying some activity with her cyberfriend. She might make his life miserable for the next month if his instinct was wrong. He no longer trusted his instincts when her well-being was concerned, for she'd accused him so often of being over- protective. But, over-protective or not, he was going with his instincts on this one. Rapidly, he ordered the manager to seal the room and let no one enter. Feeling that wasn't sufficiently forceful, he told him the room was now a Federal crime scene and therefore anyone who crossed the threshold would be subject to arrest and criminal prosecution. The manager properly cowed, Mulder got on the line to Forensics and ordered a team to check the room for trace evidence. He then called Joe in the Behavior Science Unit to inform him that his partner might--possibly--be the fifth victim of the Mystery Lover serial killer. After that, the wheels turned swiftly. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY TWO The corkboards were full. Indeed, photographs overlapped as Death continued to hang his handiwork using colorful little tacks. He had gotten remarkably close to Scully; she saw herself entering the Bureau, leaving it, entering and leaving her apartment, looking out the window of her apartment, watering plants on the window sill, entering and leaving both Mulder's apartment and her mother's house, having dinner with Janet and Tom, shopping in about a dozen different stores and shops, sitting in the library reading a magazine. Christ, she thought. What kind of agent are you? This guy was practically perched on your shoulder for God knows how long--and you didn't notice? Was he using a flash for all these? Asking you to smile? She shuddered. How creepy. Just goddamned creepy to think that this slimeball had oozed around her, day after day, invading her life, stealing her image without her permission, the way he had finally taken her body and stripped it and tied it down. He'd captured her image everywhere: sitting in a parked car with Mulder, walking down the street eating a doughnut, standing by the fountain on a sunny day, sitting in the park watching children play, accompanying her godson to a sci-fi movie, strolling by the Reflecting Pool with Mulder, entering a concert hall, jogging at twilight, swimming at the Y. In short, he had seen her everywhere but in her bathroom. She wondered if he'd give her privacy to go to the bathroom here. She was becoming desperate to go, unable to remember the last time. She wondered if he'd feed her. Had the other women lost weight? She squirmed a bit in her chair, pressing her legs together, reluctant to ask anything of him. It was obvious that he really got off on control. Knowing things that others didn't. Watching women who were oblivious to his presence. Forcing from her mind the image of her teeth afloat from the need to urinate, she studied the other corkboards. Four victims. All very handsome, competent-looking women. They too had been on his private Candid Camera. Captured (exactly the right word, she thought) everywhere, like her, enjoying their lives and going about their business, never dreaming that they were prey to a vulture floating overhead, just biding his time until the proper moment arrived for the fatal swoop. Then, up in the air with him, lifted from the face of the earth. Never to be seen alive again. She, now, had been lifted from the face of the earth. Where was she? She had no idea how many hours she'd been unconscious, how he had transported her, how long the journey had been. She listened carefully. The room, with no visible windows and only one door, didn't let in a whole lot of sound. She assumed it was in some isolated place anyway, since he tortured his victims. She thought she might, just might, hear some birdsong outdoors. It was hard to concentrate. Terror, she found, could be a huge distraction. Mulder, she thought. Are you out there? Do you know I'm gone? Have you put the pieces together? Does the team working on this have a fucking *clue*? Do you hear me, Mulder? She noticed the harshness of the overhead light and wondered if being deprived of daylight would be a major problem. One reason for her captor to block windows would be to deprive her of one of life's "normal" measures: Time. He would control the tempo of her life, depriving her of daylight, routine, anything that offered security and order. He wanted her adrift, helpless. He would be her only compass. He, all-knowing, all-powerful; she, nothing. She must maintain a sense of herself. She must have a loose plan but be ready to take advantage of any crack in his very tough armor. She must stay alert, whatever he chose to do to her, she lectured herself. But she was already worried--worried sick-- about her capacity to bear this ordeal, her ability to escape. Her rational side might be standing at a podium handing down advice for survival, but her traitorous heart was pounding, her mouth was dry with terror, and her senses were crying out so desperately for freedom that she feared they might get all worn out and refuse to function. How hard could one try to hear, before the ears gave out? How long could one study the captor, searching urgently for weakness, before the eyes grew too tired to function? Here it was, the first day--she guessed--and she was hanging on to her brain power by a hair. What would she be like in---she knew the timeframe, unfortunately--three weeks? Dread clutched her heart--and squeezed. He turned and bared his teeth in what he seemed to consider a dazzling smile. His manic glow bathed her naked body. She found that she didn't especially care if she was naked. That was one area where his plan was not effective, for her. Maybe it was her medical training; maybe it was because her profession required her to examine naked bodies and their interiors as a matter of routine. Maybe it was because she had no wish to be attractive to this man, dreaded any sexual connection. Much self-consciousness about the naked body arises from fears of its inadequacy--heavy thighs, drooping breasts, sagging ass, swollen abdomen. With a lover, she might throw back her shoulders and suck in her gut to appear more sexually alluring. Since she hoped to turn off this unspeakable piece of slime, she was without shame in her nakedness. His smile grew warmer, if possible. It gave off the heat of a furnace. Or hell. "My gallery, Dana," he said. "Aren't they beautiful? Aren't *you* beautiful?" The chuckle rang out again and Scully managed to keep herself from wincing. "I'm very proud of my collection." "How do you do it?" she asked, hoping that his reply to an open-ended question would reveal something significant, something she could use to understand him and defeat him. His smile did not falter. "How?" His voice echoed in the room despite all the corkboard. "I'm a fuckin' genius!" His chuckle grew into ripples of laughter. "I have no doubt of your intelligence," Scully told him. She was sincere, mentally kicking herself for knowing there was an Internet Mystery Reader maniac and still dashing out to Arlington to meet a stranger. "You want smart women, right? What would be the fun, otherwise?" His smile, which she began to think was painted on his face, remained. "They're all smart, Dana. Or, like you, they think so. But look where they are now." He glided toward her and pulled the rope that bound her right wrist, causing her to gasp as it cut into her flesh. "And look at you. You can't move. Without me, you have no food, no water, no light, no nothing." The grating chuckle again. "You're mine. I'll take care of you." He shrugged. "Or not." "Why?" she asked softly. "Why do this to people who've never hurt you, people you've never even met?" He paused. He actually did not look maniacal, for the moment. "It's my greatest joy in life. It's why I was put on this earth. For a while, I thought I could be content to...merely manipulate, to pull strings, hold power that people didn't even realize I had. Knowing that I controlled them. It had its rewards. But it wasn't enough." He sighed, looked melancholy. "Without this, life means nothing to me." He drew closer. "I'll watch you, Dana. Day by day. You'll get rattier and more scared. You'll be desperate. You'll try to draw me out, the way you are now. You'll think you can analyze me." He turned away, then swiveled his head and spat at her. He glared at her as if she were an annoying insect. "And you'll be wrong. Every time." He headed for the door. "You think you can get out of this. Where there's life, there's hope. Isn't that the expression?" He chuckled as he grabbed the knob. "There's no hope, Dana. Get used to it." His radiant smile broke out. "But you're welcome to try. I always enjoy that part." He exited quickly, letting Scully glimpse greenery for only a second. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TWO Forensics worked quickly when one of their own was involved. Mulder, showing some foresight, had grabbed Scully's hairbrush before leaving her apartment. A hair found in the Cross Keys Motel room rented by B. Parker matched Scully's. A trace of her blood was found, near the door. The experts hypothesized that she had been knocked to the floor when she entered the room. Mulder had a niggling thought in the back of his mind. He tried to subdue his panic, relax enough to let it through. Yes. Here it came. Scully was to have lunch with Beth. She had said she was meeting her in the restaurant of the motel at 1 p.m. The obvious assumption was that the serial killer was a man. Statistics suggested this was virtually always the case. The crimes had also required a certain degree of strength. So, Mulder concluded, if "Beth" was a man--and how the hell can you tell on the Internet, he asked himself, resolving to lay off his own chat groups--it was unlikely that he'd dressed like a woman, managed to fool Scully, and eaten lunch with her. So, how did Scully get from meeting a woman in a public restaurant to going to the motel room instead? An investigation at the restaurant was in order. He turned to the BSU team leader, Joe, and explained his reasoning. "Fine. What else? You know her. What should we be looking for?" Mulder tried to force his frantic mind to slow down. "Her computers, both at work and home," he told Joe. "All the correspondence with Beth, all the postings to the mystery group, Agatha. Check into the group and see if we can identify this so- called Beth." Joe nodded. "We'll also draw up all the on-line correspondence of the other victims. It's unlikely we'll find an identity through the accounts, Mulder. If this guy's good at computers, he'll have fake ID's and credit card accounts. But we may spot some patterns if we compare all the correspondence." "Then there's the matter of how he got her out of here. And into what vehicle." "Right. We're on it. We're calling in more personnel and going full bore on this one. Trust me, Mulder. We want him bad. And fast." Mulder turned away, staring out the window to compose himself. He knew that despite all the rah rah nonsense going on here, the swarming teams of eager interrogators, Scully had been missing for twenty-three hours. She could be in Arkansas by now. He also knew that kind of thinking would get him nowhere. How many times can a man lose his partner and still believe she'll return safely, he wondered. He straightened his shoulders and headed downstairs. DAY TWO Left alone in the room, Scully strained to hear sounds from the outside world. Birds chirped nearby. Was that a highway noise in the distance? Did the bastard have the nerve to keep her *that* close to civilization? She thought he would enjoy the irony of placing her near a major highway. Hell, if he could, he'd probably keep her on the Mall in the center of DC. Bathroom, her entire being shouted. She really needed to go. She'd learned to hold it in on stakeouts, but this level of bladder strain was in a whole new league. When was the last time she wet herself? When she was two or three? More of his games, she thought. Make her dependent on him for everything. Bastard. Think of something else, she told herself. Okay. She visualized her mother's sad face. How could she hold up under this, the disappearance--yet again--of her daughter? I'm driving her to her grave, Scully thought. How many times can she stand to hear that I'm gone? And this time, she'll know the kinds of things that are happening to me. No, no, no, she told herself. Do *not* spend your time pitying your mother. That's a luxury you can't afford. Concentrate on getting out of here, not feeling sorry for the people who're worried about you. Do something! Ordering herself to act like a professional, she surveyed the room, studying every object, memorizing the layout and the contents. She tested her bonds once more, tried to see if hopping in her chair could make it move at all. The balance was so precarious that movement threatened to make it topple backwards, adding a concussion to her other worries. She saw knives in the kitchen segment of the room. Maybe if he left her alone long enough, she could slowly wobble her chair that far and sever her bonds. Besides, he'd have to untie her sometimes. Wouldn't he? Scully estimated she had been in his presence about a day. Since he tortured his victims, she knew she couldn't wait: She had to get out of here as soon as possible. Outsmart the bastard. She might be naked and bound to a chair, but her mind was free. Any drugs he had given her had worn off; she had psychological training. Medical training. Unarmed combat training. Experience at dealing with the criminal mind. Use your assets, she urged herself. Screw this prick. Knock him to the floor and stuff his balls down his throat. Although that prospect didn't seem likely in her immediate future, the words gave her hope. Don't get ladylike, she told herself. Cut off his dick with a carving knife, if necessary. Just do it. Don't let him make you feel helpless. She jiggled the chair, ever so gently, toward the kitchen area. Throwing her weight as far forward as she could, so her feet rested firmly on the floor, she tried to use her toes to get a purchase on the cheap carpeting while at the same time she bounced her body weight in the same direction. After five minutes of hard labor, she saw that she'd gained maybe two inches. Sweat poured down her face, and she found herself winded. Taking a deep breath, she renewed her efforts, huffing, puffing, sweating, groaning as unused muscles were forced to make unfamiliar moves. Checking her progress, she saw she'd moved a couple more inches. Great. If the bastard stayed away for a day or so, she might make it. She pushed, trying for faster progress. Mistake. She and her chair crashed to the floor. She assessed the damage. A thump of the side of the head, probable bruises all along her left side, nothing too serious. But she felt like a turtle lying on a highway, trying to right itself before a car came along and crushed it. And here she'd thought it impossible to feel more vulnerable! If he found her like this, what would he do? It seemed like hours of heaving, straining, and sweating, this attempt to do the impossible, righting a chair while tied to it. Her bonds chafed, one wrist bled, and her bladder was on the verge of overflow. She squeezed her legs together, to no avail. A trickle began, then a gush, and soon she and the carpet were soaked. She groaned, humiliated at her lack of control. And scared. For some reason, she felt like a toddler with chocolate smeared all over her, guilt writ large for the grownups to see. God, she hated him for making her feel like this. Pissed, that's what she was. In every sense of the word. Jesus, she thought grimly, I think I'm channeling Mulder. In her position, she could do worse. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TWO The motel's registration card showed that B. Parker had checked in at 2 a.m. on the day of the kidnapping. An absent- minded elderly man had been on duty, dozing off when not absorbed in an adult movie channel. He had ambled out to the desk in response to the bell, thrust the registration card at the customer, and taken care of the credit card transaction while at the same time trying not to miss the hottest part of his movie. The credit card was in the name of Ben Parker, whose account did not exist, according to Visa. Still, the elderly clerk had seen Ben Parker register. Yes? Not exactly, Mulder learned, stifling his urge to throttle the old man. "Well, yeah, it was a man," he allowed. "How old?" The old man shrugged. "Can't really remember. Didn't pay much attention. Hardly looked at him. I looked at his credit card. I made sure he filled out the whole reservation card. That's about it." Mulder sighed and said through gritted teeth, "How tall was he? Did his waist hit the top of the counter? His chest? Think, will you?" The old man gave a passable imitation. "Around waist high, I'd say." Mulder noted that the counter reached him just below the waist. "Okay, he was at least six feet tall. Hair? Facial hair?" The clerk shook his head. "I think he had a cap, you know, some kind of baseball cap. It was kind of pulled down, I think. Didn't really notice his face." "Was he heavy? Skinny?" The clerk shrugged. "Well, I suppose I'd have noticed if he was downright obese..." Mulder doubted it, but he nodded and urged him to continue. "So I suppose he was...normal weight." "Can you remember *anything* else? Anything at all? His eyes? His clothes? His voice?" There was a pause. "His voice. It sounded...happy. It's strange for someone to sound that happy at two in the morning." He shook his head. "That's it, son. I'd dredge it up if I could. But it's just not there." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TWO The door flew open. "Dana, I'm back," Death caroled, entering with bags of groceries. He set the bags on the counter and stood over her, noting the stained carpet and giving a fastidious sniff. "Bad girl," he said. "I go out for an hour, to buy food for *you*, and what do you do? Aren't you ashamed?" He actually shook his finger under her nose. "You're just going to have to lie there and learn your lesson." Scully lay on the fetid, damp carpet for what seemed like an hour. She was amazed that he was able to make her feel like an ill-behaved child. She spent the time trying not to feel and smell the carpet and firmly telling herself whose fault this really was. His paternal but disappointed air was so damned plausible. *He* is the maniac here; *you* are the well-trained agent who is going to outsmart him. Right. Just keep telling yourself that, she admonished. Finally, he pulled the chair roughly to its feet and loosened her bonds. "It's for your own good, Dana," he said in his exuberant voice. If she ever had the chance, she thought, she would gladly cut out his voicebox. Once he propped her on her feet, he sat in the chair, grabbed her roughly, and turned her, face down, over his knees. He spanked her, hard and thoroughly. It seemed to go on for years. The sting was painful enough to bring tears to her eyes. Although his blows were openhanded, he was strong, and she knew she would have a battered, bruised bottom. She closed her eyes, but she couldn't close her ears. "You're old enough to know better. You have to learn to behave properly." Yadda, yadda, she thought. Fucking bastard. Being spanked by a holier-than-thou psychopath had to qualify as one of the low points of her existence. At last he finished and dumped her to the floor. "Ten minutes in the bathroom," he said. "Then dinner. You're lucky I'm letting you eat, Dana. I'm not sure you deserve it." "I'm not either," she said. "I think I'll skip dinner." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TWO Mulder took a deep breath as he pressed Maggie Scully's doorbell. There were a million things he'd rather do, among them walking barefoot on a bed of nails. She opened the door, read his face, and asked, "What happened this time?" She managed to sound simultaneously unfriendly and anxious. "She's been kidnapped. By someone she corresponded with on the Internet." He sighed. "Can I come in?" She stood back, grudgingly. He noticed that she offered him no coffee. Shit, he thought. Why not shoot the messenger? He launched into his story, softening the details as much as possible. But Maggie was not a soft person. She drew out of him, bit by horrible bit, the information about the women who'd died. Soon, she knew as much as he did. Like her daughter, she was a sharp interrogator. Mulder sat slumped on the couch. "I'll call you as soon as I hear something." She nodded, not really paying any more attention to him. She seemed to be lost within herself. Mulder wondered if she was praying, planning the construction of a voodoo doll, or in a state of delayed shock. "Are you okay?" She looked up. "She really should find a safer line of work." "Work had nothing to do with this. It was someone on her mystery list." He headed for the door, wondering why he still felt inexplicably guilty. He wasn't responsible this time. So why did he feel like such a piece of shit? Simple, he answered himself. Because your right arm is missing. And you don't know what's being done to it. Amputees always feel the pain of loss. And the phantom pain--imagining you feel the limb, even though it's gone. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY FOUR It turned out that Death loved to cook. He had been sincere in his extensive e-mail ravings about the Italian cooking of the forensic pathologist Kay Scarpetta. He filled the room with delicious smells--sauces, sautés, the rich scents of portobello, sausage, veal. He loved fresh pasta, linguini being his favorite. He chattered constantly as he cooked, lecturing, teaching, constantly holding forth. He hated Kay, of course, filthy bitch, always bossing everyone around. But he loved to read about her cooking. It was, in his eyes, her one redeeming characteristic. He *would* think that, Scully told herself. He needed to keep women in their "place." It was no accident, she knew, that he chose strong professional women as his victims. And then tried to break them down into helpless children. Scully tried to resist the tempting dishes that he set in front of her. The reason was simple: The more she ate, the more often she would need to visit the bathroom. And to earn this privilege, she had to beg, an act that brought her captor orgasmic pleasure. Scully, noticing the enlarged bulge in his jeans at such moments, tried to limit her food and liquid intake, accepting only enough to prevent dehydration and weakness. Damned pervert, she thought. On the other hand, the bathroom was where she went to count her days in captivity. Shaking off feelings of being caught in a modern version of "The Count of Monte Christo," she devised a method: On every visit to the bathroom, she tore off the tiniest fragment of toilet tissue and wet it. Fragment clenched between her teeth, she clambered to the edge of the tub and stuck the tiny piece to the top of the shower rod, down at the far end where the plastic rings were unlikely to be pulled over the top of the rod. She figured two little fragments of toilet paper equaled one day. It wasn't very scientific, but it was the best "system" she could come up with. Also, the bathroom visits were the only way to get out of that damned chair. Her ass--despite being sore and covered with welts from the spanking-- was getting so numb that sometimes she doubted its existence. Death had arranged it so the *only* way for her to get out of the chair was to go to the bathroom. Bastard, she thought, visualizing her tiny hands wringing the life out of his oversized neck. She noticed that her fantasies were turning dark and violent, crowded with vivid death (or Death) scenes. She must have invented a hundred ways of killing him by now. She hoped that one would come true. Just one. That's all she needed. But it would be....not impossible. Very, very difficult. She wondered what Mulder would do in this situation, what means he would use to try to free himself. There was only one thing she knew: that he was on the job every waking minute, and that he was awake most of the time. She had faith in him. She *did*, she insisted to herself. She trusted him not to give up, knowing that his will would not fail. But minute by minute, hour by hour, she observed the intellectual quality of the adversary. It was...formidable. She believed he murdered one woman a year not just because it gave him a satisfyingly long period of anticipation, but also because he gleefully planned every move, every detail, to make himself impossible to track. But she could not afford to lose faith in Mulder, nor in herself. Yet, despite all her resolution and her stern lectures to herself, Scully was dismayed to see herself fall into a hostage-like docility in so short a time. She was depriving herself of food and drink. She was pleading with a madman to go to the bathroom when she could hold out no longer. Once granted permission, she slavishly followed his silly rules. However, they were not truly silly: They were meant to make her obedient in small matters so that she would be obedient in large ones as well. She was being "trained." She was living on his terms, and she hated herself for it. At the same time, she realized that self-hatred would lead to her downfall faster than anything else she could do. She was in the unhappy position of hating herself for hating herself. And that pissed her off, which she realized *was* a good thing. The bathroom routine, after the requisite entreaties, was this: First, Death would approach her chair and look into her eyes. "Dana," he would say, "you are being allowed a tremendous privilege. You realize that, don't you?" Unless she said, "I realize that," she could sit there in a pile of shit for all he cared. So, she learned to say, "I realize that." Next, he would say, "So, Dana, aren't you going to thank me for being so kind to you?" Her only acceptable response was, "Thank you, Death." "How do you plan to thank me, Dana?" Again, her only response was pre-determined. She felt like a Pavlovian dog. "How do you *want* me to thank you, Death?" Then, some variety occurred. He might say, "Kiss my hand." Or he might say, "Eat some of the eggplant I'm going to cook." Or he might say, "Drink this tea." This was innocuous but troubling. She realized that whatever he said, she was going to have to do it. Suppose his response, as she suspected it would be, ultimately, was, "Suck my dick." Was she going to do that? She didn't know how far she would go, how the power game would play out. She just knew who was winning. After the necessary ritual, which involved her agreeing to do what Death asked, he would ceremoniously loosen her bonds. First, the right foot. Then the left. Next, the left hand. Finally, the right hand. Her chances of doing him damage at these times were slim to none, for not only was he nearly twice her weight with the build of a power lifter, but she, having sat bound up for as long as twelve hours, had no circulation--or even feeling--left in her limbs. It took precious minutes of her freedom even to get herself on to her feet. Her hobble across the room was very slow and painful. And, after all that, she was allowed only ten minutes in the bathroom. Death used a timer. She could shower, use the toilet, do jumping jacks. But whatever she chose to do, she had only ten minutes to do it in. She'd considered asking him for more time out of her chair. But she was afraid of the price he would extract. He was training her; now she knew that she gained nothing without payment. He had carefully set no terms--yet--that she found unacceptable. But she knew that the payments would become increasingly expensive. Eventually, she would have to refuse to pay. Then the punishment would begin. He knew she realized this. Her dread of the pain and torment to come was already a form of punishment. She knew about the other victims, knew what she was in for. This phase was simply the mental war. The physical phase could start at any moment. Whatever moment *he* chose. She was the underdog here, daily deprived of control of the simplest things, like her own bodily functions. The ability to walk. Or shift positions. Or eat. Or speak freely. And so little time had passed. It could only grow worse. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY FOUR At the Bureau, in the four days since Scully had been taken, frenetic activity had brought few results. Mulder was gaunt and unshaven with the temperament of a bear. His eyes burned as he slumped in Skinner's office, and his voice cracked with exhaustion. Skinner tapped the papers on his desk. "Just summarize." "We know how she was taken from the Cross Keys. When she got to the restaurant, an envelope was waiting for her. The hostess handed it to her, she read it, said thanks, and left." "And?" "One of the guys found out that earlier that morning the envelope had been left at the main desk. By a tall guy with long hair, a big, bushy beard, wearing shades." Mulder flashed a grim smile. "He wasn't quite wearing a sign that said, 'I am disguised.' Anyway, he said the envelope was for a customer who'd be at the restaurant at lunch time, pointed out the name, and left." "So nobody knows what it said." "Probably something like, 'I'm running late. Come to my room and talk to me while I change.' That's our best guess, anyway. And that's really all we know. The hostess at the restaurant is the last person to see her. No one saw her go to the room; no one saw her leave it." "Forensic evidence places her in the room," Skinner pointed out. Mulder nodded. "The room was at the back of the motel. In the middle of the day, it's rare for any customers to be around, and cars can park four feet from each room's door. A big guy could easily move Scully that far in a couple seconds." "Nothing from the plates, either, I see." Skinner frowned. "Shit." "Yeah, shit. The killer knows that motel workers don't bother to check on vehicles and license plate numbers listed on the registration cards. Nobody noticed the gray Maxima he said he drove. It could have been anything--a van's more likely. Even his fucking name was blurred. It could have been Ben Parker, Beth Parker, or Bert Parker. The address, in Michigan, was non- existent. This Parker person is non-existent, except as a name on a motel register, an Internet account, and a credit card. And, of course, there were no fingerprints on the registration card. He probably left the card in the clipboard and filled it out with his own pen." "Smart guy." Mulder frowned. "Smarter than our crack investigators, it turns out. You know, Scully knew--shit, *I* knew--about this maniac before she got taken." Skinner narrowed his eyes. "So what happened?" "All the BSU guys noticed is that the victims were chosen from mystery lists. They didn't retrieve their full e-mail accounts until after Scully was taken. And only *then* did they discover that the killer corresponded at length--we're talking many, many months--with each victim before taking her. Long enough to make friends, win her trust. Christ, the guy's a fucking charmer. From what I've seen, he's totally convincing as a female mystery lover." Mulder shot out of his chair. "Assholes. I asked Scully about Beth, but when she said they'd been writing to each other for about a year, I dropped it. I had no idea how patient, slow and patient, the guy is." He moved to the door. "I *should* have known. I should have asked them more questions. Instead, I was content when Scully got off the list. I thought that'd make her safe. I was wrong." "None of this is your fault, Mulder." Skinner started to rise from his chair. Mulder ignored him. "Fault--who gives a fuck. We need to get her back." He slammed out the door. As Mulder stormed down the hallway, his cell phone rang. "Mulder." "We've found her car." It was Joe. "It's behind the Metro station parking lot. On a pretty obscure street, but we should have spotted it before now. Maybe it was just placed here. We're looking for witnesses." "The station nearest the Cross Keys?" "Yep." "On my way." He didn't think the car would yield up any information. He knew it was a job for the techs. To see if they could find a trace. A fiber, a hair, a--eureka--fingerprint. But it was the last tangible...piece...he had of Scully. He was compelled to go to the car, useless as he knew it would be. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY FIVE "This is one of my favorites," Death laughed. "The one you wrote warning me to un-subscribe from the Agatha to keep safe. You're one terrific friend, Dana." "It *is* ironic, isn't it?" she said, thinking what an asshole the guy was. "Guess you got a good laugh from that one." "Not just a laugh," he told her with a wide grin. "I said to myself, 'At last! Those fuckers have finally noticed I'm out here.' I thought I might have to put an ad in the New York Times to get their recognition." "You wanted everyone to notice you. I see. Is that why you decided to take a Fed this time? Higher profile?" "Nah, not entirely." He considered. "Well, that *was* part of the attraction. Yeah. But being in pathology was also a big selling point for you, Dana." He flashed his smile again. "Why?" she asked, not really expecting an answer. "Because you'd been reading about Scarpetta?" "You have...something I want. You can do something I'd like...never mind," he broke off. "You'll find out. Nothing like a little suspense to give a girl an interest in life. Right, Dana?" He shuffled through some more of their correspondence. "I was always amused by your, uh, contempt for Marino's language," he said, referring to a policeman friend of Kay Scarpetta, the pathologist. "Here's one where you even list the terms he uses that drive you crazy. That he calls people 'drones' and 'squirrels.' That he calls a car a 'ride.' That he calls someone's house their 'crib.' You really weren't too fond of that slob, were you. Too messy? Don't like messy stuff, Dana?" He laughed. "Strange. And a pity." Reading their old e-mails to Scully, Death was having one hell of a good time. What wit, he obviously thought, thrilled with himself and his charm. Scully's assessment was a bit different: What a dumbass name, she thought wearily. Death, where is thy sting? Right here. And it goes on and on and on. Who would have ever thought Death would be so boring. She considered other instances of personified Death: Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me. Kindness, she knew, wasn't in this monster's vocabulary. But it was true that he and she were the only passengers in this particular carriage. Death, be not proud, she remembered. Someone should have told this blowhard that one. She marveled that after a week (in her estimation) with a serial killer, she found him so boring. True, he was terrifying as well. But boredom and terror made strange bedfellows. Speaking of bed, wasn't he ever going to go to sleep, she wondered. Maybe he was trying to lull her into complacency, then spring something brutal and destructive. She thought he would be displeased if she dozed off amidst his chortles. Sleep. Keeping his victim tied to a chair while he slept in a bed was probably intended to be another weapon in Death's arsenal. But Scully, because of her med student years followed by instances of long stakeouts and twenty-hour days, was able to sleep anywhere. This included sitting up, tied to a chair. In the presence of a psychopath. Like the lack of clothes, the sleeping conditions had relatively little meaning for Scully. But those were her only advantages. Other than that, he was succeeding in pulling her down, making her feel weak and helpless. She felt weaker every time she got up to go to the bathroom. Her decision to eat and drink little, combined with her sedentary position, was eroding her strength. She needed to change her tactics before it was too late. Abruptly, she pulled herself erect. Again, she'd nearly drifted off. It wasn't merely that Death was boring. She was becoming weak and woozy. She had lost her sense of urgency. Damn it. She had fallen under his spell, turned into a quiet, obedient little girl. She was a doctor, an agent, a woman. Wake up, she told herself urgently. She forced herself to focus on what he was reading. "Remember our discussions about Kay," he was saying, again referring to the forensic pathologist. "That's where it all began. With your comment to the list about her tox screen." He smiled fondly. "That was our beginning, Dana." Christ, she thought. It's as if they're playing our song. This guy is so far out. Where's Mulder when I need him? Here I am, locked up with a perfect case study, just crying out for someone with his talents. Come here, Mulder. We're waiting. With this guy, she told her absent partner, I'd believe your theory. I would cling to your every word. And to you. How's that for an incentive? Not good enough, apparently. The door was not being blasted open by Kevlar- clad Feds. She turned her attention back to Laughing Boy. "The odd thing is that you're so much more taken with her than I am," Scully said. "You expect me to identify with her because of my profession, but if you'll look at the stuff you're reading, you'll see that *you* are the Scarpetta fan." He shook his head. "Nah. She's a bitch. I'd like to have her here, sitting right there where you're sitting. I'd cut out her cunt." Scully's mind sat up, brushed away some cobwebs, and paid attention. Death was usually a happy, if potentially brutal, fella. He seldom used obscenities, and he preferred to suggest violence, letting the victim's imagination fill in the blanks. He had so far terrorized by suggestion. Now his wish for violence was explicit and sexual. Why? Well, he was a psychopath who preyed on women. Powerful professional women who read mysteries. But why the emotional response to Scarpetta? Because she was an exceptional professional woman, with both law and medical degrees, powerful supervisor of a large staff, consultant to the FBI? Or something more? Somehow, her cooking seemed to figure in the equation too. Cooking. Motherly? File it away, she told herself. "So, everything you said about Kay was just to lure me in?" "Everything I said, period." He chuckled again and Scully just prevented her eyes from rolling back. She gritted her teeth instead. "So you'd join these mystery lists and post opinions you thought would attract the kind of woman you're...interested in." He nodded. "That's why I spouted all that feminist shit." "Did you try different approaches to different women? For example, did you correspond with others before choosing me as your, uh, latest?" "A couple," he said. "But they didn't work out. You know, Dana, not to be insulting. I wouldn't want to hurt your feelings, dear, but women with full lives tend not to get caught up in these on- line conversations the way some, uh, others do." "So now, on top of everything else, you're telling me I'm a loser?" Jeez, where did that come from, she wondered. She thought she might be channeling Mulder. Well, why not. Scully certainly wasn't doing too well here. "You think I don't have a full life?" Christ, she thought, this from someone whose idea of a full life consists of kidnapping and murdering women. This is like Charles Manson criticizing me for my unsympathetic nature. "I don't deny busy. But probably not satisfied." Fuck that. I'm not discussing my personal life with this nutcase, she thought. "Well, have you ever, uh, taken a woman who had a full life? Did you ever take a housewife, for example? A mother with children? Or a happily retired woman?" She knew he hadn't but was curious to hear his rationale. "No, sweetie," he said with a smile. "You're my type." "Why?" He shrugged. "The challenge. Your jobs, Fed and pathologist. The opportunity to assume a way-out persona and dish out a lot of feminist shit. Amazing how intelligent women eat that up. Guess they're not that intelligent after all. Right, Dana?" He bared his teeth in what he obviously considered a knock-'em-dead smile. "I don't know," she said. "If you put so much time and effort into building a persona for the list, it makes sense for people to trust you. The e-mail you've been reading me just now--it's friendly, intimate conversation. Isn't it...sensible to think that you are in fact what you purport to be on the list? Isn't that much more likely to be true than...that it's someone like you? How many people want to do...the kinds of things you do? Or have the time? What? Nine or ten months of correspondence, daily contact over the Net, before making your move. I don't think the women you've caught are stupid or overly trusting. I think you're an...anomaly." Although there are certainly some better terms for what you are, she thought. A dozen presented themselves. He sneered. "Well, you would, wouldn't you? Sitting there trussed like a turkey. One whose feathers are gone. A bald, trussed turkey. That isn't stupid?" She sighed. "What were you just reading about Kay?" He shuffled some papers. "Okay, dear, smart Dana. Here's how I took you in and turned you into a turkey. Notice my feminine tone." He snickered. "My confiding air." ..Does that ring true, Dana, or is it pure >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY EIGHT Yesterday, the battleground had shifted. It was no longer a strictly mental war. Physical assault had begun. A slap, a vicious twist of the nipple, a painful, bruising shoulder squeeze, the quick sting of a cigarette burn on the tender skin of the inner wrist. A sudden yanking of a handful of hair. Being knocked to the floor while hobbling toward the bathroom. Escalation. What made it especially frightening and almost surreal, Scully thought, is that the monster was his usual jovial self. Slicing vegetables with elaborate instructions on how to handle knives efficiently. Spending hours boiling down sauces while lecturing on the advantages of cast iron pans. Giving equally lengthy talks on different types of peppers. How could someone ebulliently describing the various uses for obscure mushrooms interrupt his domestic chatter, wipe his hands, and stomp over to grasp your neck, squeeze until you gasped for breath, then laugh and return to his fungi? Unreal. When he wasn't cooking, he continued to relive their correspondence. The more Scully heard of his remarks as Beth, the totally believable character he had created, the more amazed she was that a monster as cruel and loathsome as he--well, why mince words? He was plain old, flat out crazy--could pass not merely as normal, but as a charming, friendly woman? Was he schizoid? Mulder, she thought. This is your area of expertise. I'm waiting. But, no pressure, ya hear? I'm even naked, she added. She knew that would get his attention. She wondered if she was losing it as her inner voice became ever more flippant. It was developing quite a taste for graveyard humor. Even now, it grinned at her thought and suggested that maybe it was willing to face what she wasn't. Where was she before the internal argument began? Oh, yes. Mulder. I know you're trying, she told him. You're breaking your ass, offending every authority within a radius of two hundred miles, and I really appreciate everything you're doing. But I've got to do more on my end. I can't just sit here waiting for you to outsmart this guy. *I've* got to get smarter--fast. God helps those that help themselves. Now if only I could get some Divine inspiration, I might be able to think my way out of this. Christ, she felt weak. Her pep talks to herself weren't doing much good. No wonder the graveyard voice was taking over. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY NINE "So, this is what we've got. Needless to say, *no one* is to find out you guys are in on this." "Hey, who ya gonna call?" Frohike said, already studying the computer records Mulder had handed him. "Even more to the point, who are we gonna tell?" Langly added, crowding into Frohike's space to get a glimpse of the materials. "So you Feds have already done a lot of the work, right? You got the information from the ISPs without having to hack in." "Yeah, but it didn't do a helluva lot of good," Mulder said with a frown. He looked like shit: pouches large enough to house a baby kangaroo sagged beneath his eyes, his hair stood in spikes, and his odor was a bit rank even to the Gunmen, by no means the most fastidious guys around. His eyes were haunted. "The bastard's some kind of computer freak," Mulder continued in a voice broken by exhaustion. "He's covered his tracks every step of the way, establishing accounts, providing bogus credit card numbers. Not just for the email accounts either. For his travel, his car rentals, his acquiring sites to, uh, house his victims. He's got to have dozens of identities. Nobody's discovered where any of the victims were kept. All we know is where the bodies turned up." He collapsed on a flea-ridden couch and buried his face in his hands. Byers dropped down beside Mulder. "How long's she been gone?" Mulder rubbed his face, then removed his hands. Red-veined eyes suggested he'd been on a bender. "Nine days. The first four victims were discovered between twenty-three and twenty-seven days after the kidnapping with time of death estimated at twenty-one to twenty-six days after the disappearance was reported. Almost half the time is gone." "What do you know about the guy? You've been reading all these e- mails. What's he like?" "Smart. He's developed a totally convincing feminine sensibility. He sounds so much like a woman---" He broke off. "Scully'd kill me for that remark." "I wish she were here to try it," Langly said. Mulder nodded. "It's not that women sound like the stereotypes we associate with them. It's...kind of in the details they notice, the tone that comes across in the writing. It's...closer, more intimate, uh, than a guy is apt to write. Friendlier, gives more away." He sighed. "Did I sound so un-PC that those words can't leave this room?" "We're not the ones to ask," Byers pointed out. "And words don't leave this room anyway." "Anyway, he's smart, convincing, patient enough to string a woman along for nearly a year before making his move. I'd say he enjoys the process. Drawing it out is a large part of how he gets his kicks. He gets off on the whole scenario." "None of that suggests who he is or how to catch him," Frohike remarked, sitting in an armchair with a thick stack of papers on his lap. "Are you even sure he's a guy? If he convinced you he's a woman, maybe he *is* a woman. Ever think of that?" "Yeah, sure. But statistics say he's male, and the victims were sexually assaulted. And this type of scum bag usually acts out of a pathological hatred for women. So I'm betting he's a guy." "And?" Frohike seemed annoyed at Mulder's lack of information. Mulder slumped into the nearly flat cushions of the couch. "The team hasn't come up with anything that'd lead us to the guy. Let's say he's between thirty and forty, white male, well-educated, highly intelligent, tall, unremarkable in that nobody has ever noticed him. Some kind of conflict with his mother but also possibly an unusual closeness for him to be able to ape the female sensibility to perfection. Sounds like the kind of sicko whose mother pretended he was a little girl when he was young. He did what mommy wanted and hated her guts. We're looking into matricides." He shook his head in frustration. "But this guy's smart. He probably didn't get caught. Since this all started five years ago, as far as we know, we need to find some precipitating incident. We're looking into crime records back then, but our parameters are so fucking wide, who knows if we'll come up with anything. And the database wasn't nearly as good six or seven years ago. We're also checking into men who fit the profile who were released from prisons or other institutions within that time frame." He pulled himself out of the depths of the couch. "There you have it." He stood up. "Anything you can come up with, anything. You have my number." Byers followed him to the door. "It goes without saying--" Mulder cut him off. "Yeah. So don't say it." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TEN Scully stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. She had just counted her tiny fragments of toilet tissue on the shower rod. By her calculations, it was Day 12. Time was running out. So was she. Her appearance frightened her. It wasn't just that she looked scrawny, de-conditioned, and as pale as a candidate for embalming fluid. It was the look in her eyes, one she had seen before at hostage rescues. And one she'd seen on the photographs of her fellow victims. Agony? Despair? Abject fear? All mingled on her face, framed by a wild tangle of hair. She looked and felt less than human. She was stunned that the loathsome creep had led her to this stage so quickly and with so little force. He was a master of psychological torment. She so feared the moments when he would cruelly twist her nipple, give her an unexpected slap across the face when she was waiting for him to undo her bonds, wake her with a shallow slash across the top of her thigh. None of these things hurt much; she'd experienced more pain at the dentist's. It was the suddenness, the dread, the fact that he could hurt her--and hurt her a hell of a lot more--any time he pleased. Every time he lit a cigarette, she had to force herself not to tremble. This was because once, just once, about two days ago, he had briefly thrust a burning cigarette against her skin. It had hurt, yes. But it was the threat of harm that was taking the toll. Correction: had taken a toll. She was a wreck. She could see it in the mirror. She could feel it in her soul. So many times she had lectured herself, told herself that she was a strong, smart person who needed to stay on the alert and figure out how to defeat this nut case. But it wasn't working. She was weak from hunger, on the verge of developing open sores from the many hours in the chair, and atrophying in both mind and body. Yesterday, he'd been gone for hours. Lately, he'd been spending more and more time away. She wondered what he was cooking up. One thing she knew: He had a plan that would end only with her death and the careful covering of his tracks. Stop, she told herself. Don't assume he'll be successful. You've got to stop him. You are the agent on the scene. Mulder may figure him out. God knows the son of a bitch is sick in very distinctive ways. He should be a profiler's wet dream. But you're here. You're responsible. It's up to *you*, Special Agent Scully. She sighed. It was one thing to tell herself that she must defeat this beast, another to do it. Or do anything. Her will was sapped. She had little choice about any aspect of her existence. She was dominated, controlled. She was becoming nothing. When he finally disposed of her, as he had the prior victims, what would be the loss? *She* would no longer exist, just this hollow, shrinking vessel, her body. Tears rolled down her cheeks, blurring the unfamiliar image in the mirror. No, she thought. I'm worth saving. I just need to dig deeper, have more faith. Her thoughts turned to God, as they did more frequently as time dragged by. She had tiptoed around the greatest stumbling block in her relationship with God--the eternal question of why bad things happen to good people. From Job to Dana Scully, she could never figure out why the good, the innocent, should suffer while evil incarnate was permitted to flourish. This grievance was not confined to the current villain, but encompassed the many villains she'd encountered in the course of her career. She knew that if she lived to be a hundred, an increasingly doubtful proposition, she would never understand why a virtuous god would let children be experimented on, like poor Emily, or let good women be gunned down, like Melissa, or let women be used as lab rats, like the MUFON women and herself. Or let little girls be stolen from their homes, never to be seen again. Since that question could result in--at best--détente, she had moved beyond it and into fresher territories. She tried to put herself into God's hands, call on Him for strength. But it was hard. She *wanted* to believe that He would not let her die in vain, that even if this were to end badly, there would be some larger meaning to her existence in the scheme of things. But, as defeated as she felt, she was just not ready to go gently into that good night. There was still some rage there; she needed to harness it, use it to bring the monster down, *put* him down like the animal he was. No more recriminations for the past; she and God were starting anew. Maybe she should look to the Old Testament God, the wrathful Jehovah who could make mincemeat of His enemies. Next to that kind of power, what was a loathsome presence like that silly asshole who persisted in calling himself Death? He was no god, much as he tried to pretend. He was barely human, just a creepy little snake, spreading his venom as best he could until the moment he would be crushed beneath a stone. She hoped to do the crushing. I can *do* this, she thought. She looked around the bathroom for potential weapons, but the creep knocked on the door to tell her her time was up. She resolved to see what weapon she could fashion from the materials in the bathroom. Maybe something from the inside of the toilet. She opened the door and gasped when she saw what had been added to the room during her visit to the bathroom, which, she belatedly realized, had been far longer than the usual allotted time. An autopsy table stood in the middle of the room, centered on an island of thick tarp which was elevated at the perimeter to form a bowl-like edge. Autopsy implements stood nearby: a Stryker saw, scalpels, pliers, forceps, scales, scrubs, gloves, glasses. A bright light hung over the table, and a tape recorder dangled from the light. Unless he planned to cut her up, Scully thought, she might get a chance to hold a scalpel in her hand. And if she did, she would try to apply it to Death's throat. She knew *exactly* where to slice. Maybe she could deliver a polished little lecture on the proper way to slice through a carotid artery as she finished him off. Her excitement at the prospect of gaining a weapon seeped away, however, when she noticed the body on the bed. It was a little boy, about five or six years old. He was breathing the slow, shallow breaths of the drugged. Her heart shriveled and sank. Transfixed by dread, she looked at the grinning monster. What *did* the madman have in mind? "One reason I was so eager to..." he paused coyly, "...entertain...you, Dana, is that I've always wanted to witness an autopsy. You know, I've had a lot of experiences. I live for the new ones, though. I've read so much about the process, but for some reason, I've never been witness to it. It's...something to tempt the jaded palate." Scully pulled the bathroom door closed behind her and crossed her arms over her chest. Without thinking, she had slipped back into her own character, abandoning the frightened, scarcely human woman in the bathroom. Her voice was ice. "What are you talking about?" The fang-like teeth flashed. "You're going to cut him up," he said, as if speaking to a very dense child. "That is a live child," Scully said. "Autopsies are not performed on the living." She stepped away from the door and spoke with the authority of her professionally-clothed and armed self. "You'll do anything I say," he snarled. "You're hardly in a position to have a say in this. You Do What I Say." He separated the words for emphasis. "You know that by now. I give orders. You obey." He threw her a confident smile. "So, time to obey. Put on the scrubs and go get the kid. Put him on the table." "No." His face flushed. "*What* did you say?" he roared. "You *dare* to disobey?" She nodded. "Yes. Nothing in the world would make me harm a child. Nothing. Kill me if you like; do whatever you want. Be my guest. But you can't make me do that." She spoke in a firm, calm voice, looking him in the eye. Dana Scully was back. He flew across the room and backhanded her across the face. As she dropped to the floor, he kicked her in the ribs. She thought she felt a crack. But she was so angry, so revolted by the brute, that she didn't care at this point. Just as she was about to reach out and pull his leg from beneath him, he stepped back. He stood a few feet away, breathing heavily, not from exertion but from rage. "I could cut your hands off. No more autopsies for you," he sneered. Scully pulled herself to a sitting position and stared into his eyes. "You can do anything you like," she said quietly. "I'm in no position to stop you. But you can't make me...perform an act...that's...simply impossible. You see, no matter what you do to me, I'm not hurting that kid. It's just not going to happen." Death stared at her, hands on hips. The silence stretched. She thought he probably *was* contemplating some grisly punishment for her, like chopping off her hand. He was vicious, and he was pissed. The good thing was, she didn't give a damn about what he planned to do. She had drawn a line. Her life would *not* be worth living if she did what he asked, so the threat to her life was simply not effective. She tucked the idea away for future thought. Maybe she was nearing the mindset that would permit her to escape. If she could get away with thwarting him *this* time...... Of course, she might be dead or dismembered within sixty seconds. There was that possibility too. So what? She thought. If he kills me...well, that's a chance I have to take. The ball's in his court. She met his glare without fear; she was curious to see what he'd do next. Now that she'd stared Death in the face, she wanted to see if he'd blink. Suddenly, as though the Pause button had been lifted, motion resumed in the room. Death stomped over to the bed, picked up the little boy, and carried him to the autopsy table, dumping his limp body. Scully scrambled to her feet to see what he was going to do. By the time her eyes were above the level of the table, he had done it: seized the scalpel and sliced the little boy's throat. Blood gushed. Scully saw red in the metaphorical sense as well. "You bastard," she hissed. She would have gladly ripped out his heart and danced in his blood. Her hatred choked her. "You fucking prick." "One more word and your blood will mingle with his," Death said. His grin returned, as though he had donned a mask. "Okay, he's dead. Not too much problem with the cause of death in this case, huh? Okay, let's see the autopsy. Come on, Dana. We don't have all day. You can use the recorder above. I need to have a record of this." The dreaded chuckle rang out. "My first autopsy. New experience." He rubbed his hands together. "Let's move it along." Dazed, Scully hobbled over to the body. The little boy's clothes were soaked, and he was gone. She felt dizzy, watching the blood of the innocent trail across the table. In the silence, its dripping onto the tarp sounded like light rain. Just as she'd been contemplating the strange ways of God, who would permit His innocent to suffer, here was one of the most stark and horrifying examples she could imagine. Would not a just God have hurled a lightning bolt at the evil creature who had callously taken this precious life? She had seen people express more concern about stepping on a spider. His face was a bleached white with long eyelashes resting against pale cheeks. His jeans were worn at the knees, his high tops scuffed. A beautiful little child. Alive, now dead. Within Scully, horror and rage battled the most abject sorrow. Was this a world she *wanted* to live in? Or would she, like the boy, be better off elsewhere? Perhaps it was time to call the creature's bluff. What did she have to lose? Depression curled around her like a shroud. The maniac was talking, as usual. When wasn't he? He urged her to move it along. The show must go on. Fuck you, she thought. Pulling herself together, she considered her options. Refuse to move and let him kill her and get this whole miserable business over with. There were attractions there, yet there also remained the pull of life, the growing feeling that she *must* wipe out this horrendous specimen before he could harm another. Exterminating him could be her mission. One that was truly worthwhile. To gain that opportunity, she would need to stay alive. That would mean performing this autopsy, the very thought of which caused all her instincts to clamor in protest. The only mercy, a pitifully small one, was that the child would not have felt his deathblow. At least he had experienced no pain. What to do? The voice of the murderer continued to babble. Scully remained in place, watching over the boy. She could do him no further harm by autopsying his body. But giving in on this would feed the soul of a madman, fattening his ego. Building his appetite for more? Would her doing this make him feel even more invincible? Well, that might not be a bad thing. How about changing tactics? Certainly nothing she had tried so far had been at all effective. Maybe it was time for a new approach, a careful, *thought out* plan. Turn the tables. Give him what he wanted where possible to deny him the joy of forcing her to do things. Hmmm. Cease resisting; begin acquiescing. But here? On this boy's body? It was a hell of a place to start. Yet, if she did not start here, she might never have an opportunity to take revenge. She would be lying there like the boy, without the benefit of a quick death. The monster would make her pay for her defiance; she could be sliced to ribbons. Would this autopsy be desecrating the boy's body, she wondered. No, she could not help it if the boy were dead. It was the act of the madman. Despite a hatred which choked her, making it difficult to breathe, she would do it. It would do no further harm to the child, and it might give her the tools she needed to escape. And put the animal *down*. She would gain the opportunity to hold some powerful, lethal instruments. Maybe Death would draw too near. An image of the monster laid out on the tarp with a spurting carotid brightened her dark mood for a second. She reached for the scrubs and checked the tape recorder. "The subject is male, approximately five years of age," she said. She glanced over at Death, standing about six feet away, well out of range of her instruments. He looked sexually aroused, flushed and breathing rapidly. He was about to get off on viewing the interior of a boy's body. "Death?" She was garbed now and holding a scalpel. Why not ask a provocative question. If provoked sufficiently, he might approach her weapon. "Is there some significance in your bringing a five-year-old boy? Is that when things went wrong for you, made you into what you are now?" Something glimmered in his eyes. Hatred? A sudden flash of self-awareness? She couldn't tell. Then it was gone, and she wasn't sure it had been there. "What I am today, Dana," he said with his smug smile, "is your master. I'm in charge here; you're doing what I say. Let's have a very specific description, every step along the way. I want to know everything." He took a step closer as she removed the boy's clothes. "Oh, and Dana. Don't get your hopes up. Don't think I'm stupid enough to come close to you when you're holding one of those sharpies. And trust me--I'll notice if you try to tuck one of the scalpels into your scrubs. So forget your silly thoughts about trying to escape and concentrate on giving me a good show. Let's remember who the stupid one is here. You, babe. If you're a good girl, I'll...not hurt you as much as I planned to." Whoop-dee-doo, Scully thought. Maybe he'll just chop off one of my hands. Fuck him. I can't control what he does, at least right now. Maybe I can figure him out though. I can handle him a lot better than I have been. Okay. Shut up in there. Let's give him a happy autopsy, the fucking creep. Standing over the tiny naked body, Scully began by describing its condition and appearance. Death watched, entranced and excited. Scully saw his condition and prayed. She was angry with God, but she was livid about what the pervert had done. At the moment, his sexual arousal was worrisome. She prayed for something that she thought few had ever requested of the Almighty--that the monster would climax in his pants before she was finished. She couldn't bear to dwell on the possibility of being the recipient of that much excitement. God, did the man have a hard-on. Scully was sure he couldn't possibly last another ten minutes. She got on with the job. DAY TEN Rushing through the hallway, Mulder bounced off a hard object. The impact pushed his mind back to the present. The object was Skinner, who looked both pissed and concerned. Pushing back his unkempt hair, Mulder wondered when he'd become such a lightweight. He'd flown backwards with all the heft of a helium balloon. Was his body as well as his mind losing contact with the earth, with gravity? Would the contents of his useless brain and body drain out of him, sending him shooting into space? His inability to rest, to regroup, was ruining him. "You're not doing anyone any good," Skinner told him. "Look at you. You look like a bum. And smell like one. Go home, Mulder. Rest. Bathe. For Christ's sake, take a shower and shave. For all our sakes." "Oh, sure. If I *smell* good, I'll find her. My cosmetic improvement is bound to solve the case." "It'll enable me to put off my decision to suspend you for the duration." The sympathy was gone from Skinner's eyes. Mulder's words had turned him into a stern supervisor, not a concerned friend. "Fuck you, Skinner. Nothing you say can stop me from trying to find her." Well, *that* tears it, Mulder thought. Now I'm history. Way to go, asshole. Just keep talking. Maybe he'll shoot you and put you out of your misery. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Special Agent Mulder. Obviously, you're overwrought. Go home. That's an order." His voice softened. "And it's my advice as well. I'm doing everything I can. You're doing more than you can. Ease up. You need a clear head to catch this bastard. Get some food and sleep; maybe it'll help you think of somewhere we haven't thought to look." Mulder ran his hand along his stubbly face and nodded. "Okay. For now. But I'll be back." He reeled down the corridor, headed for the elevator. Skinner watched his back, eyes now overtly sympathetic. He headed back into his office to get the latest reports on the search. Time for a break, he thought. This guy's gotta fuck up *somewhere* along the way. <<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TEN The autopsy went slowly because of Scully's weakness. She found it hard to stand for so long, especially since Death had provided scrubs but no supportive shoes. Even worse, she felt ill, prostituting her profession in this way. She was actually performing an autopsy at the behest of a madman. Then there was the fact that she was working on a small child. Too many young children had been used by *others* for their evil purposes over the last few years. Emily, for one, who should never have existed and who remained one of the largest stumbling blocks to her full reconciliation with God. Gibson Praise, whose bandaged head was evidence that other evil men had played God. Now Death had placed her in that ugly position, and she...*hated* him. This new feeling, this pure blazing hatred, hazed and colored her vision. She vibrated with loathing to the point that it was hard to steady her hands and clear her vision. She took a deep breath. She must respect this body, not let any tremors interfere with proper procedure. Scully made her Y-incision and removed the breastplate of ribs. She could hear Death's eager breathing over the noise of her actions and her voice. She lifted a block of organs from the chest cavity and described the condition of each, beginning the process of weighing, measuring, and assessing. Since they belonged to such a young child, the organs were unsullied by ill health and poor living habits. They looked as if they could have supported the growing body for the next seventy years, but that chance had been stolen by this heavily breathing monster. She took tissue slices, knowing they would never be sent away for lab analysis. If they were, she would discover what drug had been used to make the boy nearly comatose. Over the drone of her voice, she heard a gasp and groan. Death must have come. She refused to look up and view the satisfaction Death had gained from this... this creep show. She bent over the body and absorbed herself in the examination, keeping up a steady patter of medical commentary. Knowing Death was ignorant about what he was witnessing, she made no attempt to be accurate. She just kept talking. God help me, she prayed. The horror of the situation struck her-- she, like a ghoul, taking a body apart for no good reason; he, like a monster in a horror film, watching, leering, getting a sexual charge out of bodily invasion. The scene was so sick she felt like vomiting. Right, she thought, trying to recover her tough pathologist's attitude, and then we'll have even more bodily fluids. Her feeble attempt at black humor didn't work. Nausea gripped her stomach and squeezed. Good thing she hadn't been eating much, she thought, swallowing bile. For the first time, she was glad Mulder was not on the scene to see her at arguably the lowest point of her life. She could have used his support though; she knew he wouldn't condemn her for this. He'd urge her on, tell her to do whatever she needed to do to defeat the beast. He'd also tell her to take advantage of the creep's absorption. Find out something about him that'll help you later on, she could hear him suggesting. Right. Yes, sir, she thought. Examination of the body's stomach contents distracted her attention from her own churning stomach. "Last meal was ingested approximately twenty-four hours ago," she said. "The subject ate hamburgers and french fries, quite thoroughly digested. Little trace left." She looked up at Death, who had calmed down and was watching with total rapture. He looked as if his entire being was wrapped up in her actions. Was it? What did this represent to him? "You took him yesterday, didn't you?" He nodded. "From a schoolyard. Over an hour from here. Don't think they're going to be able to trace him here." Scully noted the weight of the stomach and its contents. She glanced at Death. "I didn't think you'd let anyone see you. Did you befriend him in advance?" He nodded. For some reason, watching the autopsy seemed to have opened him up. His guard was lower than it had been at any time since she had first laid eyes on his smiling, triumphant face. Here at last was an opportunity to probe him, find out what made him the monster he was. If she could only do it without fucking up. Keep moving, she told herself. Describe everything you do. It mesmerizes him, the fucking lunatic. She described in copious detail the liver section she was performing. "Was he a nice little boy?" she slid in at the end. "Yeah, very friendly. So trusting though. Everyone trusts too much. Well, I guess I don't have to tell *you* that." Trust no one, she thought. Where was the mantra when she needed it? She described the lungs, their pink, healthy condition. "I wonder how his mother feels," she said, carefully casual. "The search has got to be in full swing. She must be a wreck." Death seemed entranced by her actions. "The kid's probably better off this way," he murmured. He was not smiling or chuckling. This was a different man from the one who'd been tormenting her all this time. "You think you're *saving* him?" He nodded solemnly. She described the gall bladder and the pancreas, feeling like Sheherazade, trying to draw out her tale, embellish it enough to discover something that could save her life. With trepidation, she took the step. "But you were very close to your own mother. Weren't you?" That brought his attention back to her. Oops. "What makes you say that?" he snarled. "That you could write on all those lists and convince everyone you were a woman. To do that, I think you had to be very close to a woman, or women. You understand how we think." Lay it on, she told herself. And throw in some stuff about the spleen. She did, then veered back to the track she was trying to edge on to. "Since your mother would be the first woman you knew, I assumed you were close to her." "You don't know how close." His eyes were focused on the organ section. She wasn't sure he realized what he said. Incest? she wondered. If his mother did something sexual to him, say at age five, he would be severely conflicted. On the one hand, he'd be receiving total--and special--attention from his mother. Little kids are ecstatic to receive mommy's love, and, even to a small child, sexual caresses could feel good. So her approaches could make him feel very, very good, give them a special relationship. Careful to keep describing organs, she continued her train of thought. There was also the dark side to a mother/child sexual relationship. Obviously. The child, even a young child, senses that it's wrong, that he shouldn't be put in this position. No matter how attractive the parent makes the process, no matter how seductive, *something* tells the child he is being violated. Invaded. As he was now watching her do literally to a five-year- old boy. Mama killed him, symbolically, many times--a few times?--when he was a helpless little boy. He was in her power. She told him it was fun. He wanted to believe. He did believe; she was mommy. She could have her way with him and tell him how great he felt. Inside, he would be torn, some little voice *knowing* that this was violation in the guise of love. And here he was, a large, muscular man, watching a little boy be taken apart. The way he was once "taken apart"? Too much pop psychology? Scully wondered. She wished more than ever that she could discuss this with Mulder, get his views, argue all sides. One side wasn't enough. A dialogue was necessary to reach valid conclusions. Not possible here, she thought. But look at this situation, she told herself. He takes women, strips them, withholds food and bathroom privileges. Putting us in a *childlike* position. He's the benevolent parent, most of the time. Because he loved mommy. And mommy told him she was acting out of love for him. But he knows, on a different level, that she was really hurting him. She did irreparable damage. So he hurts us, re-enacting the way momma treated him. From his childish point of view. Dote. And damage. And sex, she added, a combination of the two as viewed from his sick mind. Forced sex, the way it *really* was for him, if he could face that ugly truth. Maybe he hadn't'; maybe that's why he kept re-enacting the scene, hurting others as he had been hurt. Scully maneuvered her Stryker saw, cutting into the skull. She stood back to let the dust of small bones drift past her through the pungent air. She began her work on the brain. She looked over at her captor. He was staring at the exposed brain as if it were the Answer. "Where's your mother now?" She tried to keep her tone conversational. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the brain. "Gone," he said absently. "All gone." "You kill her?" "Uh-huh. But I got away with it. No problem. She never knew what hit her." Scully made some more remarks about the brain tissue, labeled some jars, then resumed her questioning. "How'd you kill her?" "Who?" "Your mother." "Digitalis. There were always these mysteries around the house, the old ones, like the Blakes, the Christies, the Sayers. People were always getting offed by the foxglove leaves from the garden. I thought I'd give it a shot." He smiled. It looked, unfortunately, as if his usual over-cheerful persona was returning. "We always cooked a lot. I really am a terrific cook, Dana. You'd know that if you'd eat more. Why the diet? You're never walking out of here." The chuckle returned. Shit, she thought. He got up and walked a little nearer, but still well out of range of her saw or scalpels. "I added digitalis leaves to a pesto recipe, actually," he said with a bright smile. "Basil leaves, foxglove leaves, hey, it's all green. She died after a delicious angelhair with pesto. I gave her a happy sendoff." He laughed. "Turned *her* into an angel. Maybe." "Why kill her?" "None of your business. You're here to do what I tell you, not to cross-examine me." His absorption had faded; it looked as if it was time to wrap things up. Scully was tired of standing anyway. The unconditioned muscles in her legs were starting to tremble. On the other hand, she was still on her feet, untied, surrounded by deadly implements. If not now, when? "Yeah," she said. "But since I'm not exactly gonna walk out of here and tell the world, what's the harm in telling me? It goes no further." It cost her to say that. She was trying like hell to think positively. "She was an uppity bitch. Like you, filthy cunt. She deserved to die. Fucking around. Building a big fat successful pie business. She used me. For years and years. Then she had better things to do. Better *guys* to do. No time for me. She *laughed.* Said we'd outgrown that stage. Fuck her." He chuckled. "Well, actually, no. Kill her. Fuckin' bitch. She got what was coming to her." "It passed as a heart attack?" "Sure. And I inherited the loot." He smiled. "I'm a smart guy. That's why I'm in charge here, and you're taking the orders." His usual cruel manner had returned. "Now I have some orders to give you. Don't put the kid back together. I want some of those bones. I have plans for them." He chuckled. Scully's stomach heaved. "Remember Scarpetta, boiling the bones in the last novel? Well, we got some bone boiling to do." Scully had been on her feet for hours, using muscles that no longer worked properly, extracting both body parts from the child and a case history of sorts from her captor. She was on the verge of collapse, especially as the idea of using the boy's bones to emulate some stupid mystery novel loomed on the horizon. She might have passed out on her own, given a few more minutes, but Death wasn't taking any chances. He yanked her away from the table and jammed a needle into her arm. He didn't bother to catch her as she hit the floor with a dull thud. The boy's blood, puddled on the tarp, splattered. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY ELEVEN Mulder tossed on his couch, impatient for the sunrise. He had obeyed orders for a change. He was clean, shaven, fed, and abjectly miserable. Where was it, the piece that was going to metamorphose into a key, the key that would bring the pattern into focus? He had read every transcript. He knew the captor well at this point. Like the other members of the team, he understood the man's thought processes, to some extent, but not as much as he would have liked. What he did know made him panicky. The guy was without mercy. He loved to make the women suffer. The more they resisted, the more likely he was to torment them. He chose strong women because he wanted to crush a worthy opponent. Scully, he knew, was as strong as they come. His only consolation was that she was also smart. If she had time and strength enough to think about the man's pathology, she might see that resistance is what fed him, what he wanted most, so he could feel justified in his punishments. Mulder hoped that she'd figured this out and adjusted her behavior. It would save her some pain. He winced, visualizing the pictures of the prior victims. They were tattooed into his brain cells at this point, battered, bruised, and broken. Poor Scully. There was no way she could emerge unscathed from this. That was the most difficult fact he faced. He'd been running away from it, but this morning, it stood over him in the breaking dawn, rubbing itself in his face. He *had* to accept that for Scully, just getting out would be a triumph. Hell, a fucking miracle. If she could get out alive, then they would deal with the damage. He closed his eyes and bit down on his lip, hard. Mulder was too miserable to try to sleep any longer. Time to return to the materials, the transcripts, the interviews, the e-mails, the crime scene photos. Maybe this time, something would strike him. Time was running out. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY ELEVEN Still groggy from the drugs, Scully felt a creeping lethargy which she could ill afford. The beast was not around; she thought he was out disposing of equipment or body parts or some such thing. That she could contemplate so matter-of-factly his strewing around the body parts of a dead child distressed her, but she had no time to indulge her finer feelings. All of her energy must go to figuring out a plan to deal with him. By her reckoning, she'd been here about two weeks. She could be dead within the week. And from the look of the previous victims, now was the time he ratcheted up the torture. She needed to prepare as best she could. It would help if she could understand him and his motivations.. He'd murdered his mother, or so he said. The way she read him, he played "mother" in a sick sense to his victims. All right. Then how about *not* playing the role of the rebellious child he could punish with that chortling air of self-righteousness. How about being cooperative, cringing, doing whatever it took to stop him from punishing her for her own good, as he had when she wet herself. Where, after all, had her efforts thus far gotten her? She'd starved herself into such a state of weakness that even if she had an opportunity to attack him, she lacked the strength. Performing the autopsy had been an incredible strain. Why do his job for him? She was half-dead already, even though he was eager to feed her. So, she should *eat*, for Christ's sake. And stop withholding the begging and groveling he seemed to need. If she could act like a "good" child, perhaps he would not be driven to inflict as much physical damage. On the other hand, she thought it wise to put up *some* resistance, sometimes. She didn't want to bore him to the point where the game was no longer fun. If she no longer interested him, he might simply kill her. So, let's go for it, she thought. Convince him that my spirit is breaking. I'll beg, I'll grovel, I'll be respectful--anything he seems to want. Anything? an inner voice questioned her. She thought about it. He was a rapist. How did that fit with her ideas about mama? She shrugged. Presumably, mama didn't force him. She most likely touched him under the guise of love. But his essential self would have been unwilling, so to his subconscious, it was rape. Maybe. God, she muttered. Mulder's much better equipped to handle this, nail the guy's motivations. Who was she to figure out this sicko? She faced the grim truth: someone whose life depended on it. How to avoid rape. She gritted her teeth as a phrase she had always detested entered her mind: You can't rape the willing. Okay. She would be willing. If necessary, she would come on to him. The thought turned her stomach, but the prospect of rape, torture, and death was even worse. A woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do, she thought, rolling her eyeballs at the empty room. God, she was lonely! Muttering, making faces in solitude. What she wouldn't give for a conversation with a sane person. Or even Mulder, she smiled. I know you're out there, she thought. I'll bet you're crazed, ready to hop into the loony bin yourself by now. If I-- *when* I get out of here, we'll both be basket cases. Okay, she coached herself. You cooperate in every way. Eat up a storm. Gain back your strength. Beg for more bathroom time. Use it to exercise. Do pushups, kneebends, chin ups, whatever it takes. Be in shape to move on him when the time comes. And if he's convinced that you're feeling down and defeated, he's more likely to drop his guard. That's when you'll move. In the meantime? Anaerobic exercises while tied to the chair. Visualize various ways to attack him. Come up with some different scenarios. Go through every step, over and over and over. Just the way you did in med school when you learned to put in a line, she reminded herself. Or the hours you put in on the shooting range. Make sure, when the time comes, it will be second nature. Kill the bastard. You're not going to have more than one shot. Make it count. The door flew open. "Look what I've got," Death crowed. "Restaurant-quality cooking pots. Just like Kay's, remember?" He reeled under the bulk of three huge pots as he kicked the door closed. Christ, Scully thought, praying that pieces of her weren't going to be included in his recipe. Just when she'd gotten all pumped up to resist....She chased the negative thought away. "'Point of Origin,' wasn't it?" she asked, naming the title of the novel in which Scarpetta had visited a restaurant supply house to buy morgue materials. "Yep," Death said, running water into the biggest. "And I've got some bones to boil." He cackled. "Little ones." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TWELVE "Mulder." "We got something," Frohike murmured. "On my way." Mulder sat forward this time on the moth-eaten couch, concentrating on the excited babble. Despite being tired to the bone, something in the Gunmen's attitude grabbed his attention. He listened, hard. "We ran through every password for every e-mail account you showed us." "We checked into the PIN numbers for every credit and bank card." "We found some common elements. They could mean everything or nothing." Mulder, growing testier by the day, growled. "Don't pull some Inspector Clousseau routine on me. Just tell me what you found." "Every card," Byers said, "no matter how long or how short the password or PIN, contains two common elements: a number 2 and a number 4, or a letter B and a letter D. Coincidental? Could be." "But we're betting it's some kind of in-your-face move that he thinks he's gonna slip by," Frohike broke in. "Yeah," Langly agreed. "We've been reading his mail. He's a cocky son of a bitch. He'd like to put a clue out there, just so the Feds will miss it. And that'll make him feel like the smartest bastard in the world." Mulder rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes and tried to jump-start his brain. "So his initials could be BD or DB? Or something else in his life. His address or phone number could contain a 2 and a 4. Or it could be part of his area code or zip code." The Gunmen nodded. "Go with the obvious first," Byers suggested. "This guy's got nerve." "He probably wants to be caught," Mulder said, rising and hurrying to the door. "Kidnapping a Federal agent is either a major challenge, or such a bold step over the line that he's begging to be brought down. He's invited the hounds of hell to pursue him. He's saying, 'Come get me.'" Mulder slammed the door behind him. "You're welcome," Frohike said. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY THIRTEEN "Smile, Sweetie!" The camera was out again. Time to make another record of her deterioration. For the corkboards, for posterity, for who knew what the hell what. This time, Scully was pissed. She was getting mad as hell at the bastard's petty mind games and didn't want to take it any more. She did her best to look cowed and scared. She needed him to think that she was a basket case by now. And fail to see that for the last two days (by her toilet tissue calculations), she had been observing every aspect of her captor, studying him for the most important final exam of her life. He had spent a year getting to know her; now, she would study him. At first, he took in stride her new attitude following the autopsy. He was excited that she wanted to eat and promptly cooked them each a massive veal chop with sautéed peppers, onions, and mushrooms on the side. Throughout this process, he lectured her about every aspect of his cooking techniques. It felt like she was watching the cooking channel. When Scully complimented him on the meal, he seemed to be genuinely flattered. He'd acted like a nice, normal person who had taken pleasure in cooking a delicious meal for an appreciative friend. It was surreal, she thought. When you considered that the "friend" was a naked prisoner tied to a chair in some unknown, isolated place. And that after the cleanup, he picked up one of his super- sharp knives, gave an extensive lecture on acquiring the proper sharpening stone, and sliced a gash in her left forearm, chuckling while the blood dripped down her thigh and into the carpet. And followed this demonstration with another: the preparation of the little boy's bones for boiling, apparently because he wanted to emulate Kay Scarpetta. Jesus, he's nut, Scully had thought, realizing that she needed to discover what *kind* of nut if she hoped to defeat him. *Anybody* could tell he's a nut, she sneered to herself. She'd concentrated on quieting her full stomach, under assault on two fronts: the nausea brought on by the pain in her arm and by the sight of her dripping blood, the deep red contrasting starkly with her pale flesh. Looking down, she felt like she was watching an old black-and-white horror film. And then there was the stomach-churning smell from the boiling pot. She was not normally sensitive to odors--or bones, or flesh, or blood; pathologists aren't. But, having seen the child, she considered this a desecration of his body. There was no forensic purpose to this procedure, just pure ghoulishness. The revulsion hit her mind, then her stomach, and she was forced to give it several stern lectures. She gagged, bringing up bile. Sweat broke out, and she watched her hands, tied to the arms of the chair, tremble. Trust that lunatic to keep her off balance. And to keep talking, explaining his techniques in his pompous, know-it-all voice, the whole damned time. Could it be, she wondered sardonically, that he kidnapped women so he'd have an *audience*? Equally gratifying to Death were her heartrending pleas to visit the bathroom. Throwing herself into her new role, she even squeezed out some tears. But by late yesterday--at least, she thought it was the previous day--the novelty wore thin. He didn't release her in time and, to his delight, she had another "accident." The spanking was harder this time. His hard-on pressed into her upper thigh as by whipping *her*, he whipped himself into a frenzy. His hand was a blur of movement, his words an incoherent babble. She thought he was drooling, as drops of liquid hit her back and ass from time to time. Undeterred, Scully had wept and wailed throughout the spanking, begging him to stop. "You're killing me," she'd cried. "I can't stand it. Oh, please." She'd made up her mind to be a weak, whining creature, to transport herself--in his mind--the greatest possible distance from his powerful mother, who'd apparently made a fortune as a businesswoman and turned her personal attentions to grown men. His pattern was to kidnap and murder successful women, the kind that mama had turned into. Therefore, she would be a sniveling little girl. At least most of the time. She planned to be assertive often enough to keep him off balance. Of course, she thought, returning her mind to the present as the flashbulb blinded her, the beast seemed capable of playing a dual role. Besides being mama's killer, he also liked to *be* mama, alternately caring for and punishing his captive child. Why do I have to get such a complicated, inconsistent nut case, she asked herself. The ones in the textbooks, they're so straightforward. It occurred to her she could be wrong about everything. Indeed, Death, who prided himself on his acting, could have fed her information to mislead her in precisely this direction. For all she knew, Mama was barhopping on the Riviera. Can't trust a psychopath, she thought, increasingly giving in to morbid humor. Finally, she was coming to understand the source of Mulder's humor, as her inner voice became ever more cynical and flip. Despair, she thought. That'll do the trick. If I get out of here--*when* I get out of here, I'll be an expert in Mulderspeak. "Please, don't take my picture," she sniffled, as he circled her in a crouch. "I look so awful. Please, Death, let me go to the bathroom. Please?" Take that, she thought. You want sniveling; that's what you'll get, asshole. Her inner language too had deteriorated, she noticed. She was now fit for the Navy. Flash. He bent to untie her. "Now we're going to get some shots of you on your feet," he said, smiling. He straightened from untying her legs. Suddenly, she bounced to the floor as his open hand struck her jaw with enough force to knock the chair over. He stood over her with the camera. "But first, we need you on the floor, looking like shit. And you *do* look like shit, Dana. You're getting pretty revolting. You know?" Flash. "Well, you'll see." He bent over her. "What would make this look more, uh, serious? Hmm." As he lit a cigarette, she closed her eyes. What the fuck had the woman done to him, she thought. Had she really hurt him in this way? Was he one of those kids that was abused and locked in the closet? Is that why he liked it so much when she wet herself? Had Mommy Dearest put out a few cigarettes on the kid? She doubted she'd ever know. Eyes scrunched up, dreading the pain, she was sorry to understand him so little. Her life depended on it, damn it. "Ouch," she screeched, as the cigarette grazed the top of her right breast, then pressed into the flesh, hard. "Stop, please. Please. Oh, God, that hurts so much. Oh, please." It did in fact hurt--like hell--but she was deliberately over- reacting. The real Scully would have gritted her teeth, as she did the first time he burned her, refusing to give him the satisfaction of crying out. She hoped that this didn't mean he would harm her more frequently so he could listen to her moans. Should she rethink this new plan? Hell, no. The old one wasn't working anyway. And it was time for him to escalate his torments. Her task was to minimize the pain until she got her one precious opportunity. God, that moment *had* to come, she thought. It had to. "Not again," she moaned. "Please. Have some mercy." The chair was set on its feet again, the cigarette no longer in evidence. Flash. He took several shots of her tear-streaked face and her singed flesh. "Okay," he said. "Now let's get you on your feet." This time he untied her hands and stood back to photograph her slow movements. She played to the camera a bit, staring with horror at the burn mark on her breast. She rubbed her face where he had slapped her, moving the jaw from side to side as if to see if it was broken or dislocated. He snapped constantly, catching every angle as she made her way to the bathroom with an exaggerated limp. Once inside, she used the toilet and sink, then tried to convince herself the burn didn't hurt *that* much. Her capacity for denial was helpful. Next, she gathered up her new resolution, bit her lip to distract her attention from the pain that *was* still making her chest feel as if a tooth had been extracted there, and loosened up with a series of jumping jacks. Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, she muttered rhythmically. She was *not* going to stop because of a little discomfort. Ha, she thought. How about agony? Soldiering on, she did some squats, some pushups, and some chin-ups on the shower rod, a very sturdy one. The burn continued to sting like hell. Bastard, fucking creep, she muttered. Suspecting that the asshole was preparing a new exhibition in his gallery, she used every second to work on re-acquiring strength. By the time he told her to come out, she'd worked up a sweat. She threw water on her face, which bore the imprint of his large hand, and emerged dabbing at herself with a towel. "My face aches," she whimpered. "I need to keep this cold towel on it." He shrugged as if he had nothing to do with her sore face. He obviously had bigger things on his mind. "Behold," he said, gesturing at the crowded corkboards. There were now three stages on display for each of the five women: the free stage, when he'd stalked them in their normal lives; the first set in captivity, where each looked shell-shocked and despairing. And the new set. Scully toured the gallery. Bad as each had looked last time he'd hung his photos, they now looked ten times worse. Injuries were highlighted, not a huge surprise since he had struck and burned her during the photo session. But it was not the physical injuries that were appalling: again, it was the expression on each formerly attractive, confident face. Whatever he did to cause physical pain, the psychological damage was lethal. All were nude, injured, hair askew. But that counted for nothing. Their eyes, that's what struck Scully about the portraits. Those eyes had looked on evil, maybe for the first time. True evil. That which hurts for the sheer pleasure of it, to fill a sick need. Their eyes had been opened. Even if these women were still alive, the damage to their psyches would always remain. They were Eve, leaving Paradise, never to return. They knew that Paradise could not exist. It had been a lie. God Himself seemed to be a lie, not a source to turn to for help or comfort. No one was helping these victims. Each was alone in her pain, violated, isolated, bereft. Waiting--alone--for the next punishment. My God (friends, parents, relatives, loved ones, colleagues, any manner of connection), why hast thou forsaken me? None of them knew that answer, and all had lost hope by this point. Their opened eyes held a slight trace of shock, but were mainly empty. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here. They had done so, by this stage. I *can* come back, Scully thought, determined to be the one to escape, to maintain hope. And she knew that Mulder hadn't abandoned or forsaken her. She *knew* he was out there, looking under every rock for evidence of this serpentine, demonic creature. She had faith in him. She had faith in herself and her strength. And she still believed that God could come through. I have met evil and dealt with it before. I've already lost my innocence. If I can survive this, I will overcome the injuries--and the memories. This is a *small* man who has power only because he takes women, drugs them, and keeps them tied up and hurting. He is evil on a small scale. Approaching her corkboard, she studied her face, her expression. She looked ghastly, of course. But she didn't wear the look of surprise, the abject shock and despair, shared by the others. She hoped he wouldn't read in her face that she had met evil before and escaped or defeated it. That she had a painfully acquired partial immunity to his powers. She wanted him to believe that she too was shell-shocked, helpless, paralyzed. She drooped and wiped at her eyes. "Why?" she murmured. "Why do you want to do this?" Death chuckled. "You know that by now, Dana. It's fun." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY THIRTEEN Mulder paced around the Behavioral Science Unit, annoying everyone. Since he had pointed out the recurrence of the same letters or numbers in all the passwords, computers had whirred, printing out the name of every candidate who fit the profile and had been released from a prison or other institution within a reasonable timeframe to commit the crimes. Lists were scattered over every surface in the room, and personnel from field offices all over the country had been dispatched to locate the potential suspects. The operation was being coordinated from the room in which he paced, and even Mulder couldn't find anything to complain about. For once, the FBI was working as it was supposed to. Any suspect who could account for his whereabouts for a fair amount of time during the month that even one of the victims was in captivity was being eliminated. The suspects were being located, and they were providing alibis: landlords, families, neighbors, fellow employees, workplaces, parole officers, even institutions, since a goodly number had been locked up during at least one of the months in question. However, the computer had generated a very long list. Two's and four's and B's and D's appear in a hell of a lot of PINs and passwords. Tracking down that many men took time, which was precisely what they did not have. Hence, Mulder's pacing and smoldering. Over and over, he had read reports of the previous victims' condition. Although he'd long ago memorized every detail, some compulsion kept him reading. It was as if he felt that he had to suffer as long as Scully suffered. What a sick bastard I am, he thought. The most severe injuries, he well knew, had occurred in the week or ten days preceding death. With Scully entering her last week--most likely--of captivity, time meant *everything*. What was happening to her as computers spat out data and well-dressed men in wingtips made their orderly way to interview the suspects? Images flashed through his mind, turning his stomach. Her delicate bones, broken. Her beautiful, unblemished skin. What would mar it--burns? Cuts? Bruises? Would the predicted escalation take the form of carving? Could Scully wind up with the initials B D carved in her flesh? No wonder he didn't eat much anymore. He could barely keep anything down. In his glory days as a profiler, he'd had the unique ability to get inside the criminal's mind, place himself within the framework of evil, the better to understand its motivation and thus to anticipate its next move. But now, in the most important case he would ever attempt to profile, his abilities had disappeared: He was blind. Something inside him kept the evil eye, the one that could make contact, however briefly, with the monster's mind and vision, closed. It was beyond his capacity to identify for an instant with the feelings of a man who could rape or mutilate Scully. He was useless. He was reduced to pacing, driving everyone around him mad, and sending little mind messages to Scully, urging her to watch the man carefully, plan her escape. Who the fuck did he think he was, he wondered. Kreskin? They could use a little magic at this point. "We've got something here," Joe told him. Mulder turned so fast he got dizzy. "What?" "Here's the history," he said, handing a thick sheaf to Mulder. "Name's Bruno Danelli. Chicago. Wife killer, right history, institutionalized for over ten years. Brilliant guy. Nobody can find him now. He's popped up occasionally, but he's pretty much of a mystery man." Mulder was skimming the file. "Let me go to Chicago, Joe. I can interview the doctors at this Crestview institution, put my psychological training to work." Joe nodded. "Sure, Mulder. You and Perkins. Get the first plane out of here. Time counts." Mulder gathered the materials, looked for a briefcase, and blew out of the room, Perkins puffing in his wake. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY THIRTEEN Scully sat in her chair, as usual. Hands untied, she was eating a delicious vegetarian lasagne. Increasingly on her guard, she'd kept a careful eye on the monster during the preparations, wary that he might slip something revolting into her food and tell her about it later, to sicken her. Her studies were paying off. Or would eventually, she hoped. Knowing that more injuries were forthcoming, she once again assumed the role of Sheherazade, with the twin objects of distracting him and extracting useful bits of information. "So," she said, "have you always been a big mystery fan? You always came across as a true enthusiast when you wrote as Beth." "Mysteries were always around the house when I was growing up. My mother always had a few different ones going at the same time. I suppose I read them so we'd have something to discuss." Scully digested his calm tone along with her lasagne. This was the mother he'd called a filthy bitch, a cunt, and spoke with some pride of murdering? Zee muthaire, she thought in that sardonic inner voice, vee must alvays loooook to zee muthaire. Mentally, she stroked a Freud-like beard, then wondered about her own mental health. Better get out of this fast, she told herself, while you have two remaining marbles. "She was a housewife before she made a fortune in pies?" "Yeah. Cooked, baked, read, spent a lot of time with me." "Those women up there," Scully gestured to her sisters immortalized in the corkboard gallery. "How did you select the mystery for each woman?" Death set his plate aside. He shrugged and lit a cigarette, striking dread in Scully's heart. Not another fucking burn, she thought. And my inner voice needs a fucking censor. I wonder if I'll ever think like *me* again. "It was a combination of things, really," he said. He looked pleased to explain himself. Praise, Scully thought. He needs praise. Did mama praise him? Carp at him? Both? Does either one make a goddamned bit of difference? God, I wish Mulder were here at Psychos R Us. He could probably diagnose this asshole and tell me how to deflect the violence. "I can remember the plots of hundreds of mysteries, of course," he said in his snippy, superior voice. Scully envisioned herself throttling him until that voice hit a high A. Maybe it'd go high enough to crack glass. If she squeezed him really tight. "Then, too, I try to fit the mystery to some aspect of my, uh, subject. For instance, Connie, the one who wound up in the belfry with a knife in her heart and a pretty little pink rose on her pretty little pink chest. Well, red, definitely red, by the time I finished with her," he chuckled. "I thought she was pretty batty at times. Definitely some unsound opinions." And yours are so sound, you psychopathic asshole, thought Sailor Scully. Speaking of batty. Hah! She wondered what mystery novel he'd decided offered an appropriate method for her own, uh, disposition. Probably something to do with Scarpetta, since he's boiling bones and cooking up a storm, she figured. She certainly wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking. He might even tell her, just for the pleasure of seeing the dread build until it was time to finish her off. Stop that, she snapped at herself. He's not going to finish you off. You're going to kill the bastard. And don't you forget it. Knives, she thought, her mind gliding back to his plans for her. He lectures me on which ones to buy, what kind of handle is best, which sharpening stone works for which knife, the proper techniques for sharpening and cutting. He's planning to murder me with a knife. Shit. Not that I can think of a way I'd actually *like* to be murdered by a psychopath. Swiftly, she returned to the conversation about Connie, the first and least-tortured victim. "And I suppose using a church was feasible logistically, too." "Yeah. No problem finding a deserted belfry. No chance of getting caught. A nice beginning--perfectly safe, not overly ambitious. She wasn't the brightest bulb in the universe either." "But what was it about her that made you pick her? You told me what your parameters are, but the lists are packed with women who suit your, uh, needs. It seems to me that the Agatha list is largely composed of intelligent, mystery-loving women with successful careers. So you have a big field to choose from. How do you narrow it down to one?" "E-mail," he said. "I converse with a few people, then choose the one. I just know." Oh, great, Scully thought. What was it about me? Too friendly? No, it would be my caution that attracted him. He'd want a careful person since he's always on the lookout for a challenge. Maybe it's as he said. Once he found out I shared Scarpetta's profession, I was a shoo-in. Lost in thought, she glanced up. He had silently approached and was standing over her, regarding her as an ashtray. "Please don't," she begged him. "It really, really hurts." He raised his hand, holding the cigarette like a spear. "I know," he smiled. "A little pain--" He pressed the flaming end into her shoulder blade, ground it deeper, listened to her scream. "--Makes you know you're alive." He chuckled and dropped the butt into an ashtray. "For now," he added. Scully wept. It felt like a knife had pierced her shoulder; the whole right side of her body ached. Hands still free, she brought up her left hand to cautiously grope around the burn, trying to soothe her skin with her touch. It wasn't effective; this burn was agonizing. The little sailor in her mind went into overdrive as she unearthed some expressions she hadn't used since adolescent wars with her brothers. If thoughts could kill, this smug monster would have daisies growing out of his black heart by now. Still moaning, she segued into her bathroom begging ritual. On automatic pilot by now, she nursed her pain and talked to God. Tell me what to do, she asked Him. It gets worse every day. You don't want this monster going around tormenting good people. Killing innocents like that little kid. Do You? I'm getting hurt here. You can see that. He's such a monster, so heartless. I don't think I can stop him without Your help. Is that what You've been waiting for me to admit? Is it? Okay. I'm doing it. Won't you help me? Please? Feet untied, she made her way to the bathroom grasping her shoulder and groaning. Once the door closed, she soothed her agonizing pain as best she could and launched into her exercises. It hurt like hell, every bounce, every motion that affected the newly burned shoulder. But she gritted her teeth, a low moan escaping despite herself, and redoubled her efforts. She was going to make herself strong enough to cut off his balls and have them for lunch. Maybe he'll still be sentient at the time, she thought. She could explain her slicing techniques and offer him seasoning tips. Maybe she could make him eat them as well. Jesus, she thought. I'm becoming as bad as him. Maybe I need to. No room for softness now. This is war. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY FOURTEEN Mulder and Perkins, a bright, competent agent, sat across the wide desk from Dr. Locke, who had been in charge of Bruno Danelli's treatment. Dr. Locke was not forthcoming, taking the position that his patient had paid his debt to society, been released by a medical board that had found him sane, and had not been proven to have committed a new crime. He was merely a suspect at this time. Mulder, who had not yet taken the position of placing his hands around Dr. Locke's neck and squeezing out the information like toothpaste, was putting up a display of patience. A false display. "Okay," Mulder said with a flash of teeth that did not quite make it as a smile, "Bruno's sister died when he was two. Drowned in the bath. Mother walked away for a minute. Accident, they said." "Of course, they weren't so tuned in to child abuse in those days," Perkins added. "No telling what the circumstances were. She could have lost one through abuse and continued to abuse the one remaining child." Mulder nodded. "In fact, it's suggestive that she lost her daughter, then her husband decamped soon afterwards, never to be heard from again. We're left with a mother and a son. She might have used him as a replacement for the lost daughter, had him serving double duty, as it were." He stared at Locke. "Or triple duty, if he also served as stand-in for the runaway husband." Locke raised an eyebrow and kept silent. Mulder studied the quirked brow for a few seconds, nostalgic for Scully and her mobile, expressive brows. Perkins took up the tale. "We've unearthed Bruno's school records. Wiz kid from the word go. Brilliant from kindergarten on, but not very friendly. No social activities, wet himself in the early grades, other kids poked fun at him." "Wouldn't be surprised to hear of some dead cats in his wake," Mulder suggested. "Any reported instances of animal torture in his neighborhood? We can check the old reports. Too bad they weren't computerized then." He nailed Locke with a searching look. "He tell you about being abused, abusing anyone or anything?" Locke shook his head. It was as if he'd taken a vow of silence. Mulder excused himself and went into the hallway to make a quick cell phone request of the Gunmen: Hack into the institution's database. See if they had anything on record about Bruno Danelli. He hoped the computer went back far enough in this case, but since Bruno had been placed there so many years ago, he doubted they'd find much. He kicked himself for not having made this request hours ago. Fucking doctors, he thought. Wait till we hit him with the crime scene photos. Then he might dredge up some interest in what his pet lunatic is doing. Perkins was continuing. "Brilliant school career. Academic prizes out the wazoo. Mathematical whiz. Social outcast. Only extra- curricular thing he liked was drama--liked to act. Think he fooled you, Doctor?" "Came in handy--the acting, I mean--when his mother died," Mulder said. "There he was, tender age of seventeen, orphaned by his mother's sudden heart attack. What luck that five years before, she'd taken up baking and her company had gone national within three years. The kid lost a mother and gained a fortune. The field office has gotten the mother's death records. What can you tell us, Locke?" Dr. Locke, sweat beading on his forehead, folded his hands atop his well-polished desk. "He expressed sorrow at the loss of his mother," he said. "Said she was the only person in his life. He thinks that's what drove him into an unwise marriage; he was still missing his mother." "Yeah," Perkins said. "He enters the University of Chicago on a full scholarship despite the fortune he inherited. Walks away with all the prizes again. Gets interested in the fledgling field of computers. Everyone, everywhere, agrees the kid was brilliant. Some say he was the smartest person they've ever met. And this is at U of C, home of Nobel prizewinners." "Probably smart enough to fool you and any other shrink, wouldn't you say, Doc?" Mulder asked. "He's brilliant and likes to act. Do you really trust what he told you? Can you really believe that he was 'cured' when you released him from this place?" "I understand what you're saying, of course," Locke said calmly. "But I--and the others on staff--have years of experience at dealing with the criminally insane. We don't release killers lightly or thoughtlessly. The very thought is abhorrent." "We're not suggesting negligance," Perkins soothed. "We're suggesting a genius who stayed here, how long, eleven years. He was a quick learner. Eleven years--he probably could have passed as a doctor by then. Surely, he could convince you he was a sane, reformed man." Locke gave a grudging nod. "It's possible, of course." "What was he like? How did he come across to you?" Mulder asked. Let's pull back a bit, he thought. Reduce hostilities. Let this bozo show off his expertise. "You've read the trial transcripts?" Locke asked, leaning back in his chair. The agents nodded. "Then you know the story. He married Andrea Collins at the end of his senior year. They had plenty of money, so he went on to graduate studies. She worked at a local ad agency. She was creative, attractive, successful." "Then why'd she marry him?" Mulder interjected. "He seemed like an anti-social loser, someone who never had a friend in his life." Cutting a little close to the bone, aren't you, he asked himself. Except you have Scully. Had Scully. Need to find Scully. "He was a good actor, as you said," Locke admitted. "He saw her, he was lonely, he exerted himself to come across as a normal, outgoing sort of person. It's not unusual for people to present a false picture of themselves when engaged in the mating ritual." "According to testimony of her friends at the trial," Perkins noted, "it didn't take her too long to realize she'd made a mistake." He leafed through some pages. "She told friends he scared her, that she was trying to work up the nerve to ask him for a divorce, that their sex life was miserable. He couldn't manage much of anything without some kind of domination. She spoke of a sadistic streak." "Of course," Locke pointed out, "much of this testimony comes from the man she had an affair with. The affair that drove Bruno over the rails, causing him to see red for a few fatal moments. During which he strangled Andrea." He paused. "He'd suddenly lost his mother. That left him an emotional, needy wreck. Eventually he managed to replace her, in the sense of once again having a person close to him in his life, one that he could trust, his wife. When betrayed by the only person he trusted...well, you can see why the jury was willing to find for temporary insanity. It was so obviously a crime of passion, not something Bruno would have done if he'd stopped to consider. He's normally very much aware of consequences." "Like hiring expensive lawyers who could have gotten off Jack the Ripper," Mulder said. "And he had some very hot shot shrinks testifying on his behalf as well. Looks like he had enough money to get in here, then enough brains to talk himself out of here." Locke raised a hand in protest. "Come on, Agent Mulder. You make this sound like a revolving-door operation when in fact he spent eleven years here." "Well," Perkins said, "if he was so damned sane, how come it took him so long to get sprung from here?" "He wasn't eager to leave! He liked our little community, enjoyed talking with the others, helping them with legal problems. He tutored regularly, offered classes, produced and directed dramas. Upgraded our computer system, taught not just the patients but the staff how to use the new system. What you don't seem to understand is how impressive Bruno is. He's a very special person who gave hundreds of hours of his time to all of us. And he was a treat to talk with. As intelligent a man as you'll ever meet, great sense of humor. Hearty laugh. Contagious." Mulder nodded. "This tutoring. The classes. Any of it include studying mysteries, detective books?" "Why, yes. Nearly every year. He liked to keep current. He'd do computer searches to find the new releases and help us keep the library up to date." Mulder pulled a thick folder from his briefcase. "Okay, Dr. Locke. It's obvious you think Bruno is a cured man. Hell, you seem to think he walks on water. We, on the other hand, think he's a psychotic murderer who fooled you into letting him walk out of here and go on the prowl for victims. Intelligent, competent women like his mother and wife, who happen to enjoy mysteries. He stalks them, tortures them, and kills them. He takes his time, just the way he took his time roping you in, seducing you to believe in him so that he could just stroll out of here when he was finally ready. Take a look at these pictures. Hope you haven't just had breakfast." Mulder spread the pictures of the victims over the entire surface of the broad, well-polished desk. Locke rose, paled, tried to turn away but was drawn back. He stuttered, then managed to speak. "This, this would take a monster. No one...." His voice cracked and trailed away. "We need his records," Mulder said. "Now. He has a new victim. As we speak, he's likely to be cutting her, burning her, breaking her bones, raping her. She'll be dead soon. He does this on a schedule. He has a predictable MO. Help us. Now." Damn it! Mulder's mind shouted. It took all his control to keep his voice even and reasonable when he really felt like leaping at Locke and choking information out of his blue lips. Locke fell back into his chair. "I'm not convinced that Bruno's your man," he said. "We don't let criminally insane people out to kill again. We're extremely careful. Have multiple safeguards." Seeing Mulder draw breath to speak, he raised his hands. "But you can have the records. If seeing them might save a life, they're yours. We'll find the most recent photos we have too. If you're doing a search, that might be a help." He sagged over his desk, pushing the gruesome pictures away. "God help me," he sighed. "If I'm responsible for this, I'll....." He trailed off, staring out the window. "Too late," Mulder said, picking up the photos. "There's only one thing you can do now." He looked up. "Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Every second counts." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY FOURTEEN Scully was alone, but it gave her little comfort. What might the beast surprise her with this time?--not another body, she hoped. The little boy's bones continued to simmer on the stove. The smell no longer bothered her. Join the group, she thought. Take a number, boiling bones. She continued to be amazed at the number of atrocities she was willing to put up with, grow used to. For starters, she spent virtually all of her time tied to a chair, nude. No big deal. Her eyebrow quirked. Once again, she found herself making faces at an empty room. She shook her head and wondered if she'd start talking aloud to herself. She already addressed herself constantly, lecturing, coaching, kvetching. She was her only company in all this. What you've grown used to, she reminded herself. You were making a list, stupid. Her mind skipped around constantly, refusing to stay on track long enough to follow a thought to its logical conclusion. She sighed, faced with yet another symptom of her mental deterioration. Which she was trying to list, but couldn't keep her mind on. "Ironic," she muttered. Oh, shit. She *had* spoken aloud. Was she doomed? Okay. The list. Nude, tied up. Accustomed to being pounced on by a madman. Takes burns in stride, as well as gashes and occasional slaps and kicks. Gets photographed while paralyzed by animal terror. Looks like wild woman brought up by aberrant apes who didn't believe in grooming. Performs autopsy on innocent child for entertainment of madman, then sits around contemplating the situation as the bones boil into a stock. Hey, no big deal. Was this Stockholm Syndrome, she wondered. Nah, she hated the cocksucker. She couldn't wait till the moment came when *she* had the upper hand. She was simply not dwelling on the burns, cuts, et al because there was no point to it. He was going to hurt her; that was clear. Sitting here waiting for and fearing those pains would simply be playing his game. She had to play her own game. Get strong, keep watch, maneuver him into *one* vulnerable moment. Use it. Simple. There was still the Rape Card, however. Her calculations suggested she'd been here for two weeks and two days. She better decide how to handle the sexual assault, when it came. Flexing her muscles, continuing to build her body for the big opportunity, she settled down to think. It was so much easier when he wasn't here, chattering, chortling, attacking. He demanded attention in the way her nephew did. He was large, muscular, and sadly arrested in development. Or twisted, pretzel-like, into an immoral knot. None of his strands seemed to be consistent or make sense. Twisted, yes. That was Death. Asshole, to call himself that. Talk about delusional. Birds chirped outside. It must be daytime. As she often did, Scully thought she could hear the hum of traffic on a busy highway in the distance. That would be like him, to put her within earshot of civilization. So close and yet so far. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY FOURTEEN Things were really moving now, both in Chicago and back in the DC area. Images of Bruno Danelli, his most recent photo as well as a selection of computer-enhanced photos that showed him wearing various hair lengths, facial hair, hats, and sunglasses, were circulating in the areas Scully had frequented: her apartment, the Bureau, Mulder's apartment, her mother's neighborhood, and the motel from which she had been kidnapped. Swarms of agents were hitting the streets, armed with photos and urgency. Mulder had at first been impressed to hear of the extent of the actions in DC. Maybe the Bureau was a lot better than he'd thought all these years. Maybe he hadn't done them justice. But a call to Byers set him straight. "Yeah. Frohike said he didn't want to see them dick around with this one," he told Mulder, his prim voice placing invisible quotation marks around 'dick.' "So he made some anonymous calls threatening to tell the press that the FBI has information about a serial killer who preys on women on the Internet. If they don't get out there and save Scully, he said it'd be in every newspaper in the world, and they'd come off looking like incompetent, uncaring shits. They might have gone all out anyway," Byers continued, "but it can't hurt to throw a little more motivation their way." "Thank Frohike for me." "Yeah. We're still on this, hacking away. One thing we can do that the Bureau can't is access credit card companies and find out who among current credit card holders has the 2 and 4 or b and d in their PIN number. That should generate a new list for us to cull." "Great. Thanks. Later." Mulder hung up, pleased to hear that the Gunmen weren't going to let a little matter of peoples' civil liberties stand in their way. Returning to Perkins, he grabbed the Crestview papers and got to work. "Does he remind you of the geek who was always running for President of Student Council?" Perkins asked after they'd both spent some time sorting through records. "What interests me," Mulder said, "is that when he was in school, including high school and college, he was a nonentity. Socially, I mean, not academically. A figure held in contempt, if people noticed him at all." He nodded to the bulging briefcase between them. "All the school records show that he couldn't have been elected dogcatcher." "So then he blooms in a mental institution. Shades of 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.'" "Eh, he's no Randle McMurphy. Like you said, this guy is still a geek. He just happened to be the smartest guy here." Perkins laid down his stack of paper. "Well, he could have been an octuple-letter man here. It looks as if he was doing everything but chairing the board of trustees. I don't think we can take their evaluations of him seriously at all. He studied the place, figured out who to cultivate and how to do it, and eventually had his way with everybody. I think he'd of stayed here if he hadn't felt like killing someone. Without that compulsion, he was king of the hill here. And he knew it." He sighed. "Should have stayed." Mulder nodded. He wished fervently that Danelli had stayed at Crestview fooling all the people all the time. The guy was shrewd, brilliant, and an empath. If his shrink was a new female staff member, he charmed her with his perceptions and tact, giving her precisely the sensitive, sentimental responses she expected. If the shrink was an older man, Danelli easily assumed the role of the respectful son, curled at the feet of wisdom, eager to catch the falling pearls. All those years of drama training had paid off. Mulder had no doubt that if he were to meet Danelli, the guy would research him, then dredge up the alleged bathtub drowning of his young sister. Soon, the story would have transformed into Danelli's vision of her floating away through a window in a flash of bright light. His phone rang. After a brief conversation, he turned to Perkins. "The Chicago PD are checking into the house he grew up in. He sold it after he strangled his wife, but there are still some people in the neighborhood who remember him from the old days. It's one of those places where the families tend to stay put." "Let's go." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Mulder and Perkins spent a long, long afternoon and evening tramping the tree-lined streets surrounding the former Danelli house. Abutting Hyde Park, most of the houses were twins with small, well-planted front yards. Unfortunately, many of the occupants were at work. Most of those who were around had not lived there during Danelli's youth, or if they had, barely remembered him. They didn't find anything of interest until nearly 9 p.m., when they were ready to give up and retreat to their motel. Lisa Whyte, a woman in her late thirties who no longer lived in the area, was staying at the house that had belonged to her late mother. After a long day at work, then some hours spent sorting through family possessions as she prepared to put the house on the market, she welcomed a chance to take a break. And she had known Bruno Danelli. Pushing back blonde hair from her face and tucking it into a pony tail, she served coffee to Mulder and Perkins at the cluttered kitchen table. She gestured at the piles of papers and photographs. "Just sorting through all this stuff has brought it all back to me," she said. "I've just put in about three hours looking through things that make my childhood seem like yesterday. Those years have all...risen to the top of my brain. What do you want to know?" "How long did you know Bruno Danelli? How well?" Perkins asked. Lisa sipped her coffee, then spooned in more sugar. "He lived three houses down," she said. "I always knew him." She laughed. "I tried not to. What a creep that kid was." Mulder sat up straighter. "How?" "Sneaky. Underhanded. Mean." She waved her hand in a vague gesture. "I know kids are mean. And they get over it, grow out of it. Bruno was different. He just didn't give a damn about anyone but himself. He was totally focused on what he wanted. If we hadn't had some bullies to keep him in line, he'd have just bopped every smaller kid over the head and taken what he wanted." "Do you remember his mother?" Mulder asked. She nodded. "A bitch on wheels. Always out yelling for Bruno to come in. God forbid he should be on the street with the rest of the kids. She thought he was far superior to riff raff like us." Perkins asked, "Did she seem especially close to him? Dress him in any special way?" Lisa thought. "Now that you mention it, he did wear pretty fancy clothes for this neighborhood. And he came in for some teasing because of it. But he would have anyway. He was just...an outsider. Just not...one of us. No way. And it's not because he was a blazing genius, which I gather he was. I mean, I've got a Ph.D. myself, and a lot of the neighborhood kids grew up to be successful. So there were other smart kids, but Bruno...he went around...like with a lightbulb over his head. Our resident genius. And we were never allowed to forget it." She poured everyone more coffee. "His mother. Yeah, they were close. If he *did* mention her, it was like she was a saint or something. Which she wasn't." "She have boyfriends?" "I didn't notice any when I was little. But then I wouldn't, would I? There were some guys when I was a teenager. I remember one with a great car, big white Caddy. It impressed my little teenage heart." She smiled. "You remember when she died?" Perkins asked. Lisa hesitated. "Yeah. I just remembered, now that you ask. It's something I hadn't thought about in years. The ambulance came to take her away. Bruno had hysterics on the sidewalk, practically walking on his knees after the stretcher. Everyone was outside, watching. Nobody really was that sad about her dying, but we all felt...kind of bad for Bruno. He looked like he was gonna crack." "And afterwards?" Mulder asked. "I just don't remember seeing him that often," Lisa said, rubbing her tired eyes. "He lived here while he went to the University, but I was away by then. I went to Berkeley. I did see him in the summer. He just seemed...wet. Still the same creepy guy--selfish, no feelings for anyone else, arrogant, know it all. I avoided him. He gave me the creeps." "Ever see his wife?" "The one he murdered in this very neighborhood?" she asked. "Yes. She was pretty. I remember wondering how the hell he'd ever persuaded her to marry him. She seemed normal, poor thing. He must have put on some act to fool her." "Any rumors about them not getting along?" Mulder asked. Lisa sighed. "You know, you're a couple months too late. My mother sat here looking out at the goings on in this neighborhood for fifty years. She could have told you about his wife's freckles and Bruno's wisdom teeth. But I had other fish to fry. I followed his trial, of course. But I suppose you have the transcripts to that anyway. I'm sure you know more than I do." "You can see him as a murderer?" Perkins asked. She nodded emphatically. "Absolutely. None of this insanity shit, you'll pardon me. He always had it in him. You'll never convince me otherwise." "If it was so obvious, how the hell did he get off?" Mulder asked. "Money." Her accompanying look suggested that Mulder was pitiably naive. Perkins nodded. "We're seeking him now in connection with the kidnapping, torture, and murder of women. He's merely a suspect, I want to make that clear. We have no proof, only some vague allegations. But I wonder if you can see him as a...torturer, abductor." "Oh, yeah. I don't really know him. I just have these memories. And, let's face it, I wasn't a saintly child by any means. But I can see Bruno hurting people, especially women, and liking it. I just can." "Why women?" Mulder asked. Lisa thought for a moment, then finished her coffee. "Because he'd *perceive* them to be weaker, someone he could take advantage of. Despite the fact that his mother ruled him with an iron fist in an *iron* glove." She paused. "Or maybe because of it." She laughed briefly. "Everyone's an amateur psychiatrist these days." Mulder returned her smile. "Just a shot in the dark. Any tortured animals found in the neighborhood when you were young? Any fires of unknown origin? We've asked the police to check, but that's a long time ago, before computerized records. Do you remember anything like that?" "Yeah. When I was, oh, nine or ten, some damaged squirrels were found. At first, people thought they'd just been slow enough to get caught by a cat. Then a cat was found pretty well torn apart. I didn't see it myself, but I heard it was really ugly." She paused. "There may have been other instances, but I just don't remember that well." She tapped the table, then said, "Try Mrs. Snyder. She lived across the street until a few years back when she moved to a retirement community. She watched just as carefully as my mom did. She'll know everything. And she's still got all her marbles, too. She'd get a kick out a visit from the Feds. She watches cops and robbers shows all the time." She rummaged through the piles for an address book, then copied the address and phone number. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY SIXTEEN Scully stood in the bathroom. She'd made her decision and thought the time had come to begin. It was cold-blooded, it was distasteful, it was sick. But she thought--hoped, prayed--it might work. The monster had not brought back any unpleasant surprises from his last excursion. The routine continued, the usual warfare--the talking, the cooking, and the occasional attack, escalating, always escalating. But there was a new glimmer in his eye, or at least Scully thought she saw one. It seemed that he was staring at her body more frequently, as though to remind himself that a sight he (and she) had come to take for granted was in fact meant to be stimulating. The others had been raped. After much thought and considerable concern about her sanity, Scully had decided on two things: One, if she *was* raped, it'd be less painful if she was lubricated. Two, her best guess (and *fervent* hope) was that the madman would be unable to perform unless he forced himself on a woman who was helpless and unwilling. If she were well-lubricated enough to convince him that she was willing, it just might turn him off. Either way, it was worth a shot. Which is why Scully stood in the bathroom after her exercises running her hands up and down her body caressing herself, seeking out the most sensitive places. She closed her eyes and stroked her breasts, rubbing her fingers across the tips of her nipples. In one of the most bizarre associations her mind had ever made, she thought of Eleanor Roosevelt. She recalled Mulder once asking her who she might like to be if she weren't herself. He'd been unimpressed when she answered, Eleanor Roosevelt. Okay, she wasn't glamorous. She wasn't even alive. But Scully had read several biographies and deeply admired her courage and convictions. One thing she would always remember. The early years had been miserable for Eleanor, a homely girl out of her league with the patrician, confident, womanizing Franklin. Yet, she had triumphed, made a life of her own which helped and inspired millions, always from the conviction that Scully found so inspirational: No one can humiliate you without your permission. Standing in a maniac's bathroom, stimulating her nipples and moving her hand down to her pubic area, she was determined not to feel abased by what she was doing. She was masturbating not to please herself but to prepare to be raped or avoid being raped, an action that seemed to mark a new low at a time when there was a multitude of contenders. Yet, thanks to Eleanor, she convinced herself that this was a practical course of action taken only after careful consideration. Something like close your eyes and think of the flag? sneered her sardonic inner voice. What could be a bigger turn-on, she asked herself with a smirk.. Dozens of things, she answered. Like changing a flat. She cupped herself with her right hand and dipped her finger inside. Yes, she was getting wet. Physiology, it'll work every time. The human body is so very predictable. She moved her finger in and out, then up her folds to moisten the entire area. If he touched her, she would seem to be excited. How long since she had been touched with anything like affection? She was so starved for a gentle, warm human contact that even her own touch--in this ludicrous situation--lightened the pain of isolation. She'd been away so long, penned in with a cruel monster. The movements of her fingers began to feel good, rather than being a mere practical course of action. Her hand speeded up and she decided that from now on, this should become part of her bathroom visits, as much a routine exercise as her calisthenics. Gotta get *all* those muscles, she thought, her breath coming faster. So what do you think of this, God? she asked the entity she still prayed would give her strength to escape. Do You approve? she asked Him, beset by childhood memories of the body-as-God's-temple teachings. When I'm doing it to save my life? Or are You remembering the times I've done it for fun instead? God could be pretty practical too, she recalled, depending on which part of the Bible you were reading. He didn't say, Build an ark, any size you want. He gave measurements, in cubits, whatever they were. Practical, yes? Of course, He also did a lot of totally inexplicable things as well, even if read for their symbolic meaning. Scully liked to *understand*, which was part of the frustration of dealing with the lunatic outside the door. Enough, she told herself, withdrawing her hand and grabbing the soap. You're supposed to be getting wet, not getting off. She had been mired in misery for so long, with only one pleasurable thought: killing that cocksucker. The sooner the better. "Time's up, Dana. Come on out." Yeah, right, she thought. Fuck you, you murderous creep. I will make you *suffer*. You will beg to die. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY SIXTEEN A weary, disheveled Mulder sat in Skinner's office filling in the AD on his activities in Chicago. The Bureau had copies of Danelli's records from every school he'd ever attended. He was invariably described as a brilliant student and a socially isolated person, regardless of age. At Crestview, where he'd been incarcerated, he'd changed the pattern and become Mr. Congeniality. He probably realized that to be released, he'd have to present a "normal" personality. So he did. They'd talked to every former neighbor or classmate or teacher they could locate. They had dug into the trial transcripts and questioned the intimates of his late wife. They had even run down a man who had dated his late mother. The picture remained the same: He was a classic sociopath who had given everyone the creeps. The mother's date had thought he was a raging little sicko and had dropped the romance a week before her untimely death. Too bad mama didn't confide the loss to Junior, Mulder told Skinner. She might have saved her life. "There's no proof he killed his mother," Skinner pointed out, shuffling through a tall stack of papers. Mulder raised a skeptical brow. "Even an old lady in a retirement community who spent years watching his comings and goings thought he'd knocked off mama. He threw an operatic tantrum at the time of her death that seemed to fool no one. Too bad they just closed the curtains and thought what a shame it was, him getting away with murder. If they'd told the police, there probably would have been a better post-mortum. If he was already reading mysteries, he probably had some nifty murder methods in mind." "Maybe they didn't care. You said the woman was disliked." Mulder nodded. "Everybody cared about his wife, though. The people who knew her would have gladly strangled him for what he did to her. They all thought hanging would be too good for him, let alone a stay in a cushy asylum with four-star chefs." "Why'd she marry him, if he gave everyone the creeps?" "He fooled her. He fooled everyone at Crestview. He fooled a bunch of smart women over the Internet, including the normally untrusting Agent Scully." Mulder brooded. "What do we have at this end?" Skinner folded his hands. "A lot of information. Not enough. He was spotted in a lot of the places Scully frequented, sometimes disguised, other times not. He stalked her for at least six weeks before he moved on her. We're checking on modes of transportation now. He had to have rented or bought something large enough to conceal her after the grab. He had to have rented a place to take her to. He had to have a place to stay while he stalked her. If we find that place, it might have some clues about where he took her. If in fact, it's not the place he's holding her now." Skinner shook his head. "I know it seems slow, Mulder, but we have a shitload of manpower on this one. Agents are fanning out over five states to car and property rental agencies. Now that we have the ID, the other four women are being re-investigated. If we find he kept them in the same type of place, for instance, we'll know better where to look for Scully." "We're over the two-week mark," Mulder said through gritted teeth. "And we're putting in hundreds of man hours on this. It's gotta pay off. We're *on* it, Mulder." "Let's hope we get there soon enough," Mulder snarled, headed for the door. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY SIXTEEN The gleam she imagined in his eye must have been for real, Scully thought, as Death leaned against the counter, hands on hips. His pelvis thrust forward and he held her eyes as he moved his right hand from his hip to his penis, giving himself a long, slow stroke through his jeans. The bulge was visible. His eyes were avid, greedy. The serpent revealed, Scully thought. It'd been two hours since her little tryst with her right hand in the bathroom. Just in time, she told herself. And here's hoping I'm still wet and it has the desired effect. She forced herself to meet his eyes without flinching, attempted to look seductive rather than terrified. He needs to feel your fear, she lectured herself. Don't let him. Time for the performance of a lifetime. Otherwise, there won't be much time left in your life. "Do you want me?" she asked in a husky voice. She let her eyelids droop in what she hoped was a sensual way. "I *am* kind of horny, you know? We've been here for some time now. Remember how desperate Stephanie Plum gets for sex, how she gets it on with Morelli." Shut up, she ordered herself. Don't get into a whole detective fiction series here. That's what landed you here in the first place, lame brain. Besides, you're babbling. Watch him. See what clues he's giving off. Pay attention, damn it. Your life depends on it. Her nasty inner voice added snidely, or your fucking honor. Quiet, she told her divided self. We have to act in concert on this. Death's eyes narrowed. He plainly was not pleased to hear that Scully was horny. He pulled his hand away from his penis as if it had touched a hot iron. "What's your game, Dana?" he hissed. Like a snake, her inner voice noted. Shut up, she told it. "Game?" she asked innocently. She looked into his eyes. "You know I'm interested in romance. When you were Beth, we discussed plenty of them--Kay Scarpetta's. Kinsey Millhone's. Russell and Holmes. Peabody and Emerson. McCone and Ripinski. Why should you think I don't want sex in real life if I enjoy reading about all those fictional peoples' love lives?" He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. "So why didn't you ever mention any boyfriends?" She shrugged. "I didn't mention grooming my houseplants either, but that doesn't mean I wasn't feeding and watering and cutting them back during all that time we corresponded. I didn't tell Beth *everything*. One thing I didn't mention is that I like sex. I need it. Although I should think that would have come across in our discussions." He was silent, thinking. Scully considered adding to her comments, then decided to shut up and see how much he was buying, if anything. It was true. She had never talked about whether she had or did not have a sex life. They had discussed fictional affairs and revealed attitudes toward sex and romance, but never had she given out personal information about her own sex life. She checked his eyes, anxious about his reaction. If he believed her, would it make any difference anyway? Was he determined to use her sexually, no matter what? Could a rapist, one who practically used a blueprint, as he did, be dissuaded from his plan? "Bullshit," he told her. "Don't try to shit a bullshitter. You'll wind up covered with crap. Like the shit you're talkin'. I see what you're doing, Dana. I know you're clever, for a woman. But you're no match for me. Don't try to tell me you want to have sex with your kidnapper. Get real." He stalked over to her, leaned down, and grabbed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He gave it a hard squeeze. His laugh rang out as he applied more pressure. You fucking bastard, she thought. "Yes," she gasped, wiping the smile off his face. He had expected pain, withdrawal. Should she pretend to be a masochist, she wondered. Nah, impossible to carry that off. "It happens all the time," she told him. "Look at Patty Hearst. Abductees, especially women, often fall for their captors. Do you have such a hard time believing you could attract me? A great looking guy like you?" He withdrew again. Presumably, he liked being told how handsome he was. It appeared to be a new sensation for him. Hadn't the other hostages tried it? Maybe not, to judge from the defeated look in their eyes. Or maybe they had, and he was simply toying with her, leading her through one of his elaborate rituals before pouncing for the assault. The game was one of the big turn-ons for him, she knew by now. He was in love with the process, the tease, the dance. Let's hope he doesn't take me up on this, she thought. I don't want to be that convincing. No, no, she reassured herself. He can't get it up if a woman wants him. He needs force to turn him on. He feeds on his victims' resistance. Believe that. Lay it on. Convince him you want him. Lay it on so thick he'll be as limp and useless as an inchworm. Pencil dick. Linguini dick, in his case, added that nasty voice that had taken up residence within. But no time to think about that now. Here he came again. Uh, approached, not came, she corrected, unable to silence that voice. He grabbed her face, fingers pressing painfully into her jaws. She could feel her molars quake. "You know I'm going to kill you," he said, locking eyes with her and holding her face immobile. "You wanna fuck a guy who's gonna murder you?" Scully moved her lower jaw slightly, causing Death to loosen his grip. He didn't move his eyes, however; he was fiercely concentrating on her eyes, as if trying to read through them to her soul. "Just because I'm going to be dead soon doesn't mean I can't have a little pleasure now," she told him softly, staring into his eyes. "That's really the human condition, isn't it? Everyone's going to die, eventually, and just about everyone still goes around having sex at every opportunity. Is what I proposed really that weird?" His hand fell away from her jaw. His eyes traveled down her body and stopped when they reached her patch of pubic hair. "Spread your legs," he snarled. "Sure. Anything you say. You know, the way they're tied, I can't really move them that--" She went silent as he stuffed his hand between her legs and thrust his fingers into her vagina. It felt like an invasion by lobster claws as he probed roughly within her. It seemed he was trying to force his fist inside her. Got a stove you'd like to add, buddy? she thought as she tried not to gasp with the pain. All that lubrication didn't do a hell of a lot of good if he was driving in with a bulldozer. She controlled herself and gave a little pleasurable moan. Abruptly, his hand was gone. "Christ," he shouted, cuffing her across the face with a hand slick with her juices. "What kind of whore are you? You want to fuck me? Well, lady, I make war, not love." He continued to bat her across the face with hard, vicious blows till finally the chair toppled. He gave her a half-hearted kick in the ribs, then stumbled off to the bathroom. "Cunt," he mumbled. "Filthy cocksucking cunt. Fuckin' ballbreaker." Scully lay on her side, pain radiating from several different areas. But she wasn't thinking about the hurt. That nasty inner voice, the obscene, cynical rebel who'd moved in, was too busy sneering, Eat shit and die, cocksucker. She may even have been doing one of those ridiculous little dances between the goalposts, like some dumbass football player. She was hopeless, Scully thought, still gasping on the floor, but she was keeping her sane. And that's all that mattered right now. His penis, from what she could tell by checking out his tight jeans, had lost any semblance of an erection by the time he stomped off to the bathroom. He could not rape the willing, at least at the moment. That didn't mean the problem was solved, though, not by a long shot. Pain would still turn him on. Sexual pain would probably be the biggest turn-on of all. She wasn't safe yet. This was one battle, not the war. Keep your mind working, she told herself fiercely. He can be had. You had him stymied there for a moment, on the run. Now figure out what to do next to keep yourself alive. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY SIXTEEN Mulder stood outside the Gunmen's, listening to locks being thrown, feeling as if he'd hit a brick wall. Over two weeks now, working twenty hours a day, and they still had nada. A name, a face. No location. What condition was she in by now? He couldn't stand to envision it; he couldn't drive the images from his mind. He was truly fucked up. The door flew open. "We have some leads," Frohike told him. "What?" "We've gone through all these credit cards and checked PIN numbers," Byers explained. "We had a long list that we culled by limiting to a 200-mile radius of DC. Now it's still a long list, but it's easy to eliminate quickly. Just verify where they are right now. If they're here, if they're sitting at their desk at the brokerage, they're probably not the scumbag we're looking for. So we go on. Find the ones who aren't answering phones, who aren't at the listed address. Want to help?" "Yeah. And give me the list. I'll fax it back to the Search Team. They don't have to know where it came from. Thanks to your anonymous threat, they're treating this like a Russian invasion." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY SEVENTEEN The bad news was that her rib was cracked, her face was covered with bruises and aching like hell, one of her back teeth felt wobbly, her nipple was deep purple, and her vagina felt as if she'd given birth about a half hour ago. The good news was that Death looked, according to her nasty inner voice, warmed over. He drooped. He looked so dispirited that she feared he might just get fed up and kill her. If he couldn't follow the usual pattern of rape and abuse, he could deviate from his MO and not wait the full three weeks. Wait a minute, she thought. *This* is good news? She was also tiring of these inner dialogues. She was starting to feel like the star of "Three Faces of Eve." Besides, who was to say he wouldn't have another go at her, now that he'd had time to think about her ploy? He was very, very smart. He might conclude that if he made his actions painful enough, she would *not* desire him. With sufficient pain, she would be terrified and pathetic, and he would be potent. Christ, she hoped her little scheme hadn't just upped the ante, invited more pain. She needed to end this, now. They had entered lethal territory. What to do, what to do. Well, kill him. Yeah, of course. But how to get free. How to keep him from ripping her to shreds. Distract him. Amuse him. Great. How? "I know you're a computer expert," she said. He nodded and got up to check the stock, which continued to boil. Let's not think about that, she advised herself. "I wondered if you used your computer skills to check out the, uh, women you're interested in. For example, did you hack into my accounts? Read my other e-mail? Hack into my personnel file at work?" He stirred the contents of the pot and wandered back to the main room. "That would reduce the challenge too much," he told her, regaining a trace of his superior air. "The game was to see what I could draw out of you through the correspondence. Then, when I thought I knew enough, I'd spend a couple of months on the scene, following you everywhere. Watching, photographing. Enjoying the view. Just hacking in would be too simple. Where's the fun?" Where, indeed, she thought. "I just wondered if you knew what kind of work I do," she said, getting ready to slip into the Sheherazade role again. "I work on a unit called the X-Files. We investigate the unexplained, the paranormal. We've had some weird cases through the years. For instance, there was this fellow named Tooms." And she was off. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY SEVENTEEN Mulder drove through countryside, headed south from Mt. Vernon. Yesterday's list had included a number of men who could not be immediately located. One, which had a post office box address, had grabbed his interest. He wasn't sure what set his bells chiming, but it was good to feel a rush of instinct. His intuitions had been dead for far too long. First, the post office box had seemed strange to him. Then, another chord in his memory had been pressed. He remembered reading about a small boy missing from another town about thirty miles from the post office. Why kidnap a little boy? It wasn't the guy's MO at all. Totally anomalous. It was highly unlikely there was any connection, he thought. So why were his hackles, whatever they were, raised? Internal bells and alarms clanged. Unless he tied himself to a mast, like Ulysses, he was powerless to change direction, resist the sirens' call. To the post office he sped, sheaf of photos resting on the passenger seat. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY SEVENTEEN "So, he needed to have five livers before he could hibernate," Scully said. "His nest--this mass of old newspaper--was all sticky with bile, a kind of deep yellow and really smelly. And he had to rip out each liver with his bare hands. It wasn't pretty, if you know what I mean." She looked at him. Yeah, she told him silently, I'm your horror soulsister. Let's bond, asshole. He was looking at her with a new interest. Can you believe it? she asked herself. I've actually managed to impress this loathsome monster. Little old me. I'd be impressed with myself, but I can't risk over-confidence. Time to do or die here. And I prefer the former. Let's put it *all* on the table. "Hey," she asked him, "can I go to the bathroom, please?" She aimed for a tone that suggested they were confidants...colleagues in horror. Death came over to loosen her bonds. She appeared relaxed but was tensed for one of the sporadic attacks he used to keep her off balance. "Hurry up," he said. "I want to hear the rest of this." Gotcha, she thought. After some quick exercise and some just-in-case, you-could-never- tell-about-a-psychopath, and Christ-this-really-hurts-I'm-not- enjoying-it-God masturbation, Scully leaned back against the sink, biting her lip to try to still the pain. Her whole body ached from the most recent beating. She closed her eyes and prayed, I know this isn't pretty, but be with me. I know we're not always on the best of terms, but...help me put this bastard down. Please, if You're there, give me the strength to do whatever it takes to stop him. The prayer was short but her concentration was strong and focused. Scully washed quickly and left the bathroom. "Can I sit here without being tied?" she asked. "I'll stay in the chair. It'd be nice if I could move around a little." "For now," Death said grudgingly. "So this guy was in jail, huh?" "Yeah, for a while. But then he got himself a good lawyer." "I know the feeling." "So he was released, and we knew he still needed to get his quota of five livers. And the minute he did, he'd hibernate and he'd be out of our reach. So my partner started to tail him, very ostentatiously." "Oh, yeah. So, did he snatch your partner's liver?" She almost smiled. "No, he tried, but he ended up chopped liver instead." He shot her a glance that was almost admiring. She had his interest. We can be pals, asshole, she thought. Trust me. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY SEVENTEEN "You're sure this is the guy?" Mulder asked the old man behind the counter. He did little more than glance at the photo. "No doubt at all. He comes in about once or twice a week, doesn't get much mail. Just some bills. Been coming for, oh, two or three months." "Do you happen to remember if he gets mail from a bank? Or anything or anyone else? This is really important." The old man took his time. Mulder leaned on the counter and tried to look as if he were breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He wondered if he'd hyperventilate before the answer came. Too bad if he passed out and missed it. "Chase." The man leaned across the counter and touched Mulder's arm. "The bank is Chase. You there, son?" Mulder blinked. And took a deep cleansing breath. "Yeah, I am." Now, he added. "Thanks a lot. This is very important. Is there anything else you remember? Any other mail? Any idea where he lives? You remember what he drives?" A regretful head shake. "Sorry." "You've been a big help," Mulder told him, rushing to the street and jerking out his cell phone. He called the source of most of his good leads on this case. "Byers? Mulder. Listen, we're closing in. The name he was using from your list, John Sanders. He's gotten mail from the Chase Bank. Can you see if he's got an account with them under that name? If he does--" "Yeah, right. Get the checks, see if there's a rent payment or a car payment from the account. Look for the source of deposits. We're on it." "Thanks." He called Joe to tell him and the rest of the team about the John Sanders lead. Mulder had no desire to be the Lone Ranger on this one. All he cared about was getting her out of there. Every hour now was critical. Maybe every minute. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY SEVENTEEN "So he was chasing Mulder through the tunnel and I was hanging over the edge trying to get a hold of Mulder and pull him up--" "Mulder. You call him Mulder. The last-name syndrome we discussed at such boring length. I wondered why you were hung up about that. It's your partner. You *do* have a lover. I wondered how I could have tailed you all that time and missed it. All those coy references to 'my partner' in all those e-mails. You never used his name." He approached her, looming. "I see." You see what, Scully wondered. That if I have a lover, I have a life and I no longer fit your profile? So we should just call this whole thing off. Or that I'm an unfaithful bitch, like mommy in your sicko mind, 'doing it' with some other guy, and I'm ripe for the slaughter? Wish I knew which way to go on this, but I've gotta finesse it. Let's stay on topic, asshole. "I thought you wanted to know what happened with Tooms." He backed off. "Yeah, I do. We'll get to 'Mulder' later. Unless he's six feet under minus one liver by now, hah, hah." "No, actually, he made it through ahead of Tooms and I managed to get him back to street level. And then Tooms was coming after him, slithering through the tunnel, all sticky and greasy, and we spotted an escalator and then...." >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY SEVENTEEN The guys had hacked fast and furiously. As it grew dark, Mulder pulled into the driveway of a woman to whom Sanders had written a check for over ten thousand dollars. Since the amount was large enough to cover a vehicle or a down payment on a property, he felt this was his best lead yet. This *had* to be the one. "Lois Lenski? He held out his badge. "What would the FBI want with me?" she asked with a tiny laugh. Ms. Lenski was in her mid-forties with thick brown hair and bright brown eyes. She invited him in. Mulder pulled out his sheaf of photos. "We're interested in a man named John Sanders who wrote you a check for $10,500 a couple of months ago. We wanted to know what the money was for, and if he looks like any of these pictures." He gave her the undisguised version first, the one identified by the old man at the post office. "Yeah, sure, he's the guy," she said. "What'd he do?" Mulder forced a smile. "You don't want to know. Just stay away from him if you ever see him again. Don't let him come near you. Now, what was the money for?" "My old Nissan Pathfinder," she said, going on to describe the year, color, and condition of the vehicle. "He say anything about where he lives, where he was going? Did he give you any information about himself at all?" She shook her head. Mulder rushed back to the car. Time to check to see if the guy had used the Sanders ID to acquire his registration tags. If so, an APB should do the trick. Even knowing what vehicle to look for was some help. Mulder felt he was closing in. I'm coming, Scully, he thought. Hold on, baby. *Baby?* Whoa...don't let her hear that one. Hold on, Scully. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY SEVENTEEN "Nearly ready," Death chirped, stirring his stock. "Unfortunately, I don't really care for this sort of thing. Odd, I do like new sensations ordinarily. But this--this is special, Dana. This is just for you." He turned to her with a bright smile, his eyes once more raking her body. Uh-oh, she thought. The libido has returned. Time to make the big move--before he gets revved up again. She ignored his gross-out tactics with the stock, totally absorbed in creating the opening, the one tiny opening that she would barrel through and make him pay. Distract him, she ordered herself. Don't let him notice you're still untied. "What are you going to eat today?" she asked, knowing how he loved to talk food. Okay God, she prayed, the time has come. Let's talk food with this guy. Let's work him. This may be it. Be with me here. You in? She watched him tinkering and assumed the persona of the master chef's admiring apprentice. She inhaled the aromas. "What is it?" she asked, buying time and surveying the gas stove...and the heavy cast-iron frying pans he had assured her were the best. He was absorbed in slicing vegetables. She was free. This was probably as good as it was going to get. "Oh, some good old Scarpetta stuff. Bell peppers, mushrooms, onions with eggs. I got me some nice Jalapenos when I was out." He chuckled. "A little of these babies goes a long way. You add a touch of the Jalapenos to the bell peppers and it makes all the difference. Spices it up. Brings on the heat. You know I like it hot." He didn't try to veil his meaning. Yep, the appetite had reawakened, and she was going to do her damnedest to ensure that she wasn't his dessert. He pulled on plastic gloves before dicing the Jalapenos. "But of course you'll have your own dinner tonight. A heavenly, delicate stock, courtesy of your...little friend." Scully swallowed in disgust. She didn't try to veil it either. Come on, God, she said inwardly. Help me slice, dice, and sauté this bastard's *balls* She knew her prayers were getting cruder by the hour, but the language gave her strength somehow. Help me put him down, she pleaded. "Did you know that we also investigate UFOs and alien sightings?" she asked, hoping to pique the weirdo's interest. "What crap," Death laughed, pulling off his gloves and lighting the flame under a large, cast-iron frying pan. "You're telling me my taxpayer's dollars go for that kind of idiocy?" Scully casually strolled to the counter. "You pay taxes?" "Yeah, of course. What do you think I am?" A homicidal maniac, she answered mentally. Aloud, she continued her efforts to keep him from caring that she was out of her chair. "I don't know, but I couldn't believe you put on the latex to chop those Jalapenos." See if we can get a little testosterone rising, she thought. That always impairs mental function. She conjured Mulder in her mind. Right, partner? Am I finally on the right track here? *I* feel like I'm on a roll. Let me know if my foot slips. "Listen, little lady, I chopped enough Jalapenos to burn my hand off. But you wouldn't know that. You like to be up to your boobs in that paranormal, alien shit. You should have learned to cook, like a real woman. When you get hungry, can *you* make something like this? No." She tried looking chastised. Anything to keep him focused on the food instead of her actions. "I can cook, I just don't have time to cook." He shot her a look of disgust. She feigned great interest as he poured olive oil in the pan with a flourish, cautiously making her way to his side of the counter. He turned the flame up. Scully focused on the fire. The tiny sizzly sound tickled her ear, and the flame under the heavy iron pan mesmerized her. Fire, Mulder, she told him. We're going to play the Fire Card. You with me, babe? And God, I haven't forgotten about You either. It takes a village, as they say. We're going to gang up on this psycho and make him regret the night he was a gleam in his father's eye. The beast was apparently satisfied with the temperature of his frying pan. With Scully's eyes glued to his every move, he added even more olive oil, watching it heat. He poured himself a glass of white wine and toasted her with a sardonic grin. "I love a glass of a good buttery Chardonnay when I cook. A little for me and a little for the pan. Civilized, no? This is Chalon, one of California's best. It's so good, the pan's not getting any." He smiled wickedly, "Salute." She tore her eyes away from the flame and focused on her captor's wine. He caught her eyes. She caught his. "May I please have a glass of water? In the name of civility." She was reaching, she knew. But he was playing the ultra-civilized role at the moment, apparently ready to launch into his best-wineries-of-the-Napa-Valley speech. He checked her position, once more raking her body with glittering, eager eyes. Yes, definitely randy. Working up a *big* appetite. Gotta get him before he got her. Her escape would not be as easy this time. She felt it in the vibrations he was giving off, the confident posture of a man who knew he would get--or take--what he wanted. She leaned back against the counter, out of reach of any kitchen object. He checked to see that the counter was empty and that he had a paper cup. "No glass for you, Dana," he admonished her, handing her the paper cup filled to the brim. "And don't think you can try anything. You know who's in charge here. I am being civil--for the moment--not stupid." "Yes, I know." She tried to look meek. "One move and you'll be tied up for twenty-four hours straight floating in your own shit," he warned her. So much for civility, she thought. "I know," she repeated, edging closer. She was about a yard from him and the stove. The fire and oil had her total concentration now. This was going to be it. She backed off a bit before saying, "Isn't that an awful lot of oil?" He gave a weary sigh. "If you knew anything about cooking, you'd know you can never have too much olive oil, Dana. And it has to be hot." He turned up the fire as he added still more oil. Scully focused on the oil and the flame, her scientific mind noting that water and oil can be a dangerous combination. He launched into a pompous lecture about his choice of oil as he reached for a wooden bowl of chopped onions and peppers to throw in the pan. The oil was spattering and jumping with heat. She felt the heat and was energized, alive and on the offensive for the first time in weeks. You like it hot, asshole, she thought. Well, you'll love this. With a motion that was a blur, she aimed the cup of water and hurled it as hard as she could into the frying pan. The oil splattered wildly, blinding Death for a second and stinging his body. Before he could step back, the oil sloshed over the side of the pan, igniting the gas flames beneath. He found himself staring at a wall of flame. Scully, meanwhile, had grabbed a potholder and seized the hot, heavy frying pan. She began by hurling its sizzling contents into Death's face. Excruciating pain had him shrieking like a banshee. Scully's aim had been sure and Death's face disintegrated right before her eyes. Skin gave way to raw flesh and she knew she couldn't stop. If she had her gun she could stop him, but she didn't. He was a wild wounded animal crazed with pain. She whacked him again as hard she could, catching him on the side of the head. Exhilarated, she felt his skull crack open and watched a red river start to flow down his neck. He crumpled to the floor, his bellows filling the room. Then, the screaming stopped and his yelping began. He writhed on his back, clawing at his face. Although he was flailing wildly and in great pain, Scully realized that she desperately needed a knockout blow. If not, he would literally rip her limbs apart in murderous rage. He was a wounded bear. So, she didn't even try to hold back. After seventeen days of his abominations, she wielded the pan with the conviction of Pete Sampras serving an ace. She felt his nose break and saw the blood spurt. But he was still conscious and he caught her eyes. His eyes were wild. Don't give him a chance to knock you off your feet, she ordered herself. He'll kill you. She reached for the cutting board that held the Jalapeno peppers and dumped them onto his face. Now he was too distracted to think of attacking her. As he howled and clawed at his face, blood running and flesh burning, Scully had ample time to stand back, take a deep breath, and gather her strength. She was tiring bigtime. Her arms were so heavy. Come on, God, Mulder, whoever's lending me strength for this. Goliath is down. We've got to knock this bastard out. She drew the frying pan over her head, her arms fully extended, and let gravity lead it to his skull, knocking him unconscious with a mighty blow. He lay unmoving, bleeding, broken. Thank you, Scully whispered. We did it. Keeping a wary eye on the body, Scully retreated a few steps. Her fantasies ended right here: with the monster lying at her feet. How odd that she'd never visualized what would happen next, she thought. Had she not truly believed she could overcome him? Perhaps she hadn't. But this was not fantasy; this was reality. This evil creature had gotten away with murder, of his own mother plus at least four other women. He was fiendishly clever. Would he somehow fool the courts and be out strolling the streets, trolling for victims, within a matter of years? She had been with the Bureau long enough to recognize the limitations of the Justice system. She had seen murderers walk. It happened every day. She could stop this one. Right now. Pick another spot and let him have it with the frying pan. Aim for a vulnerable area of the skull, or crush his Adam's apple. Or pick up one of those sharp knives he was so proud of and slit his throat. She could say it happened during her fight to escape. With her injuries and the walls crowded with pictures of women he had tortured, there would be no questions asked. Just congratulations for ridding the world of this loathsome monster. The nasty voice that inhabited her urged her to do it, to show no mercy. Look at the wounds from the cuts and burns, it told her. The one on your shoulder is starting to ooze; it's probably infected. And look at those women on the walls. *They* are the proper jury for this fucker. And they're all holding their thumbs down. Do right by us, they're pleading. He tortured, tormented, raped, murdered us. He deserves to die, not sit in some comfortable cell clogging the system with appeals for the next ten years. Do it for us, Dana. I'm one of you, she told them, looking into their empty, despairing eyes. But I can't...play God. I wish I *had* killed him in the heat of battle. That'd be the best outcome. Truly. But he's still alive, and I can't...can't, won't kill him in cold blood. That'd make me--some little part of me--a bit like him. And I can't do that. I don't want to be the least bit like him. I just hope I can be me again. Cause he's taken a lot of me away. She brought the frying pan down on his head again, not to crush his skull, just to insure that he remained unconscious. She might be merciful, but she wasn't crazy, she thought. Wearily, she trudged over to pick up the rope he'd used on her and returned to where he was lying, kicked him over onto his belly, and tied his hands behind his back. With great competence. No pleasure warmed her heart, however. The adrenaline had come and gone, leaving her oddly passive. Such an anti-climax once the beast is down. She found a tee-shirt in his bag, put it on, and opened the door. It was night, but the moon was high in the sky. She drew in her breath at the sight of it. How wondrous it was, so huge, so bright. How long had it been since she had seen the sky, breathed fresh air, walked freely in the world. She felt like falling to her knees and kissing the soil, the way people did in movies when they made it to land after a stormy ride at sea. She qualified, she thought. That guy was a walking typhoon. Thank you, God, she said aloud. Thank You for letting me see the world again. For escaping from his madness. After gazing by moonlight at the wooded setting, she spied a white Pathfinder off to the side of the house and made her way to it barefoot, careful not to cut her feet. It turned out to be a treasure trove. After finding her clothing, her handcuffs, her badge and weapon, and her battery-dead cell phone, she dressed quickly. It felt strange, the rough fabric brushing against her sensitive skin. She left off her bra because of the burns on her breast and shoulder blade. The fabric abraded all the cuts and sore spots, and her shoes felt stiff and foreign on her feet. Hobbling slightly, she re-entered the house to better secure the madman. She used her handcuffs, tied up his feet and legs with the rope, then took everything out of his pockets. She found a wallet, car keys, money clip, change, ID, a pocket knife, and a pack of condoms. Laying her booty on the counter, she rolled him up in the filthy rug, with only his head and feet protruding. A ten-minute drive later, she found a gas station with a pay phone. Before depositing the coins of--what was he calling himself?--John Sanders, she asked the attendant where she was. It seemed strange to talk to a normal person. His eyes widened and raked her from head to toe. Undoubtedly she was a mess with her bruised face and Medusa locks. Probably looked like a runaway battered wife. She didn't bother showing him her badge since she didn't feel like an FBI agent anyway. It occurred to her that she had returned to a world where ...she just didn't fit in. She was like a ghost who haunts a scene once visited. Wearing shoes, walking across pavement, these were strange sensations now, causing scraping, friction, noise. And the *width and breadth* of the world outside the room were both astounding and frightening. The wide, endless sky suggested there were no limits. Scully thought that perhaps she needed limits now. She needed for things to be...small, protected. Sheltered. Here she was, experiencing what she'd coveted most--freedom. She had fantasized about this moment so often and so hungrily that she feared she was dreaming and would soon wake up to the dreaded cackle. But although the attendant had told her where she was, she still didn't know where she *was*. She wondered if she'd ever find out, if she would ever know herself again, or know anything for certain. Or had the madman stolen an irreplaceable piece of her? So many pieces, she mused, stumbling toward the phone. Little bits and pieces of Scully, scattered all over the earth. How morbid, she reflected. Shouldn't she be cavorting at this point? Dancing beneath the stars? Shouting out her joy? Instead, she felt inexplicably sad. She dialed Mulder. "Mulder." Scully opened her mouth, but no words came out. "Who the hell is this?" "It's me," she finally stuttered. There was a pause. Her heart was so confused, she had no idea what to say. There was... so much to say, but she was unable to speak. And she noticed Mulder wasn't exactly rushing in to fill the void. Finally, she cleared her throat and offered, "I'm at a gas station outside of Fredericksburg. Let me read you the directions." "Are you all right?" Mulder's voice cracked. He sounded as if he were on the verge of tears. She realized he too had suffered greatly. So selfish, she accused herself. Thinking about yourself all the time. Now she felt even sadder. Her initial triumph in escaping her captivity, alive and still ambulatory, was rapidly darkening. "Am I all right?" she repeated. Shit, she thought. How should I know? I don't know anything right now, including how I feel. She groped for a response: "I hope I will be." Mulder didn't know whether to panic or rejoice. No "I'm fine." What did this mean? That she was so not fine that even Scully couldn't force the usual words from her lips? Or that she was simply making an honest acknowledgment of her ordeal? Flummoxed, he told her he was over an hour away but would get some other members of the team to her within the half hour. She told him where the cabin was. They hung up, each shaken to realize they'd spoken in the tones of an operator giving directory assistance. No connection. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY EIGHTEEN Scully lay in a hospital bed, staring out the window at puffy white clouds floating across a sunlit blue sky. The sight hurt her eyes, unaccustomed to natural light. There was much she had grown unaccustomed to, in what she found was only two and a half weeks. To her, it had felt like an eternity. Spent in hell. One thing that bothered her was wearing a hospital gown; incredibly, she had gotten used to being nude. Lying in a bed was also a strange sensation. So were the people--mobs of them--who kept barreling into her room. One thing she *had* gotten used to was the lack of privacy. At any time, the man she now knew as Bruno Danelli could invade her being in any way he chose. But now, all *sorts* of people (although none were psychopaths, she reminded herself) kept popping into her room. It was a mob scene, and she had grown used to a certain kind of solitude. She had withdrawn into herself, like a frightened turtle. Now, they all wanted to draw her out. It was intimidating, jarring. It was early afternoon. She had been interviewed by at least a dozen Bureau personnel, ranging from top brass to the head of the search team to the PR types who wanted to make a heroine of her for foiling the serial killer. Someone scented good publicity for the FBI. She had not seen Mulder although Skinner said he was waiting to see her. It was thought best to debrief her immediately. They told her they wanted to be the first to hear what she had to say, not to have her impressions tainted by remarks from anyone else. She wondered if this was because some shrink had advised them that she might break down once she saw people who were close to her. Strange policy, but she could wait. She felt deflated, like a balloon lying used and wrinkled on the ground. She was willing to give the facts to her interviewers: to describe the snatch, the time in captivity, the words Bruno had spoken, his means of torture. But to do this, she had to disengage. Her narrative might well have happened to someone else. This was particularly true when she related the part about the little boy and the autopsy. She wished that unspeakable episode could remain a dirty little secret. However, there was a mother out there who needed to know that she should wait no longer for the return of her son. She should know he died swiftly and with no suffering. Scully could not bring back the dead or take back her actions following his death. But she must do what she could for the living. She was also under siege by medical personnel. They needed to X-ray her for cracked bones, suture the cuts, treat the burns, discuss the use of plastic surgery to avoid scarring. It was *very* disturbing, she thought. All these people, rushing in and out, all talking at once. They all thought whatever they wanted to talk about was so goddamned urgent. It wasn't. She couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Somewhere in the course of her captivity, she had lost her sense of time. She was willing to drift, indefinitely. If these people would just leave her alone and stop nagging, pressing, pulling. Let her retreat to the place where she'd learned to live in solitude, her mind. Her mother's visit had exhausted her. Maggie's eyes had lit up as she entered and rushed to embrace Dana. Tears had flowed as she said how relieved she was, how thankful. She told Dana how she had enlisted the prayers of Father McCue, how the two had prayed daily for her deliverance. "I prayed too," Dana told her. "But not the pretty kind of prayers you're talking about." "It wasn't a pretty situation," Maggie said. "I'm sure God understood, no matter what you said. You're here, aren't you? And in much better shape than I ever expected. This is one of the happiest days of my life, Dana. You're back." Scully nodded. She wasn't quite sure that *she* was back. Her body was lying in this bed, but she seemed to have erected an invisible shield around her self. She was glad to see her mother, thankful that Maggie was relieved and happy, but still, she felt listless, slightly numb. Things just weren't penetrating. She made an effort to reach out. "I'm sorry for all the worry this put you through, Mom." "I was worried sick, I admit. Of *course* I was. But it's all okay now. Better than okay. Terrific. Oh, honey, thank God." "Yes," Dana said listlessly. "Do you want to talk?" Maggie leaned down and touched her forehead, leaving her hand there for a few seconds as if checking for a fever. "Not right now, Mom. I'm just...so tired. Really tired." Looking less happy than when she entered the room, Maggie left. Scully felt guilty but helpless. All these people with their questions and their caring. Their demands. She knew Maggie had been worried sick and was acting purely out of love, but still, she was mired in ennui. It was all...too much. She longed to escape to her apartment and lock the door. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< "How is she?" Mulder asked Maggie. He'd been sitting with his head propped against the wall for hours, dozing sporadically. He'd found that, with Scully's return, he could sleep again. "She seemed to want me to leave. She seems...done in. I don't know when I've seen her so down." "I'm sorry. No one knows what she went through. It'll take a while." Deliver a few platitudes, why don't you, he asked himself. Cheaper by the dozen. He hauled himself to his feet. "Maybe you'll be able to reach her," Maggie said. "I can't. Tell her I'll see her tomorrow, will you?" Mulder nodded and held the door open for Maggie. Then he took a deep breath and prepared to be sensitive and tactful. Shit, he thought, that'll take longer than the space of a breath. Maybe I should return in six months. He knocked on Scully's door. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Well, this was a change. Someone actually knocked on the door instead of barging in. "Come in." He entered, closed the door, and stood with his back to the door while they examined each other. Mulder looked thin and exhausted, worn to the bone, edgy. "How many pounds have you lost?" she asked him. "Fifteen." He looked at her reduced frame tucked beneath the covers, her wild hair, her bruised, swollen face, the eyes that held...something unScully, something disconcerting. "How about you?" "Lost weight? Ten." "Let me take you out to dinner when they spring you," he said. "We both need to eat some good, fattening food." "As long as it's not Italian." Her tone conveyed that she was not kidding. He nodded. "Do you mind if I sit on the bed?" he asked. "Or would you rather I keep my distance?" She looked surprised. "You're the only one who's asked, the only one who's knocked, the only one who's thought that I might like some privacy and control." She stopped, smoothed the tremors out of her voice. "Come sit on the bed," she invited. "I wasn't raped. I have no fear of men in general and certainly not of you. I want you close to me." He sat, reaching for her hand. She ignored his gesture and pulled his head close to hers, burying her face in his neck. She sighed moistly onto his skin. He wrapped both arms around her and pulled her close. "Tell me if I'm hurting you. I heard you have a cracked rib." "It's okay. I need to be held." She buried her head again and nestled fiercely. This felt right, she thought. Her mother had tried to reach her, but she'd been too far gone. To feel human again, she needed to be touched. To feel a warm body--this warm body--surrounding her, sheltering her. She breathed in his scent, felt the tight muscles of his arms curl around her sides, his gentle hands rubbing her spine. How much she must have suffered to display such need, Mulder thought. She clung to him with the desperation of someone dangling over the edge of a cliff. She was nowhere near "fine." In contrast, he felt as if his phantom limb, the one that had tingled with pain all the time she was gone, had been reattached. He felt whole again, and it was an incredible feeling. He closed his eyes, concentrating on soaking her up. The bones in her spine protruded. She felt like a waif from a war-torn country. She is, he realized. She's just been airlifted out of a war zone. My refugee. That makes me a refuge. He hoped no one had told her the status of the investigation at the time she freed herself. He was convinced that with the information he'd unearthed, it was only a matter of hours, or at most a day, before they found her. But the fact was that she had saved herself, not simply beaten them to the rescue. Every hour counted where Danelli was concerned. *One* more hour with him might have proved fatal. And Scully needed to feel that power, realize her great accomplishment, she who was like a tiny, delicate bird in his hands. She felt as if any pressure would break her in two. She was deceptive that way. Minutes passed. Connection, at least on a physical level, was re- established. Eventually Scully pulled back and rested on her pillow. Mulder let her go, kissed her forehead, and sat close, his thigh resting against her hip, stroking her hand. He noticed bandages on her wrist and arm. Others showed through her hospital gown. The unScully look remained in her eyes. "Tell me how it felt while I was gone," she said. Mulder recognized this as the price he had to pay for Scully to talk to him. I show you mine; you show me yours. Okay, Scully, he thought, I'll show you my pain. "I couldn't eat or sleep. I kept looking at the crime scenes of the previous victims, imagining what he must be doing to you." He took a breath. "I hated myself for what was going on and I couldn't do a fucking thing to stop it. I thought," he paused. "I thought, if you died, like that, in such pain, I didn't know how I'd ever go on." Tears rolled down Scully's cheeks. "Thank you," she whispered. He wiped away the tears. "For what?" "For, for breaking through. Ever since...ever since I don't know how long...I had to get tough. I couldn't let myself feel. Except hate, anger, rage. I thought I'd go over the edge if I let myself feel what he wanted me to feel, all that hopelessness. So I just...stopped. And now I'm back in the world, and it's...as if...it doesn't make any difference. Cause I'm still trapped." She shook her head. "I've...escaped, but it's not over. I can't explain." Mulder leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on her cheek. "You just explained," he told her. "I understand. You can't walk away from something like that and say, okay, that's that. It's been less than a day. You have to give yourself some time." "You saw the pictures?" He shook his head. "I didn't want to see them," he said. "Unless you want me to look, I'm not going to." He felt it was bad enough that Danelli had invaded her privacy without half the Bureau doing so as well. "Everyone else did, I suppose," she said. "And they'll be dragged out for the trial. And there I'll be, nude, bedraggled, looking like a dog that's been beaten." "But that's the amazing thing, Scully. He couldn't beat you. You didn't let him get the power over you. You beat *him*." She shrugged. "I feel like a loser though." "Why?" He patted her hand. "Don't answer if you don't feel like it. You might be better off with a professional. It takes a lot of work to get through something this painful." He ran his hand lightly down her bruised cheek, gently fingered the swollen flesh above her right eye. He gave her a small smile. "I'm not talking about the physical pain." "I know." She looked into his eyes, soft with sympathy and understanding. God, Mulder seemed like a different *species* than the man she'd been spending all her time with. His touch, his interest--she could feel a meltdown begin in the protective icy layer she'd grown over the past weeks. Each stroke on her cheek brought more heat, more thawing. She pressed into his knuckles, seeking the healing contact. "I feel like talking now." she told him. "Here's the problem. I feel like shit. I should be dancing in the streets cause I slew the dragon, or some crap like that. But all I can think about are the horrible things. I was stupid, thick. It took me so long to figure him out. I should have been out of there weeks ago. Instead, I let him reduce me to...almost nothing. He broke me, and I, I hate that." Her voice cracked and filled with a choking venom. "I hate that fucking bastard. And I always will." Mulder took some time to think over her words and what he heard in her voice. "You did what no other victim could do. Of course you felt down and...and powerless; everyone does, if they're being held hostage. You know that, Scully. But you overcame those feelings and defeated him. Eventually, I think you'll feel proud of yourself for that. You saved your life. You saved the lives of others he'd go after next. He's the kind of killer who'd go on forever, escalate, devise new ways of hurting. You stopped him." He smiled. "In fact," he said, "you beat the holy shit out of him so bad that they'll probably make you part of the curriculum at Quantico. You Won," he said emphatically. "Well, it isn't just that he made me feel...broken...despairing," she said. "It's...the control he exerted. That I...I actually cut up a beautiful little boy, performed an autopsy for *entertainment*. Then watched that...that creep boil the boy's bones. He was making a fucking stock, that unmitigated asshole. I...I desecrated that child's body." More tears trailed down her cheeks. "I...I love kids. And I watched him kill one and then *cooperated.* I feel like a Nazi collaborator or something. I can't ever forget that, and it makes me...makes me hate...him, me, the whole fucking world." "He was the bad guy. You were the innocent...person he was determined to control, to torment. If the boy was already dead, your refusal couldn't help him. It could only get you killed." She scoured at her tears. "I *know* that. But I'm talking about how I *feel*, not about my rationalizations. And remembering those hours...will always...make me sick. And hateful." She met his eyes, her own awash with tears. "Some people can't even have children, and he...he goes around killing the ones that *are* here." Oh, shit, Mulder thought. The wound that keeps on bleeding. He'd give his actual right arm to restore her fertility. But she didn't need his guilt piled on top of her misery. "The loss of a child is always a tragedy," he said slowly. "We both know that." He paused, remembering the loss of a child that had set in motion the course of his life. "The death of the little boy...I think it's ...it's right that you should grieve, let out your feelings. It's a...horrible loss, an unspeakable thing to happen, and it's enough to make decent people feel...horrible. So, if I were to advise you, which I'm not," he quirked his mouth into a semi-smile, "I'd say to go ahead and accept all those bad feelings. Don't try to fight them. They're appropriate. But try to realize the...the real wrong here is that Danelli killed the boy. Not anything you did." He rubbed away a tear near her mouth. "I think in time, you'll be able to think of it that way. I hope so." Scully thought over what he said and finally gave a small nod. "I hope so too," she said fervently. She paused. "Another thing," she told him, "I kind of had a personality transplant while I was gone. I...I just got nastier and nastier. There was this voice inside of me, I'm not sure it'll ever go away. It's obscene, cynical, snide. Full of hate. For a while, I fooled myself into thinking it's like your inner voice. But it isn't. You're pretty much a kind, gentle person. This voice is a...a raving bitch. And she won't go away. It's like I split up into parts, created a tough, nasty part, like I needed it...to survive." He squeezed her hand. "Exactly. Survival was the only important thing, so you did what was necessary. Just what you should have done." Scully sighed and continued to grip his hand. "Actually, I discovered that survival wasn't the most important thing. I found that out when he brought in the boy, drugged, still breathing. Told me to... to kill him, to autopsy him while he was still alive." Her voice trembled. "I...I refused and told him to...to kill me if he wanted, but I wasn't going to hurt the kid." Mulder tried not to flinch. It took a great effort to keep his voice calm when he really felt like shouting to the skies about the vicious actions of that damned lunatic and subjecting him to a slow, excruciating death. "Well, some things *are* more valuable than life. We both know there are things we're willing to give our lives for. Of course you'd rather die than murder a child. That's...that's you, Scully. It's all decent people." He pushed her hair back, touched her brow. "You did great. You survived, you beat him, you saved yourself. In a few days, or a few weeks, you'll feel better about the whole thing. Your injuries will heal, and so will your...your spirit." He paused. "This was a...horrendous experience. It takes time to adjust your worldview. You became who you needed to to get out. Don't regret the qualities that saved you. Just know that eventually you'll be more...yourself again. This is very common with...people who've been taken prisoner." "I...I considered killing him. When he was already down. When I'd already beaten him into unconsciousness." The words lay there, glowing like radioactive waste. She felt...deeply ashamed that she could contemplate killing someone in cold blood, no matter what he'd done. She recalled a similar temptation when holding a gun on Louis Cardinale. She was afraid she harbored, deep inside, a vicious, lawless intruder who might act in ways *she*, the true Scully, considered abhorrent. How readily she had shot Mulder to prevent him from killing Krycek. How simple it had been back then, when she thought her moral compass straight and true. Now, its needle skittered around, unable to locate a true north. "But of course you would," Mulder exclaimed. "After the way he treated you? With pictures of the other victims all over the wall, showing you what he meant to do to you? It'd be strange if you *didn't* want to kill him." He smiled. "The important thing is that you didn't give in to the impulse." Tears dribbled down her cheeks again. "Thank you." She wondered if she'd ever stop crying. It was as if a dam had burst. She burrowed into him again. seeking more comfort. Maybe if she could focus on someone else for a change. She'd become so self-absorbed during her captivity. "Tell me about you. What you've been doing, how you've been holding up. God, I missed you. Your strength, your ideas, your...your.... you." she confessed. "I felt starved, being cut off from you like that. And all the time, I kept wondering what you'd do in that situation, how you'd save yourself. I was convinced you'd handle it better." "You did fine," he assured her, again pushing back her Medusa hair, which had not yet been tamed by her return to civilized life. He doubted that she'd even bothered to ask for a mirror. Troubled in mind, she really didn't care about how she looked. And neither did he. He was concerned only about the pain in her eyes. And the painful battering her body had taken. "I'm sure you did a lot better than I could have done." he insisted. He smiled into her hair. "You know I couldn't have done the fire thing!" Looking down, he could see her lips quirk slightly. "And I did tell you how I felt. I was miserable. I did a lot of running in place, for days and days. We were getting nowhere. I was getting, uh, pretty damned surly. And only you know how surly I can get. Finally, we got some good leads, thanks to the Gunmen." He smiled. "We need to take them out to dinner. Without their information, I would have been in an asylum by now. They hacked their asses off for you, night and day." Scully smiled. "I'd love to take them out. Do they dine out, like normal people?" "Good question." "You know what saved me?" she asked, rubbing her finger along the back of his hand. "Your quick thinking, brilliant planning, and bold actions?" He clasped her hand in his and studied it. "Besides all that," she said, smoothing his spiky hair. "I told him about Tooms. It kind of distracted him to hear about a guy even more heartless than he was. He thought the story was pretty cool." Mulder leaned forward so his cheek lay beside hers. "I'm so glad to have you back," he whispered. She reached out to cradle his face in her hand, drawing him even closer. God, he felt good, she thought, pressing against him. "Even if I'm so used to captivity that I can't stand the daylight?" she asked. "And it feels weird for me to be wearing clothes? And suddenly I'm like some jungle creature that's been brought back to civilization? I'm spooked by crowds, by more than one voice talking to me? By sleeping lying down? I'm still a fuckin' hostage!" She shook her head, chagrined. "And I've also developed a split personality. Just a minor matter of being inhabited by a foul-mouthed bitch. You may have noticed, I could use an exorcist." He stroked her hair, kissed her cheek. She drew back, looked into his eyes, then leaned forward and brushed her lips across his. His lips were so warm and soft, she thought. More meltdown occurred. He gathered her closer and returned her kiss, pressing his lips to hers for some time. He was lost. Eventually, he drew back a few inches. "Your poor face," he said. "Your eye, your jaw, even your ear." He touched them as he mentioned them, his fingers as light as a butterfly wing. "What else? I heard you had a cracked rib. And I see a lot of bandages." "I have some cuts and burns. Probably need plastic surgery." "Where?" She pointed to various areas of her body, naming the sites of pain. Mulder was distressed by the lack of affect with which she recited her injuries: burn on this wrist, cut on this arm, burn on the chest, big burn on the shoulder, where'd he'd used her like an ashtray. Mulder's brow grew dark, and his jaw set in anger. "It's okay," she assured him. "Nothing that serious." "It's *always* serious if someone hurts you," he snapped. He heard his voice. "Sorry, I'm still upset." He pulled her into his arms, trying to calm himself with her touch, her smell. At last, her presence soothed him and he got his temper under control. His practical side had some suggestions. "You know the guy's filthy rich," he said. "You can probably sue him, get some really top-notch plastic surgery. Maybe throw in some dough for the pain and suffering too." "He doesn't have enough money to cover it," she said fiercely. "No one in the world does." "I know," he told her. He leaned forward and kissed her lips again, glad to see that the haunted look was gradually fading from her eyes. He wished he could wipe it all away, the whole experience, like an eraser on a chalkboard. There were a lot of things that'd happened to her that he'd like to erase. But he knew that was impossible. And he'd never erase *her* from his life. "It's bad now," he said, "but time really does heal eventually." He smiled. "In the meantime, if you can't get used to wearing clothes, I think I could adjust to that. I'm willing to sacrifice if it'll make you happy." For the first time in weeks, Scully laughed. She had been held captive by a madman. The memory of that insistent, grating cackle- -and all the accompanying atrocities-- would never leave her. Her sense of humor had died, to be replaced by anger, hatred, and despair. Now she thought she might be ready to try to regain the parts of her she had lost. Mulder relished her laugh and the residual smile that lingered for some minutes. He noticed that her eyelids were drooping. "You need your rest, Scully. That kind of thing really takes its toll. Lie down." Like a trusting child, she lay back and closed her eyes. She didn't let go of his hand, however. Her grip remained firm. "I'm here," he said. "And I'm not going anywhere. It's okay. You're going to feel better after you've had some rest." She smiled at his earnest, comforting voice, but still worried about waking up and finding that this warm, loving scene was all wishful thinking, a dream brought on by Death's lasagna. "You'll stay?" "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be here as long as you need me." At last, she was convinced. She closed her eyes and relaxed. She could feel herself taking the first hesitant step on the long, stony road to recovery, Mulder's hand in hers. Scully slept. END (Followed by epilogue, Injuries Redux—see below) Notes: Eternal thanks to my tireless betas, Marie, Alelou, and entreamis, all of whom were incredibly generous (and often adamant and forceful) with ideas about plot, characterization, pacing, descriptions, and every element of the story. It was a difficult story because the psychopath needed to be vicious, yet none of us wanted to hurt Scully. The plotting was further complicated when it turned out that everyone's sensibilities were affected by a different element of his behavior. I thank every member of this devoted, sensitive, intelligent group. The flaws are mine; many of the virtues are due to their vigilance. Detective novels mentioned in the course of the story-- Kay Scarpetta, Bruno's idol and bete noire, is the creation of Patricia Cornwell. Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes are written by Laurie R. King. Others mentioned along the way--Sharon McCone belongs to Marcia Muller; Kinsey Millhone to Sue Grafton; Stephanie Plum and Joe Morelli to Janet Evanovich; and Emerson and Peabody to Elizabeth Peters. Classic detectives mentioned in passing by Bruno: Blake refers to Nicholas Blake. Sayers to Dorothy L Sayers. Christie, to Agatha Christie, for whom the fictitious Agatha list is named. The Scully masturbation scene, replete with Eleanor Roosevelt, is the product of a disturbed mind which has read too many Scully-masturbates- while-thinking-about-Mulder scenes. I was drugged :) EPILOGUE: Injuries REDUX MANY MONTHS LATER Tapping the steering wheel, Mulder glanced at the doorway. Still no sign of Scully, who'd said she was sure to be finished by 4 p.m. Did that mean things were going badly as she prepared her testimony--in her fourth session in four days--with the prosecutors in the upcoming Bruno Danelli trial? She had become more and more tense as the week dragged by, and he, wired into her psyche, tightened up right along with her. They were both becoming as edgy as a Tennessee Williams cat. And their claws had been unsheathed a few times as well. When he dropped her off at the prosecutors' office, he'd said casually, "We'll go out for dinner tonight, okay?" She'd paused in opening the car door. Pale, frowning, she'd murmured a listless, "I suppose." "Hey, don't do me any favors. If you don't want to eat, just let me know." He was tense too, he realized. No need to attack her, just because she was letting him see how she felt. She shouldn't have to hide her feelings from him. On the contrary. He gave himself a swift mental kick. "You don't have to hang around for this if you don't want to, Mulder. God forbid you should waste your time. You must have other things to do. Important things." Kind of a low blow from her, he thought. She knew he was obsessed with this testimony and its effect on her. She was the only thing on his mind right now, and she damned well knew it. So he'd retreated. "No," he told her. "This is the only important event in my life. I'll be right here. When you come out, we'll either find a place to eat or go home. Your choice." She'd managed a smile. "Thanks. And I mean it. See you later." She'd leaned across the seat to kiss his cheek before disappearing, leaving only a trace of lily-of-the-valley scent behind. He loved the scent--because it was hers, and because it was a plant which burst forth in delicate blossoms after the passing of early spring. Just like Scully, he thought, to whom too much had happened for her to be a creature of spring. No dewy innocence for her. Instead, she was entering the summer of her life, ready, he hoped, to enjoy a long season of bloom. In bright sunshine and cloudless skies. God knew she deserved ideal conditions after all the storms of recent years. He gave himself a little lecture about treating her with sensitivity during this next week. To get his head out of his ass and give her all his patience and tolerance, no matter what she said or refused to ask for. It was horrendous that she would have to talk about her experiences in public, and be cross-examined about them, all while facing the monstrous man who had abducted and tortured her for his sadistic pleasure. She'd also have to sit through a courtroom display of the pictures Bruno took during her captivity, when she was a nude, frightened, bruised, burned animal. Or at least that's what she said. Even after all these months, he had never looked at the photos. He'd told her he wouldn't, unless she wanted him to. And she'd never asked him to look. Bruno's attorneys would be tough. His inherited money enabled him to hire a team of household names, Doberman lawyers who would strive to use the pictures of Scully and those of the four captives he killed to argue that the man had to be insane to perform these kinds of heinous acts. And in their questioning of Scully, they would try to force her to admit that his actions during her captivity had no basis in sanity: ordering her to autopsy a child who was still alive; watching the autopsy for a sexual thrill after slitting the child's throat; boiling the child's bones in sick tribute to a detective fiction novel; the entire captivity, keeping her nude and tied to a chair, chortling maniacally as the torture escalated. Thinking of the events, Mulder's heart ached. What must it be like for Scully to dredge up all those memories and know that she must testify about them in open court, Scully, most private of persons? And to know that day after day, she would have to share a courtroom with the man who had bound her, tortured her, and intended to murder her, in the most painful way possible. A man she could have killed; she'd had the opportunity. A man he himself would love to kill, might have killed, if *he* were offered the chance. She had been forthcoming right after the incident, opening up to him, needing his support and comfort. Clinging, even. They had maintained their personal closeness in most ways and opened new avenues for exploration. But Bruno soon became off limits. She had hidden Bruno behind a door and quietly closed it. Then, she locked the door, and the key had been missing for months. Scully had tried her best to walk away. But now, forced to return to the scene of the crime, the scene of her agony and despair, that long walk back had become a painful trudge. Trudge. Here she was, and her walk *was* a trudge. Her feet dragged as she approached the car, in striking contrast to her usual brisk stride. She looked beat, discouraged, depressed. And there wasn't a damned thing he could do for her. She'd undergone plastic surgery--even more pain, thanks to that sick bastard--that had concealed the scars and burns. Her skin was once again perfect. But no surgery could heal her spirit, and no matter how much affection he lavished upon her, he couldn't make the experience and its aftermath go away. That's why he lashed out sometimes, all that goddamned frustration. He promised himself that today he'd rein in his temper and be supportive, no matter how helpless he felt. "How ya doing?" he asked as she plopped into the passenger seat and dumped her briefcase on the floor. She collapsed against the seat, groping for her seatbelt. She looked across at him. Despite the body language, her eyes held a new glint of strength and determination. "I'd like to talk with you," she said. "Can we go somewhere with trees and paths and privacy?" He nodded and started the car. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Virginia was full of battlegrounds, Scully thought, as they pulled into one of its many parks. As a battlefield herself, once stained with blood, scarred by turbulence and hostility, she could identify. Time to get some things into the open here, she'd decided. This past week had made her feel like a balloon ready to burst. She wasn't even sure what was inside that balloon--anger, terror, frustration, loathing--the emotions careened and tangled, leaving her irritable, confused, and so low on energy she could hardly force herself to move. This week of reliving the experience with Bruno had brought her to the brink of paralysis. She hoisted her briefcase as they climbed out of the car and selected a path. Exiting the offices of the prosecutors, she realized she had reached a perilous state. Instead of allowing a near-catatonia to descend, she needed. . . to *act*. Enough of this. . .this lying back and letting the force of conflicting emotions overwhelm her. The first action, she decided, was to get some blood moving again in her torpid body. She'd been without appetite, energy, or drive, sinking into slumber at every opportunity. It was as if Bruno had twice made her his captive. He'd stolen her will and removed her feeling of personal power--again-- despite being in prison. Somehow, she'd managed to imprison herself as well, by refusing to deal with her swirling emotions. Well, fuck that, she told herself with more vigor than she'd felt in few weeks. If you can defeat him once, you can do it again. Now get off your ass and let Mulder in on what's happened. "Can we just walk fast for a while?" she asked him. "Without talking?" "It's your party." About twenty minutes later, some color in her face and hair tangled over her eyes, Scully halted by a bench. Her roiling thoughts had reached some semblance of order, and after weeks of tamping down the horrors, the ones she couldn't stand to face even within her own mind, she was ready to risk edging them gingerly into the light of day. "Let's sit here," she said to Mulder. "I'd like to show you something." He wrapped his arm around her shoulder as she pulled the briefcase to her lap and snapped it open. "You've never seen the horror show, have you?" He shook his head. "I meant it when I said I wouldn't look unless you wanted me to. I did see all the other women, of course. So I know what to expect." But he didn't, it turned out. He gasped as she spread the photos across the briefcase on her lap and across his knees as well. She kept piling them up, after brief pauses for him to view them, snapping down photo after photo as if she were dealing a large deck of cards. They were horror personified, Dana Scully as neither of them had ever thought of her. The UnScully. But there she was. Tears ran down Mulder's cheeks and he didn't think to wipe them. He didn't even feel them, so numbed was he by the pictures of her haunted face and pained body. She noticed his reaction and envied him his easy access to emotion. After freeing herself, she had defrosted her emotions for a while, with great relief, but then she had placed the pain into cold storage. Talking to the attorneys every day, reliving the details, had unplugged the icebox, and she was once again in meltdown. But the emotions were so amorphous, so paralyzing, she couldn't quite grasp them. Mulder had no such problem. "Was I even human?" she said quietly. "How can I accept that this was me?" Mulder looked up from the photographs to the woman beside him. "This was you in a desperate situation," he told her in a cracking voice. He reached up to brush away some of the tears trickling down his face, then took the moisture and applied it to her cheek. "I'm giving you my tears, because that's what I... I think you need. Someday you'll cry and weep and, and wail for hours, I hope, and let it out. But no one can force you to deal with it sooner than you're ready to." He transferred some more tears to the bruised-looking flesh under her eyes. "I'm a shrink," he added, with a failed attempt at a smile. "I know these things." "Thanks." She looked at him for a minute, grateful for his gesture, wishing she could just. . . let go. But she couldn't, not yet. She sat in silence, fingering the pictures, scrutinizing the images of her face. The face that didn't really seem to be hers. "This is me," she said, sounding incredulous. "You're still talking to Karen?" She nodded. "Trying to. It's so unpleasant. . .I'd rather it would just. . . go away." But it wasn't. Even before the trial, it was lurking there, the monster under the bed, the one with glowing red eyes that made itself known when darkness fell. "Yeah." He knew it wouldn't, but he wasn't about to turn into some pompous psychoanalytic prick. She needed a friend, not a know-it- all. "Are you shocked by these?" "Devastated." She looked at his ravaged face and bent forward to kiss his cheek. "Thanks." She tried to smile. "If I can't manage the feelings, you'll have them for me? Just like you'll cry for me?" "You know I'll do anything for you." Maybe she didn't know, he thought. She'd been off-kilter, distracted, in retreat. She might have lost sight of the basics as she ran like hell from herself. She spent some minutes looking at the pictures, pulling some closer for more careful study. She arranged them in a certain order, then re-arranged them. Then she arranged them again. "Okay," she said at last, "this one is the very worst." He looked at a shot of her fingers fluttering around a nasty-looking burn on her shoulder, her agonized face twisted almost beyond recognition. "Is that the principle of arrangement?" She nodded. "Yeah. I figure it's better to face the worst first." But I didn't, she told herself. I still need to face the one thing I run from every time. I hate to think about it. Hate it. She handed him the pile. He leafed through it slowly, studying her own evaluation of what had been the most abased moments of her captivity. He saw her sitting bound to a chair with blood pouring from a gash on her arm, making a rivulet down her naked thigh, he saw her lying helpless and fearful on the floor, her breast burned, a hand coming up to protect her terrified face, he saw her curled into a fetal ball, arms shielding her ribs, her very toes furled in terror. Horror followed upon horror. "No one should have to bear this," he said intensely. He would not put them away from him and refuse to look. She deserved not to have these images of horror tucked away as though they were too repugnant to bear the light of day. He went through the stack again, trying to show that he accepted that these events had happened. That there was no shame for her in undergoing the torments, nothing to hide. "He should fry," he said. And he wished to be the one to light the fire. "The prosecutors are worried that he'll get off on the insanity plea," she said. "That's why they've spent the week drilling me. He was so organized in trapping his victims. They want to get into the whole e-mail correspondence. How could he be insane if he spent a year leading me gently into his trap? Pre-meditation out the wazoo. And of course, all the stuff he said to me that indicates how savvy he was--with his incredible computer skills and ability to obliterate his trail. To rent places, buy vehicles, obtain autopsy equipment, figure out how to use the motel, set up dummy accounts everywhere." She sighed. He understood that sigh. "And his pricy attorneys will argue that he lived in an imaginary world, that he had to be mad to even contemplate the kinds of things he was doing. And some eminent whore of a psychiatrist will testify that he didn't realize his fantasies were really being enacted." She nodded. "And that argument only holds water if you admit that every criminal who's competent enough to carry out a complicated but sick crime is a psycho. In which case, the jails would be empty of murderers and the mental institutions would be jammed with them. They're going to argue that to plot an elaborately grisly murder is itself a basis for judging a person insane. And only the fact that they're famous attorneys will make anyone listen to that horseshit for more than a second." She tucked the photos away and closed the briefcase with a loud snap. "It's this thing about people not being evil, just sick--" She raised an ironic brow. "--And misunderstood. We're bound to hear treatises on the fact that he was abused as a child and it's really his mother who's to blame for making him a sicko. Shit." "Shit is right. You are talkin' to the choir here. But look, Scully, his problems are not yours any more. You caught the bastard. You're going to testify at his trial. I know it's going to be really, really. . . horrible, but you'll be telling the truth, no matter what his high-priced attorneys throw at you." He paused for breath, trying not to get too rah, rah--yet still offer her hope that the ordeal was one she would get through. "It'll be rough, but after that it'll be over, no matter what the courts decide. Why not focus on yourself at this point, not that fucking murdering asshole. Tell your story, walk away, and get on with the healing." He met her glance. "Not that I'm trying to tell you what to do, you understand. My humble suggestion." "That's good advice," she admitted, rising. "But there's part of this I haven't told you. And I think he might bring it out in the trial, and I'm going to be. . . totally humiliated." He rose and they turned to walk back to the car. "Want to lay it on me?" She sighed and took his hand. "Yeah." >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Scully stared up at a pine tree, noting the fine texture of the needles, its exquisite, balanced formation. The hardy, deep green, a perfect color for nature to wear, highlighted by the sun filtering through. She sniffed, refreshed by the odor that seemed so. . . clean. Wholesome. She realized she'd asked Mulder to take her to a natural place to walk but failed to note the beauty of her surroundings. She had gotten so caught in the sickness inside that she'd neglected to see the burgeoning life all around them. There was a pond she hadn't noticed on the walk into the forest. She stopped to watch the gentle movements of the water and the play of the late afternoon light through the treetops. Life was much more beautiful than she'd been seeing it lately. She turned to Mulder. No point in delaying further. Might as well spit it out without decoration, she thought. "I told you I wasn't raped." He nodded. "And the medical examinations bear that out. There was an official catalogue of your injuries after you were hospitalized. I saw it a few days after you were released. There *was* some bruising noted to your breast, I remember." They stared at the peaceful pond. Mulder wondered what kind of scum lay beneath its surface. "Are you saying. . . saying that you *were* raped?" If there was ever a question he didn't want to ask, this was it. Scully was even more reluctant to answer. This, after all, was the topic she'd kept pushing further and further back on the top-most shelf of the dark messy closet that was her mind these days. She'd always had difficulty reaching items she placed high enough in her private storage. But this one was festering. This is what she had come here to discuss. To drag out into the fresh air and sunlight. "I wasn't penetrated by. . . by his penis or any inanimate object," she said. "But he did thrust. . .his hand into my vagina. He, his hand, was inside me for, oh, I don't know. It seemed like forever. It was probably five to ten seconds." "Jesus Christ," Mulder exploded. "And you never thought to tell anyone this?" He calmed down instantly, remembering all his good resolutions. "I'm sorry," he breathed. Scully had stepped back, getting out of the way of his blast of wrath. She didn't mind his outburst; it comforted her to know that he thought it was a serious matter. Now she felt ready to explain how her mind had decided that she was *not* raped after all. But first she had to listen to Mulder's apologies. He reached out cautiously for her hand and cradled it in both of his. "I can't fucking believe I just said that." he said hoarsely. " Whatever happened, it's all his fault. You did nothing wrong, Scully. Forgive me. Please." He pressed her hand, gazing into her stormy eyes. But Scully's eyes didn't hold anger, just a welcome release of emotion. She visualized a little segment of the closeted guilt floating from the shelf, dropping into the atmosphere and burning off, like a spacecraft returning to earth. Maybe, she thought, feeling something tight inside her unfurl, *I'm* returning to earth. Finally. "You don't have to apologize," she told Mulder He looked so miserable, just when she was on an upswing. She sought to make him understand. Maybe they could *both* feel better. But she knew that none of this was going to be easy for him to hear. "You see, at the time, I thought this was. . . it. The full-scale rape that I'd been dreading for days. The sexual assault, complete with damage, tearing, terrible pain and abasement, the stuff that happened to the previous captives. "So when I escaped with only a few seconds of his hand. . . inside me, my vagina, I was incredibly. . . relieved when he jerked out his hand, started hitting me in the face. I was actually. . . happy when he knocked my chair onto the floor, even though when he kicked me, his shoe cracked my rib." She paused, looked him straight in the eye. "Getting off with a quick feel and a light beating seemed like a victory at the time." Mulder held her eyes. "It was," he assured her. "A lot worse could have happened. We have the pictures and we have the corpses to prove it. You were raped, yeah. You. . .you were physically violated, sexually violated. That fucking bastard. I wish I had him here right now. I would. . . " He trailed off. They were dealing with her feelings here, not his. His outburst could wait. He calmed himself and said, "But of course you wouldn't think of it as rape right away. You'd escaped a terrible sexual assault. I understand." He tugged on her hand, tried to pull her into his arms. She stood her ground. "I lied to everyone," she whispered, "including myself. I explained why I saw it that way at the time, but I've spent months refusing to face the facts. It's been eating away at me. I. . . I think I've just been. . . violated too many times. I couldn't admit that it'd happened again. I wasn't ready." She moved into his arms and let him envelop her. He kissed her hair, caressed the nape of her neck, nuzzled her ear. "It's all right," he murmured. "You had to wait until you were ready to talk about it. It was time to let it out. You'll probably feel a little better now." But I won't, he grumbled in his mind. That cocksucking son of a bitch. She enjoyed being comforted a few more minutes, but then knew she had to finish. There was still more bad stuff stored in the dark closet. She climbed onto a stepstool and reached way back on the top shelf. She pulled away from Mulder. "There's more." "What?" His heart stopped for an instant. What else did she have to torture him with? And why, he wondered, couldn't he get straight just which member of this team had in fact been tortured? Get your head out of your ass, he ordered himself. Listen to her. "Can we walk?" She answered the question by turning back to the path and striding briskly away. Mulder caught up without effort. "Your notorious curiosity seems to be asleep on the job today, Mulder," she said. "You apparently didn't wonder why Bruno jerked his hand away from me and started beating me up." "I admit the thought didn't cross my mind," he said. "My investigative skills are on vacation at the moment." How many roles can a guy play, he added to himself. "This isn't pretty," she told him. "But it might come out at the trial because that asshole might say that I came on to him, that I wasn't his victim. Of course, that's not gonna fly. We have all my injuries, the pictures of me and the previous victims, the kidnapping, the e-mail, the whole package. The prosecutors think this probably won't come up because with all the other evidence, it's just goddamned laughable. But his attorneys are vicious, so we've got to be prepared. And I want you to be ready for this, just in case. And," she paused and glanced his way, still striding along at a fast clip, "you might as well know this anyway." "Go ahead," he urged her. "After this buildup, anything you tell me is going to be milder than my careening imagination." You hope, he added to himself. "Okay," she said, speeding up till she was practically trotting. Still trying to run away from it, she noted. "I was trying to count the days, as I told you. And I was expecting a sexual assault, at about the time it apparently happened to the other women. Also, I noticed he was staring at my body a lot." Mulder nodded, although she was facing forward, carefully not looking at him. "So I decided that if he was going to rape me, it'd be best if I was. . . wet. . prepared. Less painful and damaging, you know? And I also thought if I was wet and came on to him and convinced him that I was willing and eager for sex, that'd take away his pleasure, which seemed to consist of forcing me to do things I didn't want to, breaking my will. Winning, controlling, dominating." "Yeah, that's how he was, according to the records," Mulder told the side of her head. "So I thought he might not rape me if I seemed willing, or at least, he might be so surprised that he'd be put off and it'd buy me some time. Which it did, as it happened." She risked a glance at Mulder and saw perfect understanding in his eyes. She slowed down. "So, when he put his hand in. . . in your vagina, he was angry to find you an. . .an apparently willing participant," Mulder finished. "And he was pissed and beat you, not being one who wanted to rape the willing." "Exactly," she said, grinding to a halt as they reached the parking lot. She leaned against a fence near their car, staring off across the battlefield. She felt as if she were nearing the end of a very long battle, and she just might emerge alive. Not unscathed, but alive. And it was a civil war for sure, in her case. Scully vs. Scully. She was so often her own worst enemy, she thought, counting up her deficiencies. "And you're preparing for total embarrassment because you might have to testify that you masturbated," Mulder concluded. "Bingo." "God," Mulder said. "We should send me in as your substitute. I could tell them the best movies for getting off quickly. I'd have them enthralled. They'd wind up taking notes." To her surprise, after all that gloom and angst,Scully laughed. Mulder really *did* makes things better. He should be patented. "It's the double standard at work," she told him. "You'd come off looking inventive. I'll be an immoral whore, a shameless slut, the talk of the whole Bureau. A headline in the Washington Post. I'll have to wear a bag over my head." Wow, she thought -- joking about something that had sickened her for so long. Ah, the glories of fresh air. All closets should be aired out periodically, just as mama used to say. Her closet was emptier; her heart definitely lighter, despite the looming ordeal. Mulder studied the cannons lined up on the battlefield, happy that the dam had finally crumbled and that communications had resumed . "You did the smart thing," he told her. "Nothing to be ashamed of. Actually, a lot of women wouldn't have done that or even thought of it. Good work, Agent Scully. And good profiling of the sleazeball, too." They stood together, both reflecting that being on a battlefield was a pretty good metaphor for their existence. "You can get over this, Scully," Mulder told her, looking into the distance. "I know it's taking more time than you expected. . .or wanted, but it'll happen. And I'm here for you." "Yeah, I know," she said, linking her arm with his. Already, she felt about a thousand percent better. "Have you been using your films again?" she asked. "I know I haven't been up for much these past few weeks." "No, I'm saving myself for you," he said. "I know this has been on your mind, so I decided to wait you out. God knows when I get obsessed with something, I'm not exactly a bundle of hormones till after I get it settled. So, we just have to realize that. . . that sometimes, one of us isn't thinking much about sex. Even though I know I'm supposed to be, because I'm male. So, shoot me." "I already have," she said. She reached up and pecked his cheek. "I hope you're not thinking that because this trial has me all strung out that I'm not interested in sex." He turned to her and moved his head to her level. "Now why would I think that? Just because you haven't shown any interest in my beautiful body for about three weeks?" "I'm sorry." She touched his lips which were opening to argue with her, she was sure. "No, not sorry for the lack of sex. We do it when we both want to do it. Fine. I'm sorry for keeping all this in, shutting myself off, putting up all this distance. Especially since I feel so much better now that we've talked." "You can always tell me anything," he told her. "I might not take it well, at first, as you saw with this. But then my tenuous connection to sanity will reassert itself and we'll deal with whatever it is." "I know." Her hand still rested on his cheek. She pulled him forward for a kiss. "I wasn't hiding from you on this one. I was hiding from me. It was just all. . . locked up." He returned her kiss. "It's okay. I understand." "Just because I've concluded that I *was* raped, it doesn't have to affect us," she told him, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Don't get self-conscious about my sexual damage and all that, okay?" He pulled her close, worried much more about the psychological damage to one who'd already been violated too many times, in too many ways. He wished he could wrap her in armor and keep her safe, he being the only one allowed inside to touch her. He bent to kiss her neck. Then he rested his chin on the top of her head, eyes closed, reveling in the feeling of having her, the woman who *talked* to him, his lover, in his arms once more. Scully was back. She felt more like herself than she had in months. "You want to make love, fuck, have sex, screw, whatever?" she asked him. "Is this multiple choice? Can I answer 'all of the above'?" "Yeah, I think it's an 'all of the above' type of proposition. Here's your real choice though. Dinner first, or me?" "I'll take you, then dinner, then you again, please." "Good answer, Mr. Mulder." She flashed the dazzling smile that always set his heart racing. They walked to the car hand in hand, leaving a battlefield, once strewn with blood, agony, and death, behind them. There would be other such fields in their future, but for now, peace had descended. END Beta thanks to alelou! NOTE: To all those shocked to find that Scully and Mulder are lovers. "Injuries to the Spirit" was written in such a way that their level of involvement was never clear. In my mind, I always worded it so that they *could* have been lovers. And I included the Holmes/Russell references in part 1 to suggest that that couple--with their devotion to investigating, their marriage, and their continued sexual tension--could be considered a parallel to Mulder and Scully. So, that story was written for the reader to select any degree of personal involvement she or he chose. Nothing appeared to either preclude their being lovers or to confirm it. In this one, I wanted to show something important to my view of these two characters--that CC, in his almighty wisdom, could make theirs a physical relationship at any time without substantially altering their dynamic. I wanted to show that they were still, in this story, a recognizable version of Scully and Mulder. They are still close, irritable, secretive, totally loyal, the human beings they always are. I set out to show that they could be the same people whether they are sleeping together or not. The only real difference would be in their private moments, which occur at the very end. I think it is possible for them to experience conflicts, angst, horrific problems, AND have a sex life, without its overturning their characters inany way. I think CC is wrong--they CAN have a sex life and continueto be themselves-- interesting, conflicted people. Apologies to those who might feel blindsided by this ending! FEEDBACK is most welcome at MystPhile@aol.com NOTE: All of my writings are archived at http://www.xemplary.com and many of my writings are archived at Galia's http://members.xoom.com/galias/mystphile.htm