TITLE: "Mercury Falling" 
AUTHOR: cslatton. Yeah. Sure. Whatever. You'll never 
take me alive... Flames and such to: cslatton17@aol.com 
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

DISTRIBUTION: You mean you actually want it? Ooookay. 
Whatever. Just keep it intact, please, and with my 
name attached. And I'd appreciate a note to let me 
know where it'll be hanging out.

SPOILERS: None, unless you're really paying attention. 
If you catch them, then you've seen the episodes 
they're winking at so they don't count as spoilers, do 
they? 

RATING: Definite R. Language, violence, adult 
situations-- did I leave anything out? 
Warning: Rape is mentioned: NOT described. The 
majority of the violence described is after the fact, 
the effects are described but not in any effort to 
glorify the situation. If you are easily offended, 
turn back now. This is a case involving violent crime 
including murder. If this presents a problem, I invite 
you not to read. But then, how are you managing to 
watch this show to begin with...? 

CLASSIFICATION: X, A, M/O

KEYWORDS: Pre-XF.
 
SUMMARY: It's 1988 and Wheeling, West Virginia has 
serial killer on the loose. One who kills to attract 
the attention of a very exclusive audience: a young, 
hotshot profiler named Fox Mulder. But that's not 
Mulder's only problem for the moment. In fact, the 
killer may just have to get in line... 

DISCLAIMERS: Mulder and company including Purdue, 
Patterson, Skinner, Fowley, Henderson and Nurse Owens
belong to Chris Carter and Company, 1013 Productions 
and Twentieth Century Fox. Everybody else is mine all 
mine and if you decide they're worth playing with, please 
treat them gently: God knows I'm putting them through 
enough hell as it is. James Wright is quoted with 
credit and without intentional infringement of 
copyright, as is Irving Feldman. Ditto, kiddo for John 
Ashbery, who is quoted exclusively from his book "A 
Wave", copyright 1985, by Penguin Books. Great 
stuff... Apologies are sincerely lavished upon 
Dashiell Hammett for references in chapter one. The 
film being viewed in Chapter 21 is Howard Hawk's "To 
Have and Have Not", a marvelous screenplay co-written 
by William Faulkner and based on a short story by 
Ernest Hemmingway. Musical interludes are courtesy 
of Ella Fitzgerald and Phil Collins. 
Special thanks to Salvador Dali for his extraordinary 
"Burning Giraffes". As you can see, I'm trying to 
blame this on as many people as possible-- that way, I 
won't be so lonely when they lock me away. <eg>

Dedication: Okay, Pat and DJ, for what it's worth this 
one's for you. Emerex, for all your encouragement and 
your kind notes, you can have your share, too-- Too 
bad we're not making any money off this, huh? And, 
Connie, well-- Connie knows. I love you, doll. Thank 
you.

Finally, on with the story.

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

"For no one ever came to his help, to help him avoid 
the thorns and snares that attend the steps of 
innocence." --Samuel Beckett, *Malone Dies*; New York: 
Grove Press, Inc. 1956. 

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com
Part 1A of 27: Prologue: Maintenance Agreement 
Friday, April 1, 1988, 9:46 PM. Seattle, Washington. 

Something was in the air. Jake Beckett could feel it. 
Hell, no private eye, on or off the job, could miss 
it. Something was brewing at The Red Dust Bar 'N Grill 
and it didn't come from behind the bar. 

Jake took a deep breath and blew it out slow, watching 
from his quiet corner booth. At the table near the 
door Bennie the Crutch sat rubbing elbows with Rags 
Richmond and Big Eddie Manahan. Outside the door, Big 
Eddie's muscle boys were keeping their eyes peeled for 
trouble while trying to make out like they were just 
getting some air. They weren't selling anybody on the 
routine, though: this time of year Chicago smog was so 
thick a man could develop lung cancer just taking out 
the dog. 

At the table Rags laughed and Beckett felt himself 
start to sweat. Jake had seen Rags laugh twice in two 
years. Both times someone very much alive wound up 
very much dead. Something was definitely going down in 
Detroit and it wasn't the price of Buicks. 

Beckett edged his way to the pay phone and tried to 
keep his bulky frame in the shadows. He popped a coin 
in the slot and dialed headquarters------- 

"Hell's bells!" Purdue barked as his pen went flying 
from his hand. "Damned potholes--" 

Reggie Purdue grimaced in his effort to retrieve the 
Bic from the floorboard of the cab. The streetlights 
in this area of town were few and far between and he 
searched blindly, probing hand encountering gum and 
candy wrappers, a bit of orange peel. An empty bottle 
of Schlitz Malt Liqueur rolled against his foot and he 
kicked at it in his aggravation. It wobbled obediently 
under the front seat as the cab jerked to a halt-- 
betraying the prodigal ballpoint in its flight. 

Purdue retrieved the Bic with a rumbling sigh and 
scrambled for a more dignified position in his seat. 
He held his legal pad up to the ruby glow of the 
traffic light and tried to assess the damage the 
street had wrought upon his hasty scribble. Aside from 
a long shaky line tearing through the bottom of the 
page, every word seemed present and accounted for, 
relatively legible despite the darkness. Still, he 
shook his head mournfully. 

*Reggie, you're a damn fool.* 

And the dull yellow tablet was mute testament to the 
fact, glowing its accusations in the passing lights of 
Seattle street life: page upon page of scribbled notes 
and doodles-- mostly doodles-- the work of months of 
stolen moments, here a paragraph penned in a taxi in 
Grand Rapids, there a page crafted on the red-eye from 
Syracuse to DC. 

On his better days, Purdue could convince himself that 
this was the next great American mystery novel in its 
infancy. Except that he could never seem to come up 
with a viable plot. Or even a halfway decent gumshoe. 

Today, however, was not one of his better days. Purdue 
swallowed at the bitterness in his mouth, recognizing 
the flavor all too well: the acrid taste of disgust. 
After all, he kept telling himself, hadn't he finally 
achieved everything he'd ever wanted? Sure he had. 
Twenty-four years with the FBI and he'd finally made 
ASAC for one of the Bureau's toughest units: Violent 
Crime. Purdue's reputation was solid, his solution 
rate high and he had all the commendations that went 
with it. Behind his back, agents had labeled him Mr. 
Cut-the-Crap-- but they pronounced the words with a 
certain level of pride, and a heavy emphasis on the 
*Mister.* 

Yeah. So, where did that and a buck eighty get him 
now? Well, specifically, Mr. Cut-the-Crap was in the 
back of a cab writing juvenile drivel Dashiell Hammett 
wouldn't wipe his shoes with. 

It didn't get much more pathetic. 

Purdue shook his head as the cab rolled through the 
shadow of an overpass. He should give it up, he knew; 
he had given it up any number of times through the 
years. But somehow his wife had always managed to 
scavenge the bits of paper he'd wadded into the trash. 
She'd gather the pages back out and press them-- press 
the damn things with a steam iron, for crying out 
loud-- and he'd come home to find them laying on his 
desk with a fresh pad of paper and a new pen for 
encouragement. And he didn't have the heart to do 
anything but try again. 

But there was no one to press the pages anymore. 
Hadn't been for eleven months now. 

Eleven months and twelve days. If Purdue looked at his 
watch, he could calculate the hours pretty quick, too. 
He didn't look; it didn't matter. Cancer, unreasoning 
and unyielding, had finally beaten Olivia Purdue. And 
it'd taken most of Reginald Purdue with it when she'd 
left. The pages before him were his last defense, his 
one source of comfort. The one activity that allowed 
him to step outside his own intolerable life and 
pretend all was well once more. 

Purdue swore as he ripped the pages loose, balled them 
up and flung them at the floorboard. Peace, 
compassion, comprehension: what right did he have to 
seek such trivial comforts? It meant nothing now-- 

The ball of crumpled yellow wobbled forlornly amongst 
the candy wrappers and soda stains. Headlights of a 
passing car washed across the cab's deep blue 
upholstery and his mind's eye caught a glimpse of 
Olivia's favorite summer dress: a little navy number 
with spaghetti straps and a bow that highlighted her 
waist and hips and never failed to set his heart to 
racing. He heard her laugh; God help him but he did. 

The papers were snatched up off the floor in an 
instant. Purdue swore himself a fool again, but 
dutifully pressed the pages open against his pants 
leg. A simple enough action, odd that it should 
assuage so much pain. He swore a few more times, just 
for reassurance; the driver never even glanced at the 
rearview. Purdue had paper, legal pad and trusty Bic 
pen tucked tidily into his bag when the cab slowed and 
turned into a parking lot. 

Motel 6. Well, what do you know? They really did leave 
the light on. 

It looked like someone was having a keg party at the 
far end of the parking lot. The Mariners must have won 
a championship. Hell, he couldn't keep track anymore. 
Purdue paid the fare, shouldered his bag, and stared 
up at the building. What was that room number Mulder 
had given dispatch when he'd checked in? 

Purdue found the slip of paper in his jacket pocket: 
"Room 212." 

Halfway up the stairs, the ASAC paused. Odd, he could 
have sworn he'd heard a muffled scream-- 

*Too long on the job, Reg, give it up, just the kids 
goofing off in the parking lot.* 

But by the time he reached room 204 Purdue had stopped 
again. There it was: a distinct wail, low and muffled. 
And abruptly silenced. 

He reached instinctively for his weapon but didn't 
pull it. Hand on the familiar grip, Purdue twisted, 
back to the wall, crab-walking up the hall, seeking 
the source of that inhuman moan. 

There were few occupied rooms in this area but a light 
snapped on as he passed a window. Apparently he wasn't 
the only one alerted by the cry of pain. Through the 
thin walls, Purdue heard the distinct click of an 
ordnance, the slide of a semi-automatic slipping a 
bullet into the firing chamber. The ASAC noted the 
door number. Room 212. 

What the hell--?

A bump on the door from the inside and Purdue danced 
back on reflex. Behind the door were more muffled 
sounds: breaking glass, a man swearing frantically, 
more stumbling. Purdue frowned. He prided his team on 
efficiency; if this was the agent he'd flown out to 
see, they'd be having a serious discussion about 
lapses in Bureau procedure. Hell, if the man couldn't 
even navigate his own motel room-- 

The dull click of the room lock and the turn of the 
knob and Purdue stepped forward, gun level, safety 
off, as the door slammed open. 

"Federal agent. Freeze!" 

Special Agent Leonardo Sauceda complied with the 
request instantly. His eyes went wide and he was 
stuttering but he had the presence of mind to handle 
his weapon surrender fashion, finger well off the 
trigger. 

"Shit. Sir. Ah, I--" Sauceda's vision flickered up the 
hall, back to Purdue in such a total panic Reggie 
almost felt sorry for him. 

Almost. 

Purdue lowered his weapon and the pathologist did the 
same, if a bit nonplused. Sauceda even got enough on 
the ball to cover his potbelly and his boxers, belting 
the worn out terrycloth robe. His graying hair, still 
enviously dark for a man of sixty-three, stuck out at 
odd angles; his slippers were on the wrong feet. 

"What the hell's going on, Lenny?" Purdue demanded. 

"Ah. I heard a noise. Ahm. Yeah. That's all." 

The ASAC frowned. Despite his valiant attempt at 
nonchalance, Sauceda was twitching anxiously, shooting 
furtive glances further up the hall. 

"You hear what room it was coming from?" 

"Uh, nope," the pathologist tried a hollow grin on for 
size and shrugged. "Hell, it was probably nothing." 

Purdue glowered and Sauceda swallowed hard. 

"Oh, I see," the ASAC sneered, "you always pack your 
Smith and Wesson to check out 'nothing'? Or maybe you 
just need it to fight the women off when you go for a 
stroll in your skivvies?" 

Sauceda didn't do sarcasm very well this late in the 
day. He glared, looking away vaguely to avoid a charge 
of insubordination, and slipped his weapon into the 
pocket of his robe. 

"Where's your partner?" Purdue growled. 

"In his room," Sauceda nodded encouragingly. 
"Sleeping," he insisted. 

Purdue shook his head. The man could lose a fortune 
playing poker. "I thought *this* was Mulder's room. 
It's the number he gave dispatch." 

Sauceda rolled his eyes peevishly. "Yeah, well. Why 
should he give dispatch his number and have the brass 
calling *him* at all hours when he can just as easily 
give them mine? Thoughtful, he ain't, the little 
prick." 

The kids in the parking lot whooped a bit louder and 
Sauceda was back to the nervous shifting routine. 

"You wanna come in, sir?" Sauceda offered a little too 
eagerly. "No sense waking the kid, I mean, anything 
you need to tell Marty, you can tell me and--" 

"You know, Hot Sauce, if I didn't know better, I'd say 
you just didn't want me talking to him." 

Sauceda managed to look scandalized. "Oh, no sir. 
That's not--" 

"You know how I know you're lying, Lenny?" 

Sauceda blanched again and shook his head reluctantly. 

"Your lips are moving." 

It was more sarcasm and the pathologist winced. 

Purdue sighed. "Look, if the kid's got a woman in his 
room, fine. Shit, it's not the Bureau's business what 
he does on his own time, but I've flown clear across 
the country for this little chat. Now, where the hell 
is he? 

"He's sick," Sauceda offered, confusing the situation 
even further. "I'm his doctor and I don't want you 
bothering him. Sir." 

Purdue swore and decided it was time to cut the crap. 
He noted the line of Sauceda's anxious glance, and 
stepped for room 214. 

Sauceda bit his lip and followed. 

Purdue knocked and identified himself. Waited. 
Repeated the procedure. 

"Your partner a sound sleeper, Hot Sauce?" 

"Oh, yeah. Very sound." 

"Uh huh. His partner *ever* tell the truth?" 

Sauceda took a minute to digest that, time enough for 
Purdue to get the door kicked open. 

Room 214 was dark, lit only by the flickering glow of 
the television, volume muted. The bed was empty. A gun 
gleamed darkly on the dresser: Sig-Saur, Bureau issue. 
Next to the badge. 

Retching noises were immediately all too audible 
through the open bathroom door. Purdue flipped on the 
light and crossed the room. 

Special Agent Mulder was kneeling over the john, 
pulling at his hair in the violence of his vomiting. 
He was bathed in sweat and shaking convulsively even 
between the spasms from his gut. 

Sauceda gave Purdue a pleading look as he brushed past 
and the ASAC stood a moment, watching Sauceda wet a 
cloth and blot it at the profiler's forehead. Mulder 
slapped him away, trying to be sick in peace. 

Purdue grimaced. Olivia had made that noise a lot 
those last few months. He'd hated it then and had 
developed no fondness for it since. But he certainly 
hadn't found much he could do about it. He sat down in 
the chair near the door, just out of view of the 
goings-on the bathroom and concentrated on not 
thinking, not remembering. Beside him was a table, 
beyond that another chair. Polaroid prints littered 
both and Purdue collected several up for closer 
inspection: corpses in various stages of 
decomposition. None of the victims appeared older than 
eight years of age. None of them looked like they'd 
died easily. 

Sauceda peered around the doorjamb presently, frowning 
to find Purdue so comfortable. The noises continued 
behind him. 

Purdue dropped the snapshots back on the table and 
nodded at the bathroom. "What's this about, Hot 
Sauce?" 

The pathologist shrugged but didn't make eye contact. 
"Something he ate?" 

Purdue closed his eyes and tried to push the tension 
from his shoulders. The little Hispanic was starting 
to get on that last nerve... 

"Sauceda, I've talked with you. I've talked with 
Lamana. God knows I've had long and too-long 
discussions with Patterson. Hell, I instigated 
Mulder's last psych evaluation, myself." 

He looked up; Sauceda was watching him hollowly. 

"I know about the dreams, Lenny. I know about the mood 
swings. I know *all* about the so-called psychotic 
behavior. And I know he's the best damn profiler the 
Bureau's ever likely to see. A ninety-eight point-nine 
case solve rate covers a multitude of sins. So what 
the hell is this?" 

Sauceda dragged fingers through his graying curls. 
"Well, some of his dreams get pretty vivid." 

Purdue frowned. He'd been in Shreveport when Mulder 
had closed the Baby Killer case. Watched him cracking 
jokes with the locals while standing in a morgue he'd 
shipped twenty-seven small bodies to. Watched him eat 
Chinese while examining photos of three-week-old 
corpses-- 

And the man puked on his dreams? 

Purdue rubbed at the ache at the base of his skull. 
"Jeezus-- Hell, isn't there anything you can give him? 
He can't be passing anything but bile by now." 

"Nothing he can keep down," Sauceda grimaced. "And you 
don't mention the word suppository to Marty if you 
want to retire with the use of both arms. Besides, the 
man hallucinates on Dramamine for Chrissake." He 
glanced to the bathroom. "Anyway, he's past the bile 
stage. Nothing but dry heaves now. He'll stop soon." 

Purdue chewed his cheek. "So what you boys chasing out 
here? Another serial killer?" 

Sauceda grunted. "Since Patterson got Marty in his 
harem, I figured serials were the only thing BSU 
covered anymore." 

The retching had finally ground down to an angry moan 
and Sauceda returned to the little room. Purdue kept 
to his chair, listening to Sauceda's soft cooing and 
Mulder's harsh profanity in response. 

"Aw, Marty--" Sauceda whined. 

"Damn you." Despite his frustration, Mulder's graveled 
tenor was little more than a hiss. "I don't need to 
talk about it. He didn't touch me. It didn't happen to 
me." 

"Marty, listen. I keep telling you, you can't just 
shove this stuff down into some kind of subconscious 
hole and expect it to stay there, kid. One of these 
days it's all going to start coming back up--" 

Purdue could hear Mulder gasping for breath. "Not 
today," the profiler rasped. "It's not coming back up 
today." 

"But Marty--" 

The pathologist was ejected abruptly backwards into 
the bedroom, the door slamming in his face and 
locking. Water began running in the shower. 

Sauceda re-belted his robe indignantly, and gave 
Purdue a shrug as he sat on the end of the bed. "He'll 
be a while," he assured pleasantly. "Sexual 
molestation cases keep him in the shower for hours. 
Say, you want some coffee?" 

Purdue nodded slowly, still trying to digest all this. 
"Yeah, sure. This place got a coffee shop downstairs?" 

Sauceda frowned. "Nah. Let's just, like, order some 
up. Okay?" 

"Order some up? Since when does Motel 6 have room 
service?" 

Sauceda grinned. "It's okay. I got an inside with the 
kid working the desk." He called down and placed his 
order. 

Purdue could smell a situation at seven yards and this 
room wasn't that wide. "Look, Sauceda, unless there's 
some medical reason for us hanging out in Mulder's 
room, I'd prefer to give the man a little time to get 
himself together--" 

"You don't leave Marty alone when he gets like this." 
Sauceda's voice was sullen. "Not unless you want to 
play serious catch-up later. Hell, he's usually 
already far enough ahead as it is." He jerked his head 
in the general direction of the bathroom. "This is 
part of the spook, sir." 

Purdue felt like he needed to spit. "Spook, my ass. 
Don't start that crap, Sauceda--" 

Sauceda shrugged. "You said you talked to Patterson. I 
know you talked to the shrink. It's Marty's gift. It's 
who he is." 

Purdue was still frowning. Mr. Cut-the-Crap was a long 
way from buying all this "spooky" nonsense, but the 
psych work-up had managed to open his mind to some 
extreme possibilities. 

"Is that what this is about then? Mulder getting into 
the killer's head and poking around? Gaining insight--
" 

"God Almighty," Sauceda almost spat on him. "Spook or 
no spook, I think you need to get this much straight, 
sir: when Marty walks into this monster's world, he 
goes in as the victim. Not the killer." He jerked his 
head at the photos on the table. "You seen what this 
bastard does to those kids before he kills them? Well, 
the son of a bitch does it to Marty, too. In his 
dreams." 

Sauceda let that one soak. Purdue knew Sauceda's 
reputation, of course. The man's sadistic streak was a 
good mile wide and his role as resident mole in 
Mulder's life was common knowledge. Sauceda was beyond 
a snitch as far as Purdue was concerned-- the man had 
walked into this partnership as a damned spy, 
Patterson's edge to keep the maverick profiler in 
hand. Somehow, Purdue couldn't imagine Fox Mulder, one 
paper shy of an Oxford psychiatric doctorate, sharing 
his dreams with anyone--least of all Sauceda. And he 
told him so. 

Sauceda grimaced. "No, indeed. Eight months with this 
kid, dragging through half the backwater morgues in 
America and I have to get information like that from 
that three-hundred dollar-an-hour shrink you had them 
send out to Shreveport. Thank you, *sir*." 

Coffee arrived, accompanied by honey buns as fresh as 
any vending machine can belch. Purdue settled on the 
coffee, cream, no sugar. He checked his watch. The 
shower was still roaring away. 

Sauceda piled up against Mulder's headboard, plowing 
through the honey buns, vision roaming wistfully from 
Purdue to the TV. 

But Purdue would be damned before he'd play second 
fiddle to reruns of "Alf." He grinned maliciously and 
Sauceda sat up a little straighter, dropping the 
remote control without turning up the sound. You 
didn't get to be an ASAC without developing a sadistic 
streak of your own. 

Purdue sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. 
"So, Patterson let you read Baez's psychiatric 
evaluation?" 

Sauceda nodded, "The kid's my partner. I'm entitled, 
doncha think?" 

"Baez listed symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress. He was 
careful to note the ones that Mulder *didn't* exhibit. 
At least he didn't then. Compulsive disorders, eating 
disorders, drug and alcohol abuse, fascination with 
suicide, self-mutilation. How about you, Hot Sauce? 
You seen evidence of that kind of thing with Mulder?" 

Sauceda shoved a wad of pastry into his cheek, washed 
some coffee past it. "Nah. Marty just doesn't sleep so 
hot. He eats sporadically, but he's a good eater when 
everything's quiet. He likes to run. Keeps to himself 
but he's not a recluse or anything. Just doesn't like 
to be crowded, you know? Baez knew his stuff, all 
right. Not like those yahoos in Personnel Services." 
Sauceda grinned proudly, "Hell, Marty could eat two of 
them for breakfast and not even work up a sweat." 

The shower died in the next room and Sauceda lowered 
his voice, balancing the styrofoam cup precariously as 
he leaned forward. He reminded Purdue of some old 
shrew gossiping over a fence. "That's why the Bureau 
brought Baez in for that evaluation, isn't it, Reg? 
Somebody high enough up the psychological food chain 
that Marty couldn't fool too long if he tried. Right?" 

Purdue was careful not to answer. Sauceda nodded 
anyway.

"Yeah. I hear the bill was somewhere on the order of 
eight grand. And approved at the highest level." 
Sauceda grinned. "Ever thought about investigating who 
signed what for that little invoice? And why?" 

"Anybody ever tell you you're a sadistic little cuss, 
Lenny?" 

Again the grin. "Why do you think Patterson sicced me 
on Marty?" 

The bathroom door clicked open and Sauceda jerked up 
guiltily, a light splatter of coffee unnoticed on the 
thigh of his robe. The pathologist kept his lips 
locked down tight, offering a nervous smile to his 
partner as Mulder emerged from his little refuge. The 
silence was abrupt and contagious. Purdue found 
himself unaccountably speechless, mute in the presence 
of Patterson's hellacious protege: New Hampshire's 
Mind Hunter, the assassin of Baytown's Butcher. 
Shreveport's Death Angel. 

Right now, aforementioned Angel was clutching a 
bathrobe for warmth, dark hair plastered to his 
forehead from the shower. He stood, framed in the door 
as if planted there, staring soundlessly at his 
partner, body tensed like he expected to be tackled. 

Purdue saw a young man about six-foot, slender, with a 
choir boy face too young even for twenty-six. The face 
was all planes and angles, the nose too large, bottom 
lip too large, chin too short, but combined the 
features had a distinct beauty. The thought surprised 
him; Purdue was unaccustomed to such aesthetic 
speculations. He supposed it was Mulder's eyes that 
intrigued him though. The Bureau paid this man to look 
into hell, after all, and not blink until he'd found 
what he'd come for. And Mulder'd never failed to do 
just that. The eyes were intelligent, deep set, hazel, 
much too human and vulnerable. For all the youth and 
passion of the face that framed them, Mulder's eyes 
were somehow tired, old, beyond old, ancient, present 
at the discovery of fire and the wheel-- 

Purdue shook his head; he must be suffering from 
jetlag or something. Still, it had not escaped his 
notice that Mulder's eyes were dilated right now, his 
face a pasty white. And Purdue didn't think the room 
was cold enough to warrant that kind of shivering. 

CONTINUED IN PART 1B...

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 08:25:49 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 1B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 1B of 27:


The profiler swung briefly from Sauceda to Purdue then 
away, scarcely acknowledging the ASAC's presence. He 
gave no response to Sauceda's nervous "Hey, Marty!" 
before disappearing into the closet. 

The ASAC kept his mouth shut, watching the scene play 
out, gauging the two men involved in this little 
drama. Sauceda seemed to be in familiar territory, 
nervous but expectant, resigned to what would come. 
The pathologist kept his attention glued to the 
television but it was obvious he wasn't watching it. 
Instead, he sat like a man caught in an electric 
current: rigid, panicked, and ready to flee at the 
first opportunity. He was chewing on his lip, too, 
knuckles whitening in their grip on the coffee cup. He 
jerked as a pair of sneakers erupted from the closet, 
followed closely by Mulder in sweat pants, yanking a 
T-shirt over his head. 

The profiler scooped the shoes from their respective 
landing zones and sat in the chair at the little table 
across from Purdue. Purdue watched him work the 
shoelaces viciously, fighting the trembling in his 
fingers with a concentration that should have been 
comical. Purdue grimaced in pain. 

Sauceda was watching the young man, too. Sauceda's 
eyes were big, about the size they'd gotten when he'd 
run into Purdue's gun up the hall. The pathologist 
glanced up at Purdue's quizzical stare and turned 
abruptly back to the silently mouthing muppet on the 
television screen. 

*Well, Reg, that's why you get paid the big bucks...* 

Purdue pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, fished 
one out of the box. "Going somewhere, Agent Mulder?" 

"I'm going for a run." The dark head bobbed up. "Sir." 
The profiler stood. 

"Sit down." Purdue ordered. 

Mulder stood there, like he had options or something. 
Purdue blinked slowly, waiting. 

And finally, Mulder sat. He looked like it took every 
nerve in his body to remain there, but he made no 
protest. 

Downstairs, the kids in the parking lot were briefly 
louder; a car peeled away down the frontage road. 
Purdue leaned over and rasped his match on the 
underside of the table. 

He froze when Mulder flinched at the motion. 

The two men regarded one another across the table. 
Mulder's eyes were large in the sudden quiet, his 
breathing ragged, the shivering just barely masked. 
His face went from ghost white to soft pink but he 
didn't break that breathless gaze. Over his shoulder, 
Sauceda was sweating, fuzzy television aliens 
forgotten. 

Purdue gauged his own breathing, kept it calm as he 
lit his cigarette and shook the flame out of the 
match. Mulder watched him, a cold glint in his eye. 
Mulder was notorious for using attitude like a 
switchblade: show him a soft underbelly and he was 
libel to cut first and ask questions later. Word was 
there was only one type of person he seemed to have 
any regard for: the man who just didn't give a damn. 
It seemed to be something the young man could relate 
to. 

Thankfully, that type of man described Purdue 
perfectly this evening. 

The ASAC tossed the spent match at the ashtray on 
Mulder's side of the table. The action was willful and 
deliberately orchestrated, suspiciously resembling the 
tossing of a gauntlet. It was an illusion he was 
certain Mulder would not fail to interpret correctly. 
Mulder didn't disappoint him and didn't flinch at the 
action. His focus never wavered. 

Purdue dragged blissfully at his cigarette. "Tell me," 
he commanded. 

Great green eyes flickered from the ASAC to Sauceda, 
frowned, flicked back to Purdue. 

"I'm tired. I want to go for a run." 

Purdue raised a sardonic brow. "Most people want to go 
back to bed when they're tired, Agent." 

Mulder spared another glance at Sauceda. A nerve in 
his jaw twitched. There was a studied lightness in his 
voice that didn't reach his eyes. 

"But Papa Bear, someone's in my bed already." He 
turned back to the ASAC. "And he's not quite my type, 
thank you." 

Purdue leaned to tap his ashes at the already half-
filled ashtray. So many games, so little time... 

"I can understand *why* you're tired, Mulder," he 
answered reasonably. "Patterson's slapping you on this 
case set a record. Even for you. Just four hours 
between investigations involving multiple homicides. 
That's a severe breach of Bureau policy. Besides the 
fact that you're already averaging less than twelve 
hours between major cases." 

The eyes watching him remained unyielding. "Skinner 
send you?" 

"Did you report this to Skinner?" 

"I report to Patterson. Sir." He didn't add the word 
"exclusively" but it hung there in the air with the 
smoke anyway. 

Purdue sighed. "Look. Let's just drop the crap, 
Mulder. I'm here to help you, not to get on your case 
again. Okay?" 

"Help me?" Mulder's face was incredulous. "You ordered 
a psychological work up on me that could have landed 
my butt in an institution. Baez followed me through 
three of our toughest cases. One right after the 
other. No break. You wanted me to fail, you son of a 
bitch." 

"Marty--" Sauceda's fearful hiss was ignored. Purdue 
didn't bother to acknowledge the eyes pleading for 
mercy across the room. 

Mulder had remained seated but adrenaline was pouring 
off the man like sweat. He held his hands on either 
side of the chair awkwardly, apparently believing them 
hidden from the ASAC's view: they were trembling 
violently. The sight made Purdue's gut knot up and 
grieve. It took all of his training to keep himself 
smoking calmly in the chair. 

"It was not a question of fail or succeed, Agent 
Mulder. There were serious concerns for your health. 
Baez was there to evaluate and assist if necessary. If 
you were going to have problems, you'd have done it 
then, and in the presence of a sufficiently trained 
doctor who could give you the help you needed--" 

Mulder bolted to his feet, swearing as he paced to the 
bed and back to Purdue again. Sauceda made a dive for 
the opposite side of the mattress just in case Mulder 
decided to make the trip a second time. 

Purdue continued, raising his voice to be heard but 
keeping the tone neutral. "I've read Baez' evaluation, 
Mulder. He says that as long as you're telling the 
rest of us to go jerk ourselves, you're sane. And he 
has the credentials to make sure I believe him." 

The profiler paused mid-step and Purdue shrugged. "You 
have unusual methods. I don't pretend to understand 
them but they don't interfere too frequently with 
Bureau procedure. And they work. I just intend to make 
sure the Bureau leaves enough of you intact to let you 
retire someday. And not get your butt locked up in 
some wet-brain ward your second year out of the 
Academy."

"Why?" Mulder demanded.

"Excuse me?"

"Why? What the hell do you care?"

Purdue exhaled smoke in an impatient huff. "Why 
shouldn't I?" 

Mulder put his hands on his hips to keep them from 
shaking, dropped his head and shook it instead. "Don't 
bullshit me, Purdue. I'm so goddam tired of the crap--
" 

"I'm not bullshitting you, Mulder." Purdue was tired 
and he allowed the fact creep into his voice. He'd 
done nothing but sit in this chair since he'd gotten 
here and he felt like he'd gone two rounds with 
Holyfield. "Point of fact, Agent, I'm here to call a 
truce. You think I'm trying to keep you from doing 
your job. I think Patterson's been trying to run you 
in the ground. I think you think that too but don't 
bother saying one way or the other--" 

Mulder looked like he was anything but convinced. He 
watched Purdue smother his cigarette with brutal 
efficiency. 

"Personally, Mulder, I think it's time me, Skinner and 
Blevins stopped whining and got off the pot and let 
you do your job." 

"I'm sure," Mulder growled, "Patterson will be 
thrilled to hear it." 

"Patterson isn't being asked." Purdue flicked a stray 
bit of ash off his trouser leg. "Bureau policy, Mr. 
Mulder. You abuse, you lose. Patterson was warned to 
cut back on your cases, vary the types of cases you 
were assigned--" He looked up, saw realization already 
dawning, and nodded. "Welcome to VICAP, Agent Mulder. 
Good to have you aboard. Skinner signed the transfer 
this afternoon." 

Mulder's voice was soft, thoughts escaping on a 
betraying breath. "Patterson said he'd die and rot in 
hell before he'd allow my transfer--" 

"Then consider yourself kidnapped. Permanently. Trust 
me, Agent, Patterson can't afford the ransom. You have 
friends in the Bureau, Mulder. Friends you're 
apparently not aware of." Purdue frowned. "A few even 
I don't recognize." 

"And just like that." 

"Just like that." 

"Just that easy." 

Purdue laughed and allowed himself the luxury of 
enjoying it. "You're the highly lauded genius in this 
room, son, so you tell me how easy you think this was. 
I damned near sold my soul for the privilege." 

Mulder sized him up there in the chair, his face poker 
flat. Purdue was an old hand at that game, too. 

"Don't call me son," was Mulder's only response. 

Purdue nodded reasonably, allowed Mulder time to 
digest reality while he extended the welcome aboard 
schpiel to the wide-eyed physician on the bed. 

"Whoa, here," Sauceda sputtered, "Just hold the damned 
bus. How did I rate a transfer? 'Cause I make such a 
good Spookster-sitter?" He winced, glancing at this 
partner,  "Sorry, Marty." 

Mulder didn't hear him; he was busy staring at the 
ashtray. 

Purdue squinted at the profiler. An uncertain alarm 
was ringing in his gut, but nothing he could put his 
finger on. He turned away reluctantly to address 
Sauceda. 

"Relax, Lenny. Every one knows your record. Patterson 
lost two good agents in this transfer. I lost one of 
my field pathologists to maternity leave. You want to 
be reassigned within VICAP, fine. You want to remain 
with your current partner, I have no problem with that 
either. Consider it a feather in your cap when you 
retire." 

Sauceda considered all of three seconds before 
shrugging and wiping honey bun off his chin. Purdue 
glanced quickly at Mulder, expecting some objection. 
The young agent had to know Sauceda was writing 
reports on him; now would be as good a time as any to 
end the relationship. Mulder's expression was distant, 
however, apparently unconcerned with the status of his 
partnership. 

"VICAP," Mulder whispered, more thinking aloud. 
"Shit." 

Purdue frowned. Well, hell, Mulder didn't sound 
exactly ecstatic about the idea. And there was 
something wrong with his eyes suddenly-- 

Something else hit the front of the young man's brain 
just then, too, and he jerked with the impact. "The 
case--" 

"You're still on this case, Agent. The transfer isn't 
effective until May first. You've got a month of 
Patterson driving your butt into the ground then 
you're mine, all mine. And your first order of 
business at that point will be a week's vacation. For 
both of you." 

Sauceda grinned gleefully. 

Mulder's eyes dropped into dark slits, his attention 
back on the ashtray. Purdue glared. 

"Hell's bells, Mulder," he growled. "You got a problem 
with a week off with pay, deal with it. It's not a 
damned punishment, you know?" 

Mulder hadn't moved, sneakered feet flat on the floor, 
hands forgotten on his narrow hips, focus unwavering 
on the curl of smoke rising from Purdue's mutilated 
cigarette. His breathing was rapid. 

Purdue softened his voice, careful to keep it out of 
the "coddle" range; he'd managed not to get swung at 
so far and intended to keep it that way. 

"Listen, Fox, I want your head clear when you walk 
into VICAP--" 

"Don't call me Fox." The voice was distant, the 
response a habit. 

"Yeah. Whatever. I want your head clear and I don't 
want any repeat performances of what I just walked in 
on tonight. You listening?" Purdue sighed, gauging the 
profiler. Jeezus, but he was hard to read. He tried 
another tactic and grinned. "Hey. You got anything 
else I'm not supposed to call you? Never mind." Purdue 
held up his hands, surrender fashion. "I'll just keep 
everything longer than three letters and that should 
cover it." 

But Mulder wasn't even listening. That wall-eyed stare 
had burned clean through the ashtray and still hadn't 
managed to focus. He was breathing through his mouth. 

Purdue knew his own eyes were heading for saucer-size 
in the silence. Something was definitely wrong. Purdue 
backtracked his short-term memory, trying to determine 
at what point Mulder had stepped off into the Not-So-
Wonderful Land of Oz. 

"Sauceda?" 

The pathologist was already padding over. He kept a 
respectful distance between himself and the profiler, 
making no sudden movements. Purdue followed his cue 
and remained in his chair, carefully uncrossing his 
legs. 

Mulder's lips moved but no sound emitted. 

Sauceda looked at Purdue. Mouthed the hated word 
"spook" but kept his face solemn as he baited his 
partner for the benefit of his new ASAC. 

"In your dream, Marty, you see the killer's face?" 

If he had seen any such horror, Mulder wasn't telling. 
And from the look on his face, Purdue imagined what he 
was seeing now was beyond telling. 

"Marty--" 

"Sauceda," Purdue warned, sotto voce, "leave him 
alone." 

Sauceda shrugged. "Weirdest thing. He sees all this 
crap about the victim. Everything to the last detail. 
Zilch on the killer. And he still manages to catch the 
sons of bitches." He addressed Mulder again, voice 
level, droning, honeyed with counterfeit concern. 

"Marty, I know it's hard, but you've got to talk about 
this. You gotta let it out--" 

Mulder's silent dialogue continued and Purdue's mouth 
tasted like he'd choked down acid. "Sauceda, shut up." 

Sauceda took a hesitant step forward. "Come on, Marty-
-" 

Purdue exploded from the chair. "I said leave him the 
hell alone." 

Sauceda retreated several steps, complied. "I just 
though you'd want to see--" 

"I want a goddam show, I pay for the ticket just like 
everyone else. Patterson's head games stop here, 
understand?" 

Sauceda swallowed hard as Mulder gasped suddenly. 
"Look, Marty gets manic when he's like this. Baez 
prescribed a few things. To keep him calm--" 

"Calm? You bait him like he's in a freaking sideshow 
and now you want him calm--" Purdue bit back the rest. 
*Jeezus, Reg. And you asked for this--* 

Mulder was watching him, reason not so far away now, 
the trembling subsiding. Deep green eyes swung 
carefully between the two men. Sauceda took a second 
step back from the gaze, like a man caught in the 
track of a cobra. Mulder focused on Purdue. 

Purdue kept to his official Assistant Special Agent in 
Charge stance, kept his voice neutral. "Baez 
specifically stated the drugs were to be held until 
requested. By you, Mulder. And--" 

The ASAC squinted at Mulder's eyes, stopped breathing 
momentarily with the realization that they were 
changing color: deep green bleeding off back to hazel. 
Purdue swallowed, kept talking. 

"You know the score, Agent, as well or better than 
Baez. You sure as hell know it better than I do. You 
know when you're headed for trouble, right? Mulder?" 

"Yes, sir." The voice was quiet but steady. 

"Then I trust you have the maturity and good sense to 
say so. You let us know what you need and when. Once 
you're on a decent work schedule, Baez says you 
probably won't need them anyway. Meanwhile, don't 
over-reach yourself. You do, and I'll slap you clear 
back to Washington and save the taxpayers the 
airfare." He softened his gaze a little as the eyes 
finally picked a color and stuck with it. "You okay?" 

Sauceda opened his mouth, thought better of it as 
Mulder glanced back over at him. The pathologist got 
his warning choked down with a hiccup. 

Mulder turned back to Purdue. "I'm fine. Really." His 
jaw clenched. 

"You need anything to keep you that way for the 
night?" 

"No." 

Purdue stood patiently, waiting as the profiler's mind 
churned just four feet away. Somehow, he sensed the 
importance of Mulder being allowed to get his 
bearings. Sauceda chewed his lip some more, watching 
the two men warily, waiting for a clue. It took a long 
while before Mulder's shoulders loosened. He was still 
breathing through his mouth. 

"He's dumped the kid," he said finally. "The body's 
not far. I'll take you." 

Purdue spared a glance at Sauceda's "told you so" face 
and turned back to Mulder. The profiler had thrown his 
own gauntlet now. And the field he'd chosen for the 
duel would be the bloody body of a child-- his 
serial's new victim. The cold-bloodedness of the 
gesture was not lost on the ASAC, but Mulder's son-of-
a-bitch bravado didn't reach the young man's eyes; 
Purdue noted the pain there before Mulder could look 
away. 

Purdue nodded solemnly. "Locals gullible enough to 
trust you two clowns with a car?" 

Sauceda bobbed his head. 

"Then get your gear, Hot Sauce." 

Several minutes later the car's console clock blinked 
out the date in the dark. Purdue paused with his hand 
on the gearshift. 

Good Friday. The night spent by Jesus in hell. Only 
tonight He'd had company. 

Beside him, Mulder ordered a left turn. Again. 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 08:25:54 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 2 of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 2 of 27: Purdue Passes the Pop Quiz

Disclaimed in Part 1



Interoffice Memorandum 
From: Assistant Director Walter Skinner 
To: ASAC Reginald Purdue, ViCap 
CC: Personnel-- Confidential 
Date: April 27, 1988 
Re: SA Fox Mulder-- Stress Analysis Rating 

Thank you for forwarding Agent Mulder's 
recent stress analysis to my attention. As 
I'm sure you are aware, the Bureau has 
limited resources to offer this agent in 
the area of counseling. ASAC Patterson's 
abuse of the Social Services, particularly 
in respect to Agent Mulder, is a matter of 
record. Agent Mulder's subsequent distrust 
of our counselors is equally a matter of 
record and, in my opinion, understandable 
given the circumstances. 

While I sympathize with your concerns 
regarding Agent Mulder's mental condition, 
I am unwilling to remove him from full duty 
status at this time. Such an action would 
reflect poorly on an otherwise exemplary 
record and would, in my opinion, be 
premature. Agent Mulder's previous analyses 
have indicated that he is remarkably 
resilient and I am certain you will find he 
has his own singular methods of dealing 
with the stresses inherent in this job. 

I would advise that you follow your 
original course of action: allow Agent 
Mulder to report to you for assignment as 
scheduled on Monday, May 9, following one 
week of vacation time. As his ASAC, Agent 
Mulder's work level is entirely under your 
control; the content of his caseload is at 
your discretion. And, of course, with his 
return to duty, you will yourself be able 
to maintain a close watch on him. 

Should you require further assistance or 
have questions concerning this decision, 
please do not hesitate to call my office. 

Walter Skinner 

Addendum: As per our agreement, any change 
in Agent Mulder's condition is to be 
reported directly to me. No exceptions. -- 
WS 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Sunday, May 8, 1988, 5:13 AM. Suburb of 
Fredricksburg, VA. 

Purdue slowed his Ford to a crawl as he 
approached the empty corner lot. Beyond the 
line of curious neighbors and news crews, 
the Crime Scene Investigative Unit was hard 
at work, portable halogens and flashlights 
spotlighting their efforts. Purdue scanned 
the busy figures in the light of early 
dawn: some were kneeling or standing in 
shallow pits of recently dug earth. Driving 
past, he counted four shallow graves and 
two, maybe three more being dug. A group of 
local officers stood together in the middle 
of it all, looking away to the opposite end 
of the lot, talking and staring. Purdue 
noted their line of sight and drove on 
around the corner. 

A typical suburban neighborhood wound out 
before him, modest frame houses roosting in 
neat little rows, vehicles of various 
denominations huddled in the drives, 
worshippers before their respective 
shrines. A cherry red Monte Carlo sat alone 
in the street, parked at the curb bordering 
the far end of the vacant lot. Purdue 
recognized the solitary figure perched on 
the hood. Mulder sat there quietly, arms at 
rest across his knees, a pair of latex 
gloves dangling from one hand, a half-
smoked cigarette in the other. His eyes 
were closed like he might be asleep. 

Purdue parked across the street and 
approached. He hadn't seen Mulder since 
Seattle. And, except for Seattle, he'd 
never seen the agent when he wasn't all 
business. Even on stakeout, Mulder had 
always managed to look like he was bucking 
for young executive of the year. 

But the man on the car hood was obviously 
operating on too little sleep. He'd dressed 
hastily, too: jeans and a rumpled pullover, 
hair unkempt. Untied work boots rested on 
the bumper. He hadn't shaved.

"Hey," Purdue tapped the hood of the car 
and smiled an apology when Mulder jerked 
his head up. "Don't get up," Purdue ordered 
lightly. "Finish your cigarette." 

Mulder blinked down at the little white 
stick and left it hanging there, mind 
apparently elsewhere, lost in thoughts he 
seemed reluctant to let go. 

Purdue lit a smoke of his own and prepared 
to wait out the silence. He resisted the 
urge to frown as he studied the younger 
man. A week's vacation and Mulder still 
evidenced the strain of the past few 
months: still ten pounds too light, and two 
shades too pale. The cigarette between his 
fingers trembled now and again; the motion 
was slight but quite involuntary. Mulder 
seemed completely unaware of the sporadic 
tremors; apparently the condition had 
existed so long his mind had ceased to find 
it noteworthy. 

*Damn Bill Patterson,* Purdue bit his cheek 
to keep from speaking the words aloud. *If 
there's a God, someday all this'll come 
back to haunt that sorry bastard.* 

His own cigarette was suddenly bitter; 
Purdue spat and flung the stub into the 
street. The profiler watched it bounce 
twice and roll, still smoking itself, into 
the gutter. Purdue waited until those 
patient eyes returned regard to him. 

"Alright," Purdue demanded. "Tell me." 

"You're not going to believe me." It wasn't 
a challenge or even a veiled insult. Mulder 
spoke the words as quiet resignation, a 
fact settled beyond debate. 

The ASAC's stomach was grinding. Mulder was 
just way too young to have eyes that looked 
like that. Purdue pocketed his hands and 
concentrated on a yellow Pinto parked up 
the street. It was easier to smile, to 
feign indifference when he wasn't looking 
at that earnest, wounded face. 

"Let me detail the finer points of my 
morning for you, Agent Mulder," Purdue 
drawled amicably. "Four o'clock in the A M, 
I get a call telling me I've got some 
rookie out here terrorizing the locals. I 
tell dispatch to go to hell. At four oh 
seven, they call back. Say it's you. 
Suggest that I should sort of expect these 
things. And strongly suggest I get my fuzzy 
butt out here. So do us both a favor and 
don't presume to tell me what the hell it 
is I will and will not believe." 

Purdue's voice had remained light, but 
Mulder didn't smile. Instead, he lowered 
his head and rotated his neck, pulling the 
tension from his shoulders. Purdue bided 
his time. One way or another Mulder would 
surrender to the inevitable need to 
explain; it wasn't like he had a hell of a 
lot of options here.

"Okay," Mulder conceded. "I had a dream."

Purdue scanned the profiler's face; Mulder 
was waiting to gauge his reaction. Purdue 
didn't give him one. "And?" Purdue prompted 
patiently.

"And... There was a little girl. In the 
dream. She came and sat on the end of my 
bed and... suggested I get my fuzzy butt 
out here." Mulder frowned at his own hollow 
attempt at levity and then shrugged it off. 
"So here I am." 

Purdue kept his facial muscles still and 
tried not to think about Seattle. Seattle 
had just been him and Mulder and Hot Sauce. 
*Then* they'd called out the investigative 
unit. After they were certain. After they'd 
actually found the body. Now Mulder'd 
hauled himself a hundred miles just to 
check out a hunch, calling out law 
enforcement himself-- 

The kid must have balls the size of the 
Chrysler Building. 

Purdue'd been doing some research since 
Seattle, trying to comprehend the 
unfathomable. Doctor Baez had proclaimed 
Mulder's singular talent a gift. Doctor 
Sauceda, of course, contended that it was 
the "spook"-- something akin to the "shine" 
in a Stephen King novel. Neither answer 
satisfied the ASAC, however: Baez's report 
was filled with psychobabble and 
technospeak, and Purdue just wasn't big on 
Stephen King. For his part, Mulder had 
flatly refused an explanation. If Purdue 
doubted his sanity, the profiler insisted, 
then maybe the ASAC should pull his 
personnel file. 

Purdue tugged his coat a bit tighter. The 
morning air was misty and unusually chill 
for early May. "I know you're not a 
Freudian, Mulder," he acknowledged warily. 
"And I've looked into some of Jung's stuff 
myself. I've seen some of his better 
theories played out in the field, in actual 
cases." He shrugged. "His dream analysis is 
kind of new to me, though, and I'm not real 
swank with the terminology. Was this girl 
you dreamed, uh, what does he call it... 
the figure that men dream about that 
connects them to their unconscious mind--?" 

"The Anima?" Mulder's little smile had no 
hint of condescension. "No, she was no 
Anima. She was just a little kid. She 
was..." He nodded his head toward the 
grassy lot. "She looked like a few of them. 
The more recent ones anyway." 

"The bodies?" Purdue found himself re-
assessing the situation suddenly. His mind 
tried vainly to wrap itself around the 
image of a half-decomposed corpse engaging 
in a friendly chat... Purdue knew Mulder 
walked in a different world than most but-- 
the ASAC frowned savagely. Patterson had 
never mentioned this kind of thing. Extreme 
leaps in logic, okay, frighteningly 
accurate insight, sure. Precognitive 
dreams, well, yeah. But-- 

It occurred to Purdue suddenly that perhaps 
Mulder was just jerking his chain, that 
this was simply some kind of warped test. 
The kid was trying to see how his new ASAC 
handled the spook routine. Yeah, that was 
it-- Purdue felt better for the 
realization; it was something he could 
understand and appreciate. One glance at 
the activity on the lot, however, and his 
resolve wavered. 

Hell of a test. 

The silence ran too long and Mulder pushed 
at his forelock nervously. There it was 
again. That golden band on the third finger 
of the left hand. Mulder's personnel file 
said "Single." There was a story on that 
finger but Purdue'd be damned if he'd ask. 
In the morning mist, his own wedding band 
was suddenly heavy with warmth and comfort. 
He sighed and came to a decision. 

"Mulder, tell you what, there's an IHOP a 
couple of blocks up. I want you to go get 
some coffee and order us some breakfast. 
I'll handle things here and join you in a 
few." 

Mulder's disappointment was evident. "But 
they haven't..." He recovered himself and 
looked away. 

"Haven't what?" 

"Haven't found her yet." He said the words 
and watched Purdue's closely. 

The ASAC spared another brief glance toward 
the field. "Mulder, I've talked to the 
Fredricksburg PD. They don't feel they need 
the Bureau's assist on this one. We're not 
on this case." 

Mulder shrugged. "I just want to see her. 
That's all." 

Purdue studied that impassive face and 
decided to accept the subdued tone in the 
eyes as sincerity. The kid had no Messiah 
complex, at least; most young agents would 
be trying to argue the point to 
distraction. But murder was simply not a 
Federal jurisdiction and the Bureau could 
not force their services if they were not 
wanted. Mulder, of course, had worked 
enough cases to know the political 
minefield of law enforcement first hand. 
Probably why he was out here on his car 
instead gleaning clues on the lot. 

"Okay," Purdue agreed. "We'll wait. Then 
we'll go eat." He grinned. "And then you 
can call your mom." 

Mulder's eyebrows scrolled up on that one 
and he choked on a lungful of smoke. 

"It's Mother's Day, Agent Mulder," Purdue 
winked. "Hell, if I'd ever forgotten, my 
mother would have killed me." 

Mulder raised sardonic brows, nodding at 
the activity in the lot. "With all due 
respect, sir, I think I've disturbed enough 
mothers this morning as it is." 

"Sir!" 

Both men jerked around at the shout. A 
young officer was trotting toward them 
across the grass. Obviously a rookie, and 
anticipating a lot more footwork and shit 
detail before he'd be the one giving orders 
to fetch the wacko on the car hood. 

"Agent Mulder? Sir, they found another 
body." 

The agent was off the car before the 
sentence was half completed. He tossed the 
cigarette in the road and donned his 
gloves, fast-walking behind the officer. 

Purdue followed more slowly, as befitted an 
ASAC. He paused near the grove of local law 
enforcement; they nodded warily, watching 
as he clipped his ID to his coat collar. 
Mulder squatted by the freshly dug grave, a 
scant three feet deep. Purdue approached 
and stood resolutely behind his agent, 
steeling himself for the view of the open 
pit. 

The corpse was that of a young girl, some 
side or the other of eight years of age. 
Mud matted the dark hair, smeared the ash 
gray face and blinded open eyes. Rigor 
mortis had relaxed its claim, surrendering 
the body to its inevitable decay; the jaw 
had loosened, opening the mouth slightly, 
as children's mouths will do in sleep. 

Purdue blinked briefly against the stinging 
in his eyes, the weakness that often hit 
his knees with the smell. The outdoor 
killings were the worst to him, the 
exposure to the elements, the unpitied soul 
dumped like trash in a hole, were a final 
slap that never failed to reawaken him to 
the reality of what he did for a living and 
why. 

Mulder, co-worker in this quest, steadied 
himself with a hand on the pile of turned 
earth and reached in to the half-buried 
child. A gentle hand probed the shoulder, 
fingers tapping cautiously on the blistered 
skin as they ran the length of her 
collarbone, seeking Purdue knew not what. 

Mulder's face was tense and hard with 
grief; a tinge of relief crossed his eyes 
and mingled with other emotions as he 
lifted his hand from that shoulder and laid 
it briefly on the swollen chest. Purdue's 
heart clinched. Mulder's compassionate hand 
looked like the touch of benediction: 
something holy lain upon the profaned, 
sanctifying, restoring dignity. Purdue 
turned away, an intruder upon intimate 
things to which he had no part. 

Mulder's whisper made him look back once 
more. Mulder didn't seem to be speaking to 
the living gathered at the edge of the 
grave, however. The profiler's lips moved, 
now soundlessly, dark eyes staring down 
upon the mud streaked face. 

Purdue frowned and concentrated on his 
breathing. He suddenly realized he didn't 
trust himself to think. Nothing, no words, 
seemed adequate to the silent grief, the 
elaborately masked rage he was witnessing 
in the young man's face. 

And then, without warning, the display was 
over; pity and passion subsided together 
beneath the surface of Mulder's dark 
tranquil eyes. Apparently appeased, Mulder 
stood to leave, pausing only to nod his 
thanks to the two investigators watching 
him across the grave. Turning, however, he 
found Purdue at his shoulder. Mulder 
abruptly froze. Purdue took a single step 
back, just outside the young man's personal 
space. 

"That her?" the ASAC asked, his voice 
quiet. 

Mulder shook his head quickly and looked 
away. 

"Are you sure you'd know when you saw her?" 

Mulder didn't look back at him but he 
didn't look like he'd focused on anything 
else, either. "Yeah," his answer was almost 
reluctant. "She broke her collarbone 
falling from a swing. This one's not her." 

Purdue frowned again. "You got all that 
from a dream?" 

Mulder's vision swung back to the ASAC and 
he blinked rapidly. A slow flush of 
comprehension washed his face. "Oh. No." He 
shook his head like he was trying to flinch 
something off. "It is her. The one in my 
dream. I thought--" He shifted nervously, 
shoving his hands into his overcoat but not 
before Purdue noticed they were trembling 
again. "Look," Mulder shrugged, "how about 
that breakfast?" 

The profiler's voice was agreeable enough 
but Purdue knew only that a wall had 
dropped between them suddenly. The barrier 
was so solid, so abruptly *there* the ASAC 
would have sworn he'd felt the concussion 
when it connected with the ground. Mulder, 
sheltered on the opposite side, had the 
look of a man accustomed to defending his 
battlements. 

Purdue left it alone, conscious once more 
of the eavesdropping officers to his right. 
He nodded to his profiler by way of salute 
and raised his voice to be easily heard. 
"Good job, Agent. Come on, breakfast is on 
me this morning." He jerked his head toward 
their waiting cars and Mulder fell into 
step beside him. Purdue's steps were sure 
and confident, Mulder's gate nonchalant as 
always. The ASAC grinned in spite of 
himself. 

Let the locals chew on that for a while, he 
mused. Damn Feds have to come out in the 
middle of the night to tell the local 
yokels they've missed a serial killer in 
their own backyard. Damn Feds acts like 
they do this sort of thing every day. 
Before breakfast. 

And, dammit, one of them acts like they 
were digging up the corpse of his own 
sister or something.... 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 08:26:00 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 3A of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 3A of 27: No Deposit. No Return.

Disclaimed in Part 1



Tuesday, May 10, 1988. 11:27 AM. Wheeling-
Ohio County Airport, Wheeling, West 
Virginia.

When the departure light hit green, Purdue 
barely restrained himself from skipping off 
the plane to kiss the ground. Three hours 
of Leonardo Sauceda praising the 
technological advances of oscillating 
tissue slicers was a new definition of hell 
as far as the ASAC was concerned. Mulder 
had been no help at all, sprawled in his 
window seat, practically unconscious, and 
shielded shrewdly beneath his headphones. 

And now that they were blissfully grounded, 
Sauceda's luggage had gone AWOL. Purdue 
remained dutifully at the pathologist's 
side through this trauma, listlessly 
watching a leopard-spotted overnight bag 
make its way around the baggage carrousel 
for the third time. There was a thump 
behind the flaps to the loading area and 
Sauceda steeled himself to see what popped 
out next.

Purdue resisted the urge to let loose 
another sigh and stepped back to get a 
better view of the lobby, instead. Mulder, 
not feigning the slightest interest in his 
partner's little dilemma, had wandered off 
early on, leaving Purdue to play concerned 
friend. It was not one of the ASAC's better 
roles, to be certain-- he'd had far too 
little practice-- and Reg had a vaguely 
uneasy feeling about letting the young man 
out of his sight for long. He couldn't 
account for the sensation-- hell, Mulder 
was grown and packing a nine-millimeter 
handgun. Still, it was a gut reaction 
Purdue hadn't been able to shake since 
Fredricksburg, and the ASAC had spent too 
many years learning to trust his instincts 
to start turning the alarms off now. 

Mulder had slept most of the flight, a 
string of catnaps, waking frequently and 
jerking violently as he did so. The 
profiler then sat with his arms tight 
across his chest, locked in anxious silence 
until sleep attacked him once more and the 
process would begin all over again. "I'm 
fine, really" was his answer each time 
Purdue asked, and the private wall was an 
almost visible companion between them. 
Purdue had wondered if he'd be calling 
Fredricksburg when they landed, but Mulder 
had remained practically mute and the ASAC 
didn't press it. Sauceda had made no 
comments about Mulder's behavior either, 
but Purdue doubted that was anything to 
rely on. 

Mulder, of course, had a reputation for 
mercurial mood swings-- Patterson had 
always chalked it up as a by-product of 
what made him function so well as a 
profiler: the ability to view so many sides 
of events at once. The problem was, Mulder 
could apparently see each side so clearly 
he could even empathize with it; the 
resulting emotional confusion had to be 
tough-- something the young man would have 
to learn how to control as he matured. Baez 
had confirmed this assessment months ago 
when he'd presented his findings, 
commenting that Mulder would either learn 
to deal with it or go mad. The quack even 
had the gall to shrug when he said it. 
Never in his life had Reg come so close to 
flat out decking a man in anger. 

Purdue turned back to the baggage carousel 
and found the pathologist leaning too far 
over the conveyor belt, trying to squint 
through the flaps into the loading area. He 
laid a steadying hand on the older man's 
shoulder. "Okay, Hot Sauce. What gives?" 

"Huh?" 

"Mulder, dammit. There something going on I 
should know about?" 

"Ah," Sauceda shrugged, distracted. "Well, 
I don't know. I mean, since when does an 
ASAC go traipsing around the country 
working cases with his agents? Hum?" 
Sauceda nodded as the blush spread across 
Purdue's face. "Hell, Purdue, put yourself 
in Marty's shoes. If your CO suddenly took 
to following you across the country, 
wouldn't you get a little... " 

"Paranoid?" Purdue sighed. 

Sauceda chuckled and shook his head. "Marty 
was born paranoid. Patterson says the kid's 
a natural born sociopath that's just too 
damned smart to get caught. 'Course," 
Sauceda winked conspiratorially, "Marty's 
response to that was to remind Patterson he 
knew where he lived." 

Purdue grunted, watching a matched set of 
American Tourister slide through the flaps. 
"Is Mulder hard to work with?" he asked. 
"Or is it just authority he has a problem 
with?" 

"No more a problem than authority has with 
him." Sauceda sighed. "Look, Purdue, you've 
got a year of Patterson's crap to plow 
through with that kid. It's all he ever got 
out of that old man and it's all he expects 
out of you. And it doesn't do any good to 
tell him otherwise. I've tried." 

Purdue blew air out from his cheeks. Great. 
Here he'd thought he'd made the big time 
only to find he had to prove himself to a 
damned rookie. He noted the gleam in 
Sauceda's eye and frowned. "Is this 
something Mulder's told you?" 

"Shit," Sauceda grunted. "Marty wouldn't 
tell me the time of day if he thought I'd 
share it with someone." He shrugged again. 
"It's not your fault, Purdue. Marty's just 
not one to let people too close, you know?" 

"No, I don't know. Why?" 

"I dunno. He's never let me close enough to 
ask." Sauceda's grimace dissipated as a 
battered brown suitcase slid through the 
flaps. "Hey! What the hell--?" 

Sauceda's bag looked like it had made the 
trip to Wheeling strapped to the outside of 
the plane. The old brown hard-shell had 
seen an awful lot of wear in its time and 
now, apparently, the antique latches had 
failed. Somewhere between the cargo hold 
and the baggage lane, some merciful soul 
had sealed the ratty case with nylon 
strapping. Newly adorned, the suitcase 
bumped forlornly down the conveyor belt, 
bright orange disclaimer tag flapping on 
the handle. 

Sauceda retrieved his treasure with a moan, 
hugging the oversized case like a mother in 
mourning. He carted the bag off to a 
counter to access the damage, remonstrating 
the powers that be in both English and 
Spanish. 

Purdue decided it was probably best to let 
the man grieve in private and stepped to 
the door looking into the lobby. 

He lost no time homing in on his profiler. 
Mulder was seated across the expansive room 
on a bench near the ticket counter. A 
little girl in a bright blue pinafore had 
also singled him out from the crowd. She 
stood before the agent, hugging a little 
plastic doll and staring as small children 
will. Mulder wriggled his eyebrows at her 
Groucho Marx fashion and was rewarded for 
his efforts with a huge, breathless smile. 
A few more elaborate faces had the girl in 
giggles. Purdue bit his lip to keep from 
laughing aloud himself: Mr. I-Don't-Give-a-
Shit making a fool out of himself for a 
toddler... 

Another thought, however and the smile on 
Purdue's face froze painfully: he was 
watching a man less than a decade out of 
his own childhood, a man who dreamed of 
children's corpses, delighting a three year 
old without saying a word. 

Purdue cursed himself quietly. Morbid 
thinking was an occupational hazard in VCU, 
just part of the job. But like the rest of 
the job, it spilled its bloody mess into 
the facts of routine life. Reg frequently 
found himself comparing people's faces to 
the grimacing skulls his agents were called 
in to catalog. And kids were the worst. 
Purdue's last trip to the zoo had become an 
exercise in endurance: all those children, 
their faces full of promise-- His wife's 
barrenness had been a guilty comfort to him 
more than once. 

And Mulder had worked nothing but child 
homicides for months now. Purdue wondered 
if he, too, was assessing the skull beneath 
that creamy skin. Something sad and distant 
behind the profiler's smile said he was. 
Purdue took no comfort in the thought. 
Mulder, his face as unlined as the child's 
before him, was far too young for such 
work. The fact that he was so damned good 
at it was surely one of God's inside jokes. 
And one punch line that would need a hell 
of a lot of explanation-- 

Purdue turned abruptly back to the luggage 
area. Sauceda was approaching dejectedly, 
the re-strapped suitcase, thumping against 
his leg. 

"Anything missing, Lenny?" 

"Nah. I don't think it can be fixed though. 
Damn. My Dad gave me this thing when I left 
for college." He gave the case one more 
loving pat and shuffled after the ASAC into 
the lobby. 

The little girl with the doll had her foot 
stuck out, a picture of three-year old 
patience as Mulder, bent double, tied her 
shoe. Completing the job to her 
satisfaction, the agent gave the little 
foot a reassuring pat and she skipped away 
to rejoin her mother at the entrance of the 
terminal. 

Midway to the outstretched hand of her 
parent, however, the child spun back. Her 
mother's calls were ignored as the little 
figure raced back to the young man on the 
bench. She dropped her doll and reached up 
on tiptoe to give him a hug, spun once more 
to catch up the toy and danced off, waving 
back to him so hard she stumbled. 

Mulder's delighted smile vanished as Purdue 
and Sauceda's footsteps rang out beside 
him. 

Purdue looked after the child trotting 
beside her mother, still waving. "You like 
kids, Agent Mulder?" 

Mulder sprawled deeper into the bench and 
shrugged, promptly finding a blonde at the 
ticket counter to leer at. "They're okay, I 
guess." 

Sauceda gave Purdue a grin and pointed out 
a poster on the wall advertising the local 
chamber of commerce: some little dog 
looking earnestly out and adjuring: 
"Wheeling: Get that Feeling." Sauceda 
patted Mulder on the shoulder and wriggled 
his eyebrows at the blonde. "Yep, someone's 
gettin' that Wheelin' Feelin', alright." 

Mulder shook off the hand and scooted over 
on the bench without comment. 

Sauceda, undeterred, plopped down beside 
him. "So, Marty, how come you're sleeping 
on the plane, huh? You got a girl? Maybe I 
need to call her up and tell her to let you 
get some sleep now and then." Sauceda gave 
Purdue a few "got-it?" winks. 

Mulder didn't look over at either of them. 
"Go to hell, Len," he advised distractedly. 

Sauceda leered, "Uh huh. Afraid I'll steal 
her away from you, aren't you?" 

"It's been tried before," Mulder gave him a 
sidelong look too brief to be clearly 
translated. 

Sauceda's face darkened. "I did not and you 
know it." 

Mulder didn't answer one way or the other, 
crossing his long legs to slap a bit of 
invisible lint from his shoe. Sauceda had a 
reputation for knowing how to dish it 
without taking it too well; Mulder's 
silence had the pathologist quickly 
spewing. 

"You little shit," he barked. "You're gonna 
forget and spout off like that in front of 
my wife one of these days and I'm gonna 
have your balls in a sling." 

"Always knew you were hot to get your hands 
on them." Mulder turned back to his partner 
and, without a hint of a smile, fluttered 
his eyelashes provocatively. 

Sauceda choked and swore, retreating to his 
corner of the bench to sulk. "Screw you, 
Marty." 

"Not even on your best day, Hot Sauce," 
Mulder promised serenely. 

"Well damn my bad luck-- it's Reggie 
Purdue!" 

All three men turned to the booming voice 
approaching across the lobby. 

The speaker was somewhere around Mulder's 
height with a good twenty pounds and a 
tough fifteen years over the agent. 
Obviously former military and probably all 
business when he didn't have Reggie Purdue 
pounding his back with joy. 

"Nat!" Purdue's grin couldn't get much 
bigger and Nat's infections laugh wasn't 
helping any. The curiosity on the faces of 
the men on the bench got the ASAC settled 
quickly, though, and Purdue made 
introductions. 

The old friend was Detective Nathan Harris, 
senior investigator for the West Wheeling 
PD. Harris had agreed to be their host for 
the next few days and said he had a few 
files for Mulder to review. Some older 
cases, a few recent ones he'd picked up off 
his desk. Stuff he'd been thinking about 
faxing the Feds and never gotten round to. 

Purdue noted Mulder's impassive face and 
suddenly realized how all this must look to 
the young man. In Patterson's harem, Mulder 
had been the best thing since sliced toast 
and hauled out from his desk-- and out from 
under Patterson's thumb-- only for the 
unsolvable. And here Purdue had hauled him 
three hundred miles to work on the kind of 
cases Mulder routinely profiled in minutes 
on the phone. And the ASAC had accompanied 
him on the trip like Mulder couldn't be 
trusted to do the job unsupervised. Purdue 
bit his lip to keep from swearing aloud. It 
didn't help that Mulder didn't comment, 
merely nodding in all the appropriate 
pauses. 

"Actually," the ASAC was looking at Harris 
but talking to Mulder, "Mulder here is a 
profiling genius. He's just out here 
humoring me while I get a feel for his 
methods. The Bureau is looking to expand 
his repertoire so to speak, expose him to a 
variety of case types." 

Sauceda looked away innocently. Mulder was 
frowning; the expression was not so much a 
change in expression as an ominous 
darkening of the eyes. 

Harris, oblivious to all this, took 
Mulder's reticence in stride. "Well, it's 
good to have you guys here," he assured, 
then eyed the youngest man. "I'll try not 
to bore you." He flashed Purdue a wicked 
grin and winked. 

Purdue felt himself cringe reflexively. 
Harris was an honest cop and a good man, a 
reliable friend both in the field and off, 
but he didn't give his trust easily. Purdue 
had lauded Mulder, praising him for weeks 
to the detective. But it was obvious that 
in spite of everything Purdue had said, 
Harris was going to make the young agent 
prove himself. Purdue shrugged in 
resignation, wondering why this should come 
as such a shock to him. Hell, it wasn't 
anything personal, just Harris' nature and 
couldn't be helped. 

Mulder watched the subtle emotional 
interplay without comment, meeting the 
ASAC's eyes, his face revealing nothing. 
Purdue was speechless within that solemn 
gaze. The profiler bent to collect his bag 
and Harris herded his guests out to find 
his car. 

Purdue and Harris preceded the two less 
senior agents and Sauceda turned his volume 
up just enough to make certain he was 
overheard, but low enough to at least 
pretend he was talking to Mulder alone. 
Mulder, apparently too guileless for his 
own good, was the only one of the group who 
didn't immediately catch on to the tactic. 

"You know, Marty, Purdue thinks you don't 
like him." 

Purdue cringed. Leave it to Len Sauceda to 
make a bad situation worse. He rolled eyes 
at Harris' grin and made a mental note to 
refine his sadistic streak for Sauceda's 
sake. 

They heard Mulder hiss, "Shit." Then in a 
quiet, suddenly unconcerned voice: "Where 
would he get that idea?" 

"You." 

Purdue could pictureSauceda's innocent face 
even without turning his head to look. 

Mulder's grunt was untranslatable. "And I 
suppose one of us is supposed to be 
concerned about it?" he asked 
disinterestedly. 

Purdue quickly tired of Harris' grin and 
mouthed a few expletives at him silently. 
Harris barely managed not to burst out 
laughing. 

"Come on, Marty," Sauceda taunted. "You 
care and you know it." 

Mulder's only answer was the rasp of his 
lighter as he lit a cigarette. 

Harris kept his voice low. "So, that's you 
rookie, huh?" 

"That's him," Purdue groaned. "Word of 
warning, Nat. Don't let him catch you 
trying to be nice to him. He'll slam your 
hood just for having the audacity." 

"You're suggesting I get tough with him, 
then?" Harris grinned mischievously. 

"Then he'll definitely slam it." Purdue 
found himself grinning at the thought of 
Harris getting his comeuppance. "It's a 
matter of principle with Mulder." 

Harris shook his head. "And of all the gin 
joints in the world, you toss him into 
mine. Gee, thanks, Reg." 

Purdue laughed, keeping his voice quiet. 
"But no kidding, Nat. The kid really is the 
genuine article. His profiling is 
downright-- well, spooky." Purdue choked on 
the hated word, shrugged. "And, like I said 
on the phone, I appreciate your help on 
this one." 

The detective nodded solemnly "Well, I 
appreciated your call, and that you chose 
to come out here of all places. Hell, I 
know how tough burnout can get in this line 
of work. A man can get desperate and do 
himself a lot of damage. It's why I left 
LA. Like I said, I've got enough cases to 
keep you boys looking busy and keep the 
brass off your butts, but I won't be 
tossing the kid any of the pressure-cooker 
stuff." He glanced back at the man with the 
cigarette. "Still, I wasn't expecting him 
to be so young. If your bunch has burned 
him down that hard this fast, maybe you 
need to reassess some policy-- or some 
supervisors." 

Purdue had more than he cared to say on 
that subject so he didn't bother, taking 
comfort in companionable silence. Harris 
knew better than to pressure for answers he 
didn't have. 

They found Harris's blue Ford and the 
detective popped the trunk for their 
luggage while on his way to the driver's 
side. He swung an arm to the agents behind 
him, waving at the back seat. 

"Get in the car, kids," he called 
playfully. He paused and pointed to Mulder. 
"Dump the weed, son, no smoking in the car. 
Policy." 

His voice had been friendly enough and 
Mulder dropped the offending cigarette and 
ground it under his shoe without comment. 
And a little too thoroughly. Purdue noted 
the overly solicitous hand Sauceda laid on 
Mulder's arm. Mulder shook it off and 
donned his shades: mirrored gold Ray Bans 
that made you look back at yourself when 
you looked at the wearer. 

Mulder tossed his bag in the trunk and 
crawled into the backseat behind the ASAC. 
Sauceda settled his case in carefully, 
lingering a minute more before joining 
them. 

Harris started the car and shuffled through 
some papers on the dash. "Heads up," he 
called, tossing a manila envelope over his 
shoulder to the only vaguely alerted 
profiler. Mulder just managed to catch the 
file and Purdue caught his expression in 
the mirror on his visor. Even through the 
shades, Mulder looked like he was trying to 
determine where he could aim a bullet and 
keep the blood from splattering on his 
suit. 

Purdue kept his own expression neutral as 
Sauceda settled into the back seat. The 
ASAC was actually disappointed that Mulder 
hadn't responded to Harris' baiting. 
Instead, Purdue realized, Mulder was busy 
watching *him* in Purdue's vanity mirror, 
spying on Purdue spying on him-- The ASAC 
snapped the visor back up with a guilty 
thump. 

The quartet sailed down Highway 5 toward 
downtown Wheeling, listening to the rustle 
of papers in the back seat. Purdue and 
Harris shared small talk and jokes with 
Sauceda. The slightest bit of interest from 
the pathologist set Harris into performance 
mode and the detective started in on his 
repertoire of gritty anecdotes, beginning 
with the one titled "The Last Time I 
Embarrassed the Hell out of Reggie Purdue." 
Harris told this same tired story to 
everybody, in pointless detail, and it 
never failed to make Purdue squirm-- which 
was, of course, just what Harris told it 
for. Purdue noted Sauceda was lapping it up 
like cream. 

Midway through his sordid tale, with Purdue 
gritting his teeth audibly, Harris jerked 
into silence. Mulder's file, reassembled, 
had suddenly plopped down over the front 
seat, landing precariously across the 
gearshift. 

Harris eyed the rearview mirror. "So," he 
mused, "done already?" 

"This is the case we flew out to profile?" 
Mulder sounded sleepy. 

"You have a problem with it, Agent?" 

"Well, you did promise not to bore me." 

Purdue twisted in his seat so Mulder could 
catch his grin. Maybe, finally, Harris 
wouldn't be the only one with an 
embarrassing story to tell. The ASAC helped 
himself to the file. "What is this, Nat?" 

Harris shrugged. "The Reader's Digest 
version? A rape homicide. The victim was a 
young woman, bludgeoned to death, tossed in 
the River. Body washed up across the bridge 
in Bridgeport, Ohio. No prints, no nothing. 
Coroner thinks the murder weapon was some 
kind of bottle." Harris glanced back in the 
rearview at the shades. "Your boss here 
tells me you know your stuff, son. So 
what've we got?" 

Mulder sat sideways to stretch his long 
legs and Sauceda, frowning, slid his feet 
over to accommodate. 

"The rape was a crime of opportunity," the 
profiler stifled a yawn. "The killer is 
local, known to the victim but not a 
boyfriend. You'd have closed the case by 
now if it had been that obvious." 

Harris nodded; Mulder continued. "The 
killing was the focus, the rape was an 
afterthought, but the plan itself was 
fairly spontaneous. The killer was 
improvising, getting a feel for the event. 
He was obviously panicked and overplayed 
it-- mostly due to adrenaline-- but he 
enjoyed it and performed the murder itself 
thoroughly. Very thoroughly--" 

Purdue grimaced at the photos in his hand. 
Autopsy found forty-six separate blows to 
the body, more than half of them hard 
enough to fracture bone. He flipped his 
visor down quietly, watching as the 
profiler continued. 

"He's young, late teens, early twenties, 
not much upper body strength--" 

"She was beaten to death," Harris was 
watching for his exit. "You don't think 
that takes much upper body strength?" 

Mulder shrugged, leaning back against his 
door. "She was already wounded, in shock. 
One well-placed or just plain lucky blow 
low along the base of the skull," he 
pointed out such a spot on his own skull, 
"she's history. The rest is just working 
out frustration. From the look of it, he 
wasn't too sure of what he was supposed to 
do when it came down to the actual rape; 
that probably frustrated him even more." 

Mulder tapped his foot against Sauceda's 
shoe just for spite like some kid on a too-
long car trip. 

"I'd look through the local misfit file," 
Mulder winked at Sauceda's glare. "Punk 
wannabe's still living with Momma and 
walking because Dad won't let them borrow 
the station wagon. Psychopath in infancy. 
Right now he's biding his time and seeing 
how the police work their angle before he 
tries it again." 

Harris frowned. "You can't be serious." 

"Okay, official profile," Mulder sighed. 
"Perpetrator is an asocial offender with an 
average to below-average intelligence and a 
disorganized presentation. He's socially 
and sexually inadequate, and has probably 
revisited the crime scene to relive fond 
memories. Consistent with most of the 
Holmes Typology of obsessive-compulsives, 
he'll have a hiding place at his house, 
probably under his mattress where he keeps 
the Hustlers. He's kept something from the 
kill. Your file doesn't mention anything 
missing off the victim so he's probably 
saved an article of his own clothing. Maybe 
his shirt. The little shit'll pull it out 
late at night when Mom's asleep, bury his 
face in it, get an erection off the smell 
of his sweat and her blood. It's better in 
memory than reality. It always is." 

CONTINUED IN PART 3B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 08:26:07 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 3B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 3B of 27: No Deposit. No Return.


Harris had slowed the car and was staring a 
bit too hard at the Mulder's reflection. 
Purdue knew what was going through his 
head, comparing the words to that 
milquetoast face. This was standard 
profiling but Mulder's voice was just too 
damned flat somehow. It was beyond 
professional distance; it was downright 
cold-blooded. 

"How do you explain the bow?" Harris 
demanded. 

Purdue consulted the photos again: a mess 
of flesh that was only just distinguishable 
as human, a big ribbon bow, torn from the 
victim's dress, tied up around the neck 
like the wrapping on a gift that wouldn't 
quite fit in a box. 

"Staging," Mulder explained blandly, 
staring out at the passing billboards. 
"Little dweeb had a brain-storm and wanted 
to make you think you had some tight-ass 
killer on the loose in Whoville. He's 
managed to keep his mouth shut only because 
he hasn't got any friends to tell, but by 
now he's fancying himself a somebody. The 
next FBI's Most Wanted. Just dying to let 
everyone know how important he is. He's 
probably been calling your boys up, 
offering assistance. Wanting to be Mr. 
Helpful. Mr. Neighborhood Spy who may or 
may not have seen something significant on 
the night in question. That kind of crap." 

Harris bit his lip. "Well, interestingly 
enough, Mr. G-man, we've got someone 
matching at least part of your profile. One 
Albert Graves. Neighborhood kid. Plagued 
with acne and a history of bad haircuts. 
Beyond that, he's got no criminal record." 

"Hasn't had much time to build one at his 
age. Pick him up. Interrogate him." 

"Hell, good old Al was sitting in the 
public hall when I left the precinct. He'd 
heard one of the uniforms mention the 
fibbies had called in and the kid just 
couldn't wait to see you guys. You know, 
just in case you boys couldn't find your 
butts without his assist." 

"He's got you made to order then, doesn't 
he?" 

"Shit," Harris was more than a little 
annoyed; the blank mirrored stare in the 
back seat looked suspiciously delighted. 
Purdue bit his lip and kept his face 
impassive. 

"Look, son," Harris scanned the curb in 
front of the precinct for a parking space. 
"We've taken a statement from this kid 
every three days for two weeks. He's got 
nothing left to say." 

"Sure he does," Mulder insisted. "He's 
guilty. But he's not stupid enough to just 
pop out with a confession until you 
confront him with some evidence." 

"Evidence which we *don't* have." The 
detective slammed the vehicle into park. 

Mulder sighed again, one hand working at 
the muscles at the base of his neck. "And 
on the eighth day God created search 
warrants. Look, Detective, its all a game 
to this kid now. You ignore him so he 
tweaks your nose with it. He's laughing at 
you. He's sitting out in your public hall 
laughing his ass off. And planning his next 
kill. Just so he can rub that one in your 
face, too." 

Harris spared a quick glare for Purdue, and 
shifted in his seat to get a better look at 
those shades. "Okay, Mr. G-man," he purred, 
"how about we go in and *you* interview the 
kid. Eyeball to eyeball." 

The shades betrayed nothing. "What's wrong, 
Harris, can't your department handle a 
punk-ass kid?" 

Harris winked savagely at Purdue. "Well, I 
don't seem to be doing too well right now," 
he answered. Mulder opened his mouth and 
Harris waved him quiet. "You make a good 
sell, kid; all that psychobabble sounds 
real good. But you obviously have no idea 
what you're talking about in the real 
world. Trust me, it's a little different 
when you get out from behind a desk." 

Mulder's face in the rearview flushed about 
as deep as Purdue felt his own doing. 
Neither reaction was lost on Harris and the 
look he gave his friend was a flat out 
challenge. He gave the same expression to 
Mulder. "I mean it, son. You look that kid 
in his beady little doe's eyes and accuse 
him of this shit. I want to see the cold 
son of a bitch that can do it." 

Mulder grinned his delight. "Sounds like a 
plan." 

Harris swore again. He looked like he 
wanted to spit. "Do you even hear what 
you're saying? We're not talking gangs and 
hardened criminals, here. You're saying 
some nineteen-year-old boy raped and beat a 
girl to death. Think about that. Think 
about what that takes. Have *you* ever hit 
a man hard enough to kill him? It's not 
that easy." 

"No, I haven't," the profiler admitted. 
"But I've thought about it." 

"Well, remind me to stay on your good side, 
son." 

"I don't have a good side," Mulder growled. 
"And I'm not your goddam son." 

Mulder leaned into the front seat and 
Harris flinched. The profiler ignored him, 
snatching the file from Purdue and bailing 
out of the car. Sauceda grinned broadly, 
popped his door open and trotted after him. 
Harris and Purdue were playing catch up, 
following the profiler's rapid stride into 
the precinct, donning badges out of habit. 

Harris was hard on Mulder's heels when the 
young man swung through the doors. Mulder 
pocketed his shades and stepped toward the 
public hall. The room was full: yuppies in 
power suits rubbing elbows with janitors 
and working girls. There were even a few 
kids present. But Mulder obviously had no 
problem finding what he'd come for. 

"You," he barked so roughly Purdue jerked 
along with most of the people in the room. 
The profiler pointed to a young pimple-
faced man with eyes big as plums. Mulder 
spoke like the kid had been the only one to 
respond. "Yeah, you. Get your butt over 
here." 

The boy hopped up, obviously pleased to 
have been singled out and impressed with 
his own sudden fame. The other occupants in 
the room shrank from him as he passed, wary 
of guilt by association. 

Mulder swung on Harris. "You got a room we 
can work him over in?" 

The detective's answer was a silent glare; 
he spared an apologetic smile for the kid 
as he came trotting up. 

"Hey, Albert. Look, these gentlemen--" 

"I'll handle the introductions," Mulder 
rumbled, putting a not too-friendly hand on 
the back of the boy's neck. "You handle the 
accommodations." 

Harris raked a steely glance over profiler 
and punctuated it with a growl at Purdue. 
Mulder had the detective's self-righteous 
indignation working overtime; it fairly 
rolled off the man's shoulders as he led 
the way down the hall. Several passing 
officers gave them a wider berth. Harris 
slammed open the door of a standard police 
interrogation room: stained wooden table, 
three chairs, one-way mirror and bad 
linoleum. 

Mulder smiled sweetly and thanked him. The 
detective sputtered, trying to form a reply 
but Mulder pushed past him, propelling 
Albert through the door. Inside, Mulder 
released the boy suddenly, like their 
suspect was suddenly of little consequence. 
The profiler stepped through the room 
instantly taking possession of it, tossing 
the file on the table, spilling victim 
photos onto the scratched and cigarette-
burned wood. Harris perused the staging, 
chewing his cheek and eyeballing the ASAC. 
Purdue raised a noncommittal brow and kept 
his attention on his profiler. 

Mulder moved deliberately, rapidly, with 
the attitude of a man who had a lifetime of 
plans and a short time to live. Grabbing a 
chair from the mirrored wall, he plopped it 
down at the table, glancing up as he did 
so. He froze suddenly, attention riveted on 
the wall across the table. Purdue felt 
Sauceda stop breathing beside him. 

Purdue followed Mulder's line of sight and 
studied the bulletin boards that filled the 
wall. Harris had been complaining that the 
precinct was running low on space; the 
presence of the boards indicated this room 
was used for more than just interrogation. 
The cork was covered with diagrams and 
autopsy reports, crime scene photos and 
chemistry work-ups. The looser pages danced 
occasionally from the breeze of an 
oscillating fan. A Disney calendar 
fluttered quietly next to full color 
enlargements of dismemberments. 

Purdue noted the reluctant fascination on 
Harris' face as the detective studied 
Mulder's profile. 

"Something wrong, Agent Mulder?" Harris' 
voice was cold but the eyes he turned on 
Purdue were uncertain, questioning. 

Mulder shook his head without turning. 
Another few seconds of this and Harris' 
mouth opened again. Mulder, however, spun 
abruptly to face Albert and introduced 
himself. *Special* Agent Fox Mulder. With 
the EFF-BE-EYE. Purdue smiled. Mulder had 
Harris read the kid his rights. Harris did 
so, out of courtesy to his training, but it 
was obvious he didn't like it much. Purdue 
was impressed; this Albert kid had must 
have done a real number on the detective to 
be afforded so much consideration. Right 
now, though, Albert was far from suave: his 
eyes were wide and he seemed to be having 
trouble collecting enough spit to even 
stutter. 

Mulder planted himself in a chair, pushing 
it back and balancing himself nonchalantly 
on the rear legs. 

"Sit." He commanded. 

Albert obeyed, taking the chair situated as 
far from the profiler as possible. It put 
him facing the mirror and Mulder, his back 
to the bulletin boards filled with photos. 
Mulder regarded the wall over the kid's 
shoulder like he couldn't be bothered with 
the interview suddenly. Harris frowned.

"You got a lawyer?" Mulder asked absently.

"Sir?"

"Are you deaf?" Mulder was looking at him 
now, but his voice remained disinterested. 
The kid didn't answer, turning to look at 
Harris.

Mulder looked at Harris, too. "I think 
that's a yes," he quipped.

The kid blushed and turned back to the 
agent. "No. No, sir. I'm not deaf." 

"Then do you have a law-yer." Mulder said 
it slower this time. 

Albert squinted uneasily. "I don't need 
one." 

"The hell you don't." 

The boy swallowed hard, his Adam's apple 
bobbing convulsively. Mulder leaned 
forward, allowing his chair to slam back 
down on all fours. 

"Did you even listen to your rights when 
they were read to you, Albert? I'm not 
stupid. Detective Harris here's not stupid. 
Don't fucking act like we're stupid. You're 
going to sit there and tell me you don't 
watch *LA Law* or *Miami Vice*? Yeah? Then 
you know that when you make a confession 
you're entitled to the presence of legal 
counsel." 

The boy's eyes swung wildly from the 
hostile agent to his old buddy Harris. 
Harris was too busy glaring at the 
interrogator. Mulder stood and indulged in 
a luxurious stretch, working his shoulders 
loosely as he removed his jacket and tossed 
it into the abandoned chair. 

Albert surveyed the profiler, cautious as a 
cat. "Hey," he stuttered, his voice little 
more than a high-pitched whine. "You 
guys've got it all wrong." He managed a 
half laugh, trying to shrug away the 
contempt rolling off Mulder from across the 
table. "I got nothing to confess. I just 
came in 'cause I thought--" 

"You thought you remembered something 
else," Mulder mocked. "Something that might 
be useful. Yeah. Been there, heard that. 
You little shit. Sitting here, wasting my 
goddam time." Albert recoiled into his 
chair as the agent came around to his side 
of the table. Harris shifted uneasily but 
kept his place as Mulder folded his arms 
and sat on the tabletop, settling himself 
just within reach of the kid. 

Mulder didn't even look at Albert, though, 
busy staring at the bulletin boards again. 
"So, you're waving your right to legal 
counsel?" Mulder insisted on clarification 
of the point. 

"I ain't done nothing," Albert mewled. "I 
don't need a lawyer." He risked a pleading 
look at Harris. Harris was watching Mulder 
carefully. 

The kid turned back to the profiler, 
pleading hopefully, "Look, I told you, man-
- Hey, I'm as innocent as you are." Albert 
smiled, turning on as much charm as his 
tense facial muscles would allow. The 
profiler didn't seem too impressed. 

"Hate to tell you this, Al," Mulder 
grimaced bitterly, "but that pretty much 
makes you guilty as hell." The agent 
sighed, rotating his shoulders wearily. 
"Okay, that's how you want to play it. I'll 
tell you how you did it. You interrupt me 
if I get something wrong." Mulder raised a 
quizzical brow. "Hell, screw that," he 
decided. "I'm not going to be wrong. I've 
solved more difficult cases in my sleep." 
Once more dropping the irritating Albert 
for the photos on the wall, Mulder's voice 
took on a flat quality like he was 
speculating aloud, simply talking to 
himself. Albert sat silent, apparently 
aware that he was no longer required, 
listening intently, eyes wide, shoulders 
progressively sinking. "It was her fault, 
of course," Mulder reflected. "That much is 
obvious. That short skirt, laughing at you 
when you stopped to stare at her. Teasing 
you, rolling that bottle of soda around all 
slick in her hands. Then ignoring you for 
the inconsequential little shit you are. 
Hell, she did everything but just come out 
and ask for it, right?" 

Mulder was playing the interrogator's least 
favored role: projecting blame on the 
victim. It was a necessary tactic in 
investigative work and one that never 
failed to leave a bad taste in Purdue's 
mouth. The fact that Mulder made it look 
easy didn't sit too well in the ASAC's gut, 
but this was what the agent was trained 
for. And Mulder had never been faulted for 
his grasp of procedure. Purdue frowned, 
though, as Mulder leaned forward to peek at 
one of the more tantalizing photos 
fluttering on the board. The profiler's 
voice was increasingly distant as if he 
were functioning on automatic. 

"You planned the assault," Mulder insisted 
blandly, "planned the killing, but only 
after she was already in reach and the 
opportunity was there. You just didn't plan 
the logistics too well." Albert fidgeted 
silently beside him. "Having shit for 
brains, you just hadn't thought things out 
and didn't know what else to do. So there 
goes a charge of Murder One right out the 
window, dammit." 

Albert twisted his hands together 
painfully, squinting at the agent who 
seemed intent on both terrorizing him and 
ignoring him. He opened his mouth and 
anxiously snapped it shut again as Mulder 
straightened to scan another set of photos 
on the wall. 

The agent's voice remained flat. "You think 
you had us all screwed with that bow 
business, don't you, Al? What? You stay up 
and watch reruns of *The Boston Strangler* 
on the late show or something?" Mulder 
looked back down at the squirming kid and 
the laugh that escaped him was genuine. 
Purdue resisted the chill that ran down his 
spine. "Albert DeSalvo and Albert the 
Screwup," Mulder grinned, "side by side in 
the annals of crime." 

The agent shook his head and Albert went 
white. "You know what the problem with that 
is, Albert?" Mulder critiqued solicitously. 
"The problem is you don't have the balls it 
takes to actually kill someone by 
strangling them." Mulder, without turning, 
spoke over his shoulder. "How about you, 
Detective Harris? You ever strangle 
anybody?" 

Purdue gulped air and cursed Sauceda's 
Cheshire cat grin. 

Harris' voice was amiable enough though, it 
almost concealed the razor-edge of contempt 
as he moved to take a solid stand behind 
Albert. "About as many times as you've beat 
a man to death, Mr. G-man," Harris mocked. 
"How about it, Agent? Why don't you give us 
the benefit of your *vast* experience?" 

Mulder smiled softly, eyes on Harris 
disarmingly agreeable. He held up his hands 
for inspection and Albert stared, caught up 
in that sure and steady voice. 

"It's an amazing sensation, really," Mulder 
assured them. "The feel of that soft skin 
against your palms, the feel of tendons 
tightening against your fingertips." He 
leaned toward Albert slightly, his voice 
suddenly inviting and seductive. "The scent 
of perfume getting stronger from the heat 
of the friction as you start squeezing." 

He sat back, flexing his hands slowly and 
Purdue felt his testicles draw up. 

"And then the tendons start moving," Mulder 
intoned, beguiling, enticing, "and she's 
struggling, begging you for her life. Her 
body moving against yours. She's moving 
against you and moaning, pushing at you, 
tearing at you. Feels like you're having 
sex. Really intense sex. Not that you'd 
know, Al." 

Harris glanced back at Purdue, his face 
twisted with confusion. Purdue's response 
was a half shrug. Damned if he knew where 
Mulder got all this crap. It was obviously 
having the desired effect on Harris, 
though. There was just the barest edge of 
fear in the man's eyes. Purdue hadn't seen 
Nat getting personal with that particular 
emotion in years. 

Beside the ASAC, Sauceda's grin was 
positively wicked. 

Mulder wasn't finished yet. His smile never 
wavered and the eyes he focused on Harris 
were deep green, unblinking as a cobra's. 
"Real world analysis, out from behind the 
desk, Detective: your boy Al is the 'blunt-
force-trauma' type. Can't get it up enough 
to kill her clean, he's gotta beat her to 
death." He turned back to Albert and the 
kid cringed in his chair. 

"What's the matter, Al, couldn't you make 
her enjoy it?" Mulder's smile was so 
sincere it hurt and the boy winced. "Of 
course you couldn't. And that's the beauty 
of putting some planning into these little 
ventures, Albert. You see, it's a simple 
fact: you can't kill someone by blunt-
force-trauma without getting blood 
everywhere. Just... everywhere." 

The kid looked green. Mulder propped a foot 
against the wall under the photo collection 
and leaned his elbow on his knee. "Blood on 
her," he mused. "Blood on the ground. Blood 
on you. Can't take that home to mommy to 
wash, huh? Only you can't walk home naked. 
Somebody might laugh. And that's where we 
got you. Your semen matches and you can 
claim consensual sex. That the killer came 
along after you left. But her blood on your 
clothes-- that pretty much nails it, 
doesn't it?" 

In lieu of any response from his suspect, 
Mulder nodded to himself. "Here's how it 
works, Al. My profile gets Detective Harris 
here a search warrant, we find your dirty 
laundry, and you go to prison. No 
confession necessary. Its just that 
simple." 

Mulder reached a hand out and pulled up the 
kid's chin. Albert flinched as Mulder eyed 
him critically. "Still, you know, you're 
not *that* bad looking." The profiler 
dropped his hand, wiped it on his knee. 
"You'll get that ass of yours raped the 
first shower you take. The rest of the 
inmates will figure you're into that kind 
of thing, anyway. Not that it'd matter. And 
all because some little split tail wiggled 
it at you and said you couldn't have it. 
See what women are, Albert? All the trouble 
they cause?" 

Harris had finally had enough. "Goddam," he 
exploded and the hands he slammed on the 
back of Albert's chair had the kid cringing 
from both men. 

"Goddam," Harris repeated, almost howling 
the word at Mulder, "look at him! He's just 
a kid. Just a few years younger than you, 
you little bastard!" 

Mulder's smile was surprised but genuine. 
"Why Detective Harris. I do admire the 
intensity of your good-cop/bad-cop 
routine," the smile disappeared abruptly, 
"but this is *my* interrogation, as I 
recall." 

Harris stepped back, speechless and Purdue 
advanced to lay a steadying hand on his 
friend's arm. 

Mulder ignored them, reptile eyes back on 
his suspect. "Sure, Al's just a baby. The 
apple of your momma's eye, aren't you Al? 
Well, Albert, I think Detective Harris 
needs to take another look at his photo 
album, don't you?" Mulder nodded his head 
at the collection littering the table and 
his eyes dropped to hard slits. "Because, 
Albert, your momma's stone fucking blind. 
You're good, Al. You got a police detective 
patting you on the head and thinking the 
worst thing he could charge you with is 
truancy. But we know the truth, don't we, 
Al? You and I, we know what kind of hate it 
takes to do that to a woman." Mulder stood, 
leaning over the kid and Purdue got a 
better grip on Harris' swinging arm. 

Mulder slammed his fist into to the table 
and watched as Albert bounced in his chair. 
"Tell him, Al," Mulder demanded. "Tell him 
what it's like in the real world. In your 
world. You *want* him to know, don't you? 
Aren't you just dying to tell the world how 
wrong they are about poor pathetic little 
Al?" Albert had stopped shaking, lost 
somewhere in Mulder's cold eyes. Mulder 
smiled. "Better yet, don't tell us. Then 
your lawyer can't get your confession 
thrown out of evidence because you were 
obviously too damned stupid to understand 
your rights to counsel." 

Albert shifted in his seat and worked his 
jaw. Mulder raised an admonishing finger 
and the boy locked his lips down tight, 
eyes wide like the agent had pulled a 
weapon on him or something. 

"Not a word, Al," Mulder warned softly. 
"Let me explain it. Let me invite you're 
badge-toting pal here into your universe." 
Mulder didn't break his gaze from Albert's 
tense face. Purdue could feel the muscles 
straining in Harris' arm. 

"Real world," Mulder's face darkened, "you 
hit a man that hard you feel it. You feel 
the concussion of the blow clean up your 
arm. You feel like your goddam teeth are 
shattering in your head. Forty-six blows. 
At least twenty of them enough to rattle 
your own teeth and you just kept hitting 
her. She was dead by the fourth swing, you 
little bastard. You had to have noticed by 
the tenth. And you didn't stop. You just 
kept at it until you couldn't lift your arm 
anymore. That's not just evidence of 
murder, Al. That's evidence of a murderer's 
soul. A hateful heart." He slapped one of 
the victim's photos at the kid's chest. 
Albert caught it on instinct. "Here, Al," 
Mulder growled. "Have a good look. It's 
your self-portrait." 

Albert complied, grimacing down at the 
photo in his hands. Mulder glared up at 
Harris, trembling in anger beside Purdue. 
"Now, Detective, you get that warrant, get 
this little shit in a cell and let's get on 
to some real work. And quit wasting my 
time." 

Harris swung his enraged gaze from Mulder 
to Purdue, back again. And then gasped when 
he looked down at Albert. The kid was 
watching him, grinning maniacally, dry-eyed 
in the chair. It was everything Al could do 
to keep from laughing. 

The detective stood as though frozen in 
place, jaw working silently. Words just 
didn't seem to want to form. It hurt to 
watch the man as he put it all together, 
standing there staring into that vapid, 
acne-plagued face. 

Purdue gave Mulder a sour look but the 
young man didn't notice, intent once more 
on his bulletin boards. The ASAC felt 
Sauceda shift beside him and glanced over. 
Sauceda slipped both hands in his back 
pockets and sighed contentedly; his grin 
was so wide he looked like he was in pain. 

Harris took a deep breath and shrugged off 
Purdue's grasp. Vision focused warily on 
Mulder's face, Harris nodded slowly at the 
bulletin boards. 

"So, Mr. Mulder," he asked carefully, "you 
ever knife anybody?" 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 08:26:11 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 4 of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 4 of 27: Be It Ever So Humble...

Disclaimed in Part 1.



Tuesday, May 10, 1988. Wheeling, West Virginia. West 
Wheeling Precinct, Interrogation Room Two.

"Two vagrants and a prostitute. In the wrong place at 
the wrong time," Harris grimaced at the table full of 
files. "That's what we thought at first, anyway."

"Then you found victim number four," Mulder mused. He 
didn't look up from the pile of reports and photos, 
copies and then some of what hung on the bulletin 
boards above. 

"Yeah," Harris frowned. "Well, you picked up on that, 
quick enough."

Purdue adjusted his butt against the old wooden office 
chair he'd claimed for himself and indulged in a told-
you-so wink at his friend. Harris gave him a resigned 
shrug and a cup of coffee, cream, no sugar. 

Once Albert had been hauled to Holding, the detective 
had tried to make his guests comfortable in the 
cramped quarters of the interrogation room: rookies 
trotted in coffee, sodas and-- "God help us," Purdue'd 
whispered -- donuts as quickly as Harris could snap 
fingers. Harris himself had disappeared into the 
office behind the one-way mirror and returned with 
stacks of files. They watched patiently as he culled 
out various items as unworthy, finally settling on the 
sordid mess they were looking at now: four apparently 
separate homicides perpetrated in the past few months. 

Sauceda peered over Mulder's arm at the file his 
partner was perusing. "So what's the story on victim 
four, then?" he asked. "Different MO?"

"The three others were killed on the streets. The 
victims were indigents," Harris explained. "We figured 
it was some kind of hate crime or someone stumbling 
into the wrong gang turf, maybe drugs. But Four was a 
businessman, family man with no priors. He made 
regular stops here in Wheeling. Always the same hotel. 
Manager got so used to the schedule he usually kept 
the same room available for him. He was killed in that 
hotel room." Harris shook his head. "It was a slow 
night, not many people registered. No witnesses and no 
security cameras."

Harris set an ashtray in easy reach of both Purdue and 
Mulder. Reg noted it favored Mulder's side.

Harris shrugged at the profiler's raised brows. 
"Policy says you can't smoke in the car, son. It don't 
say jack about the office."

Mulder glanced away from the act of kindness, 
apparently not quite certain what to do with it. 
Purdue didn't really need a smoke just yet, but he 
fished out his cigarettes anyway. Tapping one out for 
himself, he offered the pack to the profiler; the 
agent accepted hesitantly. The ritual of lighting 
accomplished, Mulder took a few cursory puffs, and 
availed himself of the ashtray, scooting the little 
glass dish closer to Purdue in the process. The action 
was furtive, designed to look completely accidental, 
Mulder's attention clearly riveted on the folder in 
front of him. Mulder's covert peace offering, however, 
did not escape the ASAC's notice.

Harris had finally stopped fussing with his 
arrangements and took a seat across the table. 

"So what links your victims?" Purdue asked him.

"Nothing. Except Ballistics says they were all killed 
with the same .22 semi-automatic. One shot, skin-touch 
range, through the back, through the heart--"

Purdue shrugged, eyeing Mulder as the profiler 
shuffled through the reports; he'd seen men less 
excited over nude women. "A number of professional 
killers favor a .22 Ruger at that range," the ASAC 
noted. "The weapon is easy to obtain, easy to dispose 
of. Then there's that nice messy ricochet damage the 
bullet leaves inside the body. Maybe there's a drug 
angle--"

"Drug killings don't usually involve mutilations," 
Mulder dissented. "Especially not this extensive." 

Sauceda looked up from his collection of autopsy 
reports. "What's the perp using, a hunting knife?"

Harris nodded, swallowing a mouthful of coffee. "Looks 
like."

Mulder's brows were furrowed as he flipped through 
photographs. "No sign of sexual assault, no 
necrophilia, no cannibalism, no fetishism, at least 
not of body parts. Yet all the victims have been 
gutted with the intensity and brutality of lust 
murder." He shook his head, looking up at Harris. "All 
postmortem."

"You sound disappointed, Mr. G-man." It was Harris's 
turn to wink at Purdue. 

Mulder frowned. "Amazed, actually," he admitted. "With 
most serials, mutilations of this intensity are done 
prior to the killing. It's a sexual thrill, a means of 
degrading and subjugating the victim. The fantasy role 
being played out to its logical conclusion."

"So what's the significance when it's postmortem?"

Mulder sat back and chewed the inside of his cheek 
thoughtfully. "That the killer feels so little control 
over the situation the victim must be killed 
immediately. Yet, he's in control well enough that he 
can get within several feet of his target, get him to 
turn his back, and then fire point blank."

Sauceda shrugged. "Hey, if a guy walks up to me in an 
alley, points a gun and tells me to turn around, I'm 
turning around, muchacho."

"Maybe," Mulder brought the cigarette to his mouth but 
didn't bother to complete the action, his attention 
absorbed by the photos collected before him. "These 
gunshot wounds are all clean shots, right? All pretty 
much in the exact same location..." Mulder balanced 
his chair on its rear legs, rocking. "And your 
businessman here had a gun on his nightstand, leaves 
it sitting to let our killer in?"

"So, maybe he knew the guy, Marty. I don't see the big 
deal." Sauceda shrugged at Harris. "You've checked the 
victim's local contacts, someone who might have known 
he knew someone, that kind of thing? Get any leads?"

Harris sighed. "Straight arrow police work, all the 
way. We've checked every contact, right down to the 
pharmacy on the corner. And all we've got is zip." 
Harris waved at the photo in Mulder's hand. "Mr. 
Businessman's so squeaky clean he makes me look like 
the Marquis de Sade."

Reggie was watching the struggle on the profiler's 
face. "Mulder." The agent's head remained bowed over 
the evidence, but he lifted his eyes to the ASAC. 
"You're working up a theory," Purdue noted. "It's what 
we're here for. Tell us what you've got so far."

Mulder regarded him, looked away to a bare spot on the 
wall and back again. He ran a nervous hand through his 
hair.

"Okay. Where were the bodies found?" he demanded. 
"Other than Four, I mean."

Harris shrugged. "On the streets--"

"No, specifically. Were these locations strongly 
associated with the victims?"

"You mean did they hang out there?"

"Sleep there."

"Well," Harris searched through his notes. "Rene 
Reynolds' pimp had dumped her and a witness said she'd 
been living in the alley she was found in." He flipped 
back a few pages. "The first victim was killed under 
an underpass where he'd apparently taken up 
housekeeping. The second was found in a cardboard box. 
Probably called it home from the look of the lot it 
was in." He looked up at the profiler expectantly.

Mulder was nodding. "I think that if these people were 
not transient you'd be calling these home invasions. 
And that includes Mr. Business in his home-away- from-
home hotel room." Mulder tapped vacantly on a file, 
watching his diet soda sweat a ring of water onto the 
table. "How far apart are the murders?"

"They average about one a month since the second one," 
the detective answered. "The first was November 26. 
The second, January 4. Then February 27, and March 29. 
It's been quiet since."

Sauceda was looking from Purdue to his partner. "Look, 
Marty, if you're speculating a serial killer, the 
guy's gone overdue, don't you think?"

"Or, he's gone to less frequently visited housing 
locations."

"Meaning there's a body waiting to be found 
somewhere?" Harris frowned.

"It won't be on a street or in an alley," Mulder 
advised. "Not a hotel room, either."

"Maybe someone's actual bonafide home?" Purdue 
suggested quietly.

Mulder nodded. "I think that's the next step in the 
progression. I also think the mutilations will be 
worse." He was staring at that bare spot on the wall 
again, his vision distant and unfocused. "The hotel 
victim's carving is more... intricate. The killer took 
his time. The position of the body, the face 
uncovered... He enjoyed this one more than the others. 
Probably because he felt no pressure to hurry." The 
eyes refocused and he glanced from his ASAC to the 
detective. "These are not hate crimes. They're not 
drug killings. And they're not random. And your victim 
profile is about to take a dramatic turn. Our guy's 
moving from the fringes and freaks. And into the 
heartland, into the home. Mr. and Mrs. America are 
next on the entree. Then it's going to get messy 
because Mr. and Mrs. America have relatives and 
friends; you don't find him quick, you're going to 
have a political hot button on your hands."

"Great," Harris sighed. 

There was a tap at the door. A uniformed officer 
popped his head in and Harris waved him frantically 
back out the door, rising to join him in the hall. The 
detective held the door partly closed and Purdue 
caught only muffled voices.

Sauceda finished scanning the last of the autopsy 
reports and tossed it on the table. He gave the ASAC a 
rueful smirk.

"Well, hell, Reg," he quipped, sotto voice. "Not here 
four hours and you've found us another serial killer. 
So much for expanding the kid's repertoire."

Purdue didn't answer, taking his frustrations out on 
his cigarette, mashing it methodically into the 
ashtray.

Mulder stared at the violence the ASAC wrought, stared 
without focusing, lost in thoughts Purdue would have 
paid good money to hear. Mulder glanced up though as 
the door rattled.

Harris stood there a minute, the officer behind him 
straining to see over his shoulder. The detective 
stepped in, however, and slammed the door in the man's 
face, oblivious to all else but the profiler across 
the table. Mulder frowned at Harris' sudden interest 
and glanced away, momentarily intrigued by the 
nutritional disclosure of his soda can.

Purdue was more interested in the paper sack Harris 
was carrying. The detective's eyes were too bright, 
too cold and too damned hungry; Purdue licked his lips 
nervously.

Harris caught the look in his friend's eye and 
grinned. The expression managed to be both genuine and 
begrudged. "Well, well, Reggie," he quipped, nodding 
his head in Mulder's direction. "Just what *did* you 
bring me here?"

Purdue assumed his accustomed mask of deliberate calm. 
"Just what you deserve, Nat," he replied. "A round 
trip ticket to hell."

Harris swung a coolly delighted face to the profiler. 
"I bet he is, too," he mused.

Mulder shifted uncomfortably but said nothing; a nerve 
in his jaw twitched angrily.

Harris' grin broadened at the reaction and he turned 
back to the ASAC. "So where were we? We've got four 
victims found and a fifth hypothetical victim 
unaccounted for. Don't suppose your criminal virtuoso 
over here can tell me where this missing body might 
be?" 

Purdue shrugged off the challenge, irritated that 
Harris felt like he had some kind of right to talk 
about his agent like the man wasn't even there. "Look, 
Nat, like I told you, we'll be staying a few days--"

"I'll let you know in the morning," Mulder said 
quietly.

Harris and Purdue eyed the profiler with identical 
expressions. Sauceda took a sudden interest in the 
linoleum. Mulder's eyes never waved from Harris' face; 
they were cold and hard and piercingly green under the 
flickering fluorescent bulb above him.

"Excuse me?" Harris glanced from the young agent to 
the ASAC like he'd missed the punch line of a long 
joke. "You see something else in those photos I 
didn't?"

"No," Purdue barked. Mulder opened his mouth, closed 
it again under his ASAC's glare and instead, busied 
himself straightening evidence back into folders. 
Purdue leveled an equally uncompromising squint at 
Harris. "We'll let you know how long we'll be staying 
by morning." Purdue said it like it was the obvious 
explanation. Said it like he'd cut Harris' throat if 
the man had the balls to question it. Harris didn't 
take him up on the threat. Purdue continued. "In any 
event, you'll have a workable profile before we head 
back to Washington. Meantime, it's getting late--"

Purdue stood and the detective looked around the room: 
Sauceda and Mulder had the table in order and the 
younger man was doodling on an empty Styrofoam cup. 
Harris' attention roamed back to the ASAC. Purdue's 
face said, *Yeah, this is how we're playing it.*

"Fine," Harris nodded reasonably. He smiled at Mulder 
and called out "Heads up, kiddo," tossing the paper 
sack to the profiler before the warning was halfway 
out.

Mulder didn't disappoint by missing the catch. The 
look he gave Harris bespoke crimes way beyond 
misdemeanor and Harris shrugged a relatively sincere 
apology. 

The detective nodded at the bag. "A gift from your pal 
Albert," he said.

Mulder unrolled the top of the sack and dumped the 
contents onto the table: a white button down shirt, 
long sleeved. Soaked in blood.

Harris grinned at Purdue. "I'll look forward to seeing 
you guys in the morning." For once, Harris sounded 
sincere.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

5:15PM. It's still Tuesday. We're still in Wheeling.

Harris extended the courtesy of an unmarked unit and 
Purdue got his team registered at the Fort Henry Motor 
Lodge: no room service, but free-- imagine that-- 
cable TV and hot and cold running highway traffic just 
outside your bedroom window.
    
Mulder had remained silent through the proceedings. 
The wall was back up and as impenetrable as those 
mirrored shades he'd slipped on when they'd left the 
precinct station. Mulder had made no effort to remove 
them in the dim confines of the motel office, either.
    
Purdue honored the self-imposed solitude; Sauceda was 
chattering away enough for the three of them anyway. 
In fact, Purdue got the impression Hot Sauce was 
trying to cover for his partner's silence, maybe 
hoping the ASAC wouldn't notice. Purdue allowed the 
man his little delusions and doggedly took care of 
business. 
    
He'd requested a block of three motel rooms when 
Mulder finally spoke: a request for one of the rooms 
to be several doors away from the others. Mulder was 
looking at the desk clerk when he made the 
pronouncement but Purdue had Mulder enough in profile 
to detect the uneasy shift of his eyes as the words 
tumbled out. Purdue nodded his agreement to the clerk 
and told Sauceda to shut his yap when the pathologist 
began squawking about it. Purdue felt Mulder's wall 
slip just a bit as the ASAC signed for the rooms; the 
profiler even managed a quick "thank you" when Purdue 
handed him his key. It was far more than the ASAC had 
expected.
    
Fort Henry's was conveniently flanked by a twenty-four 
hour Wal-Mart and a diner calling itself Chris' Cafe. 
Purdue gave his little flock just enough time to dump 
their luggage before gathering them up again. They 
descended on the cafe for dinner.
    
As they walked across the parking lot, Sauceda simply 
picked up where he'd left off, yammering away about 
this and that; Purdue wondered where the hell he was 
managing to find so much of nothing to talk about. 
Mulder, still within his sanctuary of silence, 
remained doggedly unaffected by his partner's 
ramblings.
    
Chris' was one of those Norman Rockwell places 
idolized by "American Graffiti": soda bar, retro 
chairs, booths leathered in teal and pink, waitresses 
crowned with little Florence Nightingale hats and 
sporting round ruffled aprons tinted to match the 
leather. The pastels reflected brightly in the mirror 
of Mulder's shades; the profiler seemed determined to 
retain his eyewear even here. 
    
Purdue sighed. *Well, what the hell ever.*
    
The cafe was obviously popular; the place was packed, 
but Mulder surprised the ASAC by wordlessly blazing a 
trail to a vacant booth. The profiler waited patiently 
as Sauceda claimed the first seat, scooting down the 
bench to make room for the younger man. Purdue 
accepted the opposite bench as his own and stretched 
his legs wearily. He told himself that he really 
needed to stop worrying so much and start sleeping 
better. 

The jukebox was hopping to the Fine Young Cannibals. 
Purdue chuckled silently as Mulder began drumming 
along with the tune unconsciously.
    
Sauceda, propped comfortably against the wall, gave 
his partner man a playful slap on the arm.
    
"You know, Marty, if you need to work off some excess 
energy, we can take you cruising later and pick you up 
a redhead or something," Sauceda winked at Purdue. 
"Women love a man with a badge. I'm sure you find one 
willing to flop on her back for love of Mulder and 
country." 
    
"Screw you, Lenny," Mulder answered absently; it was 
obviously a tired joke between them.
    
"Forget that," Sauceda wriggled his brows 
dramatically, "I ain't floppin' for you for nobody's 
country."
    
Mulder ignored him as one of the pink waitresses came 
over and automatically began pouring coffee. It was a 
beverage requirement, apparently, but she flashed them 
a smile that was pleasantly more than just obligatory. 

"You boys in town for some greyhound racing?"
    
Purdue returned the smile perfunctorily and inspected 
his cup. If the coffee were any darker it could have 
saved her the trip and walked itself to the table.
    
Sauceda was grinning, though, a sure sign of impending 
mischief. "My friend here's looking for a little 
different kind of action. You know, kinda expanding 
his love life. Know anyone that could help him out?"
    
Mulder shot Sauceda a look they could see even through 
the shades.
    
"Oh," the woman fell easily into the game, regarding 
the profiler thoughtfully, one hand on her hip. "And 
how does that wife of yours feel about that, honey?"
    
Mulder glanced up. Even Purdue could see she was 
checking out the ring. The profiler turned a shade of 
pink not quite as garish as her apron and stared into 
his empty cup, looking like he was trying to find the 
nerve to swear. "There isn't a wife," he said.
    
"She know that?" she asked. Purdue busied himself with 
his menu.
    
"Yeah," Mulder admitted quietly.
    
Her voice was just a tad softer. "You know that?"
    
Mulder's head dropped so far down Purdue could see the 
trembling of the man's lashes as he squeezed his eyes 
shut. He didn't speak.
    
Sauceda was choking with laughter, oblivious to the 
desolation beside him. Over top of his menu, Purdue 
glared at him to little effect.
    
Sauceda didn't seem to notice the angry glint in 
Pinkie's eye either. She tried for a more direct 
approach, though, leaning past Mulder to ask sweetly, 
"You want some more coffee, pal?" She was holding the 
pot over the pathologist's lap. Sauceda recovered 
quickly and declined.
    
Pinkie looked back to the profiler. Her sudden 
proximity seemed to have exorcised his heartache at 
least temporarily; his blush was gone and he looked 
like he was reassessing initial impressions.

Purdue watched the couple discreetly, careful to keep 
the menu between himself and Sauceda. The woman was 
cute. Not overly pretty, but she carried herself well. 
A dainty little brunette, maybe five foot nothing, 
maybe five or six years older than Mulder. Steel blue 
eyes and perfect teeth that must have set mom and dad 
back on her college fund. No ring on the appropriate 
finger.
    
She straightened and poured Mulder's coffee slowly, 
letting him get a better look. She must have felt the 
man's eyes through the shades because she smiled 
softly. The expression seemed to hit Mulder like a 
blow, however; the young man actually caught his 
breath. Purdue blinked and re-inspected his menu but 
Mulder recovered quickly enough, concentrating on 
upending the sugar dispenser into his coffee.
    
Pinkie relented her flirtations, flipped open her pad 
and took their orders: specials all around, salad, no 
baked potato for the man in the shades.
    
Business handled, she flipped another page and got 
that smile again, readying her pencil. "Well, now," 
she purred to the profiler, "if I'm supposed to get 
you set up with someone, honey, I'll need to know what 
it is you like."
    
Mulder choked on his coffee and Sauceda howled.
    
"Oh, I know just his type!" he offered, slapping 
Mulder on the back solicitously.
    
"Uh huh. And that would be...?" Pinkie requested.
    
"Breathing," Sauceda threw the punch line and twisted 
on the bench in a fit of giggles.
    
"Oh, come on," Mulder deadpanned. "I can't afford to 
be *that* choosy."
    
Sauceda totally lost it and even Purdue and Pinkie had 
to smile. The jukebox reset for the Bangles.
    
"You got a name, honey?" she asked the profiler. She 
managed to ask the question like it was no big deal.
    
"Mulder." 
    
She raised critical brows and his lips twitched 
ruefully. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you the 
first name," he explained.
    
"Try me."
    
Deep sigh. "Fox."
    
Pinkie paused, skeptical gaze swinging to Purdue, then 
back to Mulder. "You got ID to back that, angel?"
    
It was clear Sauceda would never recover. Mulder 
fished out his badge with the air of a man donning his 
blindfold before a firing squad.
    
"Well, well, Fox," she smiled, "your parents must have 
been psychic."
    
Mulder's blush was pure scarlet this time and Purdue 
shook his head. So, this was the man Patterson had 
tried to pass off as the son of the Antichrist... 
Hell, maybe the Bureau needed to bring Baez back in to 
analyze Bill Patterson. 
    
Pinkie let the profiler recover before reaching to 
shake his hand. "Hi, Fox. Welcome to Wheeling." 
    
"Hi yourself," he squinted over his shades at her name 
tag, "Kay."
    
She winked lightly. "I'll be back with your orders, 
boys. Sit tight."
    
Sauceda watched her walk back to the next table before 
leaning over to his partner. "Yep, someone's got that 
Wheeling feeling--"
    
"Shut up, Lenny." Mulder's voice was suddenly tired.
    
"Uh, huh. Now I know what the big deal was about 
getting a room away from mine or Purdue's. You don't 
want any embarrassing interruptions in case she turns 
out to be a squealer--"
"No, I just get tired of your headboard ramming into 
my wall every time you call your wife."
    
"Why, you little prick--"
    
"Jeezus. Are you two always at it like this?" Purdue 
demanded. 
    
"Continually," Mulder assured him.
    
"You might have warned me."
    
The agent shrugged. "You didn't ask."
    
And finally the wall had broken down just that much 
more, just enough, perhaps for the question Purdue had 
been strangling since they left Harris' office. 
    
"Yeah," the ASAC nodded, keeping his voice neutral. 
"Well, apparently I haven't asked quite a few things--
"

Mulder swore silently and retreated back against the 
bench, head turning abruptly away. In profile, the 
eyes behind the shades were unyielding.
    
"You're going to make me ask, aren't you?" The ASAC 
sighed. "Jeezus, Mulder, why do you have to make 
everything so damned hard--"
    
"Is that your question?" Mulder demanded. 
    
Sauceda made a noise and Purdue told him to shut the 
hell up. 

"Allow me to quote, Mr. Mulder," Purdue's voice was 
calm, but clipped and harder than he'd intended, 
"'I'll let you know in the morning.' Just what the 
hell was that all about?"
    
"What did you think it was about?"
    
"I'll be damned-- Don't start that shit with me, 
Mister. I ask you a question, you give me a straight 
answer. Jeezus, answering a question with a freaking 
question-- You were willing to answer to a homicide 
detective who doesn't know you from your maiden aunt, 
you can answer to me, dammit."
    
Mulder sat up straighter but didn't look particularly 
contrite. Cornered, but not contrite. He distracted 
himself, swirling patterns in the sweat of his water 
glass as he answered.
    
"I'll know where the other victim is by morning. 
That's all," Mulder shook his head, his voice softer. 
"It was a stupid thing to say," he conceded. His hand 
slipped around the glass, knuckles white, clinched as 
tight as his jaw. He leveled a look at Purdue. "But 
it's true," he seethed. "What's the matter, Purdue? 
Isn't that what you brought me out here for? So you 
could show off your wacko profiler to your friends? Or 
maybe I'm just here to perform a few tricks to up the 
Bureau's PR with the locals? You know: sit, roll over. 
Retrieve the dead?"
    
The surprise on Purdue's face must have been answer 
enough. Mulder glanced away and Purdue was left with 
that revealing profile; again, the lashes fluttered 
behind the shades.
    
"Look," Mulder mumbled, "forget it. I don't want to 
fight with you--"
    
"The hell you don't." Purdue made the statement but 
didn't elaborate. He was giving Mulder room and an 
opening to lay some cards out on the table if he chose 
to do so. He didn't figure the odds were high, though.
    
Mulder's hand slipped from the glass and flattened out 
beside it, long fingers pressed against the table, 
seeking the assurance of something solid. His head was 
back up, his voice fiercely composed. "I *said* I 
don't want to fight with you. And I *won't*. I just 
don't want to discuss this... stuff. And I won't. 
Everything I had to say about it is on record."
    
Purdue snorted. "A record we both know was written by 
Patterson and quotes you only twice--"
    
"That's all I had to say to him, either."
    
"Have you even read the report, Mulder?"
    
"No."
    
"Aren't you curious--"
    
"No." 
    
"Well, I am." Purdue waited for a reply that was 
apparently not forthcoming. "Look, Mulder, I can 
appreciate that you get a little tired of the Amazing 
Wunderkind routine but you have to see this thing from 
my side. I'm not the type of man who can have a quiet 
chat with a corpse then enjoy a smoke on the hood of 
my car while the locals dig up thirteen bodies. That's 
not generally part of my routine. Until now." He 
sighed. "I don't want to pick your brain, Mulder. I 
woud just like a few answers."

Mulder had studied him intently during the speech, and 
in the pause the ASAC realized suddenly that his 
words, his actions, his whole freaking life was being 
weighed in a balance, assessed. The possibility Mulder 
might find him somehow unworthy was oddly disturbing.
    
The profiler looked away after a minute, picking 
absently at the edging on his napkin. He hadn't 
responded one way or the other on the issue, though 
and Purdue decided to take the silence as permission 
to continue. He chose his words carefully, keeping his 
voice level and unassuming. 

"Do you always know when these insights are going 
to... come to you?"
    
Mulder startled him by actually answering. "Not 
always." He apparently didn't intend to elaborate and 
Purdue sighed. This was like pulling teeth.
    
"But you know this time," Purdue prompted.
    
Mulder nodded. 
    
Purdue raised questioning brows at Sauceda. The 
pathologist shrugged and resumed his scrutiny of the 
label on the ketchup bottle.
    
"How is it you know this time," Purdue asked 
patiently, "and maybe not the next time?"
    
Mulder grimaced. "I just know," he said.
    
"So tell me now," Purdue invited. "Where's the body?"
    
"I don't know right now." Mulder was back to solemnly 
swirling patterns on his glass.
    
"Do you have to be asleep for it to come to you? Like 
the thing in Fredricksburg?"
    
The young man chewed his lip a moment. "Yeah."
    
Sauceda squirmed at the answer and Mulder shot him a 
look that sent Sauceda scooting for the far corner of 
the bench.
    
Purdue raised interested brows. "You have something to 
contribute to this discussion, Agent Sauceda?"
    
Sauceda blinked painfully. "No, sir."
    
Purdue swore. "That's a lie," he growled. "And I won't 
tolerate it." He pointed a stern finger at Mulder. 
"From either of you, is that clear?" He glanced around 
the dining room and lowered his voice when he focused 
on his profiler again. "Look, Mulder, I've heard the 
so-called 'spooky' routine and I don't buy it. I don't 
think you buy it, either. You've damn near wound up in 
the loony bin twice because too many people *do* buy 
it. Then you waltz into Wheeling and start this spook 
shit with Harris. What do you want? You want him 
thinking you're some kind of psychic crackpot with a 
badge?"
    
Mulder shifted uncomfortably. "No. I just thought--"

"No, you little bastard, you just thought you had me 
pegged as Patterson Part Two, didn't you? Figured you 
could jerk me off just like you did him-- and like he 
did you, too," Purdue conceded as Mulder sank back 
against his seat. The ASAC sighed irritably. He was 
just a little too tired for this conversation. He 
hadn't had much sleep since Sunday and that never 
failed to make him grumpy.
    
"Okay, I'll lay it out for you, Agent: I think you're 
a good investigator. I think you can get in people's 
heads sometimes. That's fine. I can buy that. I've 
seen your work. Some of your insights have been 
downright frightening. Shreveport. Seattle. Saint 
Paul. Solving four-year old cases stone blind. I don't 
pretend to know where you get half this stuff you come 
up with. And I don't care. But damn you, don't ever 
make the mistake of lying to me." He turned to 
Sauceda, "And don't you sit there and back him on it, 
you little shit."
    
Mulder looked over at his partner. Sauceda was 
watching Mulder warily.
    
Mulder took the shades off, but didn't look at the 
ASAC directly. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "I see 
things wide awake. Like I'm dreaming. It's like a film 
being played out against a wall. You know, like family 
movies and somebody gets up and the images play across 
their face, their body... That's what it's like 
sometimes. But that's... a bad case. Like Shreveport. 
Twenty-seven kids dead. That kind of case. This isn't 
that kind of case."
    
"You can dream this stuff on demand?"
    
"No." Mulder rubbed at his face wearily. Purdue 
recalled Mulder's violent nap on the plane and 
wondered how much sleep *he'd* had since Sunday. "I 
can't just *make* it happen," the profiler admitted. 
"But, my mind gets focused on something sometimes and 
just, I don't know, works it out subconsciously for 
me. And I see it in a dream. Or in the back of my 
mind."
    
Purdue nodded, kept his face a mask. There was just 
too much Mulder wasn't saying. Watching Mulder's eyes, 
Purdue realized suddenly that the young man might not 
even know the rest of the explanation. That thought 
was more than a little frightening.
    
"So," the ASAC asked reasonably, "you think your 
subconscious is working on the location of this 
victim?"
    
"I don't-- Hell," Mulder hissed. "Look, it's not with 
every case. And I could be wrong; it might not even be 
with this one. But it's not some kind of weird hocus-
pocus. It's sure as hell not hallucinations. I don't 
care what Patterson told you. Or Sauceda over here--"
    
"Hey, Marty--"
    
Mulder waved off the pathologist's protest. "I *am* a 
good investigator, dammit. My investigative technique 
is in the top ratings; I've never been faulted on it. 
I'll give you my best on any case you put me on. But 
some cases... I can give more than just that. Somehow-
-" Mulder wouldn't meet Purdue's eyes again. His voice 
was soft. "It's like... It's like someone walking up 
behind you and not quite touching you. You can feel 
them standing there, but... Then, when everything is 
quiet, they reach out."

Salads arrived and Kay didn't take long picking up the 
fact that the table had gone solemn. She opened Mulder 
a fresh bottle of blue cheese dressing and made 
herself scarce.
    
The men ate in silence a few minutes, lost in the 
sound of crackers and croutons. Mulder drowned his 
lettuce with the dressing and pushed around more on 
his fork than he managed to chew. He kept his head 
down, risking furtive glances at Purdue when he 
thought the ASAC wasn't noticing. Across the table, 
though, Purdue's mind was churning.
   
"In Shreveport," Purdue muttered around his saltine, 
"you told them where to find the victims. Things about 
them, too. Their age, sex. How they would be laid 
out." He swallowed. "Sauceda says that you're not so 
much in tune to the crimes through the killer as much 
as through the victim. Okay, I've got no problem with 
that. I mean, if we believe profilers can get the 
skinny on a killer, why not the victim? But if you're 
seeing through the victim's perspective, how did you 
know what the killer was doing postmortem? It's not 
like these kids would have been aware of that kind of 
information. They're dead. Right?"
    
The profiler was looking at him over his salad. His 
face was suddenly very pale. Purdue frowned.
    
Mulder ducked his head abruptly, staring down at the 
fork in his hand; it trembled slightly. He speared a 
cherry tomato, waiting patiently for the seeds and 
juice to settle into the soup of blue cheese. His 
voice was quiet, his head stayed bowed. 
    
"Sometimes. Most times. Maybe because they're not 
expecting death when it comes... The soul exits the 
body. But it still feels a sense of obligation to it, 
somehow. Sometimes they stay for a while, and watch. 
Like they're not certain what's expected of them. Or 
maybe just out of curiosity. Or confusion. Until 
someone comes for them."
    
Purdue sat his fork down quietly. 
    
"Sacred Heart of Jesus," Sauceda whispered. "Who 
comes, Marty?"
    
Mulder shook his head, staring at the tomato. 
"Someone," he said. "I don't know. I can't see." He 
slipped the tomato off his fork. "It's not me they're 
coming for."
    
Kay was back. She dealt out the chicken fried steaks 
with gracious finesse, generally making a friendly 
fuss. Assured everyone was just pleased as punch with 
the service, she took few extra seconds filling 
Mulder's tea glass. He wouldn't look up at her, 
though, busy eyeing his steak. He looked a little odd 
just then. 
    
She bit her lip, considering. "Honey," she said 
softly, "let me take that beef back to the kitchen. 
Gosh, a Band-Aid and that thing would be back out 
grazing." Mulder looked up gratefully and nodded. 
"I'll bring you a baked potato, okay, angel? No 
butter, lots of sour cream."
    
"Thank you."
    
Purdue busied himself cutting up his chicken-fried and 
Sauceda followed his cue. There hadn't been anything 
wrong with Mulder's steak but neither man mentioned 
the fact. 
    
Kay was back quickly with the potato and making a fuss 
about whether there was enough sour cream, and dammit 
if they hadn't gone and put the butter on it anyway-- 

Mulder protested meekly as she sputtered. Sauceda used 
the opportunity to scratch a note on his empty sweet-
n-low packet and slip it to Purdue. The ASAC read: 
"The 'someone walking up behind' is getting closer." 
    
Kay got things situated to her satisfaction and 
finally left the men in peace. No one spoke for a bit. 
Purdue kept the younger man in his peripheral vision, 
watching him trying to not eat a potato while making 
at least part of it disappear somewhere. Purdue bet 
the kid had given his momma hell eating his 
vegetables. Mulder's inoffensive steak never grazed 
itself back to the table and no one mentioned that 
either.

CONTINUED IN PART 5B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 08:26:20 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 5B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 5B of 27: 


Kay returned shortly with more coffee, and, of all 
things, hot tea for Fox. Mulder accepted the cup, 
comically stunned but grateful and downed fully half 
the liquid straight off. There was a faint whiff of 
alcohol to the steam and Purdue wondered if there 
wasn't a little honey and whiskey swirling around in 
there. Like his granny's home remedy.

Purdue ordered pie he didn't want and played with it, 
ordered more coffee he wasn't drinking, waiting for 
Mulder's tea to settle. Purdue had scooped out and 
squashed four cherries flat before he noticed the 
agent staring at him.
    
"Just say it," Mulder's voice was harsh.
    
Purdue set the pie aside and watched as Sauceda begin 
scooping out cherries for himself.
    
"I'm telling you this as a friend, Mulder. Hell, I'm 
telling you as your ASAC. And I just want you to think 
it through. Spooky is cool in DC. Spooky's expected. 
At least as far as *you're* concerned. But this is 
Middle America and they don't know your stats from 
Dallas. Don't interrupt. Please." He held out his 
hands, surrender fashion and Mulder relented. "Don't 
do this to me. Don't do it to yourself. Even if you 
*can* do this crap, even if it works... You just gotta 
find a better way to deal with it in the real world." 
    
Sauceda was nodding, cherry juice on his chin.
    
Mulder's face over the tea was dark. "You want me to 
lie on an investigation? To withhold evidence--"
    
"First off, your impressions, even if they're from the 
lips of God, are not legally evidence. Second off, say 
you *do* know where the body is, you go popping this 
pertinent piece of information off on Harris, he'll 
pick us up for obstruction, thinking we got an inside 
somehow and were holding out on him. All I'm saying is 
this: you know something, you let *me* know. Let me 
handle it. That's my job, to take some of the crap off 
you so you can do your job. You're a profiler. So, 
profile. Let me fade the heat. Let me figure the 
angles on the locals."
    
Mulder was quiet, staring hard at the cooling dregs of 
his tea. "You're not sending me back to DC?" he asked 
finally.
    
Purdue frowned. "Do you want to go back to DC?" 
    
"No."
    
"Mulder, let's get this straight. If you didn't have 
the highest solve rate in the Bureau, no one but no 
one would put up with your crap. If you didn't have 
the highest solve rate in the Bureau I wouldn't have 
kicked so much ass to get my grimy hands on you. But I 
don't expect miracles. Just good investigative work. 
And you're right, you're one of the finest 
investigators we've got. Even without the spook. I 
want to solve this case. More importantly, *you* want 
to solve this case. So do it. You do your part, 
whatever the hell you think that entails and you let 
me do mine. We'll let Sauceda here poke around on the 
bodies and let Harris make the arrests." He smiled. 
"See, that's not so hard."
    
Sauceda pursed his lips. "That's easy for you to say, 
I'm the one that has to put up with the smell in the 
autopsy room."
    
Purdue waved for the check. Mulder's troubled smile 
took a sudden turn south and he blanched, teacup 
rattling. He excused himself and made his way to the 
men's room. Not all his steps were steady. 
    
Kay was hot on his heels and got the door slammed in 
her face for her trouble. She hovered outside the 
locked door, her questions apparently ignored.
    
Sauceda sighed and followed Purdue into the little 
hall. Behind the door, the faucet sounded like it was 
running full blast. The sound almost covered the 
retching noises.
    
"Just how much whiskey did you put in that tea?" 
Purdue demanded.
    
"A couple of teaspoons," Kay protested, "as God is my 
witness."
    
Sauceda shrugged. "It's not the tea, I tell you. Hell. 
If I had a corpse walking up behind me, you wouldn't 
see me keeping anything down either."
    
Kay eyed the pathologist warily and he took pity. 
    
"Your Fox in there is a profiler--"
    
"Sauceda--"
    
He waved Purdue off. "We show the kid photos of murder 
victims and he tells us what the killer is like. Then 
the local PD goes out and finds the bastard."
    
Her face was thoughtful. "And this is his chosen 
career? Or did he just luck out in dog catcher 
school?"
    
Sauceda grinned. "No kidding. He's good at it. 
Really." He called out as the water stopped: "Aren't 
you, Marty?" 
    
"I'm good at a few things too," she said, "but if I 
did them for a living they'd lock me up."
    
Mulder got the door open on that one, his head down to 
conceal the slightly dilated pupils. 
    
"They threaten to lock me up now and then, too." He 
managed a smile of sorts for Kay, quickly lost it as 
he shoved past Purdue and Sauceda and stalked out of 
the diner.
    
Purdue shoved the check to Sauceda and followed. The 
ASAC had to trot to cover the ground of Mulder's 
stride. They were halfway to the hotel before Purdue 
caught up and spun the profiler around.

"Look, Mulder--"
    
Mulder exploded, "Don't ask me anymore, dammit!" 
Purdue released the man's arm, watching open mouthed 
as Mulder's entire body shivered violently. 
"Patterson's had me jumping through hoops for a 
fucking year and now you want to start it all over 
again--"
    
The profiler gasped and jerked away several yards 
distance. Purdue followed slowly, giving him room. 
Mulder pulled his jacket tight, hugging himself as he 
paced the length of shadow cast by a parked van. He 
swore softly all the while. Purdue did not interrupt. 
He'd seen enough in Seattle to identify the symptoms.
    
After a minute or so, Mulder seemed better-- still 
hugging himself, still pacing-- but his shivering had 
eased to infrequent shudders and he registered 
Purdue's presence again. Purdue watched him swallow 
hard and look away.
    
Realization finally struck the ASAC. *Jeezus, Reg. The 
kid is terrified of you.*
    
Purdue did some hard swallowing of his own, choosing 
his words, his tone, even the stance of his body, very 
carefully.
    
"Do you know what I dislike most about you, Mulder?" 
he asked across the silence of the lot.
    
Mulder stopped mid-stride, eyes wide but steady 
finally.
    
Purdue smiled. "The way you're always interrupting me. 
I *hate* that."
    
Mulder's expression of numbed surprise was priceless 
but Purdue couldn't find the will to laugh. The agent 
remained speechless, wary. Purdue studied his scuffed 
shoes.
    
"I know, Mulder, you're used to being out here on your 
own more or less. But that's not how I operate. My 
being here is no slight on you or your work. Or of my 
respect for you. I know it may be difficult for you to 
accept that. But it's true." He frowned, "And I'm sure 
as hell not looking for some kind of circus act."
    
Mulder stared away across the parking lot, not 
focusing on much of anything. When he answered, his 
voice was distant and hesitant.
    
"Half the time," he said, "Sauceda's scared shitless 
for me. Or of me--" He grimaced. "And one's just as 
bad as the other." He shifted uncomfortable, rubbing 
his left arm before finally focusing on Purdue. "Do 
you know that when Lenny gets stressed, he shaves 
three, four," he shook his head, "eight times a day? 
Breaks out in a rash of razor burn. I have to hide the 
batteries on the Norelco or he'd rip off his entire 
epidermal layer-- I'm not kidding!" 
    
Purdue was chuckling in spite of himself. Mulder 
finally grinned, looking about half embarrassed at the 
absurdity of his conversation. He watched Purdue, his 
voice becoming lighter. 
    
"But *me*, now," he mused, awaiting the ASAC's 
reaction, "I have a few bad dreams after studying half 
a dozen corpses, and they call *me* the nut."
    
Purdue was still smiling. "You know, Mulder, you need 
to find the son of a bitch that told you life was fair 
and beat the crap out of him. It'd make you feel a 
whole lot better."
    
"No doubt," Mulder smirked ruefully, setting his hands 
on his hips as Sauceda came trotting up to hand him 
his shades. He managed to look almost relaxed, 
slipping the shades on, finally safe behind his bit of 
armour. Purdue felt the wall dropping back in place, 
too, but slowly, now, brick by brick. It didn't seem 
as high this time, either.
    
Mulder bobbed his head at his partner. "Moocher," he 
accused. "Making time with my girl, I see." 
    
Sauceda grinned. "Just getting her warmed up for you, 
kid. That's why they call me the Hot Sauce."
    
Purdue shook his head. "Look, you guys stay out here 
and shoot the shit if you want, I'm going to bed. I've 
had a tough week." He looked pointedly at Mulder. "And 
I get a phone call in the morning, it had better be 
from you with some info. Or a 'Good morning, Mr. 
Purdue.' Not Harris telling me where I can pick you up 
and how much your bail is."
    
He didn't turn until Mulder gave him a grudging nod. 
    
Sauceda grinned at his partner and gave him another 
playful slap before following Purdue off toward the 
motel. Purdue turned at Sauceda's approach, kept 
walking as he glanced back at Mulder.
    
The profiler remained there in the gathering darkness, 
staring across the parking lot toward the highway. His 
face was suddenly deadly serious.
    
"It's a woman," Mulder announced.
    
Purdue paused and spun around, gravel sliding beneath 
the soles of his dress shoes. Mulder turned back to 
face him, shades reflecting black pavement and burning 
red sky.
    
"The victim," Mulder explained, dispassionate as a 
weather report. "And it's bad. Worse than the others." 
He frowned. "The killer found this one a bit of a 
challenge..." He bit the inside of his cheek, his 
voice husky and soft, like he was talking to himself. 
"There's something... Something's off. Something odd 
about all this. Somehow..."
    
"What's odd, Marty?" Sauceda's voice was a little too 
high-pitched.
    
The profiler scanned the parking lot like he expected 
to find the answer parked there on the blacktop. He 
shrugged and pocketed his hands. "Hell, I don't know. 
I'm not the freaking Amazing Kreskin." 
    
Purdue sighed, "You know, you don't have to struggle 
to turn the world over, Mulder. Just give it twenty-
four hours, it'll roll over all by itself."
    
Mulder grimaced, still staring across the parking lot. 
"Yeah," he whispered. "You hope."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 19:46:50 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 6A of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 6A of 27: Ollie North, Apple Pie, and American 
Dreamscapes

Disclaimed in Part 1.



Tuesday evening. Wheeling. Fort Henry Motor Lodge. 
Room 37. 8:17 PM.

"And I see once more how everything
Must be up to me: here a calamity to be smoothed away
Like ringlets, there the luck of uncoding
This singular cipher of primary
And secondary colors, and the animals
With us in the ark, happy to be there as it settles
Into an always more violent sea."

Mulder flipped the little book of poetry across the 
bed and watched it skid over the blanket. Such 
tremendous stuff in so slim a volume: the clockworks 
of a heart exposed and laid bare to the world... It 
took guts for a man to do that. Mulder briefly 
entertained the idea of writing Ashbery a letter-- an 
honest to God fan letter no less-- thanking him for 
his courage and explaining how so many of his poems 
fit the pattern of life in Mulderville. 

Yep. Great idea, Fox. Could get a little complicated 
though: "Dear John, hey, you don't know me, but I 
chase serial killers for a living and your poems 
really speak to me..." Hell, the man would probably 
hire a bodyguard and give up writing altogether-- 

Well, saved *that* stamp.

Mulder rotated his head against the back of his chair 
and surveyed his situation: another third rate motel 
room-- bed, chair, TV, end table with it's obligatory 
Gideon Bible and equally obligatory listing of local, 
ah, entertainment outlets. The bed was empty. The room 
was empty. Except for him, of course, but he couldn't 
very well count himself, could he? What was the old 
story about the tree falling in a forest? If no one 
sees, does the tree exist? If a man blows his brains 
out in a motel room and no one sees... 

Mulder tore his eyes away from the gun on the 
nightstand and stared dutifully at the television 
screen. He'd been sitting there for hours, still fully 
dressed, feet propped on the bed, TV blaring. CNN had 
cycled through the headlines four times now and no 
matter how many ways they told it, it was obvious the 
state of the Union was up for grabs. The incidence of 
AIDS was rising rampantly in San Francisco. Donald 
Trump was buying up New York and whining that the 
Japanese were trying to beat him to it. And in East 
Heller, Montana the bodies of three children were 
found buried in a playground and no one knew anything, 
but three blocks over, twenty six people were swearing 
they'd seen an image of the Virgin Mary on a piece of 
burnt toast. 

Jeezus, next thing you knew, they'd be running those 
hokey alien abduction claims on "Meet the Press."

Mulder poked at the remote in disgust, watching the 
blur of channels until even the blurs began to look 
familiar. He wound up back on CNN and the remote 
control joined the little book on the bed with an 
apathetic thump. Maybe he needed to get some video 
tapes. Hell, maybe he just needed to get out and get a 
life. Sure, like the Bureau'd give him time off for 
that.

He grimaced at his reflection in the screen. What the 
hell was he doing here, anyway? Every other profiler 
in the Bureau got to fly a desk in the basement at 
Quantico. Not Fox Mulder, though. It was Patterson's 
credo: got a bad case? Haul Fox out and let him smell 
the blood. Hell, he'll dig you up bodies you didn't 
know you had... He could solve cases with finesse, 
dazzle the locals-- and the press. It played well with 
the penny-pinchers in the Ways and Means Committee, 
too.

Never mind that good old Fox has developed night 
terrors, REM rebound and every symptom of Post 
Traumatic Stress Disorder listed in the DSM-III. We'll 
just patch him back together with massive doses of 
Seconal and a seventy-two hour involuntary committal. 
He'll bitch like hell but he'll be so grateful to be 
out he'll make sure he stays vertical long enough to 
get the next half dozen cases worked. Maybe.

Mulder scrubbed at his face fretfully, pushing the 
thoughts away. Hell, it was his own fault. He should 
have told his recruitment officer to go to hell and 
finished out his clinicals. But Mulder hadn't taken up 
psychology to figure out what made other people tick. 
He'd been trying to wrestle his own demons, and had 
simply found too few answers for himself to see 
psychiatry as a viable career. He just wasn't that 
good a liar.

So, here he was, hunting down the psychos who believed 
they were the Second Coming of Christ and the Charles 
Manson wannabes who said it with a hatchet and a 
smile. And somewhere, early on, he'd discovered this 
latent talent, the spook: the shivering, the 
occasional vomiting and the inevitable body in the 
ditch. And a whole Bureau full of folks willing to pay 
him for such services, content to stand in awe as he 
silently drowned in that ever more violent sea--

Mulder swore silently, fed up with his own morose 
mood. His legs had gone to sleep and the tingling 
would soon be unbearable. He ignored it. 

It was the waiting like this that he hated the most. 
He could feel her, that someone walking up behind. 
He'd sensed her presence when he'd first spotted the 
photos on Harris' bulletin boards. She didn't seem to 
be in any particular hurry, though. Well, why should 
she be? She'd waited this long. She could happily keep 
her secrets just a bit longer if for no better reason 
than to tease him, stringing him along, enjoying the 
attention.

It fascinated him how the personality endured death 
like that. How it continued to alter the fragrance in 
a room long after the body had been stilled. He 
wondered if his own soul would linger when his time 
came. It might be interesting to hang around and see 
who showed up. 

Yeah, and wouldn't it serve you right if no one did, 
you little bastard-- 

He stopped the thought without completing it. No. 
Someone would come, he was certain. Someone from the 
living to claim the body. Someone from the dead for 
the soul. He wondered if one of the someones would be 
his sister. Surely, Sam would come for him. Samantha 
would be there, somehow, he was sure of it. But from 
which side of the living...

His left leg convulsed into a bitter cramp and Mulder 
staggered up, swearing and grabbing at the pain in his 
thigh. Jeez, Fox, where are you digging up all this 
morbid shit from anyway? 

His perpetual headache probably wasn't helping much. 
It'd been running for months, a dull persistent ache. 
Since Sunday though, it had taken to periodic 
explosions; he'd had to pull over twice on his way to 
Fredricksburg, blinded temporarily by searing pulses 
of light. Stress. Nervous tension. He knew the 
symptoms, and the aspirin he'd been popping like 
breath mints wasn't helping any. Baez had prescribed 
Valium, the occasional moderate dosage of Seconal or 
Thorazine-- Patterson's unholy Trinity of 
psychological domination. Sauceda still carried the 
drugs, he was certain. But even for a simple Valium, 
Sauceda would insist on a confessional: when did you 
eat last? Are you sleeping? You getting enough 
protein? Mulder'd be damned before he'd surrender his 
life's history for the sake of one little pill, no 
matter how bad it got.

Mulder hobbled to the open window and steadied himself 
against the frame as he looked out. The breeze that 
brushed his face smelled alternately of asphalt and 
burger grease but he was grateful for it all the same; 
it was the fragrance of freedom, of people living 
their lives, unconscious of evil in their midst, 
unconcerned. 

Somewhere across the parking lot, a child screamed. 
Mulder convulsed with the sound, his mind galvanized 
by memory-- forty-six bodies in the past nine months. 
The scream echoed again, subsiding quickly into a 
squeal of delight and then laughter. It took a full 
minute for Mulder to identify the subtle change, then 
the relief hit him. It slammed into the back of his 
knees, in fact: he collapsed, folding down to the 
floor, panting as his head lolled against the 
windowsill.

For several minutes, he made no effort to rise. Every 
emotion, every bit of energy he possessed had been 
expended by that little scream and he simply had 
nothing left. 

He needed help. He'd needed it for weeks. The 
knowledge was certain-- one of the more dubious 
advantages of his training. What Oxford had failed to 
tell him, however, was who he could and couldn't 
trust. Patterson's psychological betrayals were a 
matter of record. Purdue wasn't much better; he'd 
brought in Baez in Shreveport and threatened 
involuntary committal if Mulder didn't cooperate in 
what was tantamount to mental rape. 

And, hell, Mulder'd puked in front of Purude twice in 
as many months now. Purdue must already think he was a 
total flake, a candidate for the Immaculate Order of 
Our Lady of the Burnt Toast. Unbidden, an image 
crossed his mind: Purdue's face that night in Seattle, 
right after Mulder had presented him with that body: 
that small, cold little form, face down in the mud of 
a ditch beside the road, bathed in the headlights of 
the car. And Purdue just sitting there, staring at 
Mulder, his dark hands shaking too hard to pull the 
key out of the ignition... 

Mulder finally managed to sit up and push himself away 
from the wall. His eyes fell on the television screen, 
a gesture born of habit rather than real interest. 
Images of Poindexter and Secord paraded across the 
screen followed by the scrolling text of the twenty-
three count indictment returned against them. Mulder 
watched it closely, staring without seeing.

Tonight, standing out there on the parking lot with 
Purdue, Mulder had envisioned the latest victim quite 
clearly. But it was just a glimpse: a whiff of 
perfume, a snatch of song just audible above the 
traffic, a glimpse of matted hair, and blood drying 
dark on pallid skin. The next body he'd haul this ASAC 
out to see...

Mulder closed his eyes against the steady, dizzying 
flow of words on the screen. Shielded by the bloody 
curtain of his own lids, only sound could reach him: 
CNN droning on, a Senate panel speaker asking a 
question. Oliver North's tenor claiming "Senator, I do 
not recall." 

Screw this. Mulder's decision was abrupt. He had to 
get out.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 6B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 19:46:56 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 6B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 6B of 27: 

Mulder hadn't thought to change before leaving, 
though, and realized too late that he wasn't really 
dressed for a long walk. Was a little overdressed, he 
imagined, for Wal-Mart; besides, he couldn't recall 
needing anything right now. He briefly entertained the 
thought of catching a cab and getting the driver to 
recommend a good bar, or one of those better 
entertainment outlets.

He didn't really want a drink, though, and in the mood 
he was in, he honestly didn't think he could work up 
enough lust to do the leering-animal routine. Between 
the headache and the stress he was operating under, 
Mulder'd be no great prize anyway; put him in the room 
with a willing woman and he'd probably just wind up 
humiliating himself-- even if he was paying her enough 
not to say so.

Mulder scanned the highway forlornly and turned back 
to the parking lot. Hell, the diner looked pretty 
quiet. He could order some pie. Maybe... He let the 
sound of his shoes scuffing gravel drown out the rest 
of his tormented thoughts.

Chris' was nearly deserted when he ambled in. A couple 
in a booth were romancing over the remains of chili 
dogs and cheese fries. An old man in denim was 
permanently installed at the soda counter, nursing his 
iced tea like it was a whiskey sour--and not his first 
for the night. Simply Red was on the jukebox. The 
singer's voice was hungry; the saxophone backing him 
had the longing sigh of seduction. Mulder grimaced at 
his observations: for a man who was just rating his 
achievable limits so dismally, he was feeling 
remarkably lascivious. Mulder told himself to behave, 
staked out a corner booth and set his menu to spinning 
lazily on the tabletop.

"Hi ya, Fox."

Mulder glanced up, surprised and surprisingly pleased. 
"Well, hi yourself, Kay. Don't they ever let you go 
home?" He felt a warm flush at her smile; it was 
disturbing but he held the self-analysis at bay, an 
easy reflex for him, perfected through years of 
practice.

She maintained the smile as she filled his water 
glass. "Every day this month I'm on from three to 
nine. Then I hit the day shift again."

"You close at nine?"

"Uh huh."

He checked his watch-- ten 'til-- and started up 
guiltily, "Jeez, I'm sorry--"

She gave him a playful push back into the seat, 
laughing. "Don't fret yourself, honey. If the FBI 
doesn't mind me borrowing you for a while, I certainly 
don't mind having a little security on the premises 
while I count the drawer down. And you gotta be 
hungry-- unless you'd like some more tea," she winked 
mischievously, but her voice was soft with genuine 
concern. "Kitchen's closed but if there's something on 
the menu you think you can keep down--" 

Mulder shrugged his shoulders against that glorious 
smile; her hand on his chest as she'd pushed him back 
had radiated an intoxicating warmth. And the 
realization hit him: he'd hoped she'd be here; he'd 
lied to himself that it was the pie that had brought 
him across the parking lot...

He asked for it anyway, avoiding her eyes. She laid a 
knowing hand on his head, leisurely brushing back a 
lock of dark hair.

"Oven's still warm," she said easily. "I'll pop one of 
the apple pies in and get it hot. It's not half bad 
with ice-cream."

"I don't want you going to any trouble, Kay--" Oh, the 
convoluted layers, the euphemisms of mutual need--

"So, who's being bothered?" Her voice was satin, cool 
and comforting against the pounding in his brain. "By 
the time the crust is hot, I'll have herded these 
misfit out and join you," she promised.

She had a great smile. And an even better laugh. He 
hadn't heard a lot of laughter lately-- 

He shouldn't be here and he knew it. He'd be doing her 
a favor to just get up and walk out. He looked up at 
her, to tell her so, saw suddenly in her face a 
glimpse of blood-matted hair in a dark room-- and she 
smiled again and it was gone. He managed a grimace in 
return.

"Sounds great," he said.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ten after nine and Kay had the place locked down tight 
and half the lights shut off. She'd managed somehow to 
get that damned stupid hat off without making too big 
a mess of her hair and he'd joined her at the soda 
counter as she counted down the register. He was quiet 
as she concentrated, amusing himself with the spin of 
his pedestal stool.

She kept him in focus out of the corner of her eye: 
spinning on the seat like some kid when his Momma 
wasn't looking. His eyes were striking-- you didn't 
see many men with hazel eyes-- but the expression was 
distant and kind of sad unless he knew you were 
watching. Probably that crappy job of his...

By nine-forty, the remains of pie and ice cream were 
scattered on the counter. They shared an ashtray. He 
knew she was from Bridgeport across the river, had 
skipped college for a marriage that didn't work, that 
it was a long time ago and she'd been at Chris' ever 
since, no kids. She knew he was from Martha's 
Vineyard, had been to Oxford for a psychology degree, 
was new to the Bureau, no kids. He'd pointedly not 
explained the ring. She didn't mind too much; he 
laughed at her jokes. It was a nice laugh and she got 
the impression he didn't get to use it much.

"So, how long you gonna be in town, Fox?"

His smile dissipated. "I don't know. Sometimes I'm in 
town just long enough to file a report. Sometimes they 
keep me hanging out 'til the case is solved. Could be 
this week. Could be next month."

"Ever get lonely traveling like that?"

He laughed. "Hell, I get lonely sitting at home."

"Ever thought of finding someone to sit in it with 
you?" He glanced up under his brows and she waved off 
the innuendo. "I'm not proposing to you honey, just 
answer the question."

He shrugged and laughed, trying to make this look 
easy. "Well, yeah. But, I work a lot and..." He looked 
down at the puddle of ice cream on his plate and his 
voice got soft and reluctant. "I have bad dreams 
sometimes." He smiled like a man with his foot on a 
grenade, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. "I have them a 
lot, actually. Sometimes they're not so bad if 
someone's there to wake me. But that kind of thing 
tends to freak women out." His laugh was painful, 
hollow, and he cut it short.

"You're going to have one of those dreams tonight, 
aren't you?"

The question shocked him into looking up at her. "What 
makes you say that?" he whispered.

Her own voice was soft. "It's all over your face, 
honey."

Mulder studied his plate again and she made her voice 
light. "So, when you haul these women home so they can 
keep the nightmares away, do you have sex with them? I 
mean, just because they're expecting it and all?"

His head jerked up just before the blush set in, 
followed by the little smile as he looked vaguely away 
over her shoulder. "Yeah, well," he mused, "the least 
I can do is try to make it worth their time."

"And I bet you do, too."

He turned a brilliant shade of red and dropped his 
head again. She took the pressure off by wiping up the 
crumbs from the counter.

After a minute he flicked his ashes and chuckled. "You 
know, I can just see that: me walking up to a woman in 
a crowded bar and drawling, 'Hey, babe, I'm about to 
have one hellacious dream. Whatdoyasay we go back to 
my place and see if we can fight off the boogie man?'" 
He pretended a frown. "Actually, I know some bars 
where that just might work." He gave her a self-
effacing shrug and tapped his fork at the crumbs in 
his saucer.

"It works for me," she said.

He caught his breath, too stunned to blush, too scared 
suddenly to drop his head. He dropped his fork 
instead.

"You're not going to disappoint me by being one of 
those men who're all-talk-and-no-do, are you, Fox?"

The sensation of her hand on his arm must have set off 
an electric charge. He practically flinched. You 
didn't have to be a psychologist to appreciate his 
situation: a single male, living alone and on the 
road, too strung out to expend necessary energy on a 
long term relationship, pretty much tactilely 
deprived. Add to that the pressures of a nightmare of 
a job and you had a very young man overly sensitive to 
even the slightest physical contact. And she knew 
enough about men to know no Oxford degree was going to 
alleviate his physical reality. Still, she wasn't 
certain she was really ready for this kind of thing. 
It'd been an awfully long time...

She released his arm abruptly, leaving him to deal 
with the decision for her as she hauled the plates and 
pie tin to the sink in the back. She took her time 
with it, running the water until it was hot, watching 
the dish liquid bubble up her reflection a hundred-
fold. And she wondered what he saw when he looked at 
her. She certainly knew what *she* saw in that mass of 
reflections: an only moderately-pretty woman on the 
wrong side of thirty-- with far too little to show for 
the years. 

She shook her head, slamming off the tap. 

And he'd come wandering in like she was his best 
option, talked to her with respect and concern, like 
she was his only option. Like there was no one else in 
the world willing to just be good to him for a while-- 
Beautiful man like that and he had come to her. It 
made you wonder just what was wrong with the world....

When she emerged, she knew the decision had been made-
- and exactly what that decision was. He was standing 
at her side of the soda counter. He wasn't blushing 
but with that look on his face he should have been; 
she did it for him, suddenly and inexplicably shy. He 
smiled at that. He apparently had no idea what kind of 
damage that little smile could do when he put some 
real interest in it.

He moved closer and she backed into the wall 
involuntarily. He slowed but didn't stop, watching her 
concentrate on her breathing.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head, suddenly speechless after talking 
his ear off for an hour...

He closed the distance between them much too slowly, 
but she didn't rush him, enjoying the fluid motion of 
his body in the dimmed lights of the diner. And then 
he stopped, finally, very close, so close she could 
feel his breath against her hair. He stood there a 
long moment, watching her silently, but he didn't 
touch her. Her own hands were shaking too much to 
trust them just then and she waited him out. Jeezus, 
it had been way too long-- 

Slowly, leisurely, he placed first one hand, then the 
other on the wall to either side of her. She wished 
she was taller suddenly, tall enough leave both her 
feet flat on the floor and still reach his mouth, tall 
enough to feel his breath on her face-- He still 
wasn't touching her but she could feel him like he was 
all over her.

"I'm, ahm, I'm afraid I'm one of those all-talk-and-
little-do types, Fox. Pretty small town to boot. I--"

He leaned down and she offered her mouth in welcome, 
blinked rapidly when he moved her chin aside, nuzzling 
it upward. His evening stubble rasped lightly against 
her jaw, his lips brushing her neck, searching, sure 
of their destination. She felt his mouth open against 
the soft vulnerable skin beneath her jaw and she held 
her breath, unable to comprehend his intention. 
Mulder's lips and his check brushing her were his only 
point of contact; her entire body trembled. 

She'd never known a man who went straight for the 
throat: the mouth, the side of the neck, the ear, 
perhaps, but not the throat. The movement was 
amazingly sensual, frighteningly predatory, as though 
his passion, tightly reigned, cloaked another desire 
entirely, concealed and threatening as a switchblade. 
She gasped at the intimacy of such a caress, and at 
the complete abandonment with which he accepted her.

His breath was trembling and measured, burning as his 
mouth pressed gently against the cage of tendons that 
protected her windpipe. He slid his lips-- just his 
lips, dry and hot-- down the ridge of her throat, 
closing his mouth at last to lightly touch the little 
hollow where her collar bones rested. He lingered and 
his breath down her dress sent a shiver over her body 
that lit up everything it passed through. She knew he 
felt it and felt him smile as he moved up, now along 
the side of her neck, planting almost-kisses, demure 
and sweet, as he went. He paused again, brushing her 
earlobe now, a soft chaste caress that made her feel 
anything but. A gentle kiss at her jaw. Slowly, 
slowly. Another tender kiss on her neck.

He was definitely not small town. Any man from Belmont 
County would have had her groped by now and been 
halfway to touch down, but this man was obviously in 
no hurry. It was wonderfully infuriating. Her heart 
was pounding in her ears, drowning out all other 
thought but the sensation of that mouth against her 
skin.

The kiss under her jaw repeated itself and her breath 
escaped as a whimper. She felt him smile again. He 
knew exactly what he was doing, and she was powerless, 
completely unwilling to prevent him from taking from 
her whatever he deemed necessary.

A gentle caress on her collarbone that lingered and 
she finally reached for his arms, pulling his hands to 
her waist. He accepted their placement but left them 
there, light and hot, still concentrating on her neck 
and ear. The heat of his fingers burned through the 
cloth of her dress and she was kissing his neck, 
infuriated that he wouldn't give her his mouth. She 
unknotted his tie with difficulty and he made no 
attempt to make it easier for her.

More kisses, his breath too warm on the side of her 
neck as she tried to remember how to breathe, how to 
work the buttons on his shirt. She had four managed 
when his hands began to move, easing down to her hips, 
his thumbs dragging along her flanks, tracing where 
his palms had been. He reached her hips as the fifth 
button finally surrendered and she gasped as his hands 
moved back and stroked softly well below the bow of 
her apron.

He chose that moment to kiss her mouth, deepened the 
kiss as she rose to tip-toe to feed on his breath. She 
ran her hands under his suit jacket eager and 
insistent, and flinched when she found the holstered 
weapon. He stiffened.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against her mouth. The voice 
was low and rough but very quiet, truly regretful.

Kay caught his mouth again as he pulled away, even as 
she tried to speak, "It's alright. I'm not afraid--" 
she lied.

He gasped at the ferocity of her kiss, the intimacy of 
her hands, the intimacy of his own. She grasped his 
belt loops and pulled him against her, feeling his 
breath catch with the pressure of her stomach against 
the reaction of his body. The sudden hesitation in his 
eyes made her shiver with greed for him. 

He misinterpreted the response and pulled away 
abruptly. Kay lost her balance in his sudden motion; 
he caught her instinctively even as she bumped into 
the wall. She laughed at his fear-- losing her own at 
last-- and pulled him to her again, pushing his shirt 
open and laying feather soft kisses on his chest. It 
was his turn to tremble.

He shifted to hold her hips at bay despite her 
protests, finally pushing her away entirely, holding 
her to the wall with his hands on her arms. He was 
panting, eyes closed, head turned away. She waited, 
fascinated by the trek of a single drop of 
perspiration making it's way down his temple and 
across his cheek. When he looked back again, his 
breathing had eased and his eyes were still but it was 
the kind of stillness you find in the eye of a 
hurricane: electric and alive, and cast in livid 
green.

She knew her eyes were smiling. He smiled back.

"Okay now, Fox?"

He nodded hesitantly.

"You place or mine?" She smiled, her words a 
breathless whisper.

"Mine's closer." His voice was a bit harsher than he'd 
probably intended and his smile faded as he searched 
her face. She ran her hand down his arm, laughing 
softly, reassuringly. He closed his eyes, 
concentrating again and she was merciful, pulling her 
hand away and slipping under his arm. He looked around 
to the rattle of her keys. 

He held her hand as they walked across the parking 
lot, apparently not trusting himself to touch her 
further until they were in his room. Then she kissed 
him again.

It was some time later, with the world finally quiet 
and still, when he realized he had made love to her 
while still dressed: suit, jacket, tie hanging loose 
around his neck.

Kay laughed at his amazement. And helped him rectify 
the oversight.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

4:03 AM.

She woke to the pressure of his body shuddering 
against her. Kay smiled, turning to greet him with a 
low moan of pleasure, then realized his eyes were not 
closed in desire. He was asleep. Sweat was pouring off 
him.

She remembered his warning and pulled him close, 
hugging him tightly, staying under his arms in case he 
woke fighting.

Fox gasped, moving vaguely and she rubbed his back, 
keeping her voice low and calm, coaxing him back from 
the land of dementia.

He struggled to respond, his body tensed in 
desperation, like it had when he'd first laid her on 
the bed. His hands then had spoken of too much death, 
of blood cold and dried on children's faces. Of the 
need to feel life, and love-- or at least it's sister, 
mercy. 

Kay stayed tucked tightly against him now, her voice 
at his ear soft and steady. She was listening, too: to 
his heartbeat as it calmed its frantic hammering, his 
breathing as it eased. His struggling ceased, though 
the trembling had not lessened.

She felt his hands on her, light, tentative and 
questioning, then firmer, reassuring himself. 
Reassuring her.

"Okay?" she whispered against his neck. She felt him 
nod hesitantly. *Okay.*

She sat up, pushing with her hand on his chest and he 
rolled onto his back, his eyes quiet in the wounded 
face. She leaned down and kissed his eyelids, her hair 
cascading about his face, a shield, soft and merciful, 
against all he had seen. He allowed the kisses, 
turning his face to make it easier for her, but left 
his arms laying still, one flung to her side of the 
bed, the other laid across his ribs.

She watched his eyes, moving her hand on his chest, 
feeling the dark hair curling beneath her fingers. She 
could feel his heart pounding bare inches below her 
palm, his breath shuddering to escape it's precious 
cage, and then returning anxiously. Her hand slid 
lower, comforting, caressing, and there was the 
contour of his ribs, the flatness of his stomach. And 
still he was quiet, watching her, but unmoving, 
unresponsive.

She smiled and had resumed the slow downward slide of 
her hand when another wave of trembling shook him.

"Fox?"

He closed his eyes against her fear. There was little 
else he could do, she supposed. Kay pulled the blanket 
up over her shoulders, then covered him with it, with 
her, as she lay down upon him. The trembling subsided 
after a moment and he wrapped his arms around her, 
pulling her to fit against him less awkwardly. He 
released his hold, sliding his hands to her thighs 
where they straddled him, searching her face. Kay gave 
him the smile he sought and felt the tension recede 
from the muscles across his abdomen, from his arms.

She settled her hips gently and leaned to kiss his 
neck. Softly. Softly. She continued the caresses along 
his collarbone, his chest, going slow, trying to 
remember how he had begun the seduction so many hours 
before. He lay quietly under her, under her hands and 
mouth, a shiver taking him sporadically. She knew he 
could feel her reaction to his body beneath her, given 
her position it was impossible to hide. Yet he 
remained so utterly still...

Her kisses became less chaste. She moved her mouth to 
his nipple, tugged insistently, teasing it with her 
tongue. She felt it harden beneath her lips and smiled 
again. Laughed softly when the hands on her thighs 
moved back up her hips.

Mulder rolled her onto her back gently, finally 
responding to her kisses with soft ones of his own, 
pausing to breathe quietly against her as a final 
spasm shook him. It ceased and he moved his hands over 
her, slow and intimate and then suddenly she was 
spasming beneath him, feeling him warm and alive and 
glad to be alive, no longer desperate or frantic but 
slowly luxuriating in the power of life.

She moaned her delight at the soft resonance of his 
laughter and covered his chest with feather kisses. 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 19:47:04 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 7 of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 7 of 27: No Left Turn

Disclaimed in Part 1



Wednesday, May 11, 1988. 8:22 AM.

Mulder was dressed-- slacks, dress shirt, wingtips-- 
when he noticed Kay watching him from the pillow. He 
held her eyes in the mirror, his fingers knotting his 
tie on reflex. The smile in her eyes traveled to her 
lips when he gave the silk a final tug and winked at 
her.

She didn't rise, though, when he sat beside her and he 
had to lean over to kiss her. She pulled him closer, 
deepening the caress, hands moving up under his jacket 
to massage his back and shoulders. She was too damned 
warm, her skin too soft and the taste of her was 
almonds and honeydew in summer. He heard himself 
thinking such things and it terrified him, embarrassed 
him as if she might be capable of discerning his 
thoughts through the simple intimacy of a kiss. Her 
hands bespoke such knowledge, though; they moved 
across his body with the ease of one born knowing him. 

The truth of it made him giddy. The familiar burn of 
desire ravaging his gut and mixed with too many more 
things he couldn't afford to dwell on just now. He 
broke the kiss and pulled away; her response was a 
soft, startled "oh" that made her blush and his chest 
pound. She recovered quickly enough, however, and 
laced her fingers through his belt loops, capturing 
him before he could rise. Despite her desperation, she 
was careful to avoid the weapon on his hip; Mulder 
noted the fact and relented, retreating no further.

"Hi, ya, Fox."

"Hi yourself." His smile broadened with hers, and 
against his better judgment, he leaned to kiss her 
again. She received and gave with equal passion, her 
kiss overwhelming the fear in his heart, shattering 
his resolve. He slid his mouth down across her throat 
and buried his face in the billow of hair on the 
pillow, reluctant to release her, content to simply be 
here.

"Say," she whispered against his neck, "isn't this how 
this got started last night? You dressed to the nines 
and me naked on the bed?"

He laughed, swallowing her giggles with another kiss. 
Kay moved against him playfully; magical and 
omniscient, she knew he could not say no to her now-- 
and that he needed to. She laid her hands on his chest 
and pushed gently even as she welcomed his kiss, his 
fingers' brush against her right nipple. Mulder 
conceded reluctantly, resting his forehead against her 
shoulder, breathing the fragrance of her skin for 
later reference. His hands found hers, motionless 
against his chest, and wrapped them up, small and wise 
within his grip. 

"I've *got* to go to work," he whispered, a 
confession, a grief. She moaned and he realized his 
tone had been a bit more seductive than consciously 
intended, his breath doubtless too warm against her 
breast. She read his regret clearly enough, though, 
and smiled her forgiveness, squeezing the hands that 
held hers.

He couldn't let her go so lightly, yet he was 
completely unable to locate the words that seemed 
necessary. He sat instead, fascinated by the play of 
morning sun against her skin as she breathed, his 
thumbs unconsciously swirling provocative patterns 
within her palms.

Her face was still-- who could not regard such a 
creature as utterly perfect, beautified by gods-- her 
eyes spoke languages he feared to translate. She had 
to feel his heart pounding beneath her fingertips--

Ever merciful, she whispered her assurance. "You know 
where to find me, Fox. I'm not going anywhere."

He shuddered in relief; she pretended not to notice 
and he rendered his thanks in one long soft kiss. She 
didn't struggle to hold him when he rose and crossed 
to the door.

"Fox?"

"Yeah?" He turned, stopped. She'd slipped the covers 
back, smiling again; she might be letting him go but 
she didn't intend to make it easy.

"See you tonight?" she invited.

Her smile faded uncertainly. He knew his appreciative 
leer had subsided too abruptly but he was struggling 
to recover his breath; it didn't help that his 
difficulties suddenly had nothing to do with desire. 
He covered with a feeble wink, his pupils still too 
dull and distant.

"It's a date," he forced his own smile, lost it as he 
closed the door between them. His hand shuddered on 
the doorknob and just standing was a conscious effort. 

For one brief moment, he'd caught a glimpse of matted 
hair. And blood....

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chris' Cafe. 8:31 AM

Purdue grimaced at his cup of coffee-flavored water 
and poured in another tablespoon of cream. If the 
stuff got any lighter, he could have ordered them to 
hold the coffee and just bring him a glass of milk. 
Still, it was about the only way he could handle 
decaf. He hated the stuff, only drank it when he 
remembered he'd promised his wife he'd take care of 
himself-- which wasn't often enough, he admitted.

Sauceda sat across from him, straining his neck with 
twisting to look out over the parking lot for some 
sign of Mulder. Sauceda turned back around again and 
announced adamantly, "He'll be here any minute now, 
you'll see." The pathologist filled his mouth with 
fried egg and chatted around it. "Probably just late 
coming back from his run."

The ASAC grunted noncommittally. He'd caught a glimpse 
of a young couple walking hand in hand from a certain 
diner last night and had little question about what 
kind of exercise had delayed the agent's breakfast 
hour. Purdue didn't offer the information to Sauceda, 
though; hell, it wasn't anybody's business but 
Mulder's and-- what was her name? Kay? Still he 
couldn't help but smile ruefully into his cup of 
creamer, recalling the image out his window.

Purdue was no fool. He knew the rumors and the cover-
ups that went on with the agents in his department, 
male and female: the all-night binges, the hangovers, 
the hooker parties, the "flight-delay" excuses... It 
was a tough job and the occasional radial release 
valve was expected. And the fact that Mulder was so 
rarely the subject of such rumors was a topic of 
uneasy speculation among the powers that be. Mulder 
was probably one of the more intensely investigated 
agents the Bureau had and they still hadn't found any 
dirt worth mentioning. Sure, there was that brawl in 
Baytown and another in Newport; Mulder had gained a 
reputation for being quick with his fists his first 
two weeks in the Academy. Aside from that, however, 
the man was notoriously decent: his few affairs had 
been short and discreet enough to escape notice, he 
rarely drank, had to be threatened to take even 
prescription drugs-- and he *never* allowed anything 
to interfere with the job. 

Point of fact, Mulder seemed to have no life at all 
outside his work. And it was just that fact that 
worried Purdue. It had worried Patterson, too. Because 
the sad but simple truth was, men didn't hold up to 
the kind of stress Mulder shouldered without some kind 
of occasional high-end release. It was especially true 
of young men: the blood was too impulsive, they were 
too ambitious; too much was on the line.

So Purdue could appreciate the fact that he'd enjoyed 
a quiet night's rest rather than having to haul out in 
the wee hours to peel his agent, sodden drunk, off the 
floor of a whore house. If Mulder's only "vice" was an 
occasional fling with a diner waitress, well, the man 
was old enough to know to take precautions. And he was 
just too damned good to be true--

"... Just don't let him freak you out."

"Excuse me?" Purdue frowned. Sauceda was a regular 
Chatty Cathy this morning; the ASAC should have 
ordered *him* the decaf.

"I said, I know this is going to be a little unusual 
but just don't get freaked out. Marty knows what he's 
doing. Hell, we find half our bodies this way."

"He just dreams them up and off you go to fetch them?" 

Sauceda grinned. "Just like Seattle. And Shreveport." 
The grin disappeared abruptly and Sauceda's eyes got 
hollow, remembering. "That first body in Shreveport-- 
that was a tough one. By the time we got called in 
they had seven bodies and Marty knew that they were 
too well staged to have been the first, that there had 
to more 'earlier works.' So, we hadn't been there a 
day, and we're driving down this road with the local 
sheriff, and Marty starts with his 'turn here, turn 
there' thing. The sheriff's just looking at him, you 
know, like he's thinking maybe this kid's just out 
cruising for massage parlors or something. Anyway. We 
get to this abandoned house and Marty has him drive to 
the back. The body'd been laid out in an old storm 
cellar. You can't even see it from the road. Hell, I 
couldn't even see it until Marty's standing on top of 
it, kicking the lock out to get at her. And there she 
was, just like he'd said. Blew that sheriff's mind 
clean away. Everything from then on out was Agent 
Mulder this and Special Agent Mulder that. Which, of 
course, really hacks Marty off--"

Purdue frowned. Stuff like this had set the foundation 
of the "Spooky" legend surrounding Fox Mulder. And it 
was this kind of story that only rarely got written up 
in officer reports. The very things that might give 
the most insight into Mulder's work were often the 
things no one wanted to admit to, afraid of getting 
themselves labeled as crackpots. Instead, Mulder's 
bewildering talents were heralded by gossipmongers at 
water coolers, whispered in "off the record" 
conversations in deserted halls. And God only knew at 
what point the truth ended and rampant imaginations 
began. But this was insight from a man who should 
know-- Mulder's own partner for the past nine months. 

Unfortunately, Sauceda, the little bastard, was the 
worst gossip of all, a sensationalist from the cradle. 
The ASAC kept his tone skeptical, scarcely feigning 
interest. "So, that body was the first victim?"

"Nope," Sauceda grinned sagely. "That's the thing, 
see? We really wanted to find the first victim. That 
would have been the killer's sloppiest work, 'til he 
got his technique down, you know? And he'd have left 
more clues with the earliest ones. But this was his 
seventh victim, and he was well practiced by then. 
Marty was damned near apologizing about hauling us to 
her first but he swore that he found her straight off 
because when he went looking," Sauceda tapped his 
forehead, "she stepped up first. Loudest. 'Cause she 
didn't like being alone, he said. He said she was 
afraid of the dark." 

Purdue hesitated, "Lenny, most kids are afraid of-"

"No, no. Not like this. We ID'd her and I went with 
the sheriff to go see the parents. I asked them. They 
showed me her room. The kid slept with two lights on 
so in case one of the bulbs burned out, the other 
would still be on for her, so she wouldn't start 
screaming. They'd taken the door off the hinges, so 
she wouldn't feel closed in or alone either. Kid had a 
pile of stuffed animals on the bed, barely room for 
her. She slept with all of them. And the dog. Couldn't 
stand to be by herself. Or in the dark. And Marty knew 
that."

"Sauceda--"

"On the drive out to find the body, Marty told us what 
she'd be wearing. What had been done to her. In what 
order. Knew where she'd be found. What position she'd 
be lying in. The placement of her hands. Everything. 
He told us that on the rest of the bodies, too. 
Nineteen more." 

Sauceda swallowed hard, wincing at the effort, the 
memory apparently over-running his exhibitionist's 
tongue. Purdue had the Shreveport file damned near 
memorized and he could sympathize with the 
pathologist. All those autopsy reports. All those 
sweet little lives thrown away like so much garbage. 
Worse.

Sauceda's voice was distant when he spoke again, his 
mind, no doubt, still somewhere south, in the swampy 
waters of Caddo Lake. 

"Marty told us the killer'd given the girl a candy bar 
when he picked her up. Mars Bar. But that her favorite 
was Baby Ruth. I asked her mom about that, too. Wild 
for Baby Ruth." Sauceda's glare was an accusation. "He 
coulda told you the same kind of things about that kid 
in Seattle. Only he's gotten so he doesn't like to 
tell that kinda stuff anymore. It scares people."

Purdue shook his head. "So you're saying-- what? 
Mulder's telepathic or something?" There was a caustic 
taste in his mouth as he formed the words.

"Empathic. Maybe. How the hell should I know? I'm just 
trying to tell you what I've seen, dammit. Look, you 
watch him day in and day out, watch those eyes get 
dull and dilated and listen to him whisper poetry to 
himself like most people pray, trying to comfort 
himself, trying to make sense of the senseless, insane 
shit of the world. Then you sit there with that look 
on your face and tell me how the hell else he does it. 
'Cause I wanna know. Sir."

Sauceda shoved his egg-streaked plate away and spent a 
few minutes apparently trying to wash out his mouth 
with coffee. "Shit," he declared to no one in 
particular, waving the waitress down for a refill. 

Purdue stared past the waitress' arm, watching a 
figure in dark blue striding across the parking lot, 
jacket swinging loose and easy. "So," he brooded, 
"you're saying when Mulder walks in here he'll look 
like he's just seen a ghost or--"

"Hell no," Sauceda took another gulp, wincing as he 
choked the hot liquid down, "that's just it, Reg. 
He'll walk in like he's got the world by the tail: 
mirror shades and son-of-a-bitch mode full on. And 
*that's* how you know--"

He was silenced by the expression on Purdue's face and 
the tinkling of the bell on the cafe door. He took a 
quick glance back and grimaced at the ASAC. "Told ya," 
he mourned.

Mulder entered the diner just like he entered most 
rooms, with the confidence of the terminally 
unconcerned. Diner, motel, crime scene, morgue: Purdue 
had known him to grace each with the same indifferent 
stride. Only the constant motion of Mulder's head 
betrayed him now, his roving focus impatient, 
preoccupied, shades incapable of settling on any one 
thing for long. The profiler was immaculate as ever, 
suit too impossibly unwrinkled to have been shoved in 
a suitcase, cologne only subtly pervasive. 
 
He gave Purdue a cursory nod and plopped himself next 
to his partner. And instantly began drumming to the 
jukebox. Purdue listened to the tune a minute: Cheap 
Trick. Good band.

Sauceda was frowning, though. "Say, Marty, didn't we 
discuss this hyperactivity of yours yesterday?"

Mulder glanced over the shades at him briefly and 
completed his percussion solo as the waitress, a 
blonde with too much blue eye shadow, stopped to take 
his order. Coffee.

Sauceda was obviously displeased. "You're not going to 
start this not-eating routine of yours again, are you, 
kid? 'Cause it's a little early in the case for--"

"When my mother decides to vacate her position, I'll 
let you know, Len. Drop it."

Sauceda gave Purdue a knowing look. The ASAC smiled. 
If this was the pathologist's idea of son-of-a-bitch 
mode, Purdue needed to introduce him to Walter Skinner 
when the auditors were in. 

Mulder poured about five tablespoons of sugar in his 
coffee and didn't bother to stir before downing it. 
"So, what's first on the agenda?" he asked pleasantly.

Purdue pointedly maintained eye contact with the 
shades. "I thought we'd go for a drive. See the city."

"Okay." Mulder's face was expressionless. "I'll 
drive." 

Sauceda's eyes got big. "You drive like a bat outta 
hell, Marty, especially if you've got someplace to 
be." He turned to the ASAC, pleading. "I swear. I 
ain't getting in the car with him behind the wheel."

"There's nothing wrong with my driving--" Mulder 
protested solemnly.

"Not usually, but if you take a notion to--" Sauceda 
paused. Even Purdue could feel the glare behind the 
gold glass.

"If I take a notion to what?" Mulder demanded. 
Sauceda, damage done, clamed up to await the passing 
storm in silence. The profiler swore and swung to 
Purdue. "Look, if I'm going to be continually 
discussed behind my back like some freaking lab rat, 
maybe you should ship me back to BSU." He grimaced and 
looked down. "Sir."

"Fair enough, agent," Purdue answered evenly. He 
ignored the hiss in Mulder's voice, noting the 
trembling in his fingers as Mulder clenched the coffee 
cup. Instinct assured him it was not anger. The ASAC 
shrugged, seeking to lighten the mood. "Your partner 
here seems to be under the impression that you have 
something to show us. Is that right?" 

Mulder regarded him a moment; the shades couldn't hide 
the convulsive bob of his Adam's apple.

"Same routine as Seattle," Mulder shouldered a levity 
he obviously didn't feel. "I've got a body. Somewhere 
to the northwest. Take the highway. I'll know when we 
get close." He looked away quickly, swallowing again 
as he shrugged. "So how're we going to explain this to 
Harris?"

"You let me worry about Harris," Purdue ordered. He 
glanced at Sauceda. "And the driving."

Mulder shrugged again and remained silent, watching as 
the blonde, unbidden, refilled his coffee cup. 

Sauceda had been watching his partner closely. Now he 
raised his eyebrows at Purdue and his voice went 
quiet. "So, Marty, what's this one look like?" he 
asked soberly.

Mulder's jaw twitched, threatening. "You'll see her 
when we get there," he growled. "I'm not your goddam 
performing seal."

Without another word, Mulder rose and slammed out of 
the diner. Sauceda favored the ASAC with an apologetic 
shrug and followed. Mulder strode back across the 
parking lot, Sauceda skittering after. Purdue watched 
the performance languidly; he was the ASAC, after all. 
He was perfectly free to finish his coffee in peace 
while his agents cooled their heels at the car. He was 
the one calling the shots here. He was the one in 
control. He looked down into the tasteless cup with it 
halfway to his lips. 

Oh, hell, might as well get this comedy on the road...

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder sat in front with Purdue, which didn't keep 
Sauceda from at least having his face shoved in the 
front seat. The pathologist choked as the wind from 
the open window periodically blew Mulder's cigarette 
smoke back into the car.

"Marty. You need to give those things up, kid. They'll 
kill you."

"Promise?"

"Marty--"

"If I toss it, will you stop your incessant babbling? 
Christ, you act like you're on meth or something." 

Eliciting the vow, Mulder let the cigarette sail out 
the window. Purdue enjoyed a minute of silence before 
the profiler flipped the radio on. Rolling Stones. 
Mulder nodded approvingly, drumming on his thigh with 
one hand. He cradled the other against the door and 
absently chewed his thumb.

Sauceda promptly slapped at him from the backseat. 
"Stop that."

"What?"

"Chewing your thumb. Jeez, whatsamatta, you're momma 
wean you too early or something?"

"Hey, you're the breast man, as I recall--"

"You little bastard. That gets back to Imelda and 
I'll--"

"Yeah, right. Like she's little Miss Faithful while 
you're out here--"

Purdue felt his seat jerk as Sauceda exploded. 
"Goddamn you, you take that back, you son of a bitch. 
That's my wife-- and I never touched that girl in 
Dallas--"

"Hey!" Mulder turned in the seat and Purdue wondered 
if he was about to have a fistfight on his hands. 
Mulder's voice was sincere enough, though. "I'm sorry, 
Len. That was out of line. I didn't mean it. Hey, you 
listening?"

"Yeah, well--" Sauceda shrank back in his seat, 
apparently uncertain of just what to do with the anger 
just then. Or with Mulder's mercurial mood.

Purdue watched the man in the rearview mirror. Sauceda 
was hurt, his expression confused when he glanced up, 
down and up again at his partner. He was managing to 
choke his rage down for Marty Mulder, though. Purdue 
would have to remember that.

Len sputtered quietly for a minute. "Well, you know," 
Sauceda managed to cover at last, "a guy gets lonely 
on the road. Thinks about things. You know? That he 
shouldn't sometimes. That's all. That's all that was, 
Marty. Honest."

Mulder slumped back down in his seat, staring forward, 
his face an undecipherable mask. "Yeah," he said.

After a minute, there was a chuckle from the backseat. 
"You know, Imelda says that considering the number of 
bodies I've seen molested and whatever, if my libido 
hasn't gone south by now, my body chemistry must be 
pretty much immune to anything. What's Freud or Jung 
say about that, Marty?"

Mulder closed his eyes-- Purdue could tell because he 
had him in profile. "Psychology 101, Len. The drive 
for life is strong in everyone. No matter how twisted 
the individual."

"Yeah, I guess so-- Hey! Who're you calling twisted?" 

Mulder sighed wearily, turned to Purdue. "Take a left 
at the light. And put some speed on it, wil you? He's 
giving me a headache."

Sauceda's face was back in the front seat. "You wanna 
talk about twisted--"

"No," Mulder answered and was promptly ignored.

"--How about that gal you cuffed in Baytown?"

"Oh, so, I was supposed to know she *liked* being 
handcuffed?"

"Well, you know the earring in her tongue would have 
given *me* some indication--"

Mulder sat up suddenly, pointing, gripping Purdue's 
arm insistently. "Here. Turn here."

Purdue obeyed, tires squealing dully. A street of 
walkup tenements. Lower middle-class. Identical 
buildings lining both sides of the road. Purdue 
shifted his vision from the light traffic to the 
agent, electric beside him. 

Mulder scanned the rows of windows as Purdue slowed 
the Chevy to a crawl. The ASAC shook his head at the 
rearview mirror and Sauceda gave him that wicked 
little grin he'd used in Harris' car. Mulder was 
chewing his lip.

Halfway down the block. Three quarters and Purdue 
sighed. Almost to the second light--

"Stop," Mulder barked.

Purdue pulled to the curb and hadn't gotten fully 
parked when Mulder hopped out and paced back up the 
street to the stoop they'd just passed. Sauceda waited 
until the car was still and ran to catch up.

By the time Purdue had reached the building, Mulder 
had found the landlord's door and was fidgeting as a 
myopic man stared at his badge.

"In my building?" the man looked from Mulder to 
Sauceda, his eyes growing wider as he caught site of 
Purdue. Purdue maintained an authoritative presence 
but kept his distance. No sense making the super feel 
like he was being surrounded. Might come in handy 
later, though.

Mulder repeated himself. "Would you get your keys and 
accompany us? Please."

The man scratched his T-shirt a moment, and closed the 
door in Mulder's face without further comment. The 
three men were regarding one another blankly when the 
door re-opened and the burly gentleman re-emerged, 
slippers flopping, keys jangling.

"Which apartment?" he demanded.

"Upstairs." Mulder preceded them up, runner's legs 
taking two steps at a time. 

The super was huffing not even half the way up. "Who 
called this in? Huh? Nobody told *me* nothin'--"

They made the second floor and followed Mulder as he 
made a sweep of the doors, examining each as though he 
expected someone to just open up and invite him in. 
Purdue grabbed Sauceda's arm; the little pathologist 
just grinned and tried to keep pace.

The only way the super was keeping pace was verbally. 
"Hey, I run a legit place here. Inspectors were out, 
what, two weeks ago? Gave me a clean bill a health. 
Well, 'cept for that little incident in 12. But hey, I 
got that taken care straight off. Booted 'em right 
out. Legally, though-- Hey, I know tenants got rights-
-"

The landlord was beginning to remind Purdue of Sauceda 
on a nervous streak: non-stop yap. The ASAC had him 
fairly well tuned out halfway round the second floor, 
just nodding and uh-huhing occasionally. It was clear 
Mulder had tuned him out as soon as he'd heard the 
keys rattle. Right now, Mulder was making for the 
stairs again, on his way up to the third floor.

The super blanched, following dutifully. "Say, this 
ain't about that letter that bunch in 302 sent to the 
Federal Housing Commission, is it? 'Cause I can 
explain all that--"

Mulder began his step-and-pause dance on this floor as 
well. Two doors. Three doors. Four. Five. He stopped 
abruptly, the hulking super almost slamming into him. 
Mulder turned and pushed past him, past Purdue and the 
grinning Sauceda, back to apartment 304. He laid one 
hand on the door and interrupted the super's babbling.

"Who lives here?"

"Uh." Again, the myopic stare. "Three-oh-four? That's 
Mary Kelly. No. Michele Kelly. Something like that. 
It's on the rent agreement--"

"Open it," Mulder demanded.

"You ain't even knocked," the super protested.

Mulder didn't take his eyes off the little man, 
rapping the side of his fist against the wood like he 
was out to wake the dead. 

"She's not answering," he explained even as he 
pounded. "Open it."

The super squinted at Purdue and the ASAC nodded. He 
fumbled for his keys, paused and fumbled again, gaping 
as Mulder donning latex gloves. "Say," he mused 
slowly, "don't you need a warrant or something?"

Purdue sighed. "Sir, do you own these premises?"

The man looked up from working the doorknob. "Sure."

"Are you opening this door under threat of force?"

The super swung his head uncertainly between the three 
men, pausing to scrutinize the man in the shades a 
little more closely. "No..." His answer sounded 
doubtful.

"Then we have the something," Purdue advised. "Unless, 
of course, you'd prefer that we file for a warrant--"

The verb 'file' apparently held unpleasant 
associations and the super shook his head vehemently. 
"No. No, sir. No problem." He pushed the door open 
almost triumphantly, glancing in; his face blanched, 
white as cigarette ash. Mulder pushed him back and 
took one step inside.

"Hello, Ms. Kelly," Purdue heard him whisper.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 19:47:11 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 8 of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 8 of 27: Table Setting

Disclaimed in Part 1


Apartment 304.

The a/c was running full blast: the apartment was like 
a freezer. Which would explain why the neighbors 
hadn't called in the odor.

Mulder pulled his jacket tight as he stepped inside 
and Sauceda followed hard after. The apartment was 
nice enough, pleasantly furnished: combination living 
room/kitchenette with doors leading off left and 
right, but all this was absorbed peripherally. The 
main attraction was on the table, splayed legs facing 
the front door for maximum shock value.

As far as Sauceda was concerned, it was working. He 
was grateful that his partner had a good seven inches 
over him: the pathologist could duck back behind for a 
minute's reprieve. Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph, he'd 
never get used to looking at crap like this. Not ever.

Behind him, Purdue was on the cell phone calling for 
Harris and whatever passed for an investigative 
support team in this burg. He sent the super 
downstairs to direct them up. The old man was more 
than eager to comply.

Mulder stepped through the apartment cautiously, his 
attention focused everywhere, roaming, roaming. Always 
roaming back to the body of Ms. M-something Kelly. He 
spared a questioning glance for Sauceda and the 
pathologist grimaced into action: found a place for 
his bag, dug out the Polaroid. He was snapping away at 
the body when Mulder discovered the stereo was on.

Purdue stepped over. "What've we got?"

"Turntable left running." Mulder fished a pen out of 
his coat and reset the switch to automatic.

Purdue watched the needle set itself to the little 
forty-five disk. "Just forego any drum solo's on this 
one, okay?" the ASAC suggested. "I think your 
partner's got enough on his hands right now."

Mulder grinned and slipped off his shades, continuing 
his circuit of the rooms. He stopped in mid-step as 
the song blasted from the speakers: a jazzy upbeat 
number with get-back-Jack horns and a driving swing 
beat. Ella Fitzgerald does Rogers and Hart.

"This can't be love because I feel so well, no sobs, 
no sorrow, no sighs--"

Sauceda looked up at the two of them like they'd 
sprouted secondary heads.

"Evidence," Mulder quipped.

Sauceda noted the absence of the shades and warily 
resumed his initial inspection of the body. The song 
was short and he sighed as Ella completed her little 
spin. And glanced up sharply as the horns be-bopped 
again. Might have known the little punk would have set 
the machine to automatic.

"This can't be love, Ella crooned again, "because I 
get no di-i-i-zzy spells. My head is not in the sky. 
My heart does not stand still--"

"Wanna bet, sweetheart?" Sauceda whispered under his 
breath, regarding the swollen corpse before him. 
"Jeezus, Marty turn that crap off. Like it's not bad 
enough--"

Mulder not only ignored him, he began singing along as 
he approached the body. "But still I love to look in 
your eyes," Mulder's soft tenor cut short and he 
nodded his head to the instrumental interlude.

Sauceda's face was red and he was breathing hard, just 
staring at Mulder: those clear eyes, that angelic 
face-- the Angel of Death with a devil-may-care grin. 
Sometimes, at least once a day, Sauceda wondered if 
Mulder was even sane anymore. Sometimes, now 
specifically, Sauceda didn't much give a damn. 

Over Mulder's shoulder, Purdue was watching the two of 
them like he was anticipating a fist fight. The 
pathologist kept his voice a low hiss as his partner 
made a circular, hands-off inspection of Ms. Kelly. 

"Now I know why you can catch these bastards, Marty. 
It's 'cause you're as twisted as they are."

Mulder had moved from the feet to the torso and bent 
over slightly. He briefly lifted eyes and brows at 
Sauceda without comment. Sauceda rolled up his tape 
measure with a disapproving snap. He pushed past 
Purdue as the investigative team made their entrance 
and quietly fanned out through the apartment.

Sauceda turned back at the door, though, watching 
Purdue watching the profiler alone with the body in 
the kitchenette.

"This can't be love," Mulder sang softly along with 
Ella's sultry purr, "because I love to look in your 
eyes." He carefully lifted the tablecloth draped over 
the face and looked down into the empty gouges where 
the aforementioned eyes should have been. Just as 
carefully replacing the checkered shroud, he moved to 
the lower torso, lifting the skirt to expose the 
disembowelment. A wire coat hanger protruded from 
between the legs. Mulder's expression never changed.

An officer with a camera approached. Mulder stepping 
back to allow the photographer room to work. He 
requested snapshots of the contents of the cabinet 
drawers, requested-- respectfully-- that the 
fingerprint team not overlook possible prints on the 
closet and the stereo. Asked if the rape kit would be 
run on site or at the morgue.
 
Sauceda knew what Purdue was watching for. But except 
for that damned forty-five playing round and round, he 
would find nothing wild or weird about Mulder's 
behavior. Nothing spooky. At crime scenes, Mulder was 
generally devoid of overt reaction; emotionally, he 
was habitually-- and remarkably-- flat. He behaved 
like a man who'd seen it before, right down to the 
last detail: read the book, seen the film, bought the 
T-shirt. No surprises; he'd already gotten the 
overview, thank you-- in his dreams. Sauceda's vision 
focused back on the body; he turned away with a jerk 
and stepped down the hall.



When Purdue pressed past the officers gathering in the 
door, he found Sauceda in a corner of the hall, 
looking through his Polaroid's.

"Is there a problem, Hot Sauce?"

The pathologist shook his head. He knew the ASAC was 
fishing for clues on this little spat with Marty but 
damned if he'd concede the point. Instead, Sauceda 
waved his photos vaguely. "Sometimes it just helps to 
get a little perspective with the photos first," he 
insisted. "Get passed the touchy-feely stuff, you 
know?"

The ASAC pocketed his hands. "So, you always take your 
own photos?" 

Sauceda was caught off guard by the sincerity of the 
question; Marty was usually the focus of attention 
these days. Sauceda squinted, wondering if Purdue 
actually cared or if he was just being kind. The 
ASAC's face was bland as butter. Sauceda shook his 
head stubbornly. *Hell, Len, you're getting as 
paranoid as the kid.*

"I've found others don't have the same outlook I do 
sometimes," he admitted. "I know what I'm looking for. 
Besides, Marty likes it; I keep the copies for him." 
He grimaced. "Not that's he's not in there collecting 
his own Kodak moments."

Purdue nodded. "Eidetic memory." 

Sauceda was squinting again. Purdue squinted back 
uncertainly and Sauceda dropped his head, staring at 
the photographs without really seeing them. Mulder's 
memory was beyond legend; it was verifiable fact. 
While most people saw the beauty of it, however, few 
thought about it long enough to imagine the horror. 
Sauceda'd certainly thought about it, though. 

"Wonderful thing, that kind of talent, huh?" Sauceda 
noted quietly. "Marty's memorized every book he's ever 
read. He can recall every conversation he's ever had 
or heard. Recalls every event right down to the smell 
in the air and the sensations of touch. And he never 
forgets. He can't forget." He lifted his chin to find 
Purdue watching him patiently, like he was waiting for 
the other shoe to land. Sauceda tossed it to him. 
"It's all in there, Reg, every crime, every corpse in 
implicit detail. Imagine keeping that shit locked up 
in your brain for the rest of your life."

Purdue looked away, point taken evident in the pained 
shift of those dark eyes. Sauceda felt guilty 
suddenly. Sixty-four years of life behind him and he 
still too often just didn't understand himself. Why 
was it he always seemed to be talking about Marty 
behind his back? Why couldn't he ever manage more than 
preliminary chatter and tough talk to the kid's face? 
Sauceda swore silently, consoling himself with the 
dubious fact that Marty'd probably hand him his balls 
just for trying a more compassionate approach. He 
pushed the thoughts aside as he moved back into the 
apartment. 

Mulder was standing in the middle of the room again, 
just staring, slowly panning left. Stopping, moving 
again. Moving to the window, lifting the shade. 
Looking out. Look back at the room with the sunlight 
at his back, pulling the shade again. Humming softly 
all the while. Sauceda felt a pressure on his back and 
stepped aside to let Purdue re-enter.

Mulder noted the movement and stopped humming, 
regarding his partner quietly. Sauceda returned the 
deceptively vacant look. 

"You done, Len?"

With Sauceda's nod, Mulder waved the pathologist over 
to join him back at the body. The coroner had begun 
his own preliminary work; the forensic technician was 
busy repeating Sauceda's measurements and temperature 
taking. The tablecloth shroud had been removed. Mulder 
stood respectfully at the shoeless feet while Sauceda 
assumed a position near the victim's head, arms 
folded, watching Mulder. He would be getting all too 
clear a look at the remains in the autopsy bay.

The body was swelled to bursting, the skin blistered 
and green; fluids leaked from every orifice, rigor 
mortis a distant memory. With a permissive nod from 
the technician, Mulder resumed his scan of the horror 
from all angles, mentally cataloging everything. There 
were times Sauceda envied the young man that steel-
trap of a mind; this was not one of those times. 
This... this was the stuff of nightmares. Hell, their 
being here was the result of one of Marty's less 
intense ones.

Mulder had paused again at the eyes, empty beneath the 
softly curling hair matted with crusted blood. His own 
eyes bled from cold green back to hazel and human, and 
he looked up at Sauceda, swearing under his breath.

"She's got Imelda's hair. Len, I'm sorry--"

Sauceda nodded, shrugged, and looked away.

Mulder clamped his mask back down but it didn't fit as 
tightly this time. He retreated to the wall, several 
feet from his partner, out of the way of the coroner 
with his endless variety of kits and labeled baggies. 

"So what're we looking at?" Mulder asked distantly 
after a minute's reflection. "A good two weeks?"

"More like two and a half," Sauceda estimated.

"A woman that pretty, no friends calling, wondering 
where she is?"

"Back off it, Marty," Sauceda growled, "that's Harris' 
job. Remember what Purdue--"

Mulder waved away the protest. "Just speculating, Len. 
Don't get yourself excited."

Sauceda squinted at the damaged face as Mulder 
regarded the hanger. "Marty. How do you know she was 
pretty? You dream--"

Mulder sighed, unpocketing a baggied driver's license 
for his partner's inspection. "A woman looks that good 
in a mug shot, she's bound to be a knock-out in 
reality, wouldn't you think?" he noted reasonably.

Sauceda shrugged, not looking at the photo. 

Mulder re-examined the bit of plastic for himself 
before tossing it into a box of evidence at his feet. 
"So *you* speculate, Lenny," he insisted, staring into 
the box blankly, "how come she's here two weeks with 
no one noticing?"

"Two and a *half* weeks. How the hell should I know? 
Maybe she's a loner. Like you."

Mulder grinned at him over the body. Made Sauceda's 
skin crawl. The younger man shrugged. "If I'm laid out 
two weeks, my guts on my dining room table, you 
wouldn't come looking for me, would you, Hot Sauce?"

"Two and a half weeks, dammit. And sure I would."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Damn you," Sauceda snarled, "I said I would-- And I 
would, too. What the hell's wrong with you, anyway?"

Mulder shrugged. "I know people."

"You don't know shit, you little prick. You gonna pull 
that son-of-a-bitch routine, put the damned shades 
back on. Half-ass punk," Sauceda hissed. "And turn 
that stereo off. If you're done ogling her, I'd like 
get the hell outta Dodge. I'm gonna have a full 
afternoon of this crap."

Mulder resumed his grin but obediently donned the 
shades. "I don't know, Len," he quipped, "I thought 
maybe we could hang out and hear how Purdue explains 
this to Harris."

"Maybe he doesn't need to."

Harris' voice from the door made Sauceda jump. Purdue 
didn't look too amused, either. Mulder, the little 
bastard, grinned like a Cheshire cat behind his gold 
lenses.

"Home invasion," Harris leaned against the doorframe, 
regarding the profiler. "Just like you said."

Mulder's grin settled into a friendly smile; he had 
Harris hook, line and sinker and obviously knew it. 
Harris seemed to be enjoying the taste of the bait, 
though. And why not? "Assists" like Mulder was 
offering often wound up bringing promotions to the 
ones still left in town with the Fibbies moved on.

Harris waved a hand at the room in general. "Watching 
you move around the scene here, Mr. G-man, if I didn't 
know any better I'd say you were just slightly turned 
on by all this."

"What makes you think you know better?" Mulder blinked 
over his shades.

Harris chuckled wisely and turned to Purdue. "Speak to 
you outside, sir?"

Purdue followed without so much as a glance for his 
dynamic duo and Sauceda gave Mulder a shove that 
knocked him back against the wall.

"Hey!"

"Hey?" Sauceda demanded, "Hey? Look, Marty, it's one 
thing to go jerking people from DC to Seattle when 
it's *your* butt on the line, but you're hanging 
Purdue out to dry now--"

"Bullshit," Mulder spat the word, straightening his 
tie indignantly. "Like Purdue gives a damn what 
someone else thinks. The last time that man knew what 
intimidation was, Gerald Ford was in office."

"You're wrong, Marty--"

"Since when? He's fine. You'll see. Besides, what do 
you care?"

Sauceda knew only that he *did* care for some reason. 
Purdue was a decent man who tried to be fair, who 
seemed content to simply step out of the way and let 
his agent do their jobs. After Patterson, it was a 
refreshing change of pace. Still, Sauceda surrendered 
the argument. He was unaccountably angry right now; 
bodies like this had a way of doing that to him. And 
Marty always seemed to be the one standing by to take 
the heat, like it was his just due or something. 

"What's with this sudden happy rush of yours, anyway?" 
Sauceda's tone was that of a cross-examination. 
"Harris is right. You're prancing around here to that 
damned music, smirking like a kid with his hand in the 
candy jar--"

"I do *not* smirk--" Mulder looked scandalized.

"And there's a dead woman on the table, if you hadn't 
noticed."

"I've been paying attention, Len."

"So what gives?"

Mulder shrugged. "It's not kids. God, I'm so sick of 
working kids..." He sighed, running hands through his 
hair and his focus fell back on the body. "Damnation," 
he whispered.

Sauceda's voice was softer in spite of his best 
efforts. "Ah, hell. Come on, Marty. Let's get out of 
the way."

Mulder followed him meekly enough, down the stairs 
past the super's verbal barrage as some poor officer 
took his statement, out into the mid-morning air. 
Sauceda blinked, dazzled in the onslaught of sun and 
temporarily envied his partner his shades.

Purdue and Harris were standing by their borrowed 
Chevy. Harris glanced up as the men approached, 
stepping back with a deferential nod as he moved off 
to intercept the evidence van.

Sauceda raised his brows at the ASAC. "How're we 
doing?"

Purdue took a hard look at Mulder. "We're doing just 
dandy. Seems Harris called up the NCIC as soon as we 
left his office yesterday. Then spent half the night 
on the phone with damn near every detective you boys 
have worked with from Baytown to Seattle. And most of 
the homicide division in Shreveport."

Mulder grinned. "We're screwed."

Sauceda face was incredulous. "Jeezus, Reg, I thought 
you said this Harris was your pal. He's got a hell of 
a lot of nerve checking us out. You piss him off and 
now he's taking it out on the rest of us or 
something?"

Purdue shrugged. "No. Harris just isn't the trusting 
type. We're here under his invite: we screw up, we 
make him look bad. Nothing personal, gentleman. He 
warned me beforehand--" 

Sauceda choked. "He warned *you*--"

"Christ, Len," Mulder was grinning mischievously. "You 
got a few skeletons hiding in your closet? So the man 
likes to keep his bases covered. Lighten up."

The ASAC folded his arms. "Apparently you cover *your* 
bases pretty good, too, Mulder. Harris seems to think 
you can't take a bath without walking on the water. 
Problem with that is, I've worked with him before. 
He's not that easily impressed."

Sauceda frowned. "And that's a problem?"

"Sure," Mulder mused. "Now he expects miracles. And 
PDQ."

Purdue shook his head. "No. But, among other things, 
he's got some other cases he wants you to look at."

"Okay."

"Not okay."

Mulder looked bewildered. "Sorry?"

"Not 'til this one's profiled. One serial at a time."

"Since when? Every profiler in the bureau does 
multiple cases--"

"This one's kids."

Mulder paused, pale in the sun behind the shades. His 
voice was quiet. "All the more reason to get started--
"

"Most recent kill was fifteen years ago. One of 
Harris' pet projects. UNSUB's probably dead by now, 
it'll keep. That's an order."

Mulder glanced at Purdue then looked abruptly off up 
the street. He shrugged. "You're the boss."

Purdue's eyebrows did a quick hop. "So they keep 
telling me. Sauceda, they want to get you set up with 
the autopsy before the body, ah--"

"Pops? Thanks."

"Harris is making arrangements with the coroner now. 
I'll be following up at the precinct--"

"Gee, Dad," Mulder quipped, "guess that leaves me with 
the car."

"Guess again, smart ass. When we hand you the evidence 
all neatly typed and cross-referenced, Harris is going 
to get the finest profile he's ever held in two hands. 
Therefore," Purdue smiled sadistically, "I'm having an 
officer drive you back to the hotel so you can get 
started studying up on all those statistics you 
learned in serial killer school."

Sauceda rolled his eyes. "Studying up. Yeah, right. 
Enjoy your nap, Marty."

"Thanks, Hot Sauce. I will."

Purdue studied them both but kept his mouth shut. His 
face said he really didn't want to know if they were 
serious. Sauceda grinned. Purdue was right: some 
things in life you were just better off not knowing 
too much about. Marty Mulder was one of them.

Sauceda laid a hand on Mulder's arm, directing a smile 
to cover the vice-like grip. "Just do us all a favor, 
Marty. This time, hold off the full profile until we 
give you some evidence to actually base it on. Okay?" 

Mulder shrugged. "Whatever." 

Sauceda thought he looked a little sad, though.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder's chauffeur was a first year rookie cop still 
green enough to be impressed with the initials on the 
agent's badge. That could have made the ride fairly 
interesting if Purdue hadn't given him strict orders 
not to mess with the boy's head. Still, Mulder 
couldn't help but feel they were making this whole 
thing entirely too easy on him. And somewhere in the 
back of his genetically predisposed-for-paranoia mind 
he couldn't help wondering when the other shoe was 
going to hit.

So he sat meekly in the car and occupied himself by 
writing out his profile in his head. Like he usually 
did. 

Mulder was well versed in all the Bureau's stats and 
indicators: the killer does this and so, because of 
this and that-- so he's so tall and has a limp and he 
wet his bed till he was twelve and his father beat him 
every third Saturday. Mulder hadn't slept through the 
training; he knew all the formulas and he could give 
them back in spades-- along with enough of the 
terminology to make it all sound good. 

Mulder's insights however had little to do with 
psychological surveys. His profiles were worked off 
the bits and flashes in his head, images disjointed, 
randomly ordered, wildly skewed perspectives like 
Polaroid's slipped from the Twilight Zone. He was 
red/green color blind-- something Personnel was told 
to conveniently forget when he'd been accepted at the 
Academy-- but the images in his head were in full 
color. And developed to nerve-shattering clarity. 

Mulder's profiles were simply the critical 
interpretation of such visions, instinct and training 
merging to create a unique whole. The beauty of it 
was: no one had ever proved him wrong, or cite why he 
should be wrong. Because he had the same facts they 
did, twisted and expertly knotted, ends tucked neatly 
away. And the fact that he was usually not wrong was 
lost on no one. 

Dazzle them with bullshit and frightening accuracy: 
perfect combination as long as he didn't get too 
cocky, didn't get too free on the particulars.

There was a limit after all, to the number of things 
you were supposed to know. Get too desperate to stop 
the killing, get past the line, spout off one too many 
details and they pumped you full of Haldol and call 
the shrinks in. Didn't matter that the details were 
faultless, didn't matter that meanwhile, some kid 
somewhere was being tortured to death--

Post Traumatic Stress, they labeled it. Only no one 
seemed to notice he was never out of the stress long 
enough for it to really qualify as 'post' anything.

Motel. Key in the lock. Mulder saw the figure on the 
bed and caught himself just before he hit the light 
switch. Closing the door quietly, he leaned against 
it, just watching Kay breathe in the muted light of 
the drawn shades: a white sheet draped over glorious 
curves.

He glanced at his watch. High noon. Well, he hadn't 
really given her much opportunity to sleep...

He slid off his jacket in the silence, shed his shoes 
and tie. Her face was peaceful and calm, untouched by 
the horror that was apartment 304.

Mulder slipped onto the bed beside her and Kay rolled 
over into him sleepily, sliding her hand down his 
chest and sighing back into dreams that left her face 
soft and smiling.

His shades were off and SOB mode on temporary hold. 
His chest hurt suddenly and there was a pain in the 
back of his throat trying to choke him. Mulder 
gathered her against him, gathered her against that 
Polaroid reality in his head, reveled in the sensation 
her breath steady on his chest, her heartbeat rhythmic 
and real, the smell of her hair filling his head with 
what was truth in everyone else's world.

This must be what it feels like to be alive, he 
thought. His tears were a surprise, but silent by long 
practice.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 20:08:24 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 9 of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 9 of 27: Dazzled

Disclaimed in Part 1.



3:22 p.m. West Wheeling Precinct Interrogation Room 
Two. 

"I don't get it," Harris grieved for the third time 
this afternoon. "No one heard anything. Paper thin 
walls and a damned .22 pistol firing point blank... 
Even if the clown's made himself a silencer, that only 
muffles the detonation-- nothing muffles a muzzle 
blast--" 

Purdue crossed his legs and stared at the scuffed toe 
of his shoe. "Hell, Nat, people even rig silencers for 
those damned paintball guns, now. It wouldn't surprise 
me one way or the other, anyway. Maybe ballistics can 
find some indication. I don't think the killer would 
necessarily need one though. A .22 fired that close... 
the target'll soak up most of the blast. Of course, 
that would come closer to the technique of a 
professional hit--" 

Harris was nodding-- he knew all this, of course, they 
were simply brainstorming, tossing around the facts 
and waiting to see what fell out. Purdue glanced 
briefly at his profiler silent across the table and 
frowned. "Hell, Harris, you know how people are. They 
don't listen or they think it's the TV. Or they just 
don't want to get involved--" 

"Nah uh," Harris grunted. "Maybe in New York. Maybe in 
DeeCee. But this is Wheeling. People aren't like that 
here--" 

Purdue shrugged. "People are people, Nat." 

The detective shook his head, adamant, and like 
Purdue, he looked to Mulder for support. 

The profiler must have felt Harris' plea peripherally; 
he hadn't looked at anyone directly since Purdue had 
ordered him to take off his shades. 

"Don't ask me," Mulder murmured. "I have it on good 
authority that when it comes to people I don't know 
shit." He rubbed at his eyes, missing Sauceda's glare. 
"These aren't professional hits. I think our killer's 
just had enough practice to know how to play with his 
toys by now." He scanned the room vaguely, meeting no 
one's glance. He looked tired. Old. "Anybody find a 
slip cover for that record on the turntable?" 

Harris frowned, watching the profiler. He'd seen less 
severe cases of fidgets in four-year-olds at Sunday 
services. "Why?" he asked. "You're thinking the killer 
brought the record with him?" 

"Would put an interesting spin on things, don't you 
think?" Mulder studied the scratches in the table, 
using his thumbnail to add a few more. 

The detective considered a moment, uncertain where the 
younger man was going with this. "We found some 
Quaaludes in the jewelry box," he noted. 

Mulder, eyes down, shook his head. "Can't dance to 
that." 

Harris scanned the table again. Purdue and Sauceda 
were watching the young prince furtively and looking 
nervous. Neither man had spoken privately with Mulder 
since his arrival back at the precinct all of a half 
hour ago and Harris would be damned if he could figure 
what was getting everyone's dander up. 

Still, for a man who'd apparently been off to take a 
nap, Mulder was looking pretty worn. Without the 
seclusion of his shades, he was suddenly vulnerable 
and reticent, a far different man than the cocky SOB 
Harris had picked up at the airport yesterday. Hell, 
this wasn't even the same man that he'd spoken to this 
morning. 

Leonardo Sauceda, at his partner's side as constant as 
a shadow, scowled at the detective's cool perusal. 
Harris blinked like he'd been caught in the glare of 
headlights and quickly found something else to focus 
on. He wound up staring at the crime scene photos 
scattered on the table. 

"Okay," the detective offered, pushing back one of the 
photos in disgust. "Not that we're exactly small town 
here but even I get the thing with the hanger. 'Object 
rape' they call it. Postmortem. Right?" 

Mulder chewed the inside of his cheek. "Not that 
simple," he said. And said nothing else. 

After a minute, Purdue took up the point with a shrug. 
"An obvious association with back street abortions. 
Maybe." He frowned, analyzing his own statement. "But 
this is the Eighties, so who needs to go to the back 
streets? Abortion's legal." 

"Maybe it's a protest against abortion," Sauceda 
offered. "Or maybe this is an old wound the killer's 
protesting, from before abortions were legal." 

Mulder sighed, tiring of the discussion. "Oh, it's an 
old wound, all right. It's festering and incurable. 
But this is not a social protest." He drummed his 
fingers on his unopened laptop and Sauceda frowned, 
squinting at the machine so hard he missed Purdue's 
question. 

"Any evidence the victim had an abortion at some 
point? Sauceda?" 

"Huh? Uh, no sir. None. Ditto on the prostitute. Goes 
without saying for the male victims." He looked back 
at Mulder and pointed accusingly at the computer. "You 
got a profile, don't you?" he hissed. "You little 
shit. You couldn't just wait for a chain of evidence--
" 

Purdue cut the man short with a growl. "I requested 
Mulder to start work on a *preliminary* for us, 
Sauceda. He knows his job. I trust his judgment." 

The ASAC was using that tone of voice parents took 
when they were trying to spell out their arguments in 
front of the kids. Harris didn't need Sauceda's sudden 
guilty glance in his direction to tell him who was the 
alleged kid here. The pathologist mumbled something 
indistinctly submissive and took a sudden interest in 
a water stain in the ceiling. 

Harris had done his research: a dozen phone calls to 
five different states, faxed photos and reports, even 
a few e-mails. And twenty-three lawmen in seven 
jurisdictions had confirmed one singular fact: 
Purdue's new pet profiled off the invisible, the 
unknown. And then waited for the evidence to line up 
and back him. The kid was cagey about it, certainly, 
tossing the profile out as a "preliminary report" 
subject to change as lab reports and witnesses became 
available. Only there never seemed to be any changes. 
Because the "preliminary" was always dead on target. 

Harris had decided he could learn to like that in a 
profiler. And he was more than willing to play 
whatever games Mulder deemed necessary to maintain his 
cover. 

"How about it, son," the detective asked. "You got 
something for me?" 

Mulder shook his head. "Let's talk about this first," 
he insisted. 

Sauceda's brows made a climb for the back of his head 
but he kept his comments to himself. 

Purdue prompted levelly, like a teacher working a 
third grader through the multiplication table: 
"Mulder, you said last night that something was off, 
that you felt something wasn't right." 

"Yeah, well," the young man answered, apparently 
uncomfortable with this game. "It hit me, now it's on. 
But I don't think it's going to be too popular." 

"It hit you when?" Sauceda asked warily. 

Mulder gave him a withering look. "During my nap," he 
snarled. 

Harris had been watching Mulder's eyes since the 
shades had come off. They were red and bloodshot like 
he'd gone a few rounds with some bad tequila. Only he 
walked too steady for that and word was the kid didn't 
drink. That just left a crying jag but Harris had sat 
through some serious horror stories on the phone last 
night; after some of the tales he'd heard from 
Shreveport, the detective wasn't ready to concede that 
Fox Mulder knew how to cry-- not after three hardened 
cops had sworn the kid had walked dry-eyed through 
shit that had given them nightmares. Still, they *had* 
mentioned he had a tendency to wear those shades a 
lot, maybe-- 

Mulder caught Harris' open stare and jerked his head 
down abruptly. He dragged his hands through his hair 
and left them resting on the back of his neck, arms 
forming a shield of sorts against prying eyes. "You 
want the report?" he asked Purdue. 

"You in a hurry?" Purdue's voice was quiet. 

Mulder didn't bother to look up. "I have a headache," 
he admitted. 

"If the shades help that, put them back on," the ASAC 
offered. 

Mulder pulled the shades from his pocket, paused and 
then sat them on the laptop. It was a small act of 
defiance but Harris was damned if he could tell 
whether Mulder was directing it at Purdue or if it was 
a self-inflicted assault. The profiler spoke, his 
voice flat, his vision focused on the shades. 

"The weapon of choice is interesting. A .22 isn't 
likely to be someone's old service revolver--" 

"Great," Harris spat, "at least we don't have another 
one of guy-gone-nuts-in-Nam things--" 

Mulder shook his head. "A .22's more in line of what 
men buy their wives for protection. To carry around in 
a purse or something. Most women I know pack at least 
a .32 if they've got a choice. It's not too bad on the 
recoil and it's more accurate at a greater distance--" 
He interrupted himself, shrugging off his own lecture 
apologetically. "Anyway, the point is, a .22's can be 
a killer if you use it right, but it's not an overkill 
like a .45 or a .357. Of course, it's also easier to 
handle if your upper body strength is not particularly 
well-toned or you're not used to handling firearms--" 

Mulder paused, actually pulling away, as Sauceda 
leaned past him, grabbing a can from the soda 
collection sweating rings in the center of the table. 

"Geez, Marty, so the killer's not a professional, 
fine." The pathologist shrugged. "Given our victim 
array, I can buy that. So maybe the killer's some 
young punk like Harris' friend Albert--" Sauceda 
offered the detective a derisive grin across the 
table, "--just out to make a name for himself and he's 
borrowed momma's gun to do it. Right?" Sauceda 
snickered and popped his beverage open for emphasis. 
Harris chose to ignore him. 

Mulder, indifferent, continued blandly. "The 
victimology suggests that the killer is Caucasian, 
late forties, possibly early fifties. Long-time victim 
of emotional and physical abuse including sexual abuse 
by at least one family member. There is a strong 
attraction toward men, and an equally strong hatred 
and distrust of them. The hatred also extends to women 
the killer sees as weak or flagrantly provocative. 
Diagnostically, the perpetrator is a paranoid 
schizophrenic, a functionally delusional psychopath." 

Harris raised a critical brow. This was more the man 
he'd dueled with yesterday. "So loosely translated," 
he noted wryly, "my APB's gonna be for a middle-aged 
white male? That narrows our suspect list down to, 
what, several hundred thousand people in this state?" 

Mulder sighed and flipped through his photo collection 
before tossing Harris a chosen Polaroid. "The victim's 
positioned on the table facing the door," the agent 
pointed to the photo. "The killer wants to leave the 
body as exposed as possible. As humiliatingly as 
possible." 

Harris nodded. 

"Only, the killer can't quite bring himself to do it." 

"Could have fooled me," Sauceda growled. 

"The hem of the skirt was left down. Not up," Mulder 
continued, oblivious. "The tablecloth was placed over 
her head. The killer doesn't feel good about the 
crime. There's begrudged deference. That's important. 
There wasn't any such concern for the others. Not even 
for the prostitute--" 

"The prostitute was mutilated but not exactly gutted. 
And there was no object rape," Purdue conceded. 

"The latest victim endures far more profanity than the 
rest," Mulder nodded. "But then at the last... Why the 
final courtesy? At that point Ms. Kelly's nothing more 
than a piece of meat. What does the killer care?" 

Harris frowned. "Shouldn't we be asking you?" 

"You *are* asking me," Mulder insisted. "I'm just 
trying to lead you to see something here. Okay?" 

"See what?" 

Mulder rose, went round to Harris' office and 
reappeared with a hanger from the detective's coat 
rack. He peeled off the cleaner's paper wrap and 
stared at it a minute before handing it to Sauceda. 

"Show me what you found, Lenny." 

Sauceda's eyes went wide. "You've got to be kidding." 

"It's okay, Len. Please. It's important." 

Sauceda glanced round the room looking for a rescue 
that wouldn't come, apparently, but finally resigning 
himself to set to work. Disgust fueled his muscles and 
with each twist and pull he glanced up at Mulder 
standing over him. Mulder waited patiently, eyes 
hooded, emotions masked. When at last, Sauceda had 
approximated the shape of the weapon in the body, he 
handed the bit of wire back to his partner. 

Mulder didn't take it. Mulder just looked at it and 
then regarded Sauceda expectantly. 

"What!" Sauceda exploded. 

"Look at it, Len." 

Sauceda gave both the wire and his partner the same 
disgusted expression. 

"No, Len," Mulder sighed. "Think. You're the killer. 
You're angry enough to kill. To kill quickly, kill 
relatively painlessly, a quick shot through the heart, 
but angry enough to kill all the same. Then you 
decimate, desecrate the body because you're so full of 
rage, killing is not enough for you. You gouge out her 
eyes with a spoon. Rip her intestines out with a 
barbecue fork. You rape her, but not with your body, 
you don't want to get too messy here--" 

Harris grunted. 

"--not too personal. Everything you've done past the 
shooting has been done with something you've found at 
the scene. You've got an apartment full of objects. 
Now, you're going to rape her. What are you going to 
use?" 

Sauceda stared at Mulder, his eyes wild. "I'm not 
raping her, Marty," he hissed. "I'm not killing her 
and hacking her up, either. To hell with you." He 
threw the wire at the table like it had caught fire. 
"I'm not going to even think about what he--" 

"No, you're not, but you expect *me* to, goddam you." 
Mulder's voice was dangerous and razor-edged. Sauceda 
flinched against his glare. Mulder squeezed his eyes 
shut suddenly, as though pained by the sight of his 
partner's fear. He spun quickly, jerking his eyes open 
again, a slight hesitation betraying a passing attack 
of vertigo. He recovered before Harris could rise, 
however, and reached for his shades. Harris spared a 
quick questioning glance at Purdue, stone still across 
the table. 

"Is anyone working with me here?" Mulder asked 
quietly, shielded once more behind the mirrored gold. 

Purdue stared at his agent, stared at the wire. "I 
wouldn't use a hanger." He looked up and found Mulder 
regarding him. "I'd use... I don't know... that kind 
of hatred, that level of violence-- I'd use 
something... bigger?" He shook his head. "A broom 
handle. A bottle-- God, I can't believe I'm even 
imagining this." 

"Welcome to the wonderful world of profiling, sir," 
Mulder grimaced. "Now. Why bigger?" 

Purdue couldn't seem to answer his own reflection in 
the shades. Mulder gave him a sad smile and a nod and 
slipped back into his chair. "Harris?" 

The detective shifted uncomfortably. "This must be one 
hell of a profile," he sighed. "A bigger object? 
Yeah." 

"Why?" 

Harris looked around the table, embarrassed. 
"Because... size matters?" 

Mulder nodded; he suddenly looked like he wanted to 
spit. "Because you're a man. Size dominates, size 
conquers. Size wounds." Mulder slapped his open palm 
against the table and it echoed like a bullet slamming 
into concrete. All eyes jerked up. The shades were off 
again; his pupils were dark and dilating by the 
second. He pointed at the hanger. 

"That's not a man's weapon," he threatened. "The 
eyes," he pushed another photo across the table, 
setting it spinning to the floor with a little plop. 
"A man takes out your eyes in rage, he gouges them 
with his thumbs. He doesn't rummage through the 
kitchen looking for a damned teaspoon." He slapped 
away a third Polaroid and it went sailing to join the 
other. "A man slits you open with a knife, guts you 
like a deer. He doesn't grab a barbecue fork and 
scrape away at you--" 

Purdue was blinking rapidly. "You're saying we're 
hunting a woman? Mulder, statistics prove the 
incidence of women as serial killers is next to nil--" 

"Next to," Mulder emphasized. "There have been several 
apprehended--" 

"Always operating with a partner, usually male--" 

"Usually--" 

"And when we sat down at this table you said this was 
a solitary killer--" 

"Don't interrupt," Mulder requested blandly. "I hate 
that." 

Purdue stared at him. 

The profiler seemed to concede a silent point before 
rubbing at his face wearily. His hands were trembling. 
He placed them flat against the table and took a deep 
breath. 

"Listen," he pleaded. "The incidence of serial killers 
of the female persuasion can be expected to rise as 
the population of serial killers rises. It's 
inevitable. This is the hip disease of the eighties. I 
think they're out there. Their numbers are not as high 
as their male counterparts perhaps, but they're out 
there." 

"Marty, that's just speculation--" 

"Perhaps, they're not being caught as frequently 
because they're smarter," Mulder continued doggedly, 
"more adaptive. But mostly I think because they're not 
*expected*. Most men don't believe them capable. And 
the majority of law enforcement is, unfortunately, 
male. Case in point: why is it I'm the only person at 
this table who believes it's even possible?" 

"Why would any woman want to do this to another 
woman?" Harris demanded. 

"Why would any man want to do this to a woman? Or 
another man? It happens every day, Detective. This 
isn't a rape, it's an experiment. She's playing out 
fantasies of revenge, lashing out against people that 
are probably long dead." 

Sauceda looked at the remaining photos on the table. 
His face was thoughtful. "And covering the head, the 
skirt... She couldn't quite leave her there like that. 
Exposed. Even after all she did..." 

Mulder nodded. "Gender courtesy. She's still adapting. 
Still able to be touched on some level with the guilt 
of what she's doing. And that's our trump. She'll make 
a mistake at some point, give herself away. She's 
already left at least that clue. Problem is, it's also 
our problem. As long as she's capable of perceiving 
how we see her work, she's not developed tunnel 
vision. She can still see part of the big picture, 
though the edges are terribly fuzzy." 

Purdue shook his head. "I don't think I follow." 

Mulder spun another of the photos to him gently. 
"Look. She's still capable of turning from that door 
and looking back at that body and seeing what we see. 
Not just what she wants us to see, but what we 
actually will see. And it scares her. She's still 
shape shifting. She can be anyone she needs to be. Do 
and say anything she needs to live with herself. She's 
adaptive to her immediate situation. You could 
interview her right now and she'd pass through your 
net and you wouldn't give her a second glance. 
Probably help her with her coat and hold the door open 
for her." 

Sauceda had a distant look on his face. "Man walks 
down a dark street, sees a woman, wonders why she's 
out so late alone. Keeps walking. Sees a man, he pays 
attention, considers his options: flight or fight. A 
woman walking down the same street. Sees a man, same 
thing. Sees a woman... wonders why she's out so late 
alone. Keeps walking." 

Mulder smiled sadly. "You're a woman, alone in your 
apartment. Another woman knocks on your door, asks to 
use the phone--" 

"I let her in. Next thing, I'm gutted on my own 
kitchen table." Sauceda shuddered. "Jeezus, Mary and 
Saint Joseph, help us." 

Mulder slipped on the shades. "Why is it you start 
praying every time I get turned on?" 

Sauceda glared at him. Even Harris could tell, though: 
this wasn't turned on. This was Fox Mulder, hiding 
behind his SOB shades and kiss-my-ass attitude. 

Sauceda played along for the sake of the assembled 
audience. "You're sick, Marty." 

Mulder inhaled deeply, "Like you can't taste it." 

Sauceda's frown deepened. "Taste what?" 

"The hunt. For the most dangerous prey of all. The 
wounded animal. The one that thinks and reasons. 
Serialus killeria. The female of the species. Angry 
enough at last to leave her lair for vengeance." 

Harris regarded the twin mirrors. "Wounded?" 
"Geberth's Practical Homicide Investigation," Mulder 
noted, quoting: "'No one acts without motivation.' Not 
even serial killers." Mulder's voice was distant. 
"It's taken a long time. And she's definitely out to 
get her money's worth." Mulder stared down, unseeing, 
at the photos. "She's even trying out new surgical 
instruments, going from a hunting knife to cooking 
utensils. More familiar territory. Maybe she'll keep 
the method. Maybe she won't. But she's trying it on 
for size." 

He removed the shades again, rubbing at invisible 
pressures behind his eyes. 

Harris was chewing his lip, now, reviewing the 
discussion. "What about that record on the turntable? 
You think she brought it with her, don't you? What? 
She likes to hum along to the tune while she works? 
Like you?" 

Mulder's eyes were hard and dark as they focused on 
the detective. There were too many years of pain 
locked away behind that hostile stare; Harris felt he 
could count centuries if he could just force himself 
not to look away. 

Mulder settled the dilemma for him, however, 
retreating back behind his Ray Ban armor. The 
profiler's voice was civil enough, though. Dead, 
actually. Lifeless and cold. 

He said, "Her mother would listen to the radio until 
late in the night, listening to it while she lay alone 
in her bed trying not to think about where her husband 
was and what he was down the hall doing; listening to 
the music so she wouldn't hear her daughter pleading 
for mercy." 

Harris licked his lips distastefully, comprehending 
the image Mulder's words were painting. "How the 
hell," he whispered, "would you know something like 
that, Mr. G-man?" 

The profiler had looked away, however, nodding to 
himself. "Man. Woman," Mulder insisted to the wall 
beyond Purdue's head. "They've each betrayed her in 
their way and she's capable of hating both equally. 
There's still a great deal of confusion in her mind: 
who to love, who to hate; the conflict between the 
normal sensations of sexual desire, and the anger and 
fear of a child who's been violated repeatedly and 
given no voice to protest." He frowned, staring down 
at his hands, his voice quieter. "She's the type of 
child I profiled in Shreveport and Seattle: abused and 
silenced. Only this one didn't die. This one has 
endured the abuse of a father. Of a husband." He 
nodded solemnly. "For years she just wanted to be left 
alone. Now, she just wants justice." 

Even through the shades, they could feel the storm 
roaring. Purdue opened his mouth and formed the word 
"Mulder." The word was availed no voice, however. No 
one spoke. No one moved. 

Sauceda squeezed his eyes shut, mouthing a silent 
prayer as Mulder's world-weary voice whispered, 
invoking supplications of his own. 

"The doors open in early evening.
Swinging their purses, the women
Poured down the long street to the river
And into the river.
I do not know how it was
They could drown every evening.
What time near dawn did they climb up 
   the other shore,
Drying their wings?
For the river at Wheeling, West Virginia
Has only two shores:
The one in hell, the other
In Bridgeport, Ohio.
And nobody would commit suicide, only
To find beyond death
Bridgeport, Ohio."
 
Mulder glanced up from his distant perdition, 
hesitated. Then the mask slammed back down. He raised 
a sardonic brow at Harris. "So," he demanded, "where 
the hell did you hide my ashtray?" 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 


Wednesday evening. 

Sauceda was tired. Harris had nit-picked Mulder's 
profile for two hours, going over each point, Mulder's 
every answer prompting only more questions, an endless 
parade of inconsequential detail. Sauceda never failed 
to marvel at his partner's patience for these kinds of 
discussions-- and the amount of psychobabble Marty 
could dredge up to make it sound like he'd just pulled 
all this Spook crap out of a textbook somewhere. 

Hell, who knows, Sauceda conceded, maybe he had. Some 
of it anyway. 

Harris had dropped his skeptic routine, at least, 
apparently too fascinated by Mulder's insights to 
realize how odd all this looked: a seasoned police 
veteran being schooled by an upstart rookie. But the 
detective's interest was sincere and he wasn't fawning 
over the kid-- maybe Purdue really had known what he 
was doing when he hauled them here to Wheeling. 
Sauceda dared to hope they wouldn't have to go through 
the rookie hazing so many of these cases started out 
with. Most cops didn't appreciate Uncle Sam trotting 
out to tell them how to do their jobs; more often than 
not, Feds were about as welcome as a flu epidemic. 
Sauceda was generally viewed as the lesser of two 
evils, though: he might be a Fed, but at least he 
wasn't a Rookie Fed. The locals would take one look at 
Mulder's fresh too-damned-young face and the die was 
cast. There was always one overly-promoted ass who'd 
set in with the sarcasm, then the whole team would 
wind up blowing off brilliant profiles as so much 
hocus pocus, completely ignoring credentials and 
qualifications. 

Marty always swore it didn't bother him, insisting the 
only ones hurt by the attitude were the victims. But 
victims of homicides are notoriously silent and it was 
Marty's reaction Sauceda had to look at: the pain that 
had no place in the young man's wise-ass cracks, the 
way he held his shoulders walking across blood-soaked 
carpets. Even his words were often deliberately 
chosen, flippant and cold, calculated to prove he 
wasn't emotionally invested in his own life's work. 
The victims could afford their silence; Marty, after 
all, hurt enough for all of them. 

Harris' dinner invitation was a thoroughly pleasant 
surprise, then. Sauceda sat up with a grin and damned 
near choked when Purdue had the nerve to decline. A 
disappointed puff of air escaped Sauceda's throat with 
audible force and the ASAC sent him a murderous look. 
Sauceda nodded reluctantly. After Mulder's little 
upset at the diner last night, the last thing they'd 
need was a repeat performance with an audience. Still, 
it might have been nice.

Harris didn't tolerate rejection, however. Apparently, 
he'd put out the word the boys from the Bureau were 
working one of his cases and he was anxious to show 
them off. He was hauling Purdue's crew to the Pasta 
Palisade even if Harris had to kidnap them. Purdue was 
equally unyielding and the dispute took scant seconds 
to degenerate into the viciousness only true friends 
are capable of. Sauceda, disgusted, pulled his 
penknife and cleaned his nails. Well, hell. He 
disliked Italian food anyway. Didn't this burg have a 
decent steakhouse? 

Mulder, consummate instigator that he was, seemed to 
be enjoying the fray. He sat enrapt behind the haze of 
his cigarette, never blinking, eyes never wavering. 
Sauceda grinned mischievously and gave his partner an 
encouraging nod. Mulder's answering chuckle brought 
both Purdue and Harris up for air and the profiler 
waved his cigarette in the sudden silence. 

"Hell, Harris, if Purdue hates spaghetti that much, we 
can leave his butt here. I'm starving." 

The ASAC leveled a glare that could have melded sheet 
metal and his verbal response bordered on the obscene. 
Mulder answered with a grin just this side of manic. 
Purdue's scrutiny turned wary but he yielded his end 
of the debate and Sauceda resigned himself to the 
specter of soggy noodles and ketchup-splattered garlic 
bread. 

Purdue's surrender seemed to leave Harris slightly 
dazed. He shook his head. "Hell, Mulder, you don't 
even worry about getting written up for 
insubordination?" 

Mulder shrugged. "I have a reputation to maintain." 
Despite the words, there was no challenge implied by 
the young man's tone. His voice was too flat, the 
words a reflex, his momentary humor past. He sat 
simply staring at the photo before him, staring 
through it. Dark blue suit, blue shirt and lemon 
yellow tie only highlighted the pallor of his face. 
Sauceda wondered how the state of Mulder's health had 
escaped his notice until now. 

There was still work to be done at the precinct, 
though. Ms Kelly's body had been positively ID'd; her 
sister was flying in from Tulsa in the morning. Not 
that they expected much from her. Statements were 
still being taken from neighbors and co-workers. 
Harris, thorough and not shy about ruffling a few 
professional feathers, had gotten the crime lab to 
spray Luminol throughout the apartment and even in the 
outside hall. The chemical, which caused even 
invisible traces of blood to fluoresce, revealed the 
killer's tracks through the kitchen and living room 
and even took them to the elevator. The sight had 
brought the boys in blue to total silence: glowing 
footprints, short, dainty steps, size six-and-a-half 
pumps. Everything from then on out had been *Mister* 
Mulder. *Special Agent* Mulder. And spoken with 
reverence. 

Special Agent Mulder insisted on holding up his end of 
the paperwork and by six o'clock his blood-shot eyes 
had begun to clear. Sauceda, however, was still 
keeping a close watch on him: Mulder's walk was no 
longer terribly steady, and his pupils had developed a 
bad habit of slipping out of focus. His handwriting 
had degenerated to almost complete illegibility but he 
resolutely ignored Sauceda's offers to take dictation. 
And Sauceda decided if he heard "I'm fine, really" 
just one more time he was going to pull his gun. 
Purdue didn't improve the situation by stopping in 
with another report: statements from the super and two 
more neighbors. The ASAC walked in talking, stopped 
mid-sentence and did a double take. 

"Agent Mulder? Are you all right--" 

Mulder promptly told the ASAC to go take a flying piss 
and leave him the hell alone. 

On that happy note, Harris popped his cheerful face in 
and informed them it was chow time. No one answered 
but it took no special training to detect the tension 
in the room. Harris told Mulder to get his butt in the 
Ford. Mulder accepted the rescue, grabbing his suit 
jacket. Harris ignored Purdue's renewed efforts to 
decline their invitation and followed Mulder down the 
hall. Purdue and Sauceda, conspicuously not invited 
for the ride, dutifully followed in the Chevy. 

They'd driven several blocks before Purdue asked: "The 
someone walking up behind--" 

Sauceda nodded, "--is getting closer." 

"Shit!" Purdue slammed his palm against the steering 
wheel. "So why the hell does he insist on going 
through on this dinner? What? It'd kill him to admit 
to weakness or just needing some goddam help?" 

Sauceda considered a moment as the car echoed the 
ASAC's rage. "Yeah," he answered softly. "I think it 
would, actually." 

The rest of the drive was remarkable only for its 
utter lack of conversation. There was simply too much 
to say to even bother. 

Harris and Mulder were waiting for them in the parking 
lot of the restaurant. If anything noteworthy had 
transpired within the Ford, Harris was admitting 
nothing, and Mulder's face was ominously innocent. The 
detective escorted them in and didn't bother to wait 
to be seated, making a beeline for a corner table and 
the middle-aged man who was waving at them 
frantically. Aside from the hokey wave, the stranger 
wasn't exactly the standout type; in fact, he reminded 
Sauceda of Abbot and Costello-- the shorter half. 
Cheap, decade-old double knit blazer and matching 
corduroy loafers should have provided comic relief but 
one look at the man's cocky grin had Sauceda's 
paranoia button sliding over to yellow alert status. 

"Agent Fox Mulder," Harris beamed, "this is Andrew 
Nilson. Reporter for the Ohio Sun." 

Sauceda bit back a string of profanity worthy of a 
Marine sergeant. Hell on a shingle, a friggin' 
*reporter*-- Mulder didn't need this right now. None 
of them did. It was a disaster waiting to happen. Not 
one of Harris' guests made the vaguest move to sit and 
the detective hesitated. 

Purdue ignored Nilson's proffered hand, slipping his 
own into his pockets. "Shit, Harris," his smile was 
tight, "What's the problem? You piss off every 
reporter in Wheeling and have to swim the river to 
find one willing to swallow your current line of 
bull?" 

Harris didn't answer, ignoring the thinly veiled 
animosity, too busy watching Mulder slowly return 
Nilson's handshake. Mulder spoke slowly too, reluctant 
and careful. 

"I may as well tell you straight up, Mr. Nilson, I 
don't generally talk to reporters." 

"Really?" Nilson gave him a politician's smile. "Why's 
that?" 

"The last reporter I granted an interview quoted me. 
The killer took the comments personally and escalated. 
Another four kids died before we found the son of a 
bitch." 

Nilson shook his head. "Well-- surely you can't blame 
all those killings on the reporter, Agent Mulder." 

"No, not all of them," the agent conceded. "But if I 
blame just one, that's just one too many. Don't you 
think?" 

Nilson's laugh was a response of nerves, the man was 
obviously unaccustomed to being flustered, but Mulder 
jerked his hand back like he'd been electrocuted. 
Nilson gave him an apologetic shrug. 

"Look, kid, I've worked quite a few cases with SAC 
Vara out of the Cincinnati field office. You can check 
with him if you're worried about my credentials--" 

Mulder's voice was cold. "Considering Terry Vara 
couldn't find a criminal on San Quentin Point, you'll 
pardon me if I don't take that as a glowing 
recommendation." 

Nilson blinked and got his hands on his hips. "Well. 
I'll tell him you said so." His smile was calculatedly 
dangerous. 

"I've already told him," Mulder assured, "but you feel 
free to remind him." 

Nilson finally stopped grinning long enough to regard 
the boyish face, the utterly calm, listless eyes. 
Sauceda could have warned him not to look too close: 
still waters were often deadly and the unfathomable 
depths of Mulder's soul were no exception. Nilson 
broke away of his own accord, however, as Harris tried 
for an intervention. 

"Nilson's not like that, guys," the detective 
promised. "I've used him before. You know: proactive 
reports to lure the suspect into a false sense of 
security, things like that. I figure you guys might 
want him to help us out with this one." He looked 
pointedly at Mulder. "I have *not* shared any current 
information with him on this case." 

"That's right," Nilson side-stepped Mulder for another 
try at Purdue. "I don't print anything, sir. Not one 
word until you've rubber stamped it." 

Mulder rubbed his eyes. "So much for freedom of the 
press." 

He sat heavily in the nearest chair and Sauceda 
resisted the urge to feel his forehead for a 
temperature. He took the seat to Mulder's left, 
frowning as the reporter grabbed the seat to the 
right, almost slamming into Purdue to grab the coveted 
space. Sauceda tried to recall where it was Judas had 
sat at the Last Supper. 

The waiters descended and the homey fragrance of fresh 
baked bread prompted an unspoken truce. They made 
small talk and ordered, except for Mulder who remained 
absolutely mute. For all intents and purposes, Marty 
could have just as soon not been there. For all 
intents and purposes, suddenly, he wasn't. 

Nilson, apparently unfazed by Mulder's stoic silence, 
maintained an easy banter. He wasn't fooling Sauceda, 
though. Out of the corner of his eye, the reporter was 
cataloging every breath Marty took. 

*The ass--* Sauceda only just managed not to say the 
words aloud. Each lull in the conversation set his 
heart to pounding, and he slipped his formidable 
conversational skills into overdrive, intent on 
keeping the reporter busy talking or listening, trying 
to insure Mulder wouldn't be expected to take too 
active a part in the proceedings. Purdue was way ahead 
of him, though, and assumed the lion's share of the 
burden. Harris snapped to a minute after with the air 
of a man who'd gotten a swift kick under the table. 
Between the two of them, they quickly had Nilson 
spilling his guts about every case he'd ever assisted 
on. Nilson, assured of making a good impression, was 
happy to oblige. With the reporter adequately 
distracted, Sauceda risked a closer assessment of his 
partner. 

Mulder sat quietly, making no sudden moves, uttering 
not a sound. But the tension radiating off him made 
the hair on Sauceda's right arm rise up against his 
shirtsleeve. The calm of his demeanor was an 
inadequate veil, Mulder's muscles, tortured and too 
fiercely restrained, trembled occasionally. His pupils 
were fully dilated and had the fixed, unfocused 
quality Sauceda expected to find when he pulled the 
sheet back on a gurney. The eyes were feral, possessed 
of no human conscience. Thoughts flickered over their 
surfaces like the candlelight, leaving no trace within 
the boundless depths-- it would have been easier, 
Sauceda imagined, to leave an imprint in a pool of 
oil. 

*Shit,* Sauceda hissed mentally, *what the hell did 
the kid do with his shades?* 

Sauceda ordered for the both of them, making the 
process look routine and even expected. He ordered 
himself a beer-- hell, he wanted something worthwhile 
out of this evening, after all-- and ordered Marty a 
glass of wine. 

On the other side of the table, the ASAC had been 
hazarding the occasional questioning glance. His brows 
did a short dance on the wine order and Sauceda gave 
him a determined twitch of his jaw. With members of 
the media present, he couldn't exactly break out the 
Valium, but it was obvious they'd be having serious 
problems if he didn't get the kid medicated somehow. 

Nilson pretended oblivion. "So," he waved a hand 
vaguely, indicating the dining room without being too 
specific, "howdoya like the joint?" 

Sauceda frowned to keep from swearing. He might have 
known he had this goon to thank for his inevitable 
indigestion. The Palisade was what Sauceda's wife 
would call "a fancy place." Sauceda usually translated 
that to mean okay food you have to pay double for and 
wait twice as long to get. Right now a bucket of 
chicken would have been just fine, thank you, so long 
as they had Mulder in the quiet sanctity of his motel 
room. 

Mulder glanced up just then, his face lit with sudden 
interest. He looked Nilson full in the face then 
looked away without speaking; Sauceda recognized the 
event: a random flicker of memory and neurological 
response. Whatever had brought Mulder's attentions to 
focus wasn't located anywhere near *this* zip code. 

To Nilson, however, Mulder's actions could easily be 
interpreted as deliberate disinterest. "This," the 
reporter waved again, eyes narrowed slits, "is one of 
the finest restaurants this city has to offer." 

Sauceda couldn't resist. "Well, then, maybe we won't 
be in town too long." He felt a breeze pass across the 
bit of exposed leg between the hem of his pants and 
the top of his sock. Across the table, the ASAC looked 
like he was recalculating his aim. Sauceda pulled his 
feet under his chair and attempted an apology of 
sorts. 

"I'm just more of a steak and potatoes man, Mr. 
Nilson. Sorry." 

Nilson eyed him suspiciously but seemed willing to 
accept a truce. "You know why homosexuality's on the 
increase now, don't you?" he asked knowledgeably. 

Sauceda's brows scrolled up and he chanced a 
speculative glance at Harris. The detective was beet 
red, just about the shade of the tablecloth. 

Sauceda answered the reporter with a cautious shake of 
his head. 

"It's all these damned hormones they're pumping into 
the beef." Nilson nodded. "Gotta watch your intake of 
that stuff. I've got stats that would curl your hair--
" 

"My hair's curly enough, thanks," Sauceda grumbled, 
then winked viciously, "if you had a decent perm, 
though, you'd be quite a looker." 

Harris gawfed, and effectively ended all conversation 
with one of his more involved "Hey, Reg, do you 
remember when" stories. It was apparently one of his 
more embarrassing memoirs but Purdue egged it on with 
the occasional ribald laugh and wink. Grinning 
resolutely, Purdue spent most of the meal with his 
fists clinched, wielding knife and fork like 
implements of destruction, chewing with menacing 
passion. 

Mulder, on the other hand, was holding out fairly 
well. He hadn't refused the wine. In fact, once placed 
in his line of vision, the young agent seemed content 
to devour most anything: bread sticks, wafers, wine 
and water-- every item was consumed with the same 
dispassionate deliberation. His motions were hesitant 
and brittle, as tightly controlled as a blind man 
who's been told to reach into a fire, but at least the 
kid was eating. Sauceda began to hope they might just 
pull off this fiasco-- unless of course, Nilson stuck 
his Budweiser too far into Marty's territory. 

CONTINUED IN PART 10B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 20:08:38 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 10B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/


Part 10B of 27: 
 

Sauceda had to remind himself not to stare as Mulder 
worked his way through most of his lasagna, oblivious 
to the world. The water was sipped with the same 
unconscious reflex that had downed the alcohol but 
mid-way through the meal, Mulder's movements began to 
assume more of their accustomed grace, the hesitation 
becoming simply discreet deliberation, the muscles 
more fluid with only an occasional tremor. 

Mulder had begun focusing again, too, staring around 
him with the air of a man awakening in new 
surroundings. Sauceda was reminded of his own father, 
stolen from him even before death, kidnapped by the 
cruel hand of Alzheimer's. Marty had the same startled 
expression and watched, bewildered, as Harris 
attempted to diagram a particularly involved section 
of his story with a napkin and several forks. 

Harris made his point, and Nilson and Purdue exploded 
with laughter. Mulder was instantly alert and wary, 
every muscle tensed for flight. Sauceda reached to lay 
a comforting hand on his arm and thought better of it, 
fearful of the Marty's reaction to an unexpected 
touch. 

Mulder, meanwhile, had discovered Nilson at his right 
flank. His mouth opened in a kind of half-strangled 
gasp and he suddenly dropped his head to stare at his 
plate. Harris hesitated mid-sentence and Nilson 
glanced over, confused but silent, mouth full of 
linguini. The pasta sauce on his lip reminded Sauceda 
of an image in an old horror flick: vampire gorging on 
blood. 

Mulder was blinking rapidly and seemed to need to 
concentrate just to pick up his fork. He buried the 
instrument into the remains of his garlic bread, an 
action performed with such slow, murderous 
deliberation that Sauceda was certain they'd lost him 
again. Mulder gave him a sidelong glance, though, and 
shifted hesitantly in his chair until his shoulder 
just touched Sauceda's. Sauceda returned the contact 
with a reassuring nudge that said, "I've got your 
back, partner." Or at least, that's what he hoped it 
said. Marty could comprehend the motivations of any 
psycho on the planet; the rational mind, however, was 
sometimes a bit more unpredictable. 

Mulder turned his head to regard Sauceda warily, blood 
red tablecloth reflecting in the highlights of his 
hair, light from the candles dancing over the 
translucent skin of cheekbones. Mulder's jaw was 
darkening with the hint of stubble, a whisper of 
graphite on vellum. 

Sauceda maintained the eye contact but he had no 
answers for those oil-dark pupils. Mulder's face 
radiated the certainty that he was utterly alone, the 
unyielding conviction that all Sauceda's good 
intentions would not change that fact. At that moment, 
Sauceda would have killed to reassure him otherwise. 
The pathologist had no facial expression adequate to 
state the fact, however. Mulder resolutely laid down 
his fork and the jaw turned away, clinched tight. 

Nilson was watching, enrapt, apparently, at the site 
of the profiler finally alive and breathing 
independently. The table was spared his witty 
repartee, however, as the waiters descended to remove 
the dinnerware and make room for the inevitable. 

In the commotion of coffee orders, Mulder pushed his 
chair back a bit, favoring Sauceda's side. Sauceda 
crossed his legs and relaxed into his seat; the 
position put his shoulder lightly against his 
partner's. He gulped gratefully when Marty didn't 
shove him away. 

Nilson rolled his eyes over the profiler, sizing him 
up as the agent quietly ordered a cappuccino. Mulder's 
position forced Nilson to turn his head back awkwardly 
to get a clear look at the young man. Nilson didn't 
dare reposition his chair without ramming into a 
patron at the next table. Mulder's maneuver made 
Sauceda smile. Marty could set up an interrogation 
like no other agent he knew-- even when he was the 
intended target. 

Mulder returned Nilson's gaze, as cryptic as the 
Sphinx. The reporter twisted in his seat, vainly 
seeking a position that would alleviate his tactical 
disadvantage. Across the table, Purdue snorted. 

Nilson stopped struggling and dredged up his wise-ass 
grin again. He leveled it on the ASAC, finally 
adopting that let's-get-down-to-business tone Sauceda 
had so dreaded. 

"I'm curious, Mr. Purdue. Isn't it rather unusual for 
the Special Agent in Charge to be out in the field 
like this? I mean, this must be quite an important 
case if--" 

"*Assistant* Special Agent in Charge." Purdue's smile 
and voice were flat. "And, no. To both questions." 

Harris returned Nilson's questioning glance with a 
look of pure innocence. Nilson jerked his head in 
Mulder's direction. 

"And I guess you're going to try to tell me it's 
standard procedure for a profiler to operate almost 
exclusively out in the field? And to be assigned a 
partner?" 

Purdue's voice was patient enough, but the look he 
gave Nilson suggested he'd commit homicide with glee. 
"Sauceda is a pathologist, Mr. Nilson," he explained. 
"His medical expertise is invaluable. Agent Mulder is 
at his best in a hands-on situation--" 

"Agent Mulder," Agent Mulder quipped quietly, "is here 
for the view." 

Nilson gave Purdue a triumphant sneer and twisted 
around to view the young agent. "Of the city?" Nilson 
mocked, "Or the corpses?" 

Mulder's eyes narrowed as he leveled them on his 
opponent. "The corpses, of course. And I hold the 
patent on the smart ass routine at this table, Mr. 
Nilson, try another." 

Nilson's mouth opened, and abruptly closed as Harris 
sputtered delightedly. The detective wriggled his 
brows as Nilson glared at him. 

"Give it up, Andy," Harris suggested amiably. "If that 
one tells you he's not talking, you're not gettin' get 
jack." 

Nilson tried for an agreeable smile but only managed 
to grit his teeth. He fidgeted a minute, apparently 
trying to determine some way to redeem the situation. 
The perpetual stare Mulder was giving him didn't seem 
to be helping any. Sauceda chuckled just watching 
Nilson's wheels turn. The guy had probably offered to 
buy dinner when Harris brokered this deal and now he'd 
be trying to figure how he was going to take it off 
his expense account if he couldn't get enough 
information to produce a story with it. 

Across the table, Nilson noted the pathologist's bliss 
and gave him an acrid look. Sauceda didn't mind, and 
widened his grin. Hanging out with Marty got him 
enough good press; he could afford a few sour grapes 
now and then. 

"Okay, guys," Nilson tried his politician's grin once 
more, "we've obviously gotten off on the wrong foot 
here but, really, I'm just looking for a story, you 
know? Isn't there anything you can tell me about the 
case that I *can* print?" 

Purdue answered. "No." 

"What about the freedom of the press?" Nilson gave 
Mulder a crocodile smile, a last ditch effort. "Come 
on, Agent. Just one insight?" 

Mulder shrugged. "We have five victims." He was back 
to swirling patterns in the sweat of his water glass 
but glanced up sharply as Nilson registered a protest. 
Sauceda cursed the fact that Marty's head was turned 
away from him and he was not privy to the look the 
young man gave the reporter. Whatever it was, it was 
effective; the words died in Nilson's throat. Mulder's 
face was tranquil as glass as he turned back to take a 
swig of his water. 

"Look," Nilson wet his lips watching him. "I can 
understand you don't want to alert the killer to your 
understanding of any recent developments but... Hell, 
I've written the first victims' stories from every 
angle by now. Surely, there should be no problem 
discussing them." 

"No problem," Mulder conceded. "And no point, ether." 

Nilson swore. "Okay. So how about just discussing some 
non-specifics?" 

"Non-specifics," Mulder mused, "that would be what? 
The weather? Last night's Knicks game?" 

Nilson chuckled. "Harris is right. You're tough, son--
" 

"No, I'm not," Mulder's voice was suddenly bitter and 
Sauceda's panic button snapped into the red zone. "I 
stare at photos of body parts for hours on end and 
hand people's babies back to them dead. That doesn't 
mean I'm tough." 

"What does it mean, then?" Nilson grimaced. "You're a 
nut case?" 

"That, or I'm really hard up for the cash." 

Nilson laughed. Sauceda joined him, grinning from 
relief, grateful for Mulder's continued composure, the 
momentary bitterness firmly squelched. Purdue even 
managed a tight chuckle. Harris, though, was 
breathless, watching the profiler. Mulder's face was 
unreadable, his eyes too bright. 

"Okay, Agent." The reporter took his time lighting a 
cigarette, slid the package across the table with a 
nod and settled in his chair. "How about I just throw 
out some questions? You answer, or not. Up to you. No 
strings." 

Mulder helped himself to a cigarette and allowed 
Nilson to light it for him before tossing the pack to 
Purdue. He took a deep drag and sat back, legs 
crossed, both arms resting comfortably on the chair 
arms, hands hanging loosely. He bearing was almost 
regal, like some monarch lounging on his throne, 
surrounded by his minions. He even smiled. There was 
no humor in it, but it was a generous effort 
nonetheless. He said, "There are always strings, Mr. 
Nilson." 

"My friends call me Andrew, Fox." 

"My friends call me Agent Mulder, *Mister* Nilson." 
Mulder exhaled another lungful of smoke and regarded 
the reporter through the haze. 

Nilson tried twisting around to the profiler. "Okay," 
he shrugged. "There're strings." 

"So ask," Mulder granted. 

Nilson hiccuped on his smoke and took a minute to 
consider his sudden good fortune. "Okay, ah. I 
understand that most profilers put a lot of stock into 
what they call the killer's signature. That the 
signature isn't supposed to change through the course 
of the killings." 

Mulder nodded and Nilson relaxed visibly. 

"Okay. But all the other victims were homeless, more 
or less. So doesn't that make this a departure from 
the previous signature--" 

Mulder smiled. It wasn't a particularly kind smile and 
Nilson hesitated. 

"Define signature, Mr. Nilson." 

The reporter glanced back at Harris. "Well, it's part 
of the MO, isn't it? How the killer does the crime, 
how he sets up the scene, the kinds of things he 
leaves behind--" 

Mulder was shaking his head. "That's MO, alright. But 
it's primarily staging. In routine murder, staging's 
something the killer does to disavow his work. To 
throw off the investigation: making rape look like 
routine burglary. That kind of thing. It's a way of 
saying 'look for this person. This someone-not-me.'" 

The profiler flicked his ashes over the remains of his 
lasagna, and stared at his water glass. "Serial 
killers as a rule, are immensely proud of their work. 
Their MO is variable: whatever is necessary to 
accomplish the murder. It's the signature that's 
static. Whatever's necessary to gain satisfaction from 
the crime: the type of degradation they engage in, the 
types of victims they're attracted to, the fantasy 
life their behavior displays. When a serial gets into 
posing, it's usually part of the signature, not the 
MO. It's their way of saying, 'In case you haven't 
noticed, this is my work.'" He smiled without looking 
up. "'I made this.'" 

Nilson frowned. "So... you see no change in the 
signature?" 

"I see an artist becoming more confident in the skill 
necessary to accomplish the work. An artist ready to 
spend more time on the work itself, with less fear of 
interruption." 

"Ah. So, he changes the MO. Moves indoors to avoid 
interruption. But shouldn't that have occurred to him 
before?" 

"I assume you're an educated man, Mr. Nilson. College 
graduate?" 

Nilson shrugged. "Sure." 

"Greek and Roman mythology still required courses for 
journalism?" 

Nilson squinted. "Yeah. The myths cover all the basic 
plotlines of humanity. From Shakespeare to Watergate. 
What's that got to do--" 

Mulder nodded. "You'll recall, then, the story of the 
birth of Athena?" 

Nilson smiled indulgently, "I'm... afraid that 
particular story escapes me just now." 

"It's one of those trick questions they like to pull 
on Jeopardy," Mulder returned the flat smile. 
"According to myth, Pallas Athena wasn't born at all. 
She sprang fully formed from Zeus' head. In full body 
armor, no less." He gave his cigarette a cursory puff. 
"Bet that was the headache from hell." 

"So...," Nilson's face was twisted in the effort to 
comprehend. "Your point is that none of us arrives 
fully formed? And the killer has evolved to this 
point? Okay. That makes sense." 

Mulder's cigarette smoked itself in his hand, 
forgotten. He was lost once more, somewhere in the 
depths of that glass of water. "Goddess of wisdom and 
war. Goddess of discernment and death. Ever wonder 
about the connection, Mr. Nilson? What it was the 
ancient Greeks knew, what they understood that they 
would attribute such attitudes to the same 
personality?" 

Nilson was silent, putting out his cigarette even as 
he watched Mulder's vacant stare. 

Sweat was running down Sauceda's face and he was 
trying desperately to find something to say, a tow 
line to rescue Marty from whatever sea of thought he 
seemed intent on drowning in. 

But Purdue was quicker to grab the line. "It's time to 
put this show to bed, gentlemen. We've got a 
considerable amount of information to sort through in 
the morning--" 

"One last question?" Nilson apparently wasn't too 
proud to beg. 

Purdue opened his mouth, closed it again; he turned to 
Sauceda but for the life of him, Sauceda could find no 
viable argument. "Sorry, but the kid needs his nap" 
just didn't apply when the kid was twenty-six with a 
reputation for being hell on wheels when he wanted to. 
Right now would have been a good time for him to want 
to, but everything Marty seemed to want was in the 
small confines of that damned glass of water. 

Nilson took his opportunity. "For the record, Agent 
Mulder," he asked. "How do you see your role as a 
profiler?" 

Mulder dropped the corpse of his cigarette into the 
glass and watched it drown. "If I'm ever given one 
last question, Mr. Nilson, I sincerely hope I do 
better than that." 

Nilson grinned ruefully. "I don't know. I've always 
been told there are no stupid questions." 

"Of course there are. Certainly not every question is 
legitimate. Ask the wrong question, you get the wrong 
answer." He glanced up. "Unless you're really 
listening." 

The look in Mulder's eye was positively seductive. 

"I'm listening." 

"Maybe. Like I said, you're an educated man. And I've 
just sat here and told you our entire case. Now. You 
tell me what I've said and we'll both know." Mulder's 
brow furrowed. "Just don't let me read it in the 
newspapers." 

Nilson stared, recovered. "That doesn't answer my 
question." 

Mulder shook his head, obviously disappointed. "For 
the wrong question, you're awfully hot for an answer. 
Okay, how do I see my role?" He closed his eyes for a 
moment, suddenly pale, drained, decades older. "My 
mother's father's father was a tailor. I'm a tailor. I 
try to thread the clues together before someone puts 
out the eye of the needle. That quotable enough for 
you?" 

"Positively poetic," Nilson grinned. 

"Then I've probably plagiarized it from somewhere and 
you could be sued for using it." Mulder stood 
abruptly. "I need some air," he announced, voice 
husky, and turned on his heel, striding for the door. 

Sauceda snapped to in a delayed reflex and jumped up 
to follow. He was obviously tailing his partner but 
dammit, he didn't care one way or the other right now. 
Let Purdue make some kind of cover story if he wanted 
to. This kind of crap was supposed to only happen to 
Marty when he was dreaming. Or when the case was 
really bad. If Marty thought things were this bad 
already.... 

"Christ," he whispered, resisting the impulse to cross 
himself. 

Mulder slammed through the door of the restaurant and 
didn't even pause. Sauceda was right at his heels, 
praying all the way, pleading for the tension in the 
young man's shoulders to loosen, praying for the storm 
to pass them quickly. Mulder headed straight for the 
Chevy, crawled into the backseat and slammed the door. 

Sauceda peered through the glass a moment, seeing 
nothing but shadows of shadows. Voices raised in anger 
echoed across the parking lot. Harris and Nilson were 
having it out at the door of the restaurant with 
Purdue standing near to keep apprised of the 
situation. His dark eyes were watching Sauceda. 

The pathologist tried leaning nonchalantly against the 
side of the car. Tried the pose with his hands in his 
pockets. Tried it again with only one hand in his 
pocket, the other serving as a prop for his head. He 
wasn't tall enough to make the pose look comfortable, 
though and he was grateful when Harris finally got 
Nilson packed off in his car. Nilson had to pass the 
Chevy on his way out of the parking lot and Sauceda 
feigned interest in a billboard, blinking painfully as 
the headlights of Nilson's Chrysler grazed his eyes. 
The reporter lost no time in peeling off down Market 
Street. 

Now it was Purdue and Harris' turn to have some words. 
They kept the volume down though, and Harris looked 
like he was offering an apology. Within the confines 
of the Chevy, Mulder hadn't so much as twitched. 

Unable to remain still any longer, Sauceda paced the 
length of the vehicle, watching for some hint of 
motion behind the glass. The profiler sat perfectly 
still, the darkest shadow of all, eyes glinting now 
and again as Sauceda moved back and forth, casting 
shadows of his own in the lights of the parking lot. 

After an impossibly long minute and a half, the 
pathologist deemed Mulder'd had enough time to sort 
through all the insanity of the world and he carefully 
popped the door handle. He paused, waiting for a 
barrage of profanity to tell him he wasn't welcome. 
There was none and he frowned, opening the door 
cautiously. 

The interior lights must have burned out in the too-
old two-door; the car remained dark even with the door 
open. In the dim light filtering through the glass, 
Mulder was pale, glistening with sweat, unruly wisps 
of hair plastered ink black against the parchment 
white forehead. His head lolled back listlessly 
against the seat, his lips moving, producing no sound. 

Sauceda turned at the sound of shoe leather on gravel 
and swore. Purdue was approaching, Harris following 
behind. 

The pathologist closed the door protectively, careful 
to prevent the latch from catching, and moved to the 
fender nearest the two advancing men. He didn't speak 
and pointedly avoided Harris' eye. 

The detective was only heading for his own vehicle, 
however. He gave Sauceda a cursory nod, wishing them 
both a quick goodnight. 

Purdue waited for Harris to get his engine started 
before turning to Sauceda. "He keep the lasagna down?" 
he demanded. 

"So far," Sauceda grimaced. "But, I don't think Toto's 
in Kansas anymore. At least not much of him, anyway." 

The ASAC eased the door open and knelt. Sauceda stayed 
at his shoulder, trying not to block the light as 
Purdue took stock of the situation. 

Purdue turned to glance up at him warily. "We going to 
have another body in the morning?" 

The pathologist frowned. "Wouldn't that put her a 
little ahead of schedule?" 

"Now wait just one damned minute," Purdue hissed. "I 
thought he only did this kind of crap when the crime 
was going on. You know, real time." 

Sauceda shook his head patiently. "That'd be way too 
easy, wouldn't it? Marty's not really into easy." 

"So I've noticed." 

Sauceda snorted. "You ain't seen jack. Sir. He's just 
gotten better at hiding it, that's all." He reached 
over Purdue's shoulder and laid a gentle hand on 
Mulder's arm. The nerves trembled in the muscles 
beneath his hand. "Marty?" he asked softly, "who's car 
you sittin' in, kid?" 

Mulder blinked slowly against the headlights of a 
passing truck, his profile blue-white then deep gray 
again. In the flash of the high beams, the pathologist 
noted Mulder's pupils: they were dilated, restricting 
only sluggishly in the glare, unfocused or just too 
deeply focused for the confines of the car. Mulder's 
lips moved again, still with no sound. 

Sauceda squeezed Mulder's arm cautiously. "Marty." 

Mulder's volume came up obediently to a hoarse 
whisper. His eyes scanned as though reading a far 
distant script. 

"There were two babies," he murmured. "Years back. 
Before it was too late for babies." Mulder licked his 
lips, concentrating on the scene playing for his 
perception alone. "The first was a fetus... swam away 
in the toilet of the Enron station outside Belaire, 
Ohio. The second--" He gasped in the gleam of 
headlights as a second car passed. Sauceda's jaw 
trembled with the realization that it was no longer 
just sweat shimmering on the profiler's cheeks. 

"I don't want to see, Lenny," Mulder begged, voice 
pitifully small, strained with grief. "I don't want to 
know these thing--" Sauceda pushed the ASAC aside; 
Purdue surrendered the ground without struggle, 
allowing the older man to squeeze a hip onto the 
floorboard. Sauceda grasped Mulder's arms, offering 
too little support-- but it was everything he had. 

"It's okay, Marty. All this crap's just gone on too 
long, kid. That's all. You just need a rest--" 

Mulder moaned-- a despairing, keening wail cut short 
almost as soon as it began. He leaned forward, every 
muscle trembling with the effort to contain the 
outburst. 

Sauceda watched, powerless to offer any more than the 
comfort of his presence. Purdue's face in the door 
beside him was pinched. 

"The more I see," Mulder moaned, voice distorted with 
pain, "the more I see, the more comes for me to see-- 
Oh, God, I just want them to go away and leave me 
alonegoawaygoaway--" 

Even as he pleaded, Mulder pulled away from Sauceda's 
steadying hands. Sauceda relented and Mulder pressed 
back against the seat, rolling his head hopelessly, 
lost once more in his invisible far off world. 

"The second baby was twenty-six weeks before it cast 
itself out." Mulder grimaced, one hand fluttering 
fretfully to his chest. He left it lying there as 
though the pain was continuous, but inconsequential. 
"He never mentioned them," he insisted. "Her own 
husband, her savior, her knight in shining armor and 
he never mentioned them. Not even in passing. No what-
if wistful look... like they never existed. She hates 
him for it. In his grave, she hates him for it." 

Mulder's voice wavered, began fading, whispering and 
fading as he cringed away from the visions in his 
tormented brain: "He sleeps in a ditch of fire, and 
cannot hear; and where, in earth or hell's unholy 
peace, men's suicides will stop, God knows, not I." 

Mulder gasped again. "Not I," he insisted, eyes 
squeezed tightly shut. "Not I--" 

Purdue jerked up, pulling Sauceda to his feet. The 
action sent them both lurching free of the car and 
Purdue held onto Sauceda's arm, roughly protecting him 
from stumbling as he shoved the keys into his hand. No 
explanation was necessary and Purdue ran for the 
opposite side of the vehicle and wrenched the door 
open. Sauceda, clamoring dutifully in behind the 
wheel, fought to pull the driver's seat forward, his 
attention tightly focused on the image in the rearview 
mirror. 

All the movement seemed to snap Mulder's spell and he 
looked around warily to find Purdue seated next to 
him. He spent a moment simply blinking, apparently 
trying to identify which reality he'd landed in this 
time. 

"You look tired, Mulder," Purdue noted calmly. "Ready 
to get back to the motel?" 

Mulder silently scanned around him. He caught 
Sauceda's stare in the rearview and Sauceda gave him a 
smile he apparently didn't register. The profiler's 
focus moved on and Sauceda followed the track of his 
eyes: the oddly empty bucket seat beside Sauceda, the 
not quite empty parking lot, and again the ASAC. 
Purdue exuded a confidence and calm that had no place 
here. 

Sauceda knew from experience that Mulder wouldn't 
recall how he'd gotten here; he watched the young man 
glance quickly at Purdue's quiet face, quickly away 
again. 

Mulder ran a hand through his hair then fumbled in his 
jacket pocket. His hands were trembling but he managed 
to slip the shades on. Sauceda held his breath, vision 
weaving from Mulder to Purdue back to Mulder: a pale 
man in a dark car on a dark parking lot, wearing 
shades. 

Purdue made no comment, allowing the young man this 
small defense. Sauceda breathed a prayer of blessing 
on the ASAC as he started the engine. 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 06:03:46 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 11A of 27
Source: xfc

Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 11A of 27: Sunday Mourning Paper

Disclaimed in Part 1.



Saturday. May 14, 1988. 7:36pm. Fort Henry Motor 
Lodge. Room 37. 

The door was unlocked and swung open slightly as she 
knocked. Mulder was clearly visible from the door: 
flat on his back on the bed, one arm shielding his 
eyes from the overhead light. His other arm stretched 
out beside him, fingers tangled tight in the 
bedspread, fist knotted even in his sleep. He was 
still dressed-- well, jeans and a T-shirt, anyway-- 
surrounded by reports, diagrams, and photos she knew 
better than to focus on. The television was blaring: 
CNN with more boring details of the Bush/Dukakis 
debate.

Kay switched off the light and got the volume down on 
the television. Mulder stirred fitfully, arm sliding 
from his eyes to rest above his head, bare feet 
shuffling briefly. She held her breath, waiting for 
him to still again before turning on the bedside lamp. 
Even in the muted light she could see the sweat on his 
face, the random twitch of muscles. He was haggard, 
too tense to be truly resting, his eyes rimmed with 
red. Kay laid her palm against his face gently; he was 
feverish but not seriously so and there was no REM 
motion beneath his lids-- he wasn't dreaming yet, 
thank God. Four nights they'd spent together and she'd 
woke every night to his trembling and moaning, his 
body clammy with night sweat. He never spoke about it. 
Even in the daylight. Even holding her hand through 
the Overlook park this afternoon. Even nibbling her 
ear in the movie theater when he'd dragged her to see 
"Die Hard"-- and then spent the whole movie necking 
with her in the balcony. 

He sighed again, jaw working silently and she leaned 
to kiss his forehead. There was regret in the kiss. 
Regret for the mysteries that shut his heart away. 
Regret for the fear he woke to each night. Emotionally 
closed one moment, the next, suddenly and fiercely 
passionate, he was a mystery as deep as any he found 
in those files of his. And although he refused to 
admit it, she knew he was afraid-- afraid for himself, 
afraid for her. 

And Kay loved him for it. 

She switched off the lamp, collecting his files 
carefully, unwilling to wake him just yet. In the glow 
of the TV, the photographs were blissfully indistinct. 
There was enough light, however, to identify the 
newspaper slung across the floor: the early issue of 
the Sunday Ohio Sun. Kay had read it herself just a 
few hours ago. "FBI's Finest Stalks Serial Killer" the 
headline bragged. What followed was a whole range of 
articles dealing with Mulder's work on previous cases-
- told in enough detail to make her skin crawl. 
Yesterday, Mulder had sworn this new case was quiet 
right now, that he was just filling time on other 
cases, helping out at the precinct until Purdue said 
it was time to go. But he ate less every day and he 
feared sleep, fought it like hell, reaching out 
sometimes in the night, just to reassure himself that 
Kay was still there. 

The television went bright as she bent to retrieve the 
paper. Children's faces stared up at her, smiles 
solemn in the newsprint ink: row after row of tiny 
photos-- kids dug up from shallow graves or found on 
the side of the road while her Fox hunted their 
killers. Christ, was there no wonder he jerked when 
she touched him unexpectedly? Sometimes life just... 
well, caught up with you after a while. Maybe he was 
hearing all those little feet fleeing after him. Maybe 
he just had nowhere else to run--

A distant peel of thunder rumbled, just audible beyond 
the walls and windows. Kay crammed the newspaper into 
the wastebasket and emptied Mulder's ashtray on top of 
it. 

By the time she emerged from her shower, Mulder had 
rolled to his side, facing the television. She belted 
his robe around her as she crossed the room. 

"Fox?"

Still locked in desperate sleep, Mulder shifted his 
head against the pillow, huddling away from her voice. 
Turned in profile, he looked almost boyish. His hand 
fisted spasmodically then he was motionless again. She 
sighed.

There was just enough room on the TV side of the bed 
for Kay to lie comfortably; she could slip between the 
sheets and not even wake him if she was careful. She 
managed to do just that and was feeling rather proud 
of herself when his breathing altered abruptly.

"Oh-- Fox, I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

"Uhm." His voice was husky, groggy. He slipped his arm 
around her waist, spooning her up loosely and she 
settled in beside him.

"Comfortable?" he mumbled. Kay nodded and felt him 
kiss the back of her neck. She wriggled slightly, 
ensuring him his share of the pillow and an adequate 
view of the television. Her concern earned her another 
kiss, this one on the top of her head.

By mutual consent she manned the remote control and 
they watched "Family Ties," "Night Court" and Ted 
Koppel. There was no conversation; she offered the 
simple comfort of her presence and he simply accepted 
it. She couldn't tell whether he slept or not: his 
breathing was regular enough but his tension never 
eased. She lay in his arms, her head light against his 
collarbone, her back warmed by the motion of his 
breathing. 

She was asleep herself when she felt him rise, moving 
cautiously. She listened, drowsy and content, as he 
undressed: the rasp of his zipper, the sighs of 
fabrics in motion. The mattress dipped as he slipped 
under the sheet and she rolled against him, wrapping 
her arms around his chest. His scent was warm as life 
itself and she inhaled deeply, circling his nipple 
with feather soft kisses. He grunted softly and laced 
his fingers through her hair, a gentle thumb stroking 
her earlobe. His other hand fumbled behind her, his 
evening stubble scratching her forehead pleasantly, 
and then the TV was abruptly silent as he located the 
remote control. She smiled against his neck and felt a 
tug at her waist as he unknotted the belt of the 
bathrobe. It surrendered willingly and he pushed the 
fabric aside, pulling her close, sighing at the warmth 
of skin against skin. She wrapped her thigh over his 
hip, inviting but not insistent. He kissed her softly, 
pulled her head to his chest-- and then the world was 
suddenly still again. There was only the beating of 
his heart, the pattering of rain against the window.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

3:17 AM.

Kay woke to a thump against the floor. She reached one 
hand out, seeking him in the dark but found only the 
empty sheet, still warm. The light filtering through 
the drapes was too dim to see clearly but she could 
hear him breathing, gasping in pain or fear. 

"Fox?"

He didn't answer and she crawled across the bed, 
calling softly, hands scrambling. She found his 
tousled head, a shadow amongst shadows, propped 
against the mattress as he sat on the floor.

"Fox, honey? Did you fall out of bed?"

He gave no answer and she ran her hands through his 
hair, down his neck and shoulders, squeezing his upper 
arms in comfort as much for herself as for him. He was 
alive and whole, why wasn't he answering-- God. He'd 
had another dream and she hadn't even woke to help 
him-- 

He pushed her away and struggled to stand. She didn't 
insist when he refused her help and stumbled to the 
bathroom; she was simply grateful when he didn't close 
the door on her. 

He was on his knees and retching before she could 
locate the light switch. The harsh bulb was not kind: 
his skin was chalk-white and slick with sweat, his 
ribs too prominent suddenly as he strained. Kay ran 
for the bed and snatched up the blanket to lay across 
his shoulders but he tugged it into his lap instead, 
suddenly modest in his illness.

"Let me go get your partner, Fox, okay? I'll be right-
-"

He grabbed for her abruptly, pulling her into the 
floor beside him.

"No--" he choked, the grip on her wrist desperate and 
painful as he fought to control the next spasm. "He'll 
tell Patterson," he gasped at last. "You can't tell--" 
He spit a mouthful of bile into the bowl and shivered. 
"Promise me. Promise!"

She didn't know this Patterson so the promise came 
easily and he seemed to take comfort from it. He 
released her, resuming his vomiting. Kay felt that it 
would continue forever, and it did, long after there 
was anything left in him to come up. It was painful to 
watch and he didn't answer her questions, flinched 
each time she tried to touch him. She finally 
surrendered, waiting patiently in the doorway, 
clutching her robe and trembling as she listened to 
him gasping for air. 

The worst of it finally passed. He accepted the glass 
of water she offered him, rinsing his mouth gratefully 
before vomiting what little liquid had trickled down 
his throat in the process. His entire body shook and 
he grabbed his head suddenly, pulling at his hair. His 
moan was pure animal pain. She reached to hold him and 
Mulder pushed her away, snarling as he scrambled to 
his feet, swearing. The words were slurred and 
indistinct and his eyes were fiercely dilated, 
frightening in their intensity. And when they turned 
on her, there wasn't even the vaguest hint of 
recognition. She retreated to the door.

He climbed into the bathtub, slapping at the shower 
control, and stepped beneath the pounding stream 
without even waiting for it to warm. Mulder apparently 
needed all his concentration just to stand. He planted 
both hands against the tile, eyes squeezed tightly 
shut. The tension pouring off him was violent; it 
flavored the room and shook her to the core.

She marveled at the transformation in him. This was 
not the man who had tucked her into bed a few hours 
ago. Not the man who had held her, made love to her 
this morning. Only the memory of the man who *had* 
held her, had loved her, gave her the courage to 
remain now. 

"Want me to scrub your back, Fox?" She thought a 
playfully sensual tone would be comforting to him, 
something that would reach the man beneath the pain. 
But her voice quavered pathetically and she almost 
choked on the words.

He pressed his forehead against the tile, refusing to 
look at her. "I need to get out of here," he rasped. 
"I've got to get out. I can't--" whatever he couldn't 
do was drowned beneath the water.

Kay bit her lip. "You can't leave just now, angel. 
You're sick, and it's only four o'clock in the 
morning--"

He exploded, slamming the side of his fist against the 
tile. It hit with the force of a sledge and every 
muscle in his body jerked. Kay yelped in terror. 

"Goddam it! Leave me alone!" he screamed. The eyes he 
turned on her were black, crazed with fear and a 
desperation she had no answer for but total panic.

She fled for the bedroom, found his clothes rumpled in 
the chair and shimmied into his T-shirt, too frantic 
to even wipe at her tears. Something shattered in the 
little room behind her.

*The mirror-- Oh, God, he's hurt. He's hurting 
himself--* 

She snatched up his trench coat, fumbling it on as she 
ran for the door. Her foot caught in the hem and she 
stumbled, slamming her shoulder and the side of her 
face against the door frame. Mulder's angry snarl 
echoed from the bathroom, and suddenly the pain was no 
match for her panic. She fled, half blinded, out into 
the night.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 11B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 06:03:52 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 11B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 11B of 27: 


The slam of a door had Purdue moaning against his 
pillow. Seconds later the echo of frantic pounding had 
him wide awake and struggling into his trousers. The 
racket was coming from Sauceda's door, just next to 
his own, and showed no sign of letting up. 

*Dammit to hell. Lenny could sleep through a freaking 
hurricane.* 

Shirtless, shoeless, Purdue grabbed his gun and 
checked the view out his window.

"Christ Almighty--"

Purdue jerked his door open and Kay spun at the noise, 
her fist still resting against Sauceda's door. Sauceda 
popped the door open a second after, clad in slacks 
and a T-shirt. Kay squealed a silent "Oh!" and 
stumbled back in confusion. She wavered uncertainly 
between the two men, one hand unconsciously tugging at 
her hair. She was trembling violently, crying so hard 
that Purdue doubted she could even speak. The air was 
misty with light drizzle, plastering her hair to her 
face and neck. Mulder's trench coat had slipped from 
one shoulder, pulling the collar of her T-shirt with 
it. There was a bruise there as big as a man's fist. A 
perfect match for the one just above her eye.

"Help him!" she wailed. "You've got to make him stop!" 
Before Sauceda could grab her, she whirled and fled 
back toward Mulder's room, bare feet slapping 
concrete, coat dragging in the rain after as she ran.

Purdue caught up with her just before she reached 
Mulder's door. She barely stifled her scream as Purdue 
pulled her away. 

"You stay *out here,*" he hissed. "Do you hear me? You 
stay out here or you go to my room and stay there."

She nodded without really comprehending the order. 
Purdue noted Sauceda out of the corner of his eye; the 
pathologist had his medical kit in one hand, his 
revolver in the other, shoulders hunched against the 
mist. He assumed the standard back-up position next to 
Mulder's door, prepared to cover the ASAC's entrance.

Purdue took a deep breath and set his back against the 
opposite side of the door frame. Rain dripped from the 
eave of the roof and onto his bare back, setting him 
to shivering despite his best efforts. Kay backed up 
down the walk, clutching the trenchcoat, her eyes 
wide. She shook her head vehemently. "Don't hurt him. 
You can't hurt him--"

Purdue waved her back and rapped the door calmly. 
"Mulder?" 

There was no response. Purdue wiped sweat and 
rainwater from his face.

"Mulder, its Reggie Purdue. I'm coming in, son. We 
need to talk. Okay?" 

Still no answer. Purdue watched Sauceda wipe his hand 
on his damp pant leg, resume his grip on his weapon. 

Purdue tried the knob. It turned easily and he let the 
door swing open a few inches. And waited. 

Nothing. A glance at Sauceda earned him a nod. Purdue 
shook his head and entered slowly, his face a mask of 
friendly composure. He held his gun low, tucked behind 
his thigh. His posture was neutral, his free hand in 
plain site. He wasn't exactly dressed like an ASAC and 
was counting on that fact to make him a little less 
threatening. 

Mulder was standing on the other side of the bed, 
oblivious to his entrance. The profiler was dressed, a 
pullover and jeans stuck to his damp skin, water 
running from his hair down into his collar. His right 
hand was bleeding, splattering his clothes, but he 
didn't seem to notice. Mulder's motions were manic, 
his steps jerking and unstable, both hands shaking 
hard enough to make even the smallest task an effort, 
but he searched the room methodically, dilated pupils 
intense and roaming. *He's not sane.* Purdue's gut 
rolled over with the realization. *Christ help me. 
This is it.*

"Agent," Purdue asked calmly, "what are you doing?"

Mulder slung a book from the top of the nightstand, 
fumbled behind the lamp, patting down the surface like 
he didn't trust his eyes to tell him that nothing else 
was there. "I'm going for a run," he answered finally. 
The response was slurred, only half considered. He 
pulled at the nightstand drawer next and patted it 
down as well. 

"You're not leaving this room, son." Purdue's words 
were not a challenge, simply a statement of fact. "We 
need to talk," he repeated. He noted the stack of 
files littering the dresser: cases from armed robbery 
to triple homicide, Mulder's work for the past week 
and he wanted to spit suddenly. This was his doing. 
He'd brought him here, handed him the files. He was 
responsible for this man wrapped in madness. For the 
bruised woman panting in the door behind Sauceda's 
shoulder--

Mulder turned but didn't look up, his brows frowning 
in concentration as much as anger. He knelt to slip 
his arm under the mattress. "I'm going for a run," he 
repeated, numbly. He might have been talking to 
himself. "Where the hell's my gun?"

Purdue slipped his finger off the trigger of his 
Ruger, laying it flat against the trigger guard. "You 
don't need a weapon, Mulder. Let's just sit down and 
talk. Then you can run-- okay?" 

"I've got a crime scene to detail--"

Purdue nodded, familiar with the pattern now. "Listen 
to me, Mulder. You're not going anywhere until I know 
you're in control."

Mulder was on the floor, feeling under the bed, his 
voice muffled. "I'm in control, dammit," he growled.

"Like hell."

Mulder's dark head jerked up, enraged. Purdue knew the 
dangers of antagonizing injured wildlife, but at least 
he finally had Mulder's attention. 

The young man struggled to stand, and Purdue felt 
Sauceda step up beside him.

"Calm yourself, Agent," the ASAC warned softly. "Or 
we'll have to do it for you."

Mulder was finally on his feet, finally fully aware, 
his voice a hiss. "You said there'd be no drugs unless 
I requested--" 

"Do you think you're in control enough to know to 
request a drug, Mulder?" Purdue waited for the 
question to register. He watched reason flickering in 
those feral eyes, fighting it's unsteady way through 
the madness. 

He heard a rustle behind him in the door, then Kay's 
voice, tender, pleading. 

"Please, Fox. Please let them help you."

Sauceda wouldn't allow her to enter, however. Across 
the room, Mulder's answer was to remain quite still, 
both hands pressed against the bed, the closest bit of 
furniture to offer support. Blood pooled onto the 
rumpled sheet but Mulder didn't see. He was watching 
Kay, Purdue, and Sauceda with the same wide-eyed 
horror. Thunder rolled somewhere to the south.

Purdue held his tone steady. "Everything's going to be 
all right, Mulder--"

Mulder swallowed hard and tried to stand upright 
without support. It was a valiant effort and he 
gasped. "He's dead. She's killed again. We've got to 
go see."

Purdue shook his head and chanced one cautious step 
forward. "I'm not walking onto a crime scene with you 
in this state." Mulder took a step back and the ASAC 
froze. 

"We've got a job to do, Mulder," Purdue remained 
patient. "I'm not losing evidence because you can't 
hold it together."

"I can hold it together," Mulder's voice was an angry 
plea now. Purdue advanced slowly and Mulder retreated, 
backing himself into the wall. "I was all right in 
three-oh-four," he insisted, "You remember. I was 
fine. I was okay. Right?"

Purdue nodded carefully, slipping his weapon into the 
back of his waistband. "Because you gave yourself time 
first, son." He paused, just a few feet from the young 
man, and presented his empty palms. "This one's not 
getting any deader, Mulder. Me and Sauceda have to get 
dressed. You gonna have it together by the time we're 
ready?"

Mulder's nod was emphatic, his eyes wild, watching 
Purdue's hands. His own hands clawing the wall behind 
him reflexively, like he was contemplating his odds of 
tunneling through.

"Prove that you're in control, Mulder. Sit down."

Mulder met his gaze with one of complete panic.

"You can sit down, can't you?" Purdue demanded calmly.

Mulder stared at him, opened his mouth, closed it 
again as though he didn't trust himself to speak. His 
Adam's apple convulsed. "I'm all right," he whispered. 
"I'm all right. I swear. I'm not crazy--"

Purdue sighed heavily. *Jesus, but this hurts.* "No 
one thinks you're crazy, Mulder." 

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut against the lie. Purdue 
didn't want to startle him, didn't want to have to 
rush him, but Mulder was starting to lose some serious 
blood. The wall was smeared with it; it dripped from 
his hand and onto his untied running shoes. Meanwhile, 
Mulder was whispering, short insistent little phrases 
as untranslatable as the tongue of angels. 

Purdue tried again, voice soft. "You're in a difficult 
position, Mulder, operating under a lot of stress. 
It's not failure if you can't do it on your own ever 
so often."

Mulder's injured hand fluttered to his chest, rubbing 
at some pressure there. Purdue shifted his stance, 
prepared to take the young man down; he froze mid-step 
as Mulder's eyes blinked open again. 

"Valium," Mulder whispered. "Ten milligrams." His face 
was defeated and resigned. "Better make it fifteen."

Sauceda had been ready for him and approached 
carefully, his only weapon a syringe filled with clear 
liquid. Mulder frowned as he registered the drug and 
Lenny shrugged an apology. 

"It'll work faster this way, Marty, that's all. Let's 
get your sleeve rolled up, 'kay?" 

Mulder tugged at his sleeve obediently, froze with the 
realization that his hand was bleeding. He paused, 
regarding the injury blearily, then glanced up at 
Purdue, his face unreadable. Sauceda chattered away 
comfortingly, delivering the drug with practiced 
hands. 

There must have been something familiar and unwelcome 
in the burn of the medication, however; the needle was 
barely out of his arm before Mulder's eyes went wide 
and he grabbed for Sauceda. Sauceda was quick on his 
feet, however, already dancing away, needle aloft as 
he fled.

"Goddam you," Mulder hissed after him. "Goddam you, 
you had no right--" The drug hit him then, hard and 
impossibly fast. Purdue caught him as he staggered.

"What did you do to him?" Kay demanded. Sauceda tried 
to intercept her and she slapped at him furiously. 
"What the hell did you do?" Sauceda wrestled her into 
the chair as she flailed at him bitterly.

Purdue had his hands just as full with Mulder. The 
younger man was in no shape to put up a full fledged 
fight but he was giving the ASAC hell in spite of it. 
Purdue gasped with the effort to hold him, grateful 
that Mulder wasn't lucid enough to remember much of 
his training. 

Mulder was registering Sauceda's struggle with Kay, 
however. Enraged, he slammed Purdue into the wall, 
knocking the breath out of the ASAC. He spun to go 
after Sauceda but Purdue had a handful of Mulder's 
shirt and was holding on for dear life. Mulder swung 
at him, but ineffectively, his focus still on Sauceda.

"You leave her alone! You leave her the fuck alone!" 

Mulder's shout and Purdue's frantic swearing brought 
the second fight to a finish. Kay and Sauceda turned, 
wide-eyed and gasping. Sauceda flushed beneath 
Purdue's glare and retreated to a corner. Kay pulled 
Mulder's coat about her regally and wiped her face on 
the sleeve. 

Purdue used the distraction to good advantage and got 
Mulder's arms pinned behind him. Mulder's resistance 
was failing, the drug finally beginning it's work in 
earnest. Purdue dragged the young man face down onto 
the bed and held him there. Mulder swore at him 
blearily, words slurring against the sheets. 

Sauceda held out a plastic baggie to Kay, a flag of 
truce. "Here. Go down to the ice machine and get some 
ice--" He half muttered "please" and snatched up his 
medikit, crawling up onto the bed to kneel beside his 
partner. Kay watched a moment as Sauceda applied 
pressure to Mulder's bleeding hand then she 
disappeared into the dark with the little bag. 

Mulder, caught up in the reflex of the fight, was 
still struggling furiously, his muscles hindered by 
the drug ravaging his system. He lashed out at Sauceda 
despite Purdue's best efforts to hold him. Sauceda 
seemed content to wait him out, holding Mulder's wrist 
tight, keeping the towel pressed to the injury.

"Shit, Sauceda, you sure he doesn't need another 
dose?"

Sauceda grimaced. "I should have shot him full of 
Seconal. Sorry, but it's been a while since he's been 
this bad. I just didn't think he'd fight like this." 

Purdue snorted. "You look at her face again and try 
telling me that."

"Oh, hell, he didn't hit that girl, Reg. You know he 
didn't."

"I don't know any such thing. He's a crazed animal--"

Kay's reappearance ended the argument. She stepped to 
the bed tentatively, eager to present her baggie full 
of ice. The bruise on her forehead was bad but the 
blow hadn't been low enough to cause any swelling of 
the eye itself. She'd been fortunate, Purdue mused. 

Mulder moaned and made another effort to rise and the 
ASAC shoved him back down with a bit more force than 
necessary. Kay stared at him in horror and he looked 
away. He'd come to respect Mulder but temporarily 
insanity was a plea he'd never had much use for-- he'd 
rot in hell before he'd listen to her defend this man.

Sauceda sighed and pointed her to the chair. "Get some 
of that ice on your face," he insisted. Her mouth 
worked in surprise and his voice softened. "We'll use 
the rest on his hand, okay? But I can only handle one 
patient at a time." He turned back to Purdue without 
waiting for her answer. "You got him?" he demanded.

Purdue laid himself across Mulder's back and got a 
better hold on the injured arm. Mulder didn't fight 
him now; his muscles still jerked but it seemed more 
reflexive than any real effort. His eyes were mere 
slits. He looked like a child fighting sleep. A very 
sick child. 

Purdue shook his head. "What the hell *did* you give 
him, anyway?" 

"Thorazine," Sauceda held Mulder's hand to gain the 
best light as he pried a piece of glass from the 
knuckle. "Valium won't cut it when he's really bad."

Purdue grimaced watching Sauceda dig for another tiny 
bit of slivered mirror. 

"All this stuff hits him hard," Sauceda assured, 
blinking in concentration as he worked. "You hafta be 
careful. Half the psychopharmaceuticals on the shelf 
will put him out in five minutes even at low doses. 
His system's just... off like that. I swear to God 
he's not human sometimes." 

Purdue eyed Kay, busy dabbing at her face with a 
washcloth full of ice.

"It's not so bad," Sauceda insisted, inspecting 
Mulder's hand. "Bled like a sonofabitch, but no real 
damage." Mulder was still conscious but just barely, 
his eyes only half focused. "'S'okay, Marty," his 
partner promised, slathering ointment into the wound. 
"'S'alright. You quit fighting the medication and get 
some rest. Okay?"

Mulder didn't respond. Sauceda smiled pleasantly, 
putting the finishing touches on his bandage. He 
pushed himself off the bed and slipped off Mulder's 
shoes, nodding at Purdue. "You get his shirt, I'll get 
his pants." 

Purdue scrambled to his feet. "Don't you think he 
needs to go to a hospital?" 

Sauceda stared at him. "The wounds are superficial. 
Unless you're just looking to make sure this gets on 
his record." 

"I'm filing on this, Lenny," Purdue warned. "And 
you're co-signing it." 

Sauceda frowned. "But-- Shit. Just help me get him in 
bed."

By a concerted effort, they got the bloodied sheet off 
the bed and Mulder stripped down and under the 
bedspread. Sauceda added a blanket for good measure, 
pushed the young man onto his side and repositioned 
his pillow. Mulder eyes were still open but Sauceda 
declared it was just out of sheer cussedness. Each 
time Sauceda was in reach, Mulder slapped at him 
groggily.

Kay finally had enough of the two men playing 
nursemaid and shoved Sauceda aside to sit on the bed 
next to Mulder. She held his uninjured hand while 
Sauceda propped the bandaged one against a pillow and 
slipped the rest of the baggie of ice under it. 

Purdue watched the young couple closely. With Kay 
near, Mulder had stopped struggling completely. In 
fact, he seemed grateful for her presence, staring up 
at her with an unspoken plea. She leaned to whisper in 
his ear and he lay motionless, all his effort 
concentrated on listening, her hair cascading across 
his face, shielding the moment from Purdue's view. 
Mulder squeezed her hand softly as she sat up. His 
eyes remained closed. His breathing finally calmed. 
His face was suddenly just newly born, too tranquil, 
too perpetually innocent; no scar of time betrayed the 
horrors hidden beneath the sealed lids. 

Kay nodded at the ASAC shyly. "Thank you," she said.

Purdue sat on the end of the bed and rubbed his face. 
"So. What started the fight?"

"I don't-- No. No, there was no fight. He just--" she 
paused staring at him closely. "He just had a bad 
dream and it upset him."

"So he took a swing at you."

Her face flooded with comprehension. Then anger. "He 
never touched me. I tripped and hit the door--" 

"The door do that, too?" Her coat sleeve had pulled 
back and he pointed an accusing finger at the bruised 
imprint of Mulder's fingers across her wrist. She 
looked down, looked back up at him like she wanted to 
spit.

"You son of a bitch--" she hissed.

Mulder moaned again, his bandaged hand fingering the 
blanket fretfully. She lowered her voice to an 
indignant whisper. "He didn't hit me, he didn't even 
try to hit me. When he broke the mirror I wasn't even 
in the same room--" She set her jaw. "He's not that 
kind of man--"

Purdue sighed. "Well, what the hell am I supposed to 
think? You were scared to death when you came running 
down that hall--"

She squeezed her eyes shut. "I have... bad memories. 
It's nothing to do with him." She glared at him 
imperiously. "You've got to believe me. He didn't hurt 
me. God is my witness."

Purdue kept his face closed. "Unfortunately, God's not 
here to testify and I have to file a report." 

"Screw you and your damned regulations. He didn't hurt 
me!"

Sauceda squatted next to her. He looked tired and old 
suddenly. "Don't worry about it, kid," he nodded 
resolutely. "I'll be filing a report of my own." He 
glared at Purdue. "Marty's never hit a woman in his 
life." He sighed and indicated Kay's forehead. "How's 
your headache, kiddo? Any problems with your vision, 
any sudden piercing pain or pressure?"

She shook her head resolutely and allowed Sauceda to 
examine her briefly, checking the dilation of her 
pupils, testing minor motor skills. Sauceda seemed 
pleased with the results but she absolutely refused to 
allow Purdue to drive her home.

"I'm staying here. You'll need someone to watch him. 
It might as well be me." She glanced at Sauceda. "I'd 
rather it be me."

Purdue opened his mouth to protest but Sauceda was 
already shaking his head. He pointed at Kay's eye.

"He's going to blame himself the minute he sees that. 
Hey!" He held his hands surrender fashion as her anger 
rose again. "I know he didn't do it. But he's gonna 
feel responsible. You know it, too. Look, maybe it's 
best to give him a couple of days. I'll explain it to 
him." He shrugged gently, "We'll take you home and you 
can call him tomorrow, all right? It'll be okay. You 
two'll work it out." The tenderness in his voice had 
Purdue blinking owlishly. "This isn't about you, Kay," 
Sauceda insisted. "You didn't do anything wrong." 

The two men waited as she stared down at the young man 
beside her, considering, maybe fighting tears. 

"I'll get dressed," she answered finally, then paused 
as she stood, fumbling for the pocket of the coat. 
"Oh. You want his gun?" She held the weapon up with a 
grimace. Purdue accepted it solemnly. 

"It was in the pocket when I put it on," she said 
levelly. "I wasn't trying to protect myself from him 
or anything."

Sauceda frowned at the weapon in the ASAC's hand. "Is 
he getting it back?" he demanded.

Purdue swore but Sauceda waited him out. Kay watched 
them warily, confused, but both men understood the 
significance of the question. 

"Yeah," Purdue agreed, finally. "Yeah, he's getting it 
back." 

Sauceda beamed. "Well, hell, then. I'll get 
housekeeping in here to wipe that wall down."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 06:04:00 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 12 of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 12 of 27: Didn't We Just Leave this Party?

Disclaimed in Part 1.



Sunday. May 15, 1988. 11:37 AM. The Valley Inn, 
Bridgeport, Ohio. Room 6.

*Hell of a way to spend a Sunday.... * 

Harris excused himself from the motel room, dodging 
crime technicians and equipment with equal care. The 
carpet was slick with intestines and bits of organs; 
just walking across the floor could earn a man hazard 
pay. 

The motel, The Valley Inn, was located just off I-70, 
still in view of the Ohio River. It was small, simple 
but nice enough, a privately owned affair that could 
have been the stunt double for the Bates Motel, sans 
mansion. A maid had discovered the body in Room Six a 
little after nine; Bridgeport PD had taken one look 
and put out a courtesy call to Harris. He didn't take 
long identifying the handiwork: the star-shaped hole 
of a .22 semi-automatic, close-range, the jagged V-
shaped incision that opened the gut from breast-line 
to groin. There were variables in the presentation, 
but Mulder had warned them she was adaptable; Harris 
would lay good money it was their girl.

The deputy at the door stepped aside to let him pass. 
He eyed the detective like he was expecting an apology 
or something. Like it was Harris' fault this monster 
had decided to expand her territory across the river. 
Harris smiled at him brightly and swore beneath his 
breath.

*Where the hell is Purdue? Called him a freaking hour 
ago and if he's off drag-butting around--*

He paused on the porch, squinting in the sunlight. It 
was a beautiful day with just enough of a breeze to 
keep things comfortable. A great day for hauling the 
kids to the zoo, or playing Frisbee with the dog. Not 
hanging out in blood spattered motel rooms listening 
to the coroner bitch and moan. 

Most people tended to think that Harris' job was 
glamorous, a kind of Sam Spade routine with a regular 
paycheck, roughing up bad guys and sweet-talking 
mysterious dames. Harris swore it was more like being 
in the army: an unlimited process of hurry-up-and-wait 
while someone else pulled all the strings. Harris 
pulled strings when he could get them though: based on 
Mulder's revelations, Harris had sent two officers to 
Bellaire, scavenging records of miscarriages for the 
past twenty years. They'd been at it since Thursday 
with little to show for it; Belmont County had plenty 
of records but so far, there'd been nothing mentioning 
an Enron station. It didn't help that most of the 
older stuff wasn't on computer yet and a lot of early 
trimester deaths weren't even recorded. A pretty slow 
go with not much hope of yielding anything solid. 
Still, aside from several thousand handgun 
registrations it was all they had to go on right now.

The squeal of a bad rotor announced Purdue's arrival. 
Harris spat and got his hands on his hips as the 
borrowed Chevy pulled into the parking lot. Purdue 
might have a reasonable excuse for being late but Mr. 
G-man was overdue for a little ribbing. It wasn't like 
Mulder to let the locals get the jump on him like 
this. Besides, the kid had been a little too quiet 
lately; maybe a good-natured tongue-lashing would get 
him back to his old obnoxious self. God knew Harris 
could use the comic relief.

Purdue was the first to exit the vehicle. The look on 
his face kept Harris on the porch, hands slipping off 
his hips of their own accord. Reg looked like he'd 
spent the night grieving-- or maybe drinking. He 
wasn't meeting Harris' eye, either. Sauceda was next 
to tumble out; he looked tired, too, but began fussing 
softly, almost automatically, as he reached into the 
back seat. Purdue waited for him patiently, both men 
oddly subdued.

Harris squinted through the glare on the windshield. 
Sauceda was trying to help Mr. G-man out of the car 
and his efforts earned him an irritated backhand just 
this side of criminal assault. He dodged the swing 
deftly, waiting as Mulder finally managed to unfold 
his six-foot frame from the back seat. Purdue watched 
the proceedings with his hands in his pockets. 

The profiler's movements were awkward and hesitant and 
he made several grabs for the car door before actually 
locating it. Once vertical, however, he took great 
care with himself, pausing to button his jacket, 
straightening his tie with studied concern. He was 
dressed to the usual nines, Armani suit and golder-
than-thou shades but his right hand was bandaged, 
gauze wrapped tight across the knuckles, allowing only 
the fingertips to protrude. Both hands shook a little 
as he patted the tie down and his steps were slow and 
deliberate like he was walking on unpacked sand. 

Harris frowned, scanning the solemn faces surrounding 
the profiler. *What the hell have they done to you, 
kid?*

Sauceda hovered behind his partner, watching Mulder's 
progress carefully but staying well beyond the range 
of his swinging arm. Harris took the hint and stepped 
back as Mulder approached. There was a single step to 
the porch and Mulder navigated it with a care that 
should have been hysterical. The detective's mouth 
went spitless. He made no attempt to hide his anger as 
he looked Purdue square in the eye. The ASAC jerked 
his head away with the disgrace of the guilty. 

Harris bit his lip and led the way into the room. 
Sauceda proceeded to the already well-perused body and 
began digging in his bag. Purdue stationed himself in 
a bare spot against the wall, an unobtrusive location 
that put him only a couple of steps from Mulder, 
Harris noted. 

Mulder refused to enter, though, taking in the room 
from the door, leaning against the frame like he was 
just to tired to go any farther. Golden mirrors 
reflected the body across the room and the shades 
didn't move for a long time. Mulder's breathing was 
quiet but rapid and Harris recognized the tension 
pouring off him: he'd seen that bare edge of hyper 
enough times in Nam.

The ASAC wearied of the silence and settled his arms 
across his chest. "What've we got, Nat?"

Harris shrugged and waved at the room in general. 
"Like I told you: same crap, different day. It's a 
weeknight so the motel didn't have many guests. Nobody 
saw nothing and, of course--" he sighed, "nobody heard 
anything, either."

"There's music," Mulder announced. The steadiness of 
his voice surprised Harris, the direction of his 
shades still hadn't moved from the body. "A record," 
Mulder insisted. "A tape. Something." It was not a 
question. Sauceda was watching him, chewing the inside 
of his cheek.

Harris poked a thumb at the boom box on the dresser 
behind him. "I rewound the tape. It's a homemade dub. 
One song. No background noises as far as I can tell 
but we'll have it analyzed, of course."

Mulder nodded. "Tell me about the body."

Harris raised an eyebrow at Purdue, stoic, busy 
watching his profiler. "Male, twenty-five, single. 
Just moved into the area for a job with the Wheeling 
PD. The East Precinct. Apparently he's been living 
here waiting for his apartment to empty out at the end 
of the month."

"But we're back to the routine guttings," Mulder 
noted. This wasn't a question either. "No apartment 
three-oh-four."

"Maybe the last one kind of vented some steam, you 
think?"

"If she hadn't gutted him according to pattern, we 
wouldn't have been called," Mulder answered wearily 
like such facts should be clear. "Play the tape."

Harris hesitated but Mulder stood like it was 
everything he could do to keep from self-detonating. 
It was apparently a delicate balance and Harris had no 
desire to unsettle it. He hit the play button without 
comment. 

Jump-back-Jack beat. Swing horns. And Phil Collins. 
"We're two hearts, living in just one mind, we'll be 
together till the end of time--"

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Purdue squinted, "but isn't 
this song a bit recent to be one she'd associate with 
a bad childhood?"

"She's got her own repertoire now," Mulder's voice was 
distant, listening. "It's just the chorus? No verses?"

Sauceda shook his head fretfully and pulled out his 
measuring tape.

Harris shrugged. "I'm not all that familiar with the 
tune, son."

"It's just the chorus," Mulder repeated the words to 
himself, then seemed to recall there were other people 
present. "She's afraid we won't take the hint," he 
explained, finally swinging the shades in Harris' 
direction. "We got a newspaper on the premises?"

"Yeah," Harris grimaced, suddenly unable to withstand 
Mulder's scrutiny himself. "Sunday's Ohio Sun. Look, 
Mulder, I'm sorry about--"

"Where was it?" Mulder demanded, his expression 
unchanged.

"Under the tape player." 

Purdue frowned, chewing on his lip as he studied the 
profiler.

Mulder was nodding. "The whole paper or just the 
section on me?"

Harris sighed. "Well, just the section on you, 
actually--"

"Your friend Nilson must not write too well," Mulder 
smiled vacantly. "She thinks we're idiots." He 
frowned, the action not greatly affecting the 
dispassionate cast of his face. "Or maybe she's trying 
it on for size," he brooded. "Yeah. She'll go for 
subtle later."

Purdue was looking more uncomfortable by the minute. 
"Mulder, what the hell?" He waved a hand at the bed. 
"You think this was set up for your personal benefit?"

Mulder didn't answer, busy weaving his way over to the 
body. Sauceda stepped back but the profiler ignored 
him, regarding the bloodied form coldly. "She left the 
eyes," he noted.

Harris scanned the tight faces in the room. 
"Significant?"

Mulder leaned over for a closer view of the corpse. 
"She wants me to see," he explained reasonably. He 
glanced up at Purdue. "He looks a little like me, 
don't you think? Same hair color. Same build. Similar 
jobs." Mulder managed another smile; this one bordered 
on genuine.

"He's a couple inches shorter," Sauceda offered 
warily.

"He's staying in a motel," Mulder insisted. "I'm 
staying in a motel."

Harris stared down at the baggied newspaper. "Christ. 
She wanted this to be you?"

Purdue approached the foot of the bed and stared down. 
"We need to put a body guard on you, Agent?"

"No," Mulder answered hastily. "No, it's not me she's 
after." He noted Purdue's look and set his jaw. "It's 
not. Not really. But she'll escalate. She's got 
something to prove now," he explained patiently. "And 
her own personal fan club courtesy of the Ohio Sun." 
He shook his head, his voice going soft. "She's been 
manipulated all her life. Lied to and controlled. And 
she's tired of it. She's just so damned *tired* of 
it." It sounded more like a confession and Mulder's 
voice containing all the weariness in the world at 
that moment. Harris felt as if his life force had 
drained away just listening to it, that if he were not 
careful his heart might forget to beat. Purdue was 
frozen, watching Mulder's profile in fascination. The 
profiler's face behind the shades was pinched and 
hard. He removed the shades to rub at his eyes and put 
them back on without looking up. His hands were 
shaking again. 

Sauceda shifted beside him, swallowing hard. "Marty, 
how'd you know about the music?" His voice was 
guarded.

Mulder shrugged vaguely, pocketing his hands. "Maybe I 
heard it in a dream."

Sauceda grimaced at the mess that was the body on the 
bed. He grabbed Mulder's arm and a few of Harris's 
alarms went off when Mulder jerked at the contact. 

"Marty, did she do this to y--"

Mulder shook him off, his voice a soft warning. "It's 
just music, Len. Don't get bent out of shape."

Sauceda had to be tired: Mulder's response had him 
seething. "Let me explain something to you, kiddo," he 
growled. "This shit ain't exactly easy for the rest of 
us, either. These damned dreams of yours are so hot, 
why don't you just dream us up a name? Huh? Then we 
could all get home--"

Mulder's whole body shook and Harris stepped forward, 
watching the dam crack just this side of disaster.

"A name?" Mulder hissed. "I gave them a fucking name 
in Shreveport and they had you shoot me full of 
Thorazine. Put me down like a rabid dog. Just like you 
did last night." 

Purdue stepped forward, arms ready, but he didn't 
touch the young man. Mulder ignored him, intent on his 
partner. 

"You want a name now, Lenny? Sisyphus. How's that for 
a goddam name? 'Sisyphus, her sleeves rolled, ready 
now to start getting that apocalypse out of the 
cellar' while we bear up under a genocide or so." He 
smiled bitterly. "There. More poetry over dead bodies. 
Chalk that one up on the Spooky chart while you're at 
it." 

Mulder spun on his heel and promptly froze at the 
sight of Purdue so close. He got his shivering under 
control by what must have been sheer force of will. In 
a voice barely a whisper Mulder announced, "I need 
some air. And some aspirin." Purdue allowed him to 
sidestep him, watching as Mulder stalked back out into 
the sun.

The men stood quiet a minute, waiting for some of the 
tension to dissipate from the air. 

"Sorry," Sauceda shook his head at the ASAC. "Not real 
bright on my part. I'll go find him." 

Harris managed to restrain himself until the 
pathologist was out the door. "And just what the 
hell," he hissed, "do you think you're playing at 
here, Reg? You had no business bringing that man in 
here, expecting him to work a crime scene, for 
Chrissake."

Purdue set his shoulders. "He was... agitated. I 
thought if he could see it with his own eyes, it 
would-- I don't know. Calm him down. Maybe."

"Oh, well yeah," the words were bitter. "I know this 
kinda thing just soothes the hell out of *my* nerves." 
Harris held up his hand against Purdue's protest. 
"Look, I don't pretend to know how Mulder works these 
things, okay? And I don't wanna know. But he's 
obviously in trouble. And apparently we're all just 
supposed to stand around and watch him fall apart?"

"I deny him access, he'll see it as failure--"

Harris shook his head. "You just don't get it do you?" 
Purdue blinked at him. "Look, you have problems 
getting the kid off this case, fine, I'll do it for 
you. I've got a profile. He's done good work on the 
other cases I handed over, I'll write him a nice 
commendation and you take his butt home."

"I can't just--"

"Murder's not a federal jurisdiction, Reg. He's off 
the case. Dammit, take him home."

Purdue closed the distance between them, his voice a 
painful hiss. "*You* don't get it, Nat. If I take him 
home, that's just where he goes-- home. And--"

"Shit-- Would you listen to yourself? If he's so damn 
bad you don't trust him to his own supervision, then 
get him in a hospital, Reg. What the hell's wrong with 
you?"

Purdue sighed, paced two steps away and turned. 
"Patterson's used the mental health system like a 
club. I swore I wouldn't do that to him--"

"Reg, If the kid needs help--"

"But Mulder doesn't see it that way. He *won't* see it 
that way. Don't you understand?"

"Yeah. I understand. I understand you've got a hell of 
a problem. Look. I'll give you a couple of days to 
make some kind of arrangements. But as far as I'm 
concerned, Mulder's off this case. Off any case in my 
jurisdiction. For his own sake." He shook his head. 
"Hell, take him back to Quantico and let him teach--"

"Patterson'll have him back in a heartbeat. The 
Bureau's not going to let that kind of talent stagnate 
sitting on his thumbs."

"Talk to Skinner, explain the circumstances." Harris's 
eyes narrowed. "Or is he still not returning calls? 
Christ." Harris shook his head. "Then God help him, 
Reg. Because you obviously can't."

"Like hell." 

Reg's face flushed red as he passed. Harris grabbed 
his arm.

"'She's been manipulated, lied to and controlled'" He 
quoted Mulder softly and waited for Purdue to look him 
in the eye. "God Almighty, Reg," he hissed. "Just who 
the hell is he *really* profiling now? The perp or 
himself?"

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The officer that drove Mulder back to the motel 
reported that the young man was quiet during the trip 
and insisted that he was going to nap the rest of the 
day. Sauceda was skeptical but didn't bother to say 
so. He had an autopsy to do, after all, and Purdue 
surely knew the score well enough by now. 

Several hours into the dissection, however, Sauceda 
glanced up to find his partner watching through the 
window of the autopsy bay. Mulder hadn't even changed 
clothes, his hair as rumpled as his navy suit. The 
shades were gone, though. Mulder held an unopened can 
of soda in one hand; his forearm lay across the glass, 
forehead resting against it. His eyes were hollow, 
haunted. Sauceda smiled at him, Mulder didn't change 
expression but he at least seemed to take Sauceda's 
greeting as a kind of invitation. 

He entered quietly, nodding without actually looking 
Sauceda in the eye. The pathologist watched him swing 
himself up to sit on a cabinet across the room. 

Sauceda's mind was a whirl. Marty didn't often visit 
with him in morgues. In fact, Marty never visited with 
him in morgues. Marty occasionally popped round to 
spend time with a *corpse* he found particularly 
unsettling, but that was an entirely different thing. 
Sauceda shut his tape recorder off.

"Hey, kid."

"Hey." Mulder's voice was soft. He busied himself 
scanning the array of equipment on the cabinet beside 
him.

"You get some sleep?"

Mulder shook his head.

"Hell. Marty--"

"Kay called."

Sauceda swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So. So how is she?"

Mulder shrugged, still not looking at him. "I told 
here we're just in town a couple more days." Sauceda 
waited him out. "She wants to see me tonight."

Sauceda finally let out the breath he didn't realize 
he'd been holding. He grinned. "See? Told ya."

Mulder stared down at his unopened can of soda. "I 
didn't mean to hurt her, Len."

"Shit, Marty, you didn't hurt her. Didn't she tell 
you? What? You didn't believe her?"

Mulder didn't answer.

"Marty--"

"I just don't remember!"

Sauceda sighed. "Look, don't get yourself agitated, 
kid. I just need to finish up here. Almost done, then 
we'll go get something to eat. I'll tell Purdue I 
picked you up at the motel. Okay?"

Mulder nodded.

Sauceda watched him a minute before turning on the 
recorder. He didn't really have much to add to his 
report, just a few general observations but he liked 
to keep the recorder on in case something occurred to 
him. He moved from the stainless-steel table 
containing Kress' yellowed body, to the scale hanging 
beside him. He scooped up the stomach and internal 
organs hanging there and patted them down into a clear 
plastic bag. 

Across the room, Mulder began rattling a bottle of 
pills. Bag in hand, Sauceda watched as the profiler 
dumped about five too many aspirin into his palm and 
popped the top on his soda can. Mulder was in the 
process of downing both when he noticed Sauceda's 
glare. 

Mulder shrugged an apology and choked down the tablets 
before the pathologist could protest. Sauceda scowled 
as Mulder leaned his long frame against the wall above 
the cabinet and blinked at him innocently. Sauceda 
sighed. Maybe by the time they were done here the 
aspirin will have finally convinced the young man that 
his body didn't hurt anymore; Sauceda just hoped Marty 
could manage the wait quietly. Mulder in the autopsy 
room always made him nervous. He'd just never bothered 
to figure out why.

Sauceda dropped the bag into the open cavity in Kress' 
abdomen and rolled the contents around a minute, 
trying to make them fit back in the hole he'd pulled 
them from. He laid the slab of ribs back on top, 
stepping back to judge his handiwork. A few 
adjustments and he finally returned to his discussion 
with the tape machine.

"Final conclusions: no defense wounds are present on 
the hands or arms. No blood traces or skin fragments 
under the fingernails. Victim died without struggle. 
Tox screens reveal no drugs present, minimal alcohol 
levels. Death resulted almost immediately from a .22 
caliber gunshot wound entering posteriorly just below 
the aorta. Powder burns and residue indicate skin 
contact range. Victim has been gutted postmortem via a 
"V" incision beginning just below the nipples, ending 
at the bladder--"

"You know," Mulder lisped, ignoring Sauceda's flaming 
look and the gloved hand popped over the microphone. 
"When I was in university there was this guy in 
Suffolk. The constable found his body in a little 
patch of woods off the main road. He was just laying 
there, draped over a log, like he'd been sitting there 
and fell off and never got up."

Sauceda sighed impatiently. "So the guy fell off a 
log, bumped his head and died. Can I finish--"

"Nope." Mulder took another swig of his beverage, 
staring absently at the gurney. "Coroner found no 
evidence of cranial injury, no stroke, no aneurysm. No 
nothing. Just a perfectly healthy man sitting on a log 
for a week and a half."

Sauceda was squinting. "A week and a half? What? He 
just sat there 'til he died?"

Mulder's stare was intense, his voice far too 
reasonable. "Yep. Inquest ruled a suicide." 

Sauceda tried to fathom those eyes across the room. He 
had to swallow down the tension in his throat before 
he could speak. "What are you thinking about, Marty?" 
he demanded.

Mulder head shook almost imperceptibly. "Nothing."

"Well, stop thinking it," Sauceda growled.

Mulder blinked at him but didn't request 
clarification.

Sauceda swore heatedly before removing his hand from 
the mike. 

"The majority of the small intestine," he continued 
shakily, "has been excised along with the liver, 
gallbladder and ascending colon. Stomach and pancreas 
have been incised randomly but remain intact. Weight 
of the organs collected from the scene are consistent 
for an adult male of the victim's general build. No 
body parts or fragments thereof appear to be missing."

"All items present and accounted for," Mulder quipped. 
He'd waited for Len to switch the mike off but only 
just. He winked and took another swig of Sprite while 
Sauceda snapped off his gloves peevishly.

"You know, Marty, you're awfully smug considering you 
think this lady is so hot for your liver. And gall 
bladder."

"Let's not forget that ascending colon." Mulder's 
voice was tired. "She's not after me, Hot Sauce. She's 
just out to interest her new audience."

Sauceda removed his scrubs and moved to the sink, 
washing up carefully, giving the profiler time to 
inspect the body if he wanted. Mulder made no move to 
do so, however, apparently content with his post on 
the cabinet, staring vacantly at his soda can. 

Across the room, Sauceda bit his lip, watching the 
lanky form reflected in the stainless steel back 
splash of the sink. He didn't much like what he saw. 
The kid had managed to gain a few pounds since Seattle 
but they were a few too few to do him much good. 
Still, the past couple of days had been pretty quiet 
and the nights blissfully so until last night. Sauceda 
had begun to hope this Kay had been good for the kid, 
had even begun chiding himself for not hauling a woman 
in for Marty in Shreveport when they really needed 
help.

Sauceda dropped the thought and tapped on the window 
for a tech to remove the body. He hesitated a minute 
and then pulled a chair up to Mulder's counter.

"Look, Marty, I... I want to apologize for switching 
drugs on you last night--"

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head 
violently. "Don't. Don't do that. I don't want to 
think about that right now."

"But--"

"No, dammit. Look, you did what you thought you had to 
do, what you thought was best for me. Let's just leave 
it there." 

Sauceda could tell Mulder really wasn't feeling that 
generous, he probably just didn't have the snap to win 
an argument right now. And Marty didn't like to lose. 
Not to Sauceda, anyway. 

Mulder chewed his lip, considering his words. "I meant 
what I said this morning, Len. That's how I feel... 
But, hell, maybe you were right. I don't know. I 
can't-- Maybe."

"And maybe not," Sauceda conceded.

"Yeah. And maybe not."

Mulder's voice had been a little too bitter just then 
and they sat locked in silence by mutual agreement. 
Several minutes passed and Mulder began swinging his 
feet softly against the cabinet doors. Sauceda smiled. 
The kid just didn't do sitting very well.

"How are you, Marty? Really."

Mulder shrugged, staring at the wall. "I feel a lot 
better." 

Maybe it was true, but it was certainly relative. 
Sauceda didn't press it, though. He was watching the 
body being wheeled away, thinking about that incision.

"You heard the music, Marty--"

"Did I feel the knife? We're not discussing that 
either."

"Marty--"

"Screw you, Lenny," Mulder suggested wearily.

"But we never discuss this crap--"

"That's right. We don't discuss it and I don't keep 
winding up in shrink's offices for knowing too much." 
Mulder bit his lip again. "Shit."

Sauceda kept his voice soft. "Purdue wants to know how 
much of it you're not telling."

"Well, screw Purdue, too." Mulder took another swig of 
Sprite.

Sauceda rubbed the back of his neck. "Marty." There 
was no answer. "Marty. How come you told Kay not to 
tell me you were... sick?" 

"'Cause you'd have done just what you did. I don't 
like the drugs, Lenny. They do... stuff to my head." 
Mulder wasn't looking him in the eye anymore.

"You told her that I'd tell Patterson."

Mulder sat up straight, looked like he was considering 
fleeing. The knuckles were white around his soda can. 
"Is there a point to this, Len?"

Sauceda kept his tone gentle. "You were confused, 
weren't you? You didn't remember Patterson wasn't 
around anymore--"

Mulder's eyes were hollow. "I'm tired, Lenny. Just 
lemme alone. Okay?"

The admission and the plea had Sauceda blinking. 
Mulder's eyes were hollow, focused on the opposite 
wall. His jaw twitched convulsively.

"One question, Marty?"

No response.

The pathologist sighed. "So. How is it you can do this 
when the killer's a woman?" 

Mulder frowned and turned to look at him blankly. 

"You know," Sauceda nodded, "the spook stuff."

Mulder's laugh was humorless. "Jeez, Len, you're some 
piece of work. I don't even know what this crap is or 
where it comes from and you go getting your Latin 
machismo all in a wad because I'm tuning in with a 
woman. Hell, why can I tune in with men, for that 
matter?"

"Cause you are one. Same with the kids. You've been a 
kid."

Mulder shook his head, his voice sour. "You got it all 
figured out, partner, you explain it to me."

"It's just a question, Marty." Sauceda scrubbed at his 
face with both hands. "Hell, never mind."

Mulder's face was pinched. "I don't know," he said 
distantly, "maybe-- All vertebrae animals are 
essentially female, right? It just takes the addition 
of hormones at a critical stage to create the male. Of 
course, that would imply that this shit is locked in 
the genetic code..." He rolled his eyes and gave 
Sauceda a seductive wink. "Hey, maybe all that 
machismo of yours has just put me in touch with my 
feminine side."

"Sounds like this Sisyphus of yours missed a few doses 
of something when she plopped off the assembly line."

Mulder's voice was quiet again. "All the experts will 
tell you that in violence we forget who we are. She 
doesn't forget, Len. She finds."

Sauceda reached out and stilled the steadily drumming 
foot, leaving his hand resting on it. "Some of these 
wackos find their compulsion to kill fearful and 
bewildering. They want to be caught so they'll be 
stopped. Is that why she's focusing on you, Marty? 
Hoping you'll stop her?"

"She doesn't want to be stopped, Len. She wants to be 
appreciated."

Sauceda tugged gently at Mulder's shoe, asked softly, 
"So when does it get to be too much?"

"When she gets caught," Mulder shrugged. "Or when she 
says it's enough."

"No, Marty. I mean for you. When does it get to be to 
much for you?"

Mulder tried to smile, failed. "When I get caught," he 
said. "Or when I say it's enough."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 06:04:08 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 13 of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 13 of 27: Hostile Takeover

Disclaimed in Part 1.



Sunday. May 15, 1988. 10:13 PM.

Mulder woke with a start. The lights were off-- it'd 
been daylight when he'd gotten back to the motel, 
sunlight streaming brightly through the window, so he 
hadn't bothered to switch on the overhead light. Now 
the security halogens from the parking lot filtered 
through the curtains, casting the room in an unearthly 
greenish glow. Mulder checked his watch and grimaced. 
Christ, where was Kay?

He rolled off the bed and made a frantic dive for the 
phone. No messages at the front desk. Mulder tried to 
tell himself he wasn't overly surprised. It didn't 
help though. The shattered feeling in his chest was 
just too much to ignore, somehow. He slammed down the 
receiver and promptly jerked it up again. His hands 
were shaking so hard it took three times to pound in 
the number for information; sorry, sir, that number is 
unlisted. 

Mulder banged the receiver down yet again, left his 
hand on it a minute, trying to determine if there was 
another source he could call. He had any number of 
contacts in the Bureau that could get him a phone 
number-- but instinct and common sense told him the 
last thing any woman would want is a man who would use 
his badge to violate her privacy. 

Hell, maybe she'd come by and just hadn't wanted to 
wake him.... Mulder made a quick search of the room 
but found no note. His frustration and disappointment 
were instant and intense, and directed entirely at 
himself. 

The room blurred without warning. He swore heatedly, 
clawing at his eyes. Tears, unbidden and unwelcome, 
came entirely too easily for him lately and he 
despised himself for it. It was another sign that he 
was losing control. Yeah, like he needed another sign. 

She didn't work Sundays as far as he knew but he was 
instinctively drawn to the window and its view of the 
diner. Chris' sat, squat and small in the shadow of 
the Wal-Mart, lights out, empty.

Mulder grimaced and dropped his head against the cool 
pane of window. Did you say you were disappointed, 
Fox? Hell, let's translate that to what you really 
mean: you're scared shitless, terrified she won't be 
back. You fucking jerk, you'd never even asked her for 
her phone number. Been so long since you've had a 
woman put up with you more than a few hours that 
you've forgotten all the little niceties, all the 
necessary protocols. Wonderful, Fox. Just great. That 
one little oversight probably told her volumes about 
your level of interest in what mattered to her--

He peeled off his jacket and the bed caught it with an 
unsatisfying thump. His tie was close behind. He 
ruffled his hair fitfully, crossing the room on 
instinct, eyes closed against the emptiness.

Hell, the least she needs is a break. You haven't 
exactly been making her life easier by being here. 
It'd serve you right if she left your butt flat out--

His pacing had brought him to the door. He yanked it 
open, stepped out. He peered into the darkness, this 
way, that way, looking for that familiar form to come 
dancing out of the dark, that soft, confident swing of 
hips, those creamy legs, that glorious smile. The 
longing was so intense, he even sniffed for her 
perfume; reality slammed home with the bitter 
fragrance of blacktop oil and gas fumes from the 
highway. 

There was a man downstairs near the motel office, 
kneeling at the ice machine with a Kentucky Fried 
Chicken bucket. In the dim light, Fox could read the 
stained T-shirt: "Don't even ask."

He grunted. "Don't worry. I won't." 

A car honking insistently across the parking lot 
brought Mulder back to himself. It was an unsettling 
awakening. He was back inside his room, door firmly 
shut, staring out the window at Chris'. He had no 
clear remembrance of his actions or how he'd gotten 
there, no idea how long he'd stood there this time. 
Fear kept him from looking at his watch. Best to know 
only that he was terribly tired and that his left arm 
was throbbing unmercifully. Then suddenly low-grade 
headache he'd had for weeks pulled a switchblade on 
the base of his skull. Mulder gasped as the combined 
pains escalated, slamming into his frontal lobe.

He found the bed without realizing he was even looking 
for it, collapsed in a writhing ball, just trying to 
remember how to breath, forcing oxygen to his brain, 
waiting for the episode to pass. It would pass. It 
would pass. It always passed... 

And at last it did, receding as abruptly as it had 
hit. He lay quite still for some time after, hesitant 
to move, fearful any motion on his part would invite a 
repeat performance. It was a full half hour before 
Mulder could convince himself to risk a few tentative, 
rational thoughts and he was careful to keep them 
simple, calm, stripped of any emotive quality. He 
never knew just what would trigger these events, after 
all. 

He made himself some more promises, without bothering 
to reason out just how he was going to pull them off. 
It's going to be all right, Fox. You're going to get 
yourself together and then you'll make it right in the 
morning. She'll call. You'll see, she'll call. Maybe 
her mom took sick, or... something. Maybe... maybe 
she'll let you make it all up to her. Hell, she's got 
to call, she's not the type to just walk off without 
at least telling you off. If she just calls, you can 
handle it from there. You can make it right. You're 
good at that. She'll listen. You know how to make her 
listen--

It was a convincing argument when he didn't bother 
himself with details, and Mulder found he was finally 
able to stretch out on the bed without the headache 
rising to more than the dull-drone level he'd grown 
accustomed to. Something slid across the mattress and 
bumped softly into his hand: the remote control.

He stared at it a moment, punching buttons blearily 
and solely on instinct. The television complied with 
the commands and Mulder curled to his side, propping 
his throbbing head on the pillow. He got the moisture 
blinked from his eyes and dried his face with his 
shirt sleeve, resolutely oblivious to either action as 
he struggled to concentrate on the channels fleeing 
across the screen in a rapid blur. 

Ah, the marvels of modern technology: forty-seven 
channels of nothing, twenty-four hours a day. He 
settled on HBO and "The Fly." It was the damned 
remake, Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis, but Geena 
looked good enough to make even the gross-out scenes 
worthwhile. Hell, she could pull mutated hairs out of 
his bare back anytime.

The thought of small, soft hands running down his 
shoulders hit a bit too close to home, though, and 
Mulder jerked up guiltily. The movement sent the pain 
in his head escalating into the danger zone and he 
froze waiting for the inevitable neurological assault. 
The spasm retreated mercifully, however, back to 
normal levels. Mulder sighed gratefully-- carefully-- 
and switched the channel over to the safer haven of 
CNN.

The tones of "Larry King Live" followed him into the 
bathroom. Gary Hart was assuring Larry that he was 
running higher in the polls than George Bush. Larry 
didn't sound too convinced. Mulder drowned out the 
discussion with a twist of the shower control, 
allowing the water to heat up while he stripped off. 

Yeah, she'll call, he reassured himself, back to what 
really mattered in this election year. You've just got 
to pull yourself together, here, Fox. You're no good 
to her if you're falling apart...

He stepped under the warm, steady stream, closing his 
eyes against the torrent as it poured over his head. 
The simple motion triggered a wave of vertigo that 
tried to buckle his knees. Mulder held himself steady, 
hands flat against the tile, and somehow managed not 
to blackout. 

Christ. Where the hell was all this crap coming from, 
anyway? He'd slept most of the morning, spent the rest 
of the day fairly quietly: getting chauffeured from 
the crime scene, calling a taxi to haul him to the 
morgue. He'd kept lunch down, even if Lenny *did* have 
to threaten him with a mandatory physical to get him 
to eat it. He'd even managed to get out of eating 
dinner, although he'd probably have to listen to 
Sauceda bitch about it in the morning. Major 
annoyances had been kept to a minimum, though and, all 
things considered, it had been a fairly pleasant day 
as far as murder investigations go.

Mulder pushed away from the tile and back under the 
stream of the shower. The water congealed into 
steaming rivulets down his neck and shoulders, 
highlighting the tension in the muscles there. He 
flexed his arms carefully, trying to pull the pain 
loose, but the action only served to reveal further 
areas of tension. Hell. Muder had already taken to 
popping half a dozen aspirin every few hours, you'd 
think that would be enough to get rid of most any pain 
for a while anyway. You know, Fox, if you collect any 
more signs of stress, you're going to have to consider 
requesting a leave of absence, maybe even put yourself 
in for medical treatment--

Yeah, right. He'd tried that in Shreveport and they'd 
left him on the case, calling Baez in and scaring the 
shit out of him. Mulder had just one point in his 
favor in Shreveport: the results of his Rorschach 
tests were consistent with sanity. He grinned without 
joy: that must have broken Patterson's balls...

Mulder tore the paper off a fresh cake of soap, 
wrapped it in a wash cloth and began scrubbing himself 
down. The motions were automatic and vaguely 
comforting and his thoughts slipped into autopilot, 
flying where they willed. 

Lathering his chest and abdomen, Mulder thought about 
the latest victim: Officer Kress, gutted in his own 
motel room, his badge on the dresser.

Yeah. Right where you leave yours usually... Well. Is 
that the problem, Fox? You wondering when she'll come 
for you? When it'll be your guts being ripped out and 
plopped on the floor?

Mulder forced himself to think about it, brutalized 
his frontal lobe into analyzing the photos stored away 
in that filing cabinet of a mind, gauging his 
reactions clinically. There was no aching in his chest 
at the thought, though, no change in his heart rate. 
His balls hadn't taken a dive for his abdomen. Nothing 
he would label as fear.

Well, maybe *that* was the problem, then. After all, 
any rational man would be afraid. Because at some 
point, somewhere, Fox Mulder would be on this woman's 
list of things to do. He had lied to Purdue on that 
count. Well, not lied, really. He wasn't on the list 
yet after all. And he did intend to catch her ASAP--

The water was noticeably colder and he searched the 
washcloth suspiciously, flinging it at the far end of 
the tub when he found only a small sliver of soap 
remaining. He dove under the showerhead to rinse 
before the hot water failed entirely. "Shit, Fox," he 
hissed. Losing track of time, standing in the shower 
half the night-- What's wrong with you anyway? It's 
not like this is a sexual molestation case. Kress had 
been nude but it's not like there was any evidence of-
-

Kress had been the only victim nude. Mulder froze, 
evaluating the thought. The others had been partially 
undressed, the clothing pulled back for the benefit of 
the blade but Kress, Kress had been robbed of all 
dignity, his clothes flung in the corner, stained with 
blood and gun powder. 

And Kress looked like you, Fox. A couple inches 
shorter, maybe. A couple of pounds heavier. A little 
thicker through the chest... She's coming onto you, 
sir, being coy and seductive. What's that you'd said 
about her getting 'round to subtle later? Well, well, 
Fox. It's later than you think.

The thought soured in his stomach. And was 
disturbingly intriguing. Mulder grimaced, shutting the 
water off. Sauceda was right: he was becoming as 
twisted as the perps he hunted.

Mulder toweled himself dry, resisting the shiver that 
took him suddenly. Strange. He could swear he wasn't 
cold... 

He found his robe hanging on the back of the bathroom 
door and slipped it on. The trembling stopped 
abruptly. The terry fabric still smelled like Kay: 
Heaven Scent and Sassoon shampoo. He smiled, pulling 
the robe close as he climbed into the bed.

He would locate her in the morning, no more waiting 
for her to come to him. He was a Federal agent, after 
all, trained for manhunting. Besides, he'd heard that 
a certain amount of groveling was good for the soul...

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Monday. May 16, 2:07 AM.

"Fox! Help me, Fox!"

"Samantha--!"

The sound of his own cry woke him even as he groped 
the darkness seeking Samantha, reaching out to calm 
his sister's fear.

He was alone. The fact had long ceased to amaze him-- 
he always woke from that dream alone. Always woke 
sweating and shaking with the pain of uncertain 
horror, and certain loss. He gulped air rapidly, 
struggling to reorient himself, to dismiss the dream, 
convince himself it didn't matter.  

But it did matter. His dreams of Sam had never 
involved blood before and he'd never woke from them 
with this kind of pain radiating through his chest and 
down both arms. Something was wrong. Something had to 
be wrong. 

Mulder'd had the same dream for so many years now that 
he could no longer recall if he'd even lived the 
events-- or if he'd simply dreamed the events so 
often-- so vividly-- that they had become reality to 
him. He was unwilling to decide upon the truth, 
however. If the dream was just a dream it was surely 
the reflection of impending madness. If it was a 
reflection of reality and the events were real-- 

Mulder never allowed himself to finish that thought. 
It was impossible. He didn't want to believe.

Mulder dropped back to the sheets and flung his arm 
over his face, shielding himself from the twilight of 
this room that was not his own, this empty bedroom 
that was too much like his own. He thought of the Sam 
in this dream: bathed in unearthly light, her gown 
glowing red, blood red and bleeding more even as she 
called for him. And he couldn't reach her. He could 
never reach her--

His chest constricted with the memory and he gagged, 
made it to the toilet only just in time. There were 
tiny streaks of blood in the bowl when he was done. He 
stared at the sight a long minute, his mind a whirl of 
too many thoughts. Without coming to any conscious 
conclusions, Mulder flushed the evidence away and 
moved to the sink to rinse his mouth. His own image 
stared out of the mirror at him, accusingly. There 
were dark rings under the eyes, a shadowing under the 
cheekbones that he hadn't noticed when he'd shaved 
yesterday. His irises had disappeared entirely, his 
pupils fully dilated even in the bright mirror lights.

What he needed most, he decided, was sleep. Even if 
just to fight the depression. Truthfully, he needed a 
lot of things, but right now he'd settle for sleep... 
Jeezus, if only Kay were here...

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

2:23 AM.

Sauceda opened his door blearily, and let Mulder in. 
He opened his mouth to ask, "You on your own tonight, 
Marty?" but closed it before the words formed. Mulder 
was fiercely private on some subjects. Besides, if Kay 
had been a no-show, there was no use embarrassing the 
kid. Or hurting him.

He settled for telling Mulder he looked like hell. 
Mulder thanked him, then just stood there, hesitantly. 
Sauceda frowned.

"We expecting another body in the morning, Marty?"

Mulder shook his head. "No, this is... It's personal." 
He said it quickly, his face closed and the 
pathologist didn't press it. No one got through the 
shield when it went up that tight and even at this 
ungodly hour, Sauceda knew better than to try.

Sauceda tucked his hands in his robe. Even in T-shirt 
and jeans, Mulder could manage to make him feel 
underdressed. "What can I do you for, then, kiddo?"

Mulder grimaced. "You got anymore of those sedatives 
Baez prescribed?"

Sauceda concentrated on keeping his breathing even. He 
knew how Marty felt about taking drugs of any kind. No 
way this was a simple request for him and Mulder 
refused to meet his eyes, suddenly interested in the 
weave of the carpet.

Sauceda tried to not make a big deal of locating the 
capsules in the bottom of his bag. He kept his 
conversation light and his expression neutral even 
when Mulder's hand shook when he held it out for the 
pill. Even when Mulder spilled the glass of water for 
the other hand shaking so hard.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

8:23 AM.

Mulder woke with James Wright echoing through his 
drugged fog:

"The moon drops one or two feathers into the field.
The dark wheat listens.
Be still.
Now.
There they are, the moon's young, trying
Their wings.
Between trees, a slender woman lifts up the lovely 
shadow
Of her face, and now she steps into the air, 
now she is gone
Wholly into the air.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe
Or move.
I listen.
The wheat leans back toward its own darkness,
And I lean toward mine."

He lay a long while, leaning back toward the darkness 
without really entering it, waiting for his head to 
clear, the fog to lift and the nausea to ease. He 
recalled vague dreams of Sam and blood. Something 
about Kay. And more blood. None of it was clear, 
though, just snatches of snapshots, blurred by the 
Secobarbital haze. He finally gave it up. And wished 
it would give him up.

The shower helped. At least the nausea had dissipated 
and he managed to get dressed without incident. That 
was important. Mulder was a master of presentation; it 
was the first rule of Faking It: look good and they 
invariably assumed you felt good, and then you avoided 
all those difficult questions...

From habit, he crossed to the window while he knotted 
his tie. Kay wouldn't be at work yet, of course, but 
he'd come to find the view oddly comforting anyway.

He paused in mid-step. Odd. There was a bigger crowd 
than usual in front of Chris'. A dozen police units. 
Harris' Ford. 

The coroner's Buick.

Mulder didn't remember the numbed walk across the 
parking lot. Only knew that suddenly he was there, 
flashing his badge on instinct, reaching for the door 
with it's "Closed" sign. Most of the activity appeared 
to be centered behind the soda counter. 

Purdue blocked him before he was halfway across the 
room.

"Step back, Agent."

"No--" Mulder's voice was muffled in his own ears, as 
if traveling from a great distance; he studied the 
commotion over the ASAC's shoulder, the wisp of dark, 
blood crusted hair curling on the floor, just visible 
beyond the corner of the counter. Purdue was speaking 
but none of it registered. Nothing registered but that 
soft brunette tress...

Purdue raised his voice, trying to be heard above the 
roar in Mulder's head.

"Mulder, you're not coming in on this--"

The young man moved to push past and Purdue wrapped 
his arms around Mulder's chest and arms in a tackle 
posture and half-carried, half-dragged him back to the 
door. Mulder was too numb to struggle; he stared at 
the ASAC blankly and Purdue released him, still 
keeping himself resolutely between the profiler and 
the body behind the counter. Harris was there, too, 
suddenly, and took an uneasy stand behind Purdue.

"You're not getting in on this one, Mulder. That's an 
order." Purdue's voice softened, his eyes dark. "I'll 
give you a report later, son." He licked his lips. 
"Come on. Let's step outside."

"No." The word sounded too weak and ineffectual to 
adequately convey much, but right now, it was the only 
word Mulder found he knew.

Sauceda's eyes over the counter were large and round 
and pained. Sauceda turned away guiltily from his 
partner's gaze.

Purdue had a solid grip on Mulder's right arm. 
"Outside," he insisted softly.

Mulder didn't resist; he simply didn't move, didn't 
allow himself to be moved. *No. No. No. No--*

"Don't do this to yourself, Mulder," Purdue whispered 
at his ear. "Let us handle it. It's too close, son. 
Let's step outside."

Sauceda was suddenly close at hand now, taking his 
other arm. "This what you saw last night, Marty? When 
you asked for the pill?"

Mulder muttered something, he didn't know what. 
Something about being too close to see... He closed 
his eyes, searched his short-term memory for some 
snatch of the dream. The blood. Sam. But Sam hadn't 
bled when they'd stolen her away from him. Kay did 
though. Beautiful Kay with the smiling eyes. 

He realized he was still speaking, couldn't comprehend 
his words, couldn't snatch them back. He forced 
himself to open his eyes, forced himself to focus, bit 
his tongue until he drew blood and used the pain and 
salty anger to bring his mind forward. He owed it to 
Kay.

*Sweet God. Kay.*

"Where is it?" His voice was harsh, vision boring into 
Sauceda, the weaker of the two links which held him. 
Purdue swore as Sauceda handed him the sheet of paper, 
tagged within its baggie. Mulder took it and read.

It was John Ashbery. From the book laying beside his 
bed a parking lot away...

"...you forget the direction you're taking.
Suddenly you are interested in some new thing
And can't tell how you got here. Then there is 
confusion
Even out of happiness, like smoke--
It's anybody's story,
A sentimental journey--'gonna take a sentimental 
journey,'
And we do, but you wake up under the table of a dream:
You are that dream, and it is the seventh layer of 
you.
We haven't moved an inch and everything has changed."

Mulder heard a soft voice: "See you tonight?" Heard 
his own voice: "It's a date." He felt Sauceda watching 
him. Purdue, watching him. Harris. But they were so 
far away. And Sisyphus was so close, so stiflingly 
close. He forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Again. 
The room was very dark suddenly and there was a rush 
of movement, then searing light.

He blinked, realized he was outside now. And the hands 
on his arms were holding him up. He tried to help 
them, managed a good imitation of a man standing, 
confident he could maintain it if no one let go.

The motel stared at him across the parking lot, cheap 
and gritty in the morning sun. Someone's horn was 
broke at the Wal-Mart. There was a tight pain in his 
left arm that had nothing to do with Sauceda's grip.

"It's to you, isn't it?"

Mulder took a moment to register the question, took 
another to seek out the questioner. Purdue's face was 
masked; Mulder didn't bother to nod. The ASAC spoke 
across his chest to the pathologist.

"Get him back to the motel and keep him there."

"No--" Mulder heard the moan, didn't recognize his own 
voice.

Purdue swung back to him, his face cold and the young 
man flinched involuntarily. The eyes regarding him 
gentled and Mulder's stomach turned. He tried to 
freeze his face into SOB mode, tried to find some way 
to blow Purdue off. He tried desperately to think of 
something, anything to prove he wasn't worth the pity, 
to force a distance between himself and all 
approaches. There had to be some way to convince these 
men that he could handle the unimaginable horror 
behind the counter, that he could touch just once more 
the pale, soft arms that had held him just the morning 
before--

He could think of nothing. Only one word would come 
and he cringed as he said it. 

"Please."

Purdue pushed Sauceda away, took both Mulder's arms, 
squeezing them, trying to draw him back to conscious 
recognition of his words.

"Mulder. You cannot be objective on this one. You know 
that. You need distance to operate--"

"There's never been any distance," Mulder whispered, 
closing his eyes against the intensity of Purdue's 
face, against the morning sun reflecting off the Buick 
beside him. "There's never been any distance. Not on 
any of them. From the first one, the first set of 
photos, they're walking around in my head. All of 
them. Every case--"

"Dammit, Mulder, look at me." 

Mulder obeyed. 

"The killer's gone after someone you know," Purdue 
hissed. "Left you a note. It's personal. She want's 
your attention--"

"She's got it," he hissed. He struggled resentfully 
against the arms that held him, and Purdue spun him 
around and slammed him back against the Buick.

"What happens the next time she thinks she's not got 
enough of your attention?" Purdue demanded. "Who's 
next on her list, Mulder? Sauceda? Me? Goddamit, 
think! I need you rational right now." He shook his 
head mournfully. "*You* need you rational right now."

Mulder stopped struggling and Purdue pushed verbally 
while he still held some leverage. "Listen to me, 
Mulder. Maybe she decides she wants all of it and you 
open your door to a pretty little thing with a .22 in 
her purse. Now that may be okay with you, but I'm not 
letting you off the payroll that easily. You're going 
back to the motel and you're going to pack your butt 
back to Washington. Today. Right now."

Harris' voice behind him was a point of calm in the 
maelstrom: "I'll assign a guard detail till he's on 
the plane."

And just like that. Mulder finally comprehended: they 
weren't going to let him see her. Not even a glimpse 
around the counter.

She lay on the floor where she'd stood on tiptoe to 
kiss him. And they wouldn't even let him see her.

He felt a door close inside his soul. A light went 
out, something precious shut away forever. And he was 
left with only with the eclipse as his life passed 
into sudden total darkness.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX


Monday. May 16, 1988, 11:22 AM. 

Mulder only vaguely comprehended the drive to the 
airport. He remembered coming to and finding himself 
back on his bed at the motel, his suitcase lying next 
to him, Lenny on the phone. Since then, Mulder had 
been functioning solely on automatic: Lenny told him 
to sit and he sat; Lenny told him to walk, and he put 
one foot before the other, repeating the process dully 
until told otherwise. 

The ease with which he fell into this arrangement 
surprised him. All his life Mulder had suffered from 
an unfounded paranoia, the deep-seated sensation that 
he was being maneuvered, controlled somehow. Absurd as 
it was, he'd never been able to shake it and finally 
came to credit this fear to either some kind of 
chemical imbalance or-- worse-- an inherent tendency 
to madness. He raged against it, this certainty that 
things were not what they seemed and the equal 
certainty that such anxieties had no basis in reality. 
But because of it, he had rarely followed easily. 

He was finding this new procedure, however-- Lenny's 
monosyllabic commands, his own ready compliance-- 
rather intriguing. The set-up required little thought 
and no emotional response whatsoever. Still, he 
couldn't help but feel vaguely uncomfortable, like a 
man driving into a darkened tunnel and hearing the 
distant whistle of a train. Only, just now, it 
wouldn't have occurred to him to turn around.

Besides, through his window in the back of the Chevy, 
there was no visible tunnel. Instead, Wheeling and its 
environs sped past, a blur of channels with no 
personal significance, demanding no response, evoking 
none. Even the voices of Purdue and Sauceda, bickering 
in the front seat, were muffled as if traveling to him 
through a great depth of water. It reminded him of his 
childhood: his parents' constant conflicts muted and 
distorted by walls, doors, and his own adolescent 
innocence. Except now, the emotional trauma was 
blissfully absent.

Mulder's upper arm throbbed petulantly and he rubbed 
at it, finding the telltale knot left by one of 
Sauceda's less diplomatic needles. Mulder didn't 
remember the injection nor did he much care. He just 
knew he didn't hurt anymore; this was surely a 
marvelous enough thing and Hot Sauce could be forgiven 
his small treasons. 

The images out the window slowed and then turned, 
focusing suddenly on the Wheeling-Ohio County Airport 
which had greeted him just-- was it only a week ago? 
Lenny was speaking again, tugging at his arm from the 
open car door. Mulder obliged, grateful that Lenny was 
there to help him keep things straight, there to help 
him out of the car. It was good to have friends. 
Mulder spoke the words aloud. Sauceda blinked at him 
like it was the revelation of angels.

Purdue escorted them into the complex, waiting with 
Mulder while Sauceda disappeared to tend to luggage 
and whatnot. He kept asking questions Mulder couldn't 
quite comprehend; the roar in his head had apparently 
deafened him to all but the simplest sentences. Still, 
it seemed important that he answer, so each time 
Purdue paused, Mulder shook his head or nodded. Either 
action was entirely random, but at least he had a 
fifty-percent chance of being right. And he must have 
done pretty well because after a bit, Purdue patted a 
fresh pack of cigarettes into his jacket pocket and 
told him everything was going to be okay now. Mulder 
was relieved to hear it.

Sauceda was back and it was time to walk some more. 
Purdue led them through the terminal, flashing badges 
and such. Mulder presented his badge, discreetly 
revealing the weapon on his hip to the gate attendant, 
behavior as routine now as tying his shoes. This time 
he must have screwed up the procedure, however; 
Sauceda and Purdue were back hissing at one another 
almost immediately. Mulder's forlorn look silenced 
them both. Lenny sighed and told him to get the hell 
on the plane. 

They were taxi-ing down the runway before Mulder 
realized that Purdue hadn't joined them. Sauceda 
didn't volunteer any explanations and, comfortable in 
his reclined seat, Mulder didn't inquire. The window 
beside him was misted with rain, the view outside 
dispassionate as a Monet landscape, color bleeding 
into color with few distinct lines. Between Sauceda's 
uncharacteristic silence, the patter of rain and 
resonate hum of engines, Mulder finally relinquished 
control, content at last to surrender to oblivion. 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

They were circling Dulles when he woke. By that point 
Mulder was no longer stoned but he sat quietly, his 
lids heavy and half-closed as the announcements of 
final approach echoed from the intercom. Sauceda 
wasn't fooled by the dazed look, however, and 
commenced his usual chatter. He'd made plans, he said, 
and Mulder would be spending the night at *his* place 
and, my, wouldn't Imelda be excited. Et cetera, et 
cetera, et cetera. 

Mulder didn't respond, busy weighing his options. 
Sauceda could be a cagey old cuss when he wanted: 
overt resistance would have him force-feeding Mulder 
Valium and hauling him home to Georgetown despite all 
protest. Sauceda'd pulled that trick before, after 
all-- in Newark, the first time Patterson had employed 
the drugs against him. All Sauceda needed was for 
Mulder to make a scene: he'd flash his badge, declare 
"psychotic episode" and airport security would be on 
Mulder in a heartbeat. Sauceda'd probably prepared the 
syringe before they left Wheeling. Mulder had no 
delusions about his position-- or his partner's 
determination on some subjects. 

Sauceda's reflection in the window was watching him 
now, frowning. After a minute, Sauceda leaned across 
him, fumbling for Mulder's seat restraint. "Here, kid, 
let's get you buckled in, 'kay?"

Mulder pushed him back, his voice mild. "Not in 
public, Len, people will talk." He struggled to sit 
upright and tried working the buckle himself. His 
fingers were numb, though, and it took a few tries to 
get it right.

Sauceda smiled uncertainly. "So. How you feeling, 
Marty? You sleep okay?"

"I had a choice?" 

"Now, Marty--"

"Look, Len. We're not doing this, okay?" Mulder's 
voice was as diplomatic and reasonable as he could 
make it, "I'm going home. I haven't been there in a 
week. I'm tired, I'm fed up and I just need some time 
to myself. And that's it."

He could have saved his breath, Sauceda was not taking 
*no* for an answer and Mulder's calculated silence had 
him swearing brutally in no time. When Mulder bothered 
to respond, he kept his tone calm and disinterested, 
infuriating Sauceda even more-- which, of course, was 
the whole point. Lenny was tired and Mulder knew he 
shouldn't be doing this but what could he say? 
Sometimes self-preservation was a bitch. 

Several minutes into Sauceda's diatribe, a wide-eyed 
flight attendant was sent to Mulder's rescue. She 
insisted Sauceda calm down for the sake of the other 
passengers and to watch his language. Still, Lenny 
wasn't having it. Mulder, the obstinate catalyst for 
all this commotion, smiled languidly from his window 
seat, genuinely appreciative. The woman's answering 
smile said that surely this is the gentlest of men, 
born innocent of both violence and original sin. She 
glared at Sauceda and made her way to the forward 
cabin with the air of a woman with something to 
report. 

Sauceda caught on at last and let loose with another 
string of profanity. He kept his voice down this time, 
though, regaining his composure as he jerked his seat 
belt tighter. He had to get his hands busy doing 
something, apparently. Anything to keep from knocking 
the shit out of his partner and getting himself 
arrested. 

"You *are* going home with me, you little piss-ant 
punk," he hissed. "And you damned well better *like* 
it, too."

Mulder didn't answer.

"Goddammit, you are. And that's final. You're in no 
condition--"

"I'm fine, Len. Real--"

Sauceda twisted in his seat. "God is my witness, one 
of these days, someone's gonna 'I'm-fine-really' you 
to death and I'm gonna be laughing my ass off." He 
looked like he wanted to spit, both hands clenched 
tight into his armrests. "You're not 'fine-really.' 
Mentally and emotionally you're about *this* far from 
loony-tune land, and you know it, you little shit."

"I damned well *am* fine. Or I will be as soon as I 
get home and out from under your goddam thumb." Mulder 
gritted his teeth, careful to maintain his veneer of 
composure. "You know, you seem to keep forgetting that 
*I'm* the psychologist in this team." 

"Uh huh," Sauceda glared doggedly. "And that means 
what, exactly? That you can explain why psychologists 
have one of the highest suicide rates in America?"

"Is that why you're hauling ass back to DC with me, 
instead of doing your fucking job and working up an 
autopsy?" Mulder's voice shook ominously and he turned 
away again to the window, deliberately shutting his 
mind away from images of bodies and blood and that 
brunette tress... 

It took a few minutes to steady the erratic hammering 
in his chest; he finally became aware of a light 
pressure on his arm. He looked down to find Sauceda's 
hand, comforting, reassuring, curled around his wrist. 
He flinched it off. 

"Of course," he mused soberly, "you shared that bit of 
dubious statistical trivia with Purdue?" 

"Damned straight I did."

Sauceda was blinking rapidly. Mulder couldn't 
determine if the grimace on the man's face was triumph 
or pain. It didn't much matter, he supposed. Mulder's 
emotional armor still held; as long as he could keep 
it that way, he'd win. And for some reason, he 
desperately needed a win right now. 

"It's not happening, Lenny," he assured coolly. "I'm 
not going home with you. End of discussion."

Sauceda glowered. He looked desperate, his cheeks 
flushed with mental effort. "The hell you're not," he 
growled finally. "I have a gun, you know."

The threat brought Mulder up short for all of three 
seconds. "So have I," he noted slowly. "Is that what 
you and Purdue were arguing about at the airport?"

Sauceda blanched, his hostility draining away with his 
color. "I stood up for you, Marty. I didn't let him 
pull your gun or your badge. You owe me." 

"I'll send you an FTD bouquet." 

Sauceda flinched like he'd been slapped. Mulder turned 
away, completely unable to look him in the eye 
suddenly. 

"Ah, come on, Marty," Sauceda moaned his despair, "I 
called Imelda hours ago, she's expecting you." He 
rubbed his face wearily when Mulder failed to respond. 
"She's gonna be *real* disappointed if you don't show-
-"

They disembarked with Mulder enduring a barrage of 
emotional blackmail. Sauceda, however, found himself 
playing a one-sided game of tug of war-- with Mulder 
flatly refusing to pick up his end of the rope. Caught 
up in the details of luggage retrieval and the 
navigation of crowded terminals, Lenny finally calmed 
a bit. Mulder warily agreed to share a cab but he had 
no illusions that the truce was anything but 
temporary.

Sauceda insisted that the driver start the car while 
the two men loaded their own luggage. Nothing unusual 
for the penny-pinching pathologist-- keeping the tip 
to a minimum was Sauceda's credo. But when Lenny 
tossed his once precious suitcase into the trunk and 
sprinted for the backseat like a man fleeing a fire, 
Mulder shook his head wearily. He plopped into his 
seat in time to catch the tail end of Sauceda's 
bargain: a twenty-dollar tip if the driver drove 
straight to Lenny's home and refused to drive his 
partner any further. 

Sauceda smiled up at him innocently-- until Mulder 
waved a fifty over the seat. The driver's grin 
couldn't have gotten much bigger-- just his luck to 
have picked up two extravagant loons. Sauceda pushed 
himself into his corner to sulk. Mulder didn't bother 
to interrupt him.

In the silence of the drive Mulder found himself 
shuffling through the same aimless ramblings he'd been 
meditating on for months now: the unnecessary savagery 
of life, the treacherous nature of sanity. Bandaged 
fist pressed to his mouth, elbow on the door, he 
wondered why he didn't simply give this all up, just 
surrender and walk away. He'd thought about it often 
enough and God knew no one would care. And the problem 
was, no one *would* care. The only person Mulder would 
have walked away for was three hundred miles away now, 
lying on a stainless steel tray. 

Mulder dropped his head against the window. Christ 
Almighty. He didn't want to think about Kay like that, 
cold as ice, probed and prodded by the gloved hands of 
strangers. At least if Sauceda had stayed, it would-- 

No. He shook his head rapidly, rolling his forehead 
against the glass. Lenny or a stranger. It made no 
difference. Not for her. Not for him. Nothing would 
ever be the same again. Nothing would ever be right. 
Mulder wished they'd at least let him see the 
histamine test-- he'd know then if she suffered or if 
her death had at least been quick--

He marveled that his mind could even form such 
thoughts without his heart exploding. There was a 
pressure in his chest, certainly, a sensation of a 
fist tightening around the cardiac muscle. But 
otherwise a great emptiness pervaded his being. Even 
his weariness was distant, like a coat borrowed from a 
stranger, held out of courtesy until called for. 
Emotionally, he was a wasteland: a barren sea of ash, 
the benign face of a dormant volcano. Mount Saint 
Helens came to mind.

In the quiet of the car, with Sauceda notably mute, 
Mulder searched for some remnant of the pain that had 
threatened to erupt and engulf him on the plane. This, 
however, had bubbled quietly back below the surface as 
well, and there was no way he could blame it on the 
pharmacokinetics of Valium. The psychologist in him 
knew that he should find this oppressive numbness 
disturbing, another symptom of depression to add to 
his formidable collection, but he just couldn't manage 
to care. 

Beside him, Sauceda's voice was solemn. "Whatcha 
thinkin' about, Marty?"

Mulder shook his head. "Nothing."

"No, kid. Seriously."

"Seriously, Len. I'm thinking about Nothing."

Sauceda let it go and Mulder was granted a few more 
miles of silence. 

"Marty?"

"Yeah, Len."

"How about you just have supper with us? You gotta 
eat, you know."

"I'm not hungry, Len."

"But--"

"And if I go and don't eat, Imelda'll get all hurt 
about it and I don't want that, either."

"That's okay, Marty, she'll understand--"

"No!" Mulder scrubbed at his face wearily. "Hell, Len, 
I just want to sleep in my own bed. That's all." He 
forced himself to look his partner in the eye. "If I 
get in any trouble, or if I feel the need to talk, 
I'll call. I owe you, remember? Len, I swear, I'm not 
going to do anything to myself."

It took a long minute for Sauceda to nod and he chewed 
his lip as he did so. It obviously wasn't okay. Mulder 
resigned himself to being granted two or three hours 
to himself, four at the outside, before Sauceda showed 
up at his doorstep, ready to spend the night. Sauceda 
said nothing further, though, and seemed almost 
grateful when the cab finally stopped to let him out. 
Mulder couldn't blame him. Sauceda was a good old man. 
Most days he deserved a hell of a lot better than 
Marty Mulder. 

Sauceda turned before closing his door, bending low to 
peer back into the car, trying to see Mulder clearly. 
The profiler sighed, steeling himself for the last of 
the argument. Considering the outcome was already 
determined, he could afford to be patient.

Over Sauceda's shoulder, he could see Imelda, raven-
haired, exquisite even at sixty, standing on the stoop 
of the porch. She waved at him-- a sincere, welcoming 
gesture extended to a near stranger, a man who went 
out of his way to give her husband so much hell. Her 
smile was genuine and Mulder felt his heart clinch 
against the glow in her eyes, the joy, the 
unaccountable willingness to give even a small part of 
herself away for the sake of her husband. God in 
heaven. To have found a woman like that, with a smile 
like that-- A woman to spend your life with, to grow 
old with. To-- 

Mulder choked down bile. Surely God was the source of 
all evil, to put such glorious beings in the world and 
then snatch them away with savage hands--

Imelda's smile turned uncertain, apparently discerning 
Mulder's distress even with the distance across the 
yard. He managed a grimace and about half a wave 
before retreating to his corner, eyes resolutely 
forward, too full of moisture to even see out the 
windshield. He felt Sauceda shifting uneasily. 

"Marty, are you sure--"

"Christ, Len--" Mulder moaned, then caught himself, 
trying for a softer tone, still not looking directly 
at his partner. "Go on, Hot Sauce, enjoy your family." 
He shrugged. "I-- just need some time to myself right 
now. And hey, I'll see you in the morning, right?"

He felt the older man lean into the car a few more 
inches, peering at him. "You'll come over for 
breakfast then?"

God, he was tired of talking, why did Lenny insist 
that he keep talking-- "No, Len, I'll see you at the 
office--"

"Uhuh, kid. No office." 

Mulder turned. Sauceda was frowning intently. 

"Purdue's put you on five days mandatory leave of 
absence." Mulder opened his mouth and Sauceda cut him 
short. "It's not negotiable, Marty. It's already been 
filed. He faxed it to Skinner this morning." Sauceda's 
voice softened uneasily. "You want time, kid, he's 
giving it to you."

Mulder blinked, considering the cast of his partner's 
eye. Sauceda held his gaze with an effort, that much 
was obvious, but he didn't look away.

Mulder responded at last, his voice quiet. "You want 
my gun, Len?"

Sauceda gulped too much oxygen with the question; he 
recovered well though, eyes still level and Mulder 
could almost see the gears turning behind them. 
Sauceda's fist clenched and unclenched nervously, 
anxious, obviously, to claim the cold metal of the 
Sig. He was a long time reaching his decision, every 
tormented thought etched across his face. Finally, he 
shoved his hand in his pocket.

"No, Marty," he nodded even as he choked on the words. 
"I don't need to take it. I know that."

Mulder clamped his jaw tight and turned away to his 
window. His own decision took brief seconds. When he 
turned back, Sauceda was looking over his shoulder 
mouthing some silent comfort to Imelda. Mulder pulled 
his weapon.

"Len?"

"Yeah, kid--" Sauceda leaned back in then froze at the 
sight of the Sig, magazine ejected, laying benignly in 
the young man's palm.

"Here," Mulder said simply, possibly the most 
difficult word he'd formed in months.

Sauceda's chin trembled. His knees didn't look too 
stable either. He leaned farther in to the car but 
made no move to receive the weapon. "No, Marty, I--"

"Yes." Mulder bobbed his hand to emphasize the gift 
upon it. "I want you to have it, Len." He actually 
managed a shrug. "If nothing else, it'll keep Purdue 
off your ass."

Sauceda waited a long minute and Mulder endured his 
penetrating gaze stoically. The pathologist's hand 
trembled when he finally reached for the weapon. He 
wrapped his fingers around it, letting the fingertips 
pass gently over Mulder's palm as he did so. The 
stroke conveyed comfort, trust-- regret. Mulder pulled 
away, wincing regrets of his own as he shoved his hand 
to his chest, wrapping it in the warmth of his jacket. 
His fingers were numb, as cold as the metal they had 
surrendered.

"I'll just hold it for you, Marty," Sauceda whispered, 
then cleared his throat and tried for a more flippant 
tone. "You just let me know when you want it, okay? 
Just let me know. 'Cause, I ain't gonna break my back 
toting an arsenal for the both of us, you know?"

Mulder nodded but kept his eyes resolutely forward. He 
had no energy left for the conversation, no witty 
comebacks, no further reassurances to offer. 

Sauceda's door was a long time in closing, but even 
then Mulder didn't shift position, didn't break the 
tightly controlled rhythm of his breathing. He was too 
busy concentrating as the cab pulled away. It took 
everything he had not to look back, not to turn his 
head and watch the happy reunion on the porch as it 
receded silently in the distance beyond his tunnel.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 14B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 06:04:21 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 14B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 14B of 27: 


4:14 PM. 2630 Hegal Place, Alexandria, VA.

The driver misunderstood his directions and let Mulder 
out on the curb at the back of his building. Mulder 
collected his bag and paid the fare without comment. 

The walk in took him across the parking lot. His red 
Monte Carlo, sporting a fine coat of dust, was still 
in its space next to the trash dumpster, none the 
worse for the down time, apparently. Mulder would have 
to remember to run it a while, keep the battery 
charged. Maybe he'd just take the time off without 
bitching about it this time, take a real vacation and 
drive up the coast, visit with his dad. He had friends 
in Boston he hadn't seen in a while, too. It would do 
him good to get out, go away to someplace where no one 
knew what he did and know one would question how he 
felt. Live like a normal human being again. Mulder 
speculated on the idea without actually imagining 
himself doing it, though; he just had no heart left 
for life. Sauceda had taken it all away when he'd laid 
the sheet across Kay's face--

Mulder gasped at the sudden roar in his chest, the 
sickening kicked-in-the-balls agony that echoed 
through his larynx and squeezed off his air supply. He 
stumbled, slammed into the side of the trash bin, 
managing to knock the rest of his breath out in the 
process.

His vision pulsed white hot, nausea burning from his 
lower intestines to his sinus cavities but he held 
quite still, waiting it all out, gulping air, clinging 
to the dumpster until his legs were reasonably stable. 
His headache was back with a vengeance but this time 
it seemed focused rather oddly around his right eye. A 
second's not-so-gentle probing located the source: an 
inch-long cut along his right cheek that was bleeding 
with comic ferocity. Still, the roaring in his chest 
had subsided to a dull ache and his hearing seemed to 
have been restored-- that's when he heard the muffled 
squeak.

It was accompanied by a frantic scratching-- and 
coming from the dumpster. Mulder held his breath a 
moment, fingers still unconsciously palpitating his 
cheekbone. Able to resist any temptation but 
curiosity, he took a quick look around. That would be 
all he'd need, after all: his neighbors reporting him 
to the super as some kind of pervert with a trash 
fetish. The coast clear, he poked his head over the 
lip of the trash bin.

Nothing. The squeaking and scratching had abated as 
well. Well, hell. Mulder reached in, tugging gingerly 
at bits of debris and the unseen creature exploded 
with a squeal of terror. Mulder jumped back, heart 
pounding but neither the squealing nor the scratching 
subsided this time. He chanced a second look sans 
hands. 

It was a kitten. Scrambling free of the trash, it was 
old enough to have both eyes and ears open but 
probably wasn't fully weaned yet, so filthy little 
else could be distinguished except that its eyes were 
piercing green. Those eyes stared wildly into Mulder's 
own, a flurry of filthy fuzz and gaping maw squealing 
like his life depended on it.

The little guy was right, Mulder admitted. It probably 
did. Hell, this was just great. What was he going to 
do with a cat? He didn't want the damned thing. Still, 
it wasn't like he could leave it here to die, either. 
Mulder swore-- and reached dutifully into the bin, 
wriggling welcoming fingers toward the mewling mass of 
fur.

"Here, kitty-kitty," he sang softly. "Come home with 
me and I'll take good care of you, okay?" That sounded 
suspiciously like a line he'd used in a bar once. Come 
to think of it, it had worked, too.

And it was working again: the kitten didn't resist. In 
fact, it dug its claws into the arm of Mulder's jacket 
and clung for dear life. Mulder winced, trying to 
disentangle himself and avoid further injury for 
either of them. The little fellow was a fighter and 
Mulder had no sooner gotten the kitten loose from one 
arm than he had a repeat performance on the other one.

"Great. Now I know why you were in the dumpster, you 
little--"

Disentangling himself, Mulder deposited the squirming 
body into the side pocket of his luggage and closed 
the flap over it. The insistent mewling and his 
battered face earned him a few suspicious looks as he 
made his way down the hall and slipped into the 
elevator. He let out a grateful sigh when he finally 
reached his door.

The phone was ringing before he got his key in the 
lock. Mulder took his time, though, carefully settling 
the bag on the couch before answering.

"Yes, Lenny, I'm home, now," he informed the receiver.

Sauceda's laugh was full of forced pleasantry, his 
voice pitched a little higher than normal.

"Hey, Marty!"

Mulder sighed. "Hey." 

Another pause. Mulder filled it by grabbing a tissue 
from the box beside the phone and dabbing blood from 
his cheek.

Sauceda tried again. "Hey, kid, look, we've got a 
great spread over here. Imelda's made chicken 
enchiladas just like you like 'em: lotsa cheese--"

"Purdue's already on your case, isn't he?"

"Ah. Quesadillas, too. With extra sour cream and pico 
de gallo. Extra hot."

"Listen, Len. Did he e-mail you the autopsy report 
yet?"

"Friggin' hell, Marty--" Sauceda's voice was a 
seething hiss and then bright again as he called out 
some excuse to Imelda. Mulder listened to the rattle 
through the receiver as the older man jerked the phone 
into a more private location. "What the hell's wrong 
with you?" Sauceda must not have gotten very far, he 
was still trying to keep his voice down.

"I have to know, Len."

Sauceda swore heatedly. "You don't need to know jack, 
you little prick. Look, I'm coming over there to get 
you and I'm not listening to any more of your flack 
about it."

"Will you show me the report?"

"Show you the--" Sauceda lapsed into a sudden litany 
of Spanish. It was melodic and rapid-fire, satisfying 
to the ear as only flagrant profanity can be in a 
foreign tongue. "I swear to God, Marty. I freakin' 
swear to God, I'm calling Skinner myself and I'm 
having you committed. Do you hear me? Do--?"

"Do it, then."

"What?"

"I said fucking do it. And the first time I get the 
chance I'm biting my fucking wrists out--"

"Look, Mart--"

"I just asked you a question. That's all. And I'm sick 
of the goddam threats--"

"Christ, Marty, I--" Sauceda's voice was a high 
pitched squeal.

Mulder's was ominously calm. "All I want is the work-
up on the blood chemistry, Len. That's it. I won't ask 
for the rest."

Sauceda was panting heavily. "I-- Marty, I can't do 
it. I'm sorry, kid. Purdue said--"

Mulder gulped air. "She was alive, wasn't she? Jesus 
Christ, she was alive when she--"

Mulder's voice was steady enough but his knees refused 
to hold him upright any longer. He slid to the floor 
quietly, wedged between the coffee table and the 
couch, the rattle of the table too gentle for Sauceda 
to hear. 

She'd been alive. He knew it. He'd always known it. 
Sisyphus had found her but hadn't killed her 
immediately, just knocked her unconscious and began 
her work. Mulder had profiled the Baytown case where 
drawing and quartering had been the modus operandi. He 
was well versed in the procedure: with even minimal 
skill, a human could be flayed, colon deposited on the 
floor to one side of the body, stomach and kidneys 
removed to the other side. Done right, it could take 
hours for a victim to die. Kay would have been 
conscious near the end, in too much pain to move, too 
much pain to scream. And she would have been grateful 
for death when it came--

Mulder's grief suddenly was too deep for words, it 
rendered him motionless, almost unaware of feeling at 
all, his mind numbed by the truth. Lenny's voice 
filtered through to him, urgent, frantic. Mulder 
didn't trust his voice, though, couldn't get his hands 
to stop shaking. He forced himself to concentrate, to 
feel the warm reality of the couch against his back, 
the rug wrinkled beneath him, the unyielding solidity 
of the coffee table where he'd rested his forehead. He 
took one deep breath and sat up.

"Lenny?" The calm in Mulder's voice surprised even 
him. "Lenny, tell Imelda that I appreciate all the 
trouble she went through, okay? I'll make it up to 
her, I promise. I just don't want her worrying about 
me. You know I don't look so hot. I haven't been 
eating right and--"

"Marty, are you okay?"

"I've got to have some time, Len. Just give me that 
much, okay? Then I'll be okay again. You know I will. 
And I promise. You know I don't break my promises."

Sauceda's sigh came through the line with the 
intensity of a North Atlantic squall. "I don't like 
the idea of you being alone, kid--"

There was a tearful cry from the other end of the 
couch. One fuzzy kitten paw had liberated itself from 
the bag and was clawing air. Mulder's jaw worked 
silently for about two seconds, busy on a new thought. 
"I'm, uhm. I'm not alone, Lenny. I've invited a friend 
over."

Sauceda's voice was suddenly and pathetically 
relieved. "Yeah? Well, hell, Marty, why didn't you say 
so. Anybody I know?"

"Nah. Ah. Just somebody who lives in the building."

Sauceda gushed his delight and then, dammit, he wanted 
facts: a name, a brief social history.

"How about I just fax over some prints for you?" 

"Jeez, Marty, I didn't mean to--"

Sauceda droned on. The clawing was starting to look 
desperate. Mulder frowned; it was quite likely his new 
"friend" was struggling for oxygen by this point. 
Mulder began talking faster now, walking on his knees 
to reach the bag. "What? Yeah, call me later, 'kay, 
Len? Yeah, well, we might step out for dinner, maybe a 
few beers, so don't get hacked off it I don't answer. 
No, I'm *not* taking my damned cell--" Mulder grunted 
reassuringly a few more times and finally just hung 
up. He got the flap open, yanking his hands away to 
avoid further entanglement.

Finally freed, the kitten flipped out backwards, no 
worse for the wear, tiny claws scrambling for traction 
on the wood floor. The squealing had not abated and 
showed no signs of doing so now. Undeterred by 
unfamiliar surroundings, he lit out across the expanse 
of the apartment and disappeared into the darkened the 
kitchen. 

Mulder scarcely noticed. The same velcroed pocket that 
had revealed the kitten had yielded one more dubious 
treasure. Mulder tugged the book free, holding it like 
a thing afire. Its gray cover was now lightly clawed, 
one corner sporting fresh teeth marks. Mulder's hands 
were trembling suddenly; he swore at them as he fished 
the note from his jacket pocket and spread the 
evidence bag flat on the coffee table. He laid the 
book of poetry beside it, opened to page sixteen, and 
read.

And all the typed lines on the paper in the bag were 
all the typed lines he had highlighted, blue ink, in 
the book, how many months ago?

Just so.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

5:10 PM. 

A trip to Mrs. Beckman's up the hall got the kitten 
settled in: cat litter, a couple cans of food, her 
vet's business card.

The bath had been traumatic for them both but the 
kitten seemed to have forgiven him. Its freshly 
toweled fur still poked wildly at opposing angles, 
yellow and white stripes confused into manic swirls. 
Clumsy and slightly damp, the little creature managed 
to look every bit as pathetic as he had in the 
dumpster but at least the smell was better. 

Mulder served the food like he'd seen it done in all 
the cat food commercials: a saucer with the chunks 
mounded up for the benefit of the camera. The 
arrangement didn't seem to benefit the cat any, 
however. The little thing seemed to scarcely know what 
to do with the bits of meat, had difficulty getting 
the hang of even lapping at the gravy. A closer 
inspection revealed the animal had a mouth full of 
teeth but that they didn't seem to be useful for 
chewing on anything other than Mulder's new wingtips. 
He tried a little strategy, mashing a bit of the food 
with a fork and stirring in diluted cream. The little 
body trembled over the bowl like he'd provided manna 
from God.

Mulder dumped the litter into a hospital basin 
collected from a trip to Georgetown Medical Center 
last year: a grazing gunshot wound that had hurt like 
hell and hadn't even left a decent scar. The pan was a 
bit deep, he imagined, but kitten managed okay. In 
fact, the little guy seemed to know exactly what to do 
with it-- even if he did exit the box backend first. 
With a little luck, this Doctor Dolittle crap might 
just turn out to be easier than he'd thought.

Yeah. Sure. Somehow, that just had the suspicious ring 
of famous last words...

9:22 PM.

Things were rapidly getting out of hand. Mulder had 
spent most of the evening on the floor playing chew 
toy for a damned cat he didn't want, then the little 
imp had the nerve to take a dump behind his chair. 
Meanwhile, Sauceda had called him at least a dozen 
times. Between the two, Mulder had about had his fill 
of Sauceda. All the while, images of Kay's final hour 
had haunted him until he was ready to literally climb 
the walls. He shouldn't have given Sauceda his gun. 
Shouldn't have made all those promises. 

Mulder finally gave up trying to stay sane at home and 
tried the bar on the corner. Drummond's was just 
walking distance from his apartment, an infrequent 
after-work stop since he'd moved to Alexandria-- the 
place was quiet, dim, lined with old Ronald Colman and 
Jimmy Cagney posters. There were too many booths, too 
many secluded tables to allow for dancing, which was 
just fine with Mulder most nights. It reminded him of 
the pubs that had fed him in England: good food, 
strong brew, clientele too self-absorbed to be 
annoying. Most of the time anyway.

Tonight he'd managed to choke down the soup of the day 
and about half a cigarette before attracting company. 
The woman was quite a bit older, thickly set, pretty 
enough, he supposed, but she just didn't seem to care 
that he wasn't interested. She didn't belong here, 
that much was obvious: long, tribal earrings, black 
tights, bright spangley, ah, blouse-thing. She seemed 
determined not to let him get drunk in peace so he 
staked out a booth near the jukebox, intent on 
exorcising his demons with good scotch and Depeche 
Mode's "Stripped."

She followed him over and invited herself to sit down. 
Well, she tried to sit anyway, managing only a 
grotesque sprawl. She walked like she'd had about four 
beers too many but she found everything so incredibly 
funny Mulder felt like a heel trying to shoo her off. 
He finally stopped protesting and let her sit there. 
She wasn't really bothering him, after all; she just 
seemed to want some place to sit while she sang. She 
kept her voice to a reasonable level, unlike most 
drunks he knew, her voice was surprisingly pleasant, 
and she even knew most of the words. 

When she started warbling to a Karen Carpenter number, 
though, Mulder excused himself to the men's room. She 
waved graciously, intent on her high note and Mulder 
slipped down the hall and out the back door. She was 
still going strong when the door whispered shut behind 
him.

11:43 PM.

It was late and he was tired, but Mulder knew sleep 
would be long in coming. The weariness was depression, 
of course, and the insomnia simply more of the same; 
his mind was rebelling out of principle, his body 
suffering the results. 

*Well, hell, he mused. See? I don't need a shrink. I 
recognize the symptoms. And as long as I'm able to 
recognize them, I'm not in any real trouble. I can't 
be in any real trouble, right? I just need a little 
time, that's all.* 

He repeated the notion like a mantra, a shield against 
that little area of his conscience that insisted 
otherwise. Unbidden, a scene from his childhood played 
itself out in his mind: Sam gone three months, his 
parents oblivious, deep into another late night 
argument, Fox cracking his door just a bit to peek 
down the hall. His mom wrapped in a chenille robe, 
hands on her hips, her back to her son, shouting at 
his father. And the words: "Well of course he's proof, 
Bill! Proof that a lie repeated long enough will 
became indistinguishable from the truth-- Goddammit, 
is that the legacy you're going to leave your own 
son?" If his father had responded, Fox hadn't heard. 

He wondered why he should think on such things now. 
Didn't he have enough to worry about that he felt the 
need to go dragging up ancient history? Mulder fled 
from thought, turning the television up until it was 
impossible to think anymore. Emotionally, he could no 
longer afford the luxury of being cognizant. At least 
not tonight...

He waited several minutes for a thumping against the 
wall or the ceiling, maybe the floor: irate neighbors 
who might not want to listen to the program he had on-
- especially at this hour. There was nothing. The 
neighbor below him was half-deaf so that was no 
surprise. Mrs. Beckman next door would be too sweet to 
say anything, dammit, and whenever he'd asked, she was 
always quick to claim she was a sound sleeper. Mulder 
preferred to believe her. The room above him was a 
mystery. The super couldn't seem to keep it occupied 
for very long, anyway. The tenants usually moved out 
after only a week or so. Maybe he was just renting to 
the wrong kind of tenants; as far as Mulder'd been 
able to determine they'd all been professional 
military men of the ilk his father would have labeled 
Defense Department goons. Dad could smell them a mile 
off. Said they'd sell their own mothers for a bit of 
Pentagon pie. 

A thump near the floor had him peering into the 
shadows below the coffee table. It was the kitten, 
bewildered and pained, staring at the table leg in 
mute offense. Mulder sighed and stroked its head. The 
cat rolled to its back and attacked his hand with 
abandon, all four paws scrambling at the air. It made 
a sound like Purdue's pager when it was on vibrator, 
no doubt a determined attempt at a growl. Mulder shook 
his head. His mother's cat-- an aging Tom since the 
world began-- had been an elegant, disdainful creature 
who would have died of embarrassment had it made just 
one graceless motion. The kitten, on the other hand, 
was all fur and paws and far too much energy. It 
alternately scrambled and slid across the floor, 
tripped-- twice-- on the rug and would certainly 
suffer permanent brain damage if it collided into just 
one more piece of furniture.

He shook himself free of the little monster and lay 
back, kicking off his shoes. The kitten immediately 
scurried to investigate. Having sniffed, slapped and 
hissed with no retaliation from the sneakers, the 
little beast claimed one for himself, dragging it off 
by the laces. Mulder stretched fitfully, staring at 
the noise on the TV screen, not really seeing much, 
drifting slowly into the gentling haze of sleep. 

A commercial blared, rousing him enough to get his 
eyes open if only just partially. Mulder found himself 
focusing on the beckoning welcome of a woman: a nice 
looking brunette holding out a Lowenbrau. When she 
looked into the camera, Mulder realized she had stolen 
Kay's smile--

Unprepared for the assault, Mulder was defenseless 
against the raging that exploded in his chest. He 
squeezed his eyes against it, pressing his back into 
the sofa. Try as he might, though, there was no 
escaping the encroaching pressure radiating from his 
heart, threatening to choke off his windpipe. 

He resolved himself to the attack and stopped 
cringing. It would either pass or kill him; he would 
not allow himself to speculate on which result would 
be most preferable. Instead, he observed the extent of 
the sensation, noted with clinical detachment the 
quality of the pain as it radiated down his arm, the 
intensity of his heartbeat as it hammered against his 
vocal cords. 

After a few minutes, the pressure subsided to a light 
caress, soft as feather kisses. And he felt his body 
slowly responding, even now, with just the memory. 
Even as his hands still shook, even as he gasped for 
air. Even with Kay in a body bag in cold storage. 
Because of him.

Mulder covered his head with his arms, trying to block 
the memory of the look of her eyes. Those soft, gentle 
eyes, watching him as he walked into the diner. 
Watching him as he dressed. Watching him as he read 
her the poems. Watching him as he moved against her--

A sudden pressure on his leg had him gulping air 
frantically. He jerked upright, clawing at the 
moisture in his eyes. The kitten, tiny talons fastened 
to his jeans like velcro, mewled up at him, its face a 
pitiful bit of fuzz. Mulder choked his heart back down 
into his rib cage and fell back in relief.

Well, hell. That's what he got for hauling home 
strays.

The late show was running "Attack of the Thirty Foot 
Woman." Mulder relaxed with the realization that she, 
at least, was a blonde. He was asleep before the 
second set of commercials, the little tabby purring, 
uninvited, upon his chest.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 06:04:27 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 15A of 27
Source: xfc

Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 15A of 27: All Messed Up and No Place to Go....

Disclaimed in Part 1:



Tuesday, May 17, 1988, 8:47 AM. Apartment 42.

The phone woke him with a violent start. It was just 
as well. He'd had a bad night, jerking awake 
repeatedly from dreams of one subject: his murder and 
subsequent dismemberment. After all that, there was 
bound to be another body somewhere in Wheeling. Or 
maybe he really *was* just losing his mind. Mulder 
scrubbed his face wearily. Hell, who said one 
possibility was mutually exclusive to the other...

"Good Morning America" was droning away at hyper 
perky. Mulder slapped the off button on the remote and 
grabbed the phone, wincing as several scabs popped 
open on his hand. The voice in the receiver identified 
herself and Mulder mouthed several silent expletives 
to the room at large. 

Personnel Services. Shit.

The slightly bored, slightly nasal voice was telling 
him he had an appointment this morning. Or this 
afternoon, if it was more convenient. 

Mulder blinked slowly and the woman outlined the pros 
and cons of a 10:00 a.m. appointment as opposed to, 
say, a 3:30 time slot. He stared blearily at his 
reflection in the TV screen. The bitter taste in his 
mouth had little to do with morning breath.

The voice on the line paused for his response. He 
muttered vaguely about checking his calendar and would 
she please run down the list of available times, 
slowly this time. He tuned her out as she complied. 

What the hell was wrong with him, he wondered? This 
wasn't even the counselor. This was some Psychology 
101 dropout smacking her gum on the end of the 
receiver-- and his palms were sweating, his legs 
trembling so hard he was afraid to stand--

Mulder rubbed at the heavy stubble on his jaw, taking 
in one deep slow breath, releasing it with absolute 
control. "Under whose orders," he asked calmly, "was I 
assigned a mandatory counseling session?"

Another pause and the shuffling of papers. "Assignment 
was signed by ASAC Purdue, sir. But it's not 
mandatory. Just strongly suggested." 

So. Purdue was not above resorting to Patterson's 
early tactics: the concerned-friend approach to 
assuming sovereignty over Mulder's life. So much for 
Purdue's grand words and posturing.

Mulder glanced over at the kitten sitting in the 
middle of the dining room door. The little thing was 
still half-terrorized after some of Mulder's more 
dramatic awakenings during the night. It had that 
wide-eyed "what's next" stare his dates had begun 
developing over the past year. Right before they hit 
the door. He waved an inviting set of fingers toward 
it, holding his hand near the floor, a peace offering 
to nibble on. The kitten retreated to the kitchen. 

"Hell," Mulder sighed into the phone. "Look, ahm. I'm 
not sure I can make it today. How does tomorrow look 
for you?"

"No, sir. ASAC Purdue specifically stated today. I'll 
have to notify him--"

Mulder stopped listening abruptly, stopped breathing, 
his eye caught by the bright item lying on his coffee 
table. He reached a tentative hand, lifting the 
jewelry to the light filtering through the shade. A 
garish bit of plastic and metal. The long, swirling 
earring worn by the woman at the bar. 

Mulder declined the appointment. As easy as declining 
a dinner invitation. Polite, firm. The receiver back 
in its cradle.

He didn't have time for this crap. He had a litter box 
to clean. 


9:22 AM


The phone again: Purdue this time. The ASAC's voice 
was calm, matter-of-fact, if not exactly pleasant. No 
mention of Sauceda. He understood Mulder hadn't 
scheduled with Personnel Services, though.

"I'm fine," Mulder informed him helpfully.

"I'm not saying you aren't, Agent." 

Silence on Mulder's end. The kitten had re-attached 
itself to his boot. The tiny pest seemed to be 
developing a major thing for leather. *Great,* Mulder 
mused, *even my cat's a pervert.* He would have to 
remember to take that into consideration whenever he 
got around to naming the imp.

Purdue's voice filtered through the line: the standard 
need-to-reach-out-and-touch-someone schmooze of the 
psychiatric profession. Wonderful, and just who did 
Dr. Reg here think he was talking to? The grinding 
sound echoing in the receiver was Mulder's teeth.

"Listen, son," there was a compassionate hesitation in 
the ASAC's voice. It grated down Mulder's spine like 
fingernails on a chalkboard. "I just want you to 
know," Purdue insisted, "that I understand what you're 
going through--" 

Mulder felt something too tightly wound snap. His 
knuckles went white on the receiver and it was an 
effort to keep his voice level.

"You understand *this,* Purdue: I don't give a shit 
what you do and do not understand about my personal 
life. You dismissed me from a case without cause, 
without a fair hearing. Hell, you didn't even do me 
the courtesy of telling me I was being removed to 
begin with--"

"Mulder, this is not about your performance--" 
Purdue's sigh rattled through the receiver. "Look, I'm 
sorry. It's not my place to pry. I know that. But I 
also know that the death of a woman you... cared for 
is--"

"Don't--" Mulder was unexpectedly gulping air. His 
left hand lost all feeling and he scrambled to keep 
from dropping the phone. "Fuck you," he gasped. "I'm 
not having this conversation. Not with you. Not with 
anybody. And least of all those damned quacks at 
Personnel. Do you understand?" Purdue was silent again 
as Mulder panted, the receiver cradled on his shoulder 
as he rubbed the feeling back into his upper arm. 
"Look," he seethed, "all the Bureau needs to know is 
that I haven't swallowed my goddam gun and if that 
much isn't obvious then you must have dialed one hell 
of a long distance number."

Mulder paused. *Well, hell, Fox, that's an awful lot 
of violence to shove down a phone line considering you 
keep telling yourself you're so damn numb otherwise.*   
He closed his eyes, cursing himself, silently this 
time, and collapsed on the couch, receiver resolutely 
at his ear.

Now the silence reflected back to him on Purdue's end. 
Mulder bit his lip and waited it out, one of his many 
talents. He finally heard a sigh.

"I'm in DC, Agent Mulder. Got in last night. You know 
Georgetown, right?"

Mulder ran a hand through his hair, pushing the kitten 
away gently with his boot heel.

"Why?"

"Meet me at the Greystone Condominium on Potomac. I'll 
be out front."

"Look, Purdue--"

"Are you on the job or not, Agent?"

"Ah. I'm on my way--" The line was dead before he 
could add the "sir."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

10:13 AM, Georgetown, Washington, DC.

Purdue was waiting as promised, standing at the front 
gate, hands buried in his coat pockets, half-chewed 
cigarette gripped resolutely between his lips.

Mulder parked up the block and took his time getting 
down the sidewalk, strolling with his usual careless 
leisure through the inevitable crowd of spectators 
huddled at the police barrier. His delay was 
deliberate, designed to give the ASAC a chance to look 
him over. Mulder had made certain that he could afford 
the extra attention: he'd dressed hurriedly but well, 
Armani suit and after shave adequate armor against all 
detractors. The suit was tan and rarely worn simply 
because Mulder didn't like it much. Today, however, it 
was a godsend: very possibly the only thing in his 
closet that wouldn't highlight the fact that he was 
far too pale. A breakfast of another half-dozen 
aspirin had subdued his headache to relatively 
tolerable but Mulder kept his hands in his pockets as 
much as possible: they seemed to have developed a 
tendency to twitch at the oddest times. 

He shouldn't be here. He knew it half-way out the door 
of his apartment. He had to pause too often to 
remember directions, and streets he should have known 
like the back of his hand were suddenly unfamiliar. 
Mulder told himself it was just a transitory 
displacement, a reaction to chronic stress and it 
would pass. He *had* to do this, after all. He had to 
do it, or admit he wasn't fit for the job. When that 
excuse wasn't enough to keep his foot on the gas, he 
told himself he had to do it at least long enough to 
pay for the impending vet bills. Yeah. That was it. He 
could hang on for that much longer.

Purdue nodded once as he approached, then waited him 
out, body perfectly still, face ominously calm. It was 
difficult, but Mulder maintained the man's eye 
contact, looking away only once or twice and quickly 
back, managing, he hoped, to appear confident and 
serene and eager to be back at work. Without being 
overly eager, of course. 

Purdue tossed his cigarette, brows raised warily as 
Mulder presented him with a small volume of poetry. 
The ASAC accepted the book with the same deliberately 
orchestrated courtesy with which it was presented, 
frowning at the evidence bag poking up from between 
the pages. He pocketed the volume without perusal, 
however, and Mulder followed him dutifully into the 
building. Not a word had passed between them. 

Crime technicians and DC police spilled down the 
stairs and up the hall, converging on apartment 307. 
Mulder followed Purdue inside, meek as an asp. It was 
another nice, neat unit: cozy fireplace, ceiling fans 
and one seriously mutilated corpse.

"I'm sure you'll recognize the work." Purdue, re-
pocketing his hands, remained at the door. He allowed 
Mulder just enough room to squeeze past.

Sauceda was busy with the body on the sofa: have meat 
thermometer, will travel, apparently. The pathologist 
waved the instrument at his partner in uncertain 
greeting; Mulder tossed him the stoic nod Purdue had 
given him earlier. Sauceda frowned, but returned to 
his work.

Mulder took in the room at a glance and backed away to 
the window. It was one large piece of plate glass 
stretching from ceiling to floor, the drapes open. The 
view alone must have pushed the rent well out of 
Mulder's price range: Francis Scott Key Memorial 
Bridge spanning the Potomac. Pretty as a postcard in 
the morning light.

It was much too beautiful a day for all this crap. The 
thought startled him: Mulder couldn't recall ever 
considering such a fact, couldn't remember ever giving 
himself that kind of option. And while he was being so 
blatantly honest, that long, quick drop down to the 
street looked pretty inviting, too. He was dizzy 
suddenly but concealed it well; his only concession to 
weakness was to remove his hands from his pockets, 
steadying his balance with his fingertips pressed to 
the window.

The sensation passed within seconds and he found 
Purdue's reflection in the glass next to his own. The 
ASAC, still at the door, was watching him intently. 
Mulder checked the vision of himself, trying to 
determine if he was as flushed as he felt under this 
man's unblinking gaze. His image, however, floated 
serenely pale against the blue of sky and water and 
sun-washed expanse of bridge. He considered the dark 
eyes swimming in the glass next to his own. *I'm 
tired,* he confessed to that dispassionate vision. 
*I'm just tired.* 

Purdue's image blinked solemnly, impossible to 
translate.

*Ah, the lies,* Mulder mused, then spoke the words 
aloud, heart pounding as Purdue's frown reflected back 
at him. "The lies to feed the lies. Until they feed us 
to the truth."

Purdue bit his lip. Even in the distortion of the 
glass, Mulder could tell the ASAC was struggling with 
words and whether to speak them. The indecision never 
reached those too-confident eyes, however, and Mulder 
turned away abruptly, his hands trembling again. He 
shoved them deep into his pockets and crossed the 
room, the nonchalance of his stride a mask for prying 
eyes.

Sauceda stepped back, smiling wearily as he 
approached. Mulder noted the traces of razor burn on 
his partner's jaw, but didn't comment. For some 
reason, he just didn't know what to say to Sauceda  
this morning. Mulder stared down at the corpse 
instead; somehow, the bloodied form seemed the least 
threatening person in the room.

The victim was male, with dark hair, about Mulder's 
height and weight-- judging from what was left intact, 
anyway. Sisyphus had left the eyes again. They were 
Academy textbook doll's eyes: open, fixed, unfocused. 
He was nude, splayed disdainfully to the flash of 
forensic photographers, organ deep gray against the 
yellowed thigh. Purdue was right about the handiwork 
being familiar. So, Mulder mused, Sisyphus had 
followed him home. If her latest creation was anything 
to go by, she'd been pretty well hacked about the 
move-- she'd certainly hacked this one up enough. 
Understandable, given the circumstances, Mulder 
supposed.

"The guy's an American Lit Professor at Georgetown," 
Sauceda offered. "Make that *was.*" The pathologist 
shuffled his feet nervously then froze with a guilty 
look. Fifth rule of forensics: walk lightly in a crime 
scene and never, *never* shuffle your feet. Mulder 
gave him a merciful shrug. 

"I need my gun back, Len."

Sauceda dropped his head. 

"Shit, Lenny--"

"I, ah. I forgot it at home, Marty. I meant to bring 
it, though. Really. I'll get it to you later, okay?"

Mulder wanted to tell him it wasn't okay. That he'd 
surrendered the weapon in faith. That-- Hell. What did 
it matter?

"Marty?"

"Yeah, Len."

"You okay?"

"Oh yeah."

"What'd you do to your face, kid? You been fighting 
again?"

Mulder patted the Band-Aid on his check and gave his 
partner a cryptic shrug. "I cut myself taking out the 
trash."

Sauceda screwed his face up, studying the response. 
His jaw worked silently for a minute. "Yeah. Well. 
Listen, kid--" His voice dropped to a conspiratorial 
hiss. "You watch yourself, okay? Purdue's kinda 
pissed."

"About my gun?"

"Hell no!" Sauceda squeaked. "Christ, Marty-- 'Member 
in Wheeling, I tried to tell you? He thinks you know 
shit you're not telling. Maybe names and... and stuff 
like in Shreveport--"

"Now just who," Mulder demanded, "would have given him 
that idea?"

Sauceda backed away from that penetrating glare. 
"Marty, you know I wouldn't-- " Sauceda locked his jaw 
down hastily and Mulder sensed Purdue's approach over 
his shoulder.

"No, Lenny. Not much you wouldn't." Mulder said the 
words but there was no anger in them, no animosity. 
There wasn't much of anything in them, in fact. *So,* 
he mused, *we're back to that again.*

Purdue positioned himself to Mulder's right, well 
within both agents' lines of sight. Sauceda 
practically squirmed beneath Purdue's teeth-grinding 
silence. 

Mulder wasn't about to give Purdue that kind of 
satisfaction, himself. He blinked benignly, staring 
down into the open cavity of the man on the sofa. He 
could identify some of the organs if he was called 
upon to do so, not that anyone was asking. Human 
hands, he marveled, had performed this deed. No 
ravaging carnivore, killing what was necessary for 
survival. No hellish specter, no Late Show 
extraterrestrial. What need had humanity of such 
monsters when we have ourselves? The hands of a 
murderess had created this evil. The same hands that 
had touched his Kay only hours before--

Mulder tried to close his eyes, his mind, against the 
thought but it refused honorable retreat. The image of 
a woman's hands presented themselves before his mind's 
eye: small tender hands like Kay's. Hands that had 
reached out in love to a man, seeking comfort, seeking 
to give a measure of herself to another. Gentle hands 
that had held the children of other women and longed 
for their own. Strong capable hands that had prepared 
meals, made beds, creating and caring for the minute 
necessities that composed a life. But these hands had 
taken life. Again. These hands had washed themselves 
in blood, had held a heart as it beat once, again, and 
then stilled. They had slashed Mulder's life away, 
too, ripped his heart out of his chest and dropped it, 
still struggling, on the floor of a diner while he lay 
sleeping a few short yards-- and entire world-- away. 
Mulder wrenched back from the image, unable to 
completely muffle his cry of pain.

"Mulder?"

Purdue's hand on his arm was sudden and startling and 
he recoiled with a gasp. The ASAC stepped back, 
Sauceda's tug at his sleeve an unnecessary warning. 
Mulder swore, cradling his arm where Purdue had 
touched him, the flesh burning beneath his jacket. For 
all his earlier bravado, he was suddenly wishing he 
hadn't forgotten his shades. He turned away from 
Purdue's scrutiny, his mouth swallowing acid.

"She still on the poetry or has she moved on to prose 
yet?" he demanded. There was too long a pause and 
Mulder glanced back up into Purdue's dark eyes. 

"You little bastard," the ASAC hissed.

Sauceda was pulling frantically at the ASAC's sleeve 
again; Purdue pushed him away. "Like you don't know," 
Purdue spat. "'Has she moved onto prose'--" He whirled 
on the pathologist. "Show him. You were so damned 
handy handing crap over in Wheeling--" 

Purdue shoved his hands back in his pockets, his face 
a grotesque mixture of rage and concern. Sauceda tried 
to catch Mulder's eye as he handed over the baggied 
slip of paper; Mulder snatched it from him, pushing 
Sauceda back to arm's length. His heart was pounding 
much too hard.

"They don't make rocks like us anymore.
And holding on to the thread, fine as a cobweb, 
but incredibly strong,
Each of us advances into his own labyrinth.
The gift of invisibility
Has been granted to all but the gods, 
so we say such things,
Filling the road up with colors, faces,
Tender speeches, until they feed us to the truth."
 
He glanced back up again and into Purdue's twisted 
face. 

"Now, Mr. Mulder," the ASAC's voice was far from 
tender, "you tell me how you managed to stand there at 
that window and quote this before you even saw it. And 
I don't want to hear any of that goddam spook shit."

Mulder stood speechless. For the life of him, he had 
no answer for the man. The quote had simply come to 
him, or at least, he thought it had. He searched the 
paper again, staring through it, reasoning 
frantically. Had he heard the poem in his dreams? Or 
had he so tuned into this woman's inner workings that 
he could anticipate her now and not even distinguish 
the presence of her personality from his own? For that 
matter, had there ever been any true line of 
demarcation from himself and *any* of his profiles--

Spook? Shit. 

Meanwhile, the pressure of Purdue's presence was 
overwhelming. This was a mistake, Mulder realized. 
Since his return to DC, he had discovered an 
unexpected comfort, something intensely reassuring, in 
the mundane activities of housework, of quiet routine. 
It was new to him, had lulled him into believing that 
he was almost whole again, that everything would be 
all right. 

But nothing was all right. Nothing ever would be 
again. He understood that now. He should have gone in 
for the counseling, or-- the unthinkable-- sworn off 
the case. It was pointless, after all. He couldn't 
bring Kay back. He should have refused to come here-- 

Should have. Didn't. And there was no backing out now.


CONTINUED IN PART 15B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 06:04:35 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 15B of 27
Source: xfc

Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 15B of 27: 



Mulder chewed his lip and handed the paper back 
abruptly. Sauceda reached out to accept it but Purdue 
slapped him away, watching Mulder's hand, extended 
before him, shaking so hard the paper rustled within 
its bag. The profiler's eyes narrowed viciously and he 
tossed the bit of evidence at Purdue's chest.

The ASAC made no effort to catch it, didn't even look 
down as the bag fluttered to the floor.

Mulder choked on his anger; the trembling moved up his 
arms and shuddered into his chest. His damned teeth 
were chattering for Chrissake--

"Page fifty-six," he gasped. His hands clenched 
involuntarily and against all rational thought he 
envisioned himself flattening Purdue clean out, 
regulations and assembled personnel be damned.

Purdue frowned, hands out of his pockets, alerted. His 
vision wavered from Mulder to Sauceda. Hot Sauce, 
however, was meeting no one's gaze, deliberately re-
stuffing his medical kit with the air of a man who 
knew better than to go shoving his hand in a snake 
pit. 

Mulder had his shivering under control by the time 
Purdue turned back to him and he pointed imperiously 
at the book peeking from the ASAC's pocket. Purdue 
retrieved the volume, watching Mulder closely as he 
fumbled for the page. He read and stared at him again.

"I don't follow. She's quoting this book? And you 
recognized the poem--"

Mulder shook his head. "Now. Page sixteen." His voice 
was remarkably steady now.

Purdue obeyed: the page marked by the evidence bag.

Sauceda was playing with something in his medical kit, 
out of view of his partner. Mulder leveled him with a 
look and he dropped what he was doing in the confines 
of the bag, taking a quick two-step to the far side of 
Purdue. Mulder grit his teeth, watching him: the 
little ass even had the gall to feign innocence, 
developing a sudden interest in the book as Purdue 
shuffled through the pages. 

Mulder snatched up Sauceda's case: a syringe, 
partially filled, remained imbedded in a fresh vial of 
Thorazine. Sauceda resolutely refused to glance up 
from the pages before him. Purdue was watching though. 
Mulder dropped the bag back to its place on the couch. 

Sauceda chose that moment to frown, leaning sideways 
to get a look at the book's cover. "Hey, Marty," he 
blinked benignly, "isn't this the same book you've 
been hauling around since Baytown?"

"Since Baytown?" Purdue slapped the volume shut. "Then 
you had this with you in Wheeling?"

Mulder didn't bother answering; Sauceda was already 
nodding anyway. Purdue was jerking Sauceda's coat 
sleeve now. He waved the book at him. "He had this SOB 
in Wheeling?"

Sauceda stuttered, suddenly comprehending the 
importance of the question. For the first time, he 
looked old to Mulder, old and confused and vulnerable. 
The sight made Mulder's chest tighten for some reason.

"Leave him alone, Purdue." He jerked his head away 
from Sauceda's gratitude. "*I'm* the one screwing up 
left and right here. Not Lenny. You know it."

"What I know," Purdue growled, "is that Nilson didn't 
say jack about poetry in that article." Things were 
falling into place rapidly for the ASAC. "This bitch 
was in your motel room."

Mulder would have killed for a decent pair of shades. 
He managed a shrug. "Either that or she's a regular on 
the Psychic Hotline."

The ASAC's breathing got harder. Sauceda looked like 
he was anticipating having a fist fight on his hands. 
Purdue's voice was even enough, though.

"She was in your motel room," he repeated the 
observation with the determination of a ransom demand. 

"I don't know." Mulder's sigh dissolved into an 
exhausted moan. "I assume she had to be to see the 
poems. Maybe she found out where we were staying and 
came in while I was out. I don't know."

"'Out' as in 'out of the room,'" the ASAC demanded, 
"Or 'out' as in drugged unconscious?"

Sauceda swore. "I told you, Reg, I checked on Marty 
every hour on the hour after I gave that pill--" 

"Yeah," the ASAC mused, "and maybe she decided to 
check on him on the half-hours." He turned to Mulder, 
resolute. "I've had enough. From here on out you're 
under constant guard. You don't so much as step out 
for the paper without one of our people wearing 
blisters on your heels." He didn't allow Mulder to 
interrupt. "You've got damned near half this book 
highlighted, Mulder. When did you do that? Before the 
note showed or after?" Purdue took two steps forward 
and the profiler stepped back involuntarily. "Before, 
wasn't it?" the ASAC demanded. "She's writing you the 
parts you've highlighted, isn't she? She's done it 
this time, too." Purdue's voice had a habit of getting 
low and deep when he was angry. He was angry now. "You 
knew in Wheeling, you son of a bitch, and you said 
nothing. You stood there in that diner and read that 
goddam poem and said not one word about this book."

"Damn you," Sauceda sputtered. "He was hurting and you 
wanted a freaking criminal analysis?"

Mulder swore and was ignored. Purdue shook the older 
man away. "Sauceda, this is his *job*--"

"Not anymore it's not," Sauceda seethed. "It's his 
goddam life now."

The air was suddenly too thick to breathe-- for 
anybody, apparently. There was sudden, total silence. 
Even the crime unit had stepped out to the safer 
sidelines of the hall.

Mulder couldn't meet Sauceda's eyes. He couldn't seem 
to focus any higher up than Purdue's tie pin for that 
matter. The ASAC was staring at him hard; Mulder hoped 
that his jacket was able to hide most of the 
uncontrollable trembling.

Purdue's voice was ominously quiet. "You're right, 
Len. It *is* his life now." They were the same words 
but in Purdue's mouth they assumed an all-too sinister 
meaning. Mulder looked up from under dark lashes and 
finally met the ASAC's stare. Purdue kept his voice 
calm. "That's why you didn't tell me, isn't it, 
Mulder? Not in Wheeling. Not at the airport--"

Sauceda moaned. "He was *drugged,* Reg--"

The ASAC waved him back, never looking away from the 
profiler. "--Not last night when you should have 
called me," he insisted. "And not this morning." 

Mulder looked away, accused of a clarity he no longer 
possessed and completely unable to admit the truth. He 
had failed to report pertinent evidence and had no 
explanation to adequately account for such a lapse. 
Temporary insanity could get you clear of a murder 
conviction but it wasn't much good for anything else--

Mulder shook his head. Christ. His world wasn't just 
crumbling, it was imploding, and here he stood popping 
lame jokes. Physically he was falling apart where he 
stood: the trembling was getting worse and he would 
need to sit down before he collapsed. Mentally, he was 
screaming when he wasn't laughing and it was becoming 
difficult to tell the difference. Emotionally, 
however, he was cold as stone and he was clinging to 
that fact for dear life. *One sign of weakness,* his 
father had warned him since childhood, *one sign of 
weakness, son, and they'll be on you like wolves.* 
Mulder jaw clenched spasmodically as Purdue sighed.

"Look, agent, I can understand your not wanting a 
bodyguard dogging your every move. But you knew she 
had already gotten this close once and you wouldn't 
even let Sauceda watch your back. This," Purdue waved 
an arm at the mess drying on the couch, "this could 
have been you, dammit."

*It was me-- in Wheeling-- in the diner when it was 
Kay--* Mulder's mind screamed the words but Purdue 
couldn't hear.

"Answer me, Mulder," the ASAC demanded. "Do you want 
to die? Is that it? You've got a death wish?"

Mulder choked down the grief trying to strangle him. 
He shrugged a levity he couldn't feel. "This," he 
heard himself query politely, "is one of those 
rhetorical questions, right?"

The pathologist and the ASAC were a study in 
contrasts: Sauceda squeezed both eyes shut while 
Purdue's couldn't have possibly gotten any wider.

The ASAC's voice was just above a whisper. "You don't 
know, do you? You really just don't know what's going 
on in your own head. God Almighty, Mulder--" 

Purdue seemed to run out of expletives suddenly. He 
stood, hands on his hips, apparently waiting for 
answers. 

Mulder bit his lip and tried not to focus on very 
much. He didn't dare shake his head, uncertain of how 
it would be interpreted at this point, but just how to 
answer was beyond him. It seemed, suddenly that he 
only knew two facts. One: he was reasonably certain 
that he didn't want to die. Two: he was even more 
positive that he didn't much want to live. His 
vocabulary held no words to explain such a paradox, 
however. Not to Purdue. Not to Sauceda. Not even to 
himself. 

So Mulder did the only thing he knew to do at that 
moment. He smiled serenely and asked Purdue to repeat 
the question.

The ASAC rubbed his eyes wearily. "I submit, Mr. 
Mulder that you make a serious effort to get your head 
together here." He pointed an accusatory finger at the 
body. "You take a good long look at this, and then let 
me explain something to you--"

Mulder's knees finally gave and he sat down abruptly 
on the arm of the couch. "Please," he insisted in the 
sudden silence. "Please explain it to me, Reg. Because 
right now I'm having a real hard time understanding 
how the FBI runs this set up." 

Mulder's mind-numbing emotional vacuum was back with a 
vengeance and he was grateful: at least it helped him 
keep his voice steady. "Here's how I see it," he began 
counting off points on trembling fingers, too angry to 
care whether anyone noticed now or not. "This bunch of 
bureaucrats train me, tell me how damned brilliant I 
am, toss me out here and then try to run me into the 
ground with it. Meanwhile, they're busy promising 
'every available means of support.' Translation: we'll 
provide you with a partner we can rely on to report 
any suspect activity and supply all the 
psychopharmaceuticals you can possibly ingest, shoot 
up or have forced on you at any and all available 
opportunity. 'Just try to remain vertical around the 
locals, kid. And if and when you *can't* pull it off 
anymore, we'll tag you for psychotic breakdown, sic 
the goddam shrinks on you and *commit* your ass.' And 
I'm just stupid enough to let them do it to me. So 
much for my highly lauded brilliance."

He paused, ignoring Sauceda's red face. Right now, he 
didn't much care about that either. Purdue was very 
still, with an expression of supreme comprehension. 
Mulder wasn't certain that was such a good thing.

"That's what this is, then?" Purdue asked solemnly. 
"Jesus Christ, Mulder, didn't we get this shit settled 
in Seattle?" 

"Did we? I seem to recall an appointment with 
Personnel Services this morning."

Purdue looked around for help and found only the 
bewildered Sauceda. "Jesus Christ," the ASAC hissed 
again. "Look, I'm not out to institutionalize you, 
Mulder. You need help and you don't want it. Okay, 
fine. That's how you want to play it. But I'm trusting 
you to tell me what you *do* need and when. No 
mandatories. No involuntaries." He licked his lips, 
watching Mulder closely. "You've got to trust me, 
son."

Over Purdue's shoulder, Sauceda was nodding 
reassuringly. Which was, of course, far from 
reassuring.

"I'm not your goddam son," Mulder scarcely had energy 
for the words. They lisped of their own accord, a 
knee-jerk reaction. He drew back as Purdue approached, 
froze as the ASAC knelt beside the couch. Purdue 
squatted slowly onto one knee and waited for Mulder to 
restore eye contact. The profiler recognized the 
tactic. It was a trained negotiation technique, a 
deliberate maneuver meant to convey psychological 
advantage to an opponent. By kneeling, Purdue was 
literally giving Mulder the upper hand, seeking not to 
stand above him. The ASAC kept his voice calm, his 
expression neutral. God help him, Mulder mused, the 
man sounded sincere.

"I tried to tell you on the phone," Purdue insisted. 
"I've been where you are. When I lost my wife, I 
thought I'd lost my mind along with her. But no one 
pulled the rug out from under me. Even when I knew 
they needed to wrap me up in the damn thing and bury 
me in it." He lifted a hand from his knee, thought 
better of it and put it back carefully. "Here's the 
plan, then. I'll give you time if you think that's all 
you need. I don't agree, but you call the shots now. 
Until you become a danger to yourself or someone else, 
I'm not going to do anything drastic. But damn you, 
Mulder, don't you hold anything back from me. I need 
to know what's going on in your head. I need to know I 
can rely on you for that much." 

Mulder forced himself to take in oxygen. He indicated 
the body beside him with a waver of his eyes. "You 
don't think this makes me a danger--"

"It's not your fault that people are dying here, 
Mulder. It's hers." Purdue set his jaw. "And I'm not 
confusing the two of you. I hope to *hell* you're 
not." 

Purdue waited a long minute, apparently waiting for 
some sign of compromise in Mulder's unyielding stare. 

"You made me another promise in Wheeling," Mulder 
reminded him quietly. The profiler wet his lips, 
carefully holding to the advantage Purdue had 
surrendered, but Mulder was shivering uncontrollably 
now, desperation the only thing keeping him vertical. 
"You think I'm withholding information. Fine. Not that 
I give a shit, but I'm giving you everything I can 
rationally comprehend. *When* I can adequately 
comprehend it. But you--" he choked, shook his head 
savagely to clear it. "I want Kay's file," he had to 
hiss the words, clenching his teeth as the shivering 
escalated momentarily. 

Purdue looked defeated. He took a deep solemn breath, 
flexed his fists and stood. "Why?"

"Why?" Mulder jerked his head up. "Am I on this damned 
case or not?" he demanded. "Look, you want answers. 
Well, I need a few of my own--"

Sauceda stepped between the two men. "Marty, don't do 
this."

Mulder grabbed Sauceda's arm and pulled himself to his 
feet, eyes never wavering from Purdue's. "I can't 
profile off what I don't have--"

Purdue's brows crawled up several inches. "Really. You 
want to tell them that in Fredericksburg? You want to 
step over to the window and quote some more poetry?"

"Goddammit, you promised me a copy of Kay's file. Give 
it to me now or take me off this case."

Mulder had played his trump and Purdue didn't even 
blink. "I've already gotten your profile, Mulder," he 
answered quietly. "If those are my only options, I'll 
take the latter."

Mulder felt the world roll over much too fast. He 
forced himself to focus. Purdue was watching him like 
a man charmed by a spell. 

Mulder nodded solemnly. "Then here's a final addendum 
to your highly regarded profile: she's escalating. 
Again. You might have a day before she goes for her 
next victim. I forced her hand by bailing on her and 
she doesn't appreciate being dumped." He grimaced 
ruefully. "Something she and I have in common, I 
suppose." He turned on his heel for the door.

"Marty--"

"Agent Mulder."

Mulder turned to the ASAC, his eyes cold, willing 
himself to stand still when every nerve in his body 
screamed *move!*

Purdue's voice was too level. "You're in no shape to 
drive. Get one of the officers to take you home or 
call a cab. And I'm serious about that guard detail. 
I'll make arrangements--"

"And the leave of absence?" Mulder dredged up a 
knowing smile from somewhere around the level of his 
knees.

"The leave of absence still stands," Purdue assured 
him.

Mulder nodded. "When Sisyphus pops by for her next 
visit, I'll let her know." He fished a plastic baggie 
from his coat pocket and tossed it to the ASAC. Purdue 
shook it flat, staring at the earring it contained. 
"Send me a sketch artist. You'll need a picture to 
show around Drummond's on Fifth and Hegal Place."

The profiler turned on his heel. DC cops, Bureau 
personnel and two federal marshals dove quietly out of 
his way as he passed.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

11:42 AM, Apartment 42, Alexandria, VA

Mulder arrived at his apartment as enraged as he'd 
been when he'd left the one in Georgetown. *Call a 
freaking cab--*

And Mulder had done just that. From his cell phone. 
Sitting in his car while his hands shook so hard he 
couldn't get the key into the ignition even on the 
third try. He'd had the operator dial the number for 
him or he'd probably still been sitting there. 

The chair in the living room caught the coat he flung 
from the door. Mulder scrubbed at his face roughly, so 
incensed he was fighting tears-- which only made him 
more furious.

*Christ, I've just got to get it all to stop. Just for 
a while, till I can think this crap through. There's 
something wrong, something you're not seeing, Fox. 
Something's wrong.*

Something *was* wrong. Mulder felt it with every 
nerve, every instinct prickling with the certainty. He 
bit his lip, forcing the anger down, deep into that 
bubbling hole Sauceda was so afraid of. As his head 
cleared, he set his eyes to roaming.

Mulder couldn't remember leaving the lights on. He 
also wasn't in the habit of leaving his computer 
running. In fact, he couldn't recall having used it 
since his return to Washington. Yet, there it was, 
blinking at him, screen saver glowing steadily against 
the sunlight streaming through the window. 

He reached to his hip instinctively, recalling too 
late that he no longer had a firearm. Mulder bit back 
a few choice words as he knelt and pulled the 
switchblade from under his pants leg. It wasn't a 
weapon he felt particularly comfortable with, one of 
his father's more unusual Christmas gifts actually, 
but he'd felt naked this morning dressing for duty 
without a weapon of some kind. He flipped the blade 
open and assumed the open armed stance they'd taught 
him at the Academy. He seriously doubted the training 
would do him much good against a .22 but it was the 
best he had right now. God damn his stupidity for 
surrendering his weapon to Sauceda--

Mulder spared a glance for the kitchen door but 
entered the living room first, scanning corners 
rapidly, his heart racing, hand surprisingly steady 
under adrenaline rush. Nothing.

Mulder put his back to the window, pulling the monitor 
around awkwardly to view it while keeping watch on the 
dining room beyond. He hit the space bar to deactivate 
the screen saver and was greeted by his word 
processor: neatly typed lines. More Ashbery. The knife 
forgotten in his hand, he read:

"Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,
At incredible speed, traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents,
Through narrow passes.
But will he know where to find you,
Recognize you when he sees you,
Give you the thing he has for you?
Is it enough
That the dish of milk is set out at night,
That we think of him sometimes,
Sometimes and always, with mixed feelings?"
 
Mulder re-read it, then stared at it without seeing 
it. *Dish of milk...* Alarms set off with the 
realization he'd actually walked across the floor 
without that damned cat under his feet every step--

*No--*

The knife at ready, Mulder followed its jerking 
movements to the kitchen door-- and froze.

The slack little body, so full of energy when he'd 
left, was now on the floor, quite still, head in a 
saucer of watery milk. Random drops of cream drying on 
the tile were the only testament of struggle. A single 
eye, dull and dark, regarded Mulder from the depths of 
the bowl. 

Mulder felt his heart slow, felt his panting ease to a 
single rasping breath. His mind iced over like winter 
in the harbor, ears deafened by the blast of snows 
blowing from a land beckoning beyond his vision. The 
earth rolled on beneath his feet and he did not care, 
standing rapt at the gates of Awe, his soul focused 
too far away, in the depths of that one unblinking 
eye.

The knife slipped from his hand, skittering across the 
floor, unseen, unheard, a discarded remnant of a world 
to which he no longer belonged. He slid to the floor 
into a place of great darkness. 

It was enough, he decided on the way down. He'd had 
quite enough.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

12:47 PM Georgetown Medical Examiner's Office.

The problem with most ME offices, Purdue decided, was 
that they were designed for the bodily comforts of the 
dead-- not the living. Chairs were a scarce commodity, 
as were halls you could stand around in without 
finding yourself leaning against a panel of recessed 
cadaver drawers. And forget looking for a lobby: it 
wasn't exactly like there was a run of visitors at 
such facilities. Even when the public was invited, it 
was usually just to get a quick, identifying peek so 
the ME'd know who to bill once the autopsy was 
complete.

So when the Medical Examiner left for lunch, Purdue 
lost no time or pangs of conscience in commandeering 
his private office. The room was windowless and 
cramped but it beat the hell out of trying to conduct 
business with that damned clunky cellular the Bureau 
gave him to cart around. Sauceda was in his element up 
the hall, busy piecing together the various organs 
Sisyphus had left on Mr. American Lit's plush pile 
carpet. Purdue didn't have to hang out for the 
pathologist's report, but he wanted some kind of peace 
offering for Mulder when he showed up with the guard 
detail. 

He had dispatch forwarding calls from agents in three 
states: just checking in, nothing pressing. Rich 
Kirkland had promised to get back with him on 
assigning some agents to protect Mulder. Rich was 
reliable; Purdue'd have a call back within the hour. 
Meanwhile, Purdue had put in two calls to Skinner-- 
yesterday and this morning-- advising the AD on 
Mulder's apparent mental state. Skinner had been 
singularly non-committal, suggesting Purdue handle the 
situation as he saw fit. Purdue could almost smell the 
cigarette smoke over the phone, though and hadn't 
pressed the issue. 

Harris had left two messages this morning. Purdue 
dialed Wheeling using the ME's old rotary phone. The 
sound of the dial spinning, leisurely and solid, was 
laughably comforting.

"So, how's your kid doing?" Three hundred miles 
distance didn't manage to filter the concern from 
Harris' voice.

Purdue shrugged, grimaced as he realized Harris 
couldn't very well see the motion through the phone. 
He sighed, instead. "Mulder's... Mulder," he said.

"That bad, huh?"

Purdue didn't bother to laugh, just too tired to try. 
"All right, smart ass, what've you got?"

"Latent found a partial oblique on the headboard in 
Kress' motel room. Your boys at NCIC found no match 
but that's no surprise given Mulder warned us she'd 
probably have no priors to compare prints with. It'll 
be handy at trial once we find her, though, if it *is* 
hers to begin with."

"Mulder'd also said she'd get bolder, maybe get 
sloppy. Good work, Nat. It's more than we got at 
apartment three oh four."

"Yeah. Oh, and I'm still following leads on the Enron 
thing. It doesn't look too promising, though. Doesn't 
she have some kind of *recent* history we can check 
out?"

"Yeah, actually. She does." Purdue flipped Mulder's 
book out of its evidence bag and spun it upright, 
avoiding the fingerprint dust coating its cover. 
"We've got a couple of prints out here, too--"

"Out *there*?"

"--I'll have them checked for a match on your partial 
and send you a file on our latest acquisition. Soon as 
I get a file, anyway. Meanwhile, check your local book 
stores for recent purchases of "A Wave" by John 
Ashbery."

"A what?"

Purdue scrubbed at his face and spelled it for him. 
"It's poetry, so maybe you won't need to plow through 
the New York Times bestseller list." 

"Uh huh." Harris sounded less than thrilled. "How 
recent a purchase? Maybe something in this decade?"

"Try this week, Nat. Think you can handle that?" 
Purdue's voice was much too tired.

There was a silence born of wisdom on Harris' end of 
the line. When the detective spoke again, his voice 
was somber. "Things are really bad on your end, aren't 
they, Reg?"

Purdue didn't answer. He felt about seventy right now. 
He'd had Olivia on his mind for days. Not Olivia 
healthy and vibrant, but Olivia ill, and certain of 
death. Over and over, he'd wakened with the memory of 
her struggle for life, her weariness, the expression 
in her eyes when it was finally beyond hope--

Mulder had given him that same look, sitting there on 
that blood-splattered couch: inhumanly still, scarcely 
daring to breathe as Purdue had knelt. Fear had poured 
off the young man like sweat, a heady aroma, 
intoxicating as liqueur. Purdue had tasted the scent 
and felt his heart race, like a wild beast closing in 
on choice prey.

Then the profiler had looked up at him and all the 
life the man possessed seemed to have retreated to the 
depths of those too-green, too-liquid eyes. Purdue, on 
his knees, had gazed through doors best kept closed, a 
voyeur in a world God kept hidden for His own private 
viewing. 

Mulder's words, cool, arrogant, and defiant, had no 
answering reflection in the young agent's eyes. 

"Reg?"

"Yeah. Ahm. Mulder thinks he may have a description. 
I'll be faxing it over ASAP." His coat pocket began 
ringing. "Hey, hang on a minute, okay?" Purdue fished 
out his cell phone and got the boxy instrument 
activated. "Purdue." He waited through a few silent 
seconds of precious airtime but nothing seemed 
forthcoming. He jabbed the disconnect button. 
"Technology." He made the word sound like profanity 
and sat the phone on the desk to return to Harris' 
line. He scarcely got the detective's response when 
the cellular rang again. 

"Well, hell's bells. Hang on Nat. This damned half-ass 
phone is at it again--" He jabbed the necessary button 
and barked. "Yeah. Purdue."

"She's been here." 

The voice on the other end was alien to him. The tone 
was wrong, the timbre of the voice off, the speaker 
far too vulnerable to be anyone he knew-- . The ASAC's 
breath caught in his throat.

"Mulder? Mulder, where the hell are you? Are you all 
right?"

"No. Ah-- I mean--" 

Purdue waited, listening to the man on the other end 
gasp air. A shaky rustling filtered through the line 
and Purdue got the sense Mulder was having difficulty 
holding the receiver.

"Agent Mulder, what--"

"I'm home," the profiler managed at last. "I'm--"

And again that voluminous silence. Purdue was a long 
way from worrying about line charges. He closed his 
eyes, silently willing Mulder to hold on, to get 
himself to make some rational sense, at least for a 
little while longer.

"Mulder. Mulder, can you hear me? Look, I want you to 
get out of that apartment. She may be hiding 
somewhere. She may still be there." 

Silence. 

"Mulder, dammit, listen to me. Have you secured the 
premises?" Purdue shook the phone gingerly. 
"Goddammit--" No, no, the phone had to be working; he 
could still hear the young man breathing. "Mulder! 
Get--"

"I'm going to lie down now," the profiler announced 
simply, finally.

"What the--? Mulder, Get out of that apartment, do you 
hear me?"

"I'm going to lie down, now." Mulder repeated the 
words patiently. "It'll be all right, Reg. You'll 
see."

Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place for Reginald 
Purdue. He finally recognized the crack in Mulder's 
voice: it wasn't fear. It was grief. And the soft 
click of the telephone was laughter, the delighted 
chuckle of Hell as it laid claim on a young profiler 
who'd finally taken just one too many trips in.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 21:51:38 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 16A of 27
Source: xfc

Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 16A of 27: A Trip Out through the In Door

Disclaimed in Part 1.



1:47 p.m. Apartment 42.

Sauceda, weapon drawn, was hard on Purdue's heels as 
the ASAC burst through Mulder's door. Purdue's pistol 
scanned left, tense, professional. Sauceda fumbled his 
bag, dropping it to the floor so he could two-fist his 
Smith and Wesson. Procedure dictated holding a firearm 
with both hands, but right now Sauceda needed them 
both just to keep the site steady. 

*Marty was dead.* The words had rolled through his 
head when Purdue had slammed into the autopsy bay, 
stumbling against the door, trying to break the 
momentum of his frenzied dash up the hall. Purdue had 
gasped: "It's Mulder. Let's go." But Sauceda knew all 
the same. He raced after the ASAC and the words echoed 
back to him with every frantic footfall. *Marty was 
dead.* It reverberated in the hum of the engine as 
Purdue floored his Ford through DC's traffic and down 
the George Washington Parkway. *Marty was dead. 
Surely, Marty was dead. She'd found him and he didn't 
even have a gun to defend himself-- He trusted you and 
you screwed him, you son of a bitch--* 

Purdue held up his hand, listening, and Sauceda forced 
himself to focus. He peered past the ASAC's shoulder, 
holding his breath, searching for some hint that would 
tell him Marty was here, Marty was gone, Marty was 
safe. The apartment was a black hole, sucking up all 
sound, all life. Silent as the grave.

"Agent Mulder!" Purdue's voice resonated in the 
emptiness, unanswered. 

Purdue took a few hesitant steps in, past the dining 
room table, glancing into the living room warily. 
Sauceda watched his every move, alert for any sign of 
trouble while still trying to keep his peripheral 
vision scanning. Purdue paused, flexed his shoulders, 
concentrating, and Sauceda realized with a start that 
he now had his weapon trained on his ASAC's back. He 
winced and spun to bring his .44 to bear on the 
kitchen door. Purdue, alerted by the frantic motion, 
turned to realign his own weapon, then froze, intent 
on something hidden from Sauceda's view by the table. 

The pathologist's palms started to sweat; he flexed 
his fingers against his pistol grip, reassuring 
himself of his grasp, of his courage. He pressed 
silently to Purdue's side and followed the ASAC's line 
of sight. 

On the floor near the kitchen door was a switchblade. 
Sauceda squinted in the faint light but the blade 
gleamed dully, cold and untarnished, blade and 
floorboards innocent of blood. 

Purdue nodded at him solemnly before jerking his head 
toward the living room. Purdue himself stalked past 
and on to the kitchen. Sauceda's heart had a death 
grip on the back of his tongue, but he concentrated on 
procedure, securing the living room, investigating 
behind the chair, the curtains. He felt like his chest 
was going to burst; his skin wouldn't stop crawling 
and the revolver was far too heavy in his clammy 
hands. The room was so quiet he could hear his watch 
ticking. The computer hummed softly on the desk, 
screen dark, a field of stars fleeing for infinity. At 
the end of the couch, Mulder's bedroom door was 
partially open, the room behind it impossibly dark. He 
took a hesitant step toward it.

In that same instant, however, Purdue's savage 
swearing echoed from the kitchen. Sauceda scurried 
through the dining room, hermit-crab fashion, half-
sideways, his gun still scanning corners restlessly.

He found the ASAC kneeling next to a saucer of milk. 
On the floor beside the dish was something covered 
respectfully with a cup towel. Purdue held up a corner 
of the cloth and displayed the cold figure of a tiny 
yellow tabby. Sauceda knew the signs of asphyxiation 
well enough; he didn't need the fur, stiff from drying 
milk, to tell him the story. He choked down bile and 
grimaced. 

"The bitch," he hissed. The gun in his hand was 
suddenly not so awkward; it felt welcome and warm and 
good to hold. His finger sliding across the trigger 
provoked an almost sensuous burning in his gut. He 
hoped she was here, he realized abruptly. As long as 
Marty was okay somewhere, he hoped the bitch was still 
here--

"You sure it wasn't Mulder?" Purdue asked softly.

The horror and instant consternation on Sauceda's face 
must have said it all. Purdue held up his hand to 
forestall the indignant protest.

"I know, Hot Sauce, I just..." Purdue blinked down at 
the little body and his shoulders slumped. "Hell, I 
don't know what I was thinking," he said. 

Sauceda watched Purdue lower the towel. The ASAC 
shifted his gun as he stood. 

"Bedroom door's open. Lights out," Sauceda reported, 
marveling that his voice was so suddenly steady. "Back 
this way--" 

Purdue grabbed his arm, pulling Sauceda back and 
proceeding him. Sauceda didn't protest: between them, 
Purdue was probably the better shot.

The bedroom was in near total darkness, heavy drapes 
yielding no hint of the afternoon sun beyond them. 
Furniture and bric-a-brac were indistinguishable, 
ominous shapes looming up in the gloom. The four-
poster was easily enough to find, however: a solitary 
sliver of daylight pierced the drapes and highlighted 
a mound of blanket, motionless on the far side of the 
bed.

Following Purdue's unspoken cue, Sauceda kept his 
revolver trained on the lump on the mattress while 
Purdue checked the closet and bathroom for signs of 
life. The weapon was slick and cold again in Sauceda's 
hands as he edged around the end of the bed, drawing 
nearer the form. The blanket trembled slightly, just 
once and was still again. Sauceda froze. Purdue, ever 
observant, set his back against a wall and leveled his 
weapon on Sauceda's target. Sauceda stepped carefully 
to the nightstand, gun held absolutely steady as he 
flipped on the lamp. His breath caught in his throat. 
His weapon lowered of its own accord.

At the top of the blanket lay a dark head and too-
bright eyes. Nothing else of the profiler was visible. 
The blanket shuddered sporadically. 

Sauceda knelt to bring his face into Mulder's line of 
sight. "Hey, Marty," he whispered.

Mulder blinked a moment in the light, registering the 
voice, the presence before him. His eyes crinkled to 
impersonate a smile. "Hey," he responded. His voice 
was soft, harsh like he'd been choking, his eyes 
glittering like liquid metal. Sauceda's gut chilled as 
he realized Mulder was making no effort to hide the 
tears.

"You okay, Marty?" 

*Oh, brilliant question, Dr. Sauceda, go on, ask 
another... *

Mulder nodded patiently, all wisdom and compassion, 
dark eyes waiting while Sauceda swallowed down 
something trying to strangle him. 

"I really need to sleep right now, Lenny," Mulder 
explained. "Just turn it all off for a bit..."

Sauceda nodded. Mulder's voice was possessed by an odd 
calm, a dissociated quality that made Sauceda blink a 
few times just to test reality.

Mulder's brows furrowed. "'Cept I can't sleep. And I'm 
trying really hard." There was an expectancy across 
the eyes, and a weariness, too, deep enough to drown 
in.

Sauceda glanced at Purdue, quiet at the foot of the 
bed. "You want a pill, Marty?"

"I want to sleep *now*." Those patient, wounded eyes, 
that fragile whisper.

Purdue ducked out the door, returning in seconds with 
Sauceda's bag. He kept to the far end of the bed, 
locked in silence and out of Mulder's line of sight. 

Sauceda gulped air, digging through his supplies, 
determining the proper drug and Baez's recommended 
doses. His hands shook as he loaded the syringe. 

Mulder was shivering so hard Sauceda could hear his 
teeth chattering. It had nothing to do with the 
temperature of the room; still, Sauceda whispered an 
apology as he gently untangled Mulder from his 
blanket. 

The young man was still fully dressed, still in the 
suit he'd been wearing in Georgetown, the tie a dark 
and portentous smear across the white expanse of 
shirt. Mulder blinked longingly at the syringe in 
Sauceda's hand and uncurled himself but his trembling 
fingers couldn't manage his belt and trousers. He 
accepted Sauceda's help with childlike gratitude, 
dropping his hands to either side, palms up, arms 
flung out like Christ on the cross. Purdue shifted 
uneasily; Sauceda silenced him with a look and the 
ASAC kept his place. 

Belt finally loosened, Sauceda helped Mulder turn back 
to his side once more. He pushed back the trousers and 
slid the shorts down discreetly then paused with the 
needle at the profiler's hip, cursing the agitated 
muscles that could not relax but obviously ached to do 
so.

"Marty? You wanna to go to the hospital?"

Mulder shook his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut, 
anticipating the relief of the Thorazine. "Can't I 
just sleep first?" he whispered.

Voices outside announced the arrival of the back-up 
unit. The ASAC gave Sauceda a nod and stepped out to 
direct operations, closing the door behind him 
quietly. Sauceda delivered the drug and tucked the 
shivering form back beneath the blanket. 

Purdue's voice filtered back into the room: "The 
bedroom is off limits right now. No exceptions. I want 
someone at HQ on the wire. I need a list of everyone 
accessing Agent Mulder's personnel records for the 
past two months. And somebody get a print kit after 
that computer..."

The voices beyond the bedroom door were suddenly part 
of another world. Closed in with Mulder's oppressive 
silence, Sauceda could only marvel that he'd ever been 
a part of it. He shrugged off the sensation-- he 
didn't have time for that kind of nonsense right now, 
anyway. He set about undressing Mulder as best he 
could without disturbing him too much: the shoes slid 
off easily, then the trousers. Mindful of Mulder's 
continued shivering, Sauceda pulled the end of the 
bedspread up and over the young man, trying to provide 
further warmth before easing him out of his jacket. 

Mulder grunted softly in his struggle against the 
encroaching psychological shock. Sauceda cooed in 
response, little nonsense words-- *doin'goodkid, 
'salright*-- chosen more for their comfort than their 
meaning. He ran a gentle hand across Mulder's 
forehead, a touch of comfort that also managed to 
detect a fair amount of fever. He debated whether 
Mulder could manage a thermometer without snapping it 
in two; the chattering of his teeth decided against 
it. 

He set his face into an expression he hoped would 
convey benevolence and calm and reached gently beneath 
the blanket to unknot Mulder's tie. Mulder didn't 
resist, raising his chin to make it easier. He seemed 
quite incapable, however, of unclenching his body from 
its fetal position. Sauceda didn't ask him to try, 
unbuttoning the top button of the starched shirt and 
tucking the blanket back again. Mulder blinked at him, 
searching his face without judgment and accepting the 
comfort of his partner's presence.

Sauceda turned, overwhelmed by the need to simply not 
witness the suffering-- at least for a moment or two. 
He occupied the time guiltily, laid Mulder's tie 
across the night table with exaggerated care. The 
pattern, a soft, sedate paisley, glowed with a mixture 
of silver and scarlet, iridescent in the pale light. 
Convoluted swirls drew the pathologist's eye deep into 
the fabric and he touched it tentatively, wondering if 
this was a hint of what it was like for Marty: dazzled 
by the horror of the human heart, drawn into the 
killer's madness. 

He turned away abruptly and found that the profiler 
was still watching him, eyes as wide, unblinking as an 
owl's. "Thank you," Mulder whispered and Sauceda felt 
dizzy suddenly.

"Go to sleep, Marty. I'll say your prayers..."

Mulder nodded, closed his eyes. His world stilled but 
he was not at peace. Random impulses twitched his 
facial muscles. His shivering, when it hit, was still 
much too violent. Sauceda laid a hand on his forehead. 

"I fly to your Mercy, Compassionate God--" He 
whispered the ancient novena, certain that too many of 
the words had escaped his memory, praying that God 
would forgive him such oversight. "Friend of a lonely 
heart, although my misery is great and my offenses are 
many, I trust in Your Mercy, for neither Heaven nor 
Earth remember when a soul trusting in Your Mercy has 
ever been disappointed--"

Mulder whispered too, but the words were slurred as 
though traveling from a great distance. They had the 
mimicked quality of nursery rhymes, or prayers learned 
and repeated over the bed in childhood. "In peace, O 
God," he lisped, "I shut my eyes. In peace again I 
hope to rise--" The rest was gibberish. Or Yiddish, 
Sauceda wasn't sure which.

He watched as the young man descended backward into 
sleep, like a man drowning, surrendering without 
struggle into the dark current, unconcerned whether 
death awaited him within the fathomless depths below. 
As the drug claimed him, Mulder wriggled a bit under 
his blanket, a last gasp, then turned off like a 
light; his muscles finally following suit several 
minutes later.

Sauceda took a pulse and used his penlight to check 
Mulder's pupils gingerly. It had been years since he'd 
worked with a breathing patient and his palms were 
sweating harder now than when he'd been waving his gun 
around. Hell, this was why he'd taken up forensics: 
with your patients already dead, you had a much more 
comfortable margin for error. Still, he would have 
paid good money right now for a half-decent blood 
pressure cuff.

He glanced up to find that Purdue had re-entered, 
watching reverently, his back against the door. The 
unit outside was uncharacteristically subdued, 
mutually confined to shuffling and muffled voices. 
With the ASAC on the premises, they'd be doubly 
thorough, though. Sauceda found the thought 
reassuring.

"He out?" Purdue mouthed the words soundlessly. 
Sauceda nodded. Purdue pocketed his hands and both men 
stood mute, watching the regular rise and fall of 
Mulder's chest.

"What do you think, Lenny?" Purdue whispered finally. 
"We give him time or call the hospital?"

Sauceda shook his head. The motion was both an answer 
and a disavowal of his part in this decision. He was 
ashamed suddenly; ashamed of his role in Mulder's 
apparent destruction, ashamed of every word he'd ever 
spoken behind the young man's back. It was all coming 
back on him now, every tale he'd trotted off for 
Patterson and that damned man with the cigarette that 
had sat like part of the furniture in Patterson's 
office. God was making sure Sauceda paid for such 
sins-- only Marty was paying for them now, too.

Staring down at the form on the bed, Sauceda finally 
realized that Marty had always known the truth of it-- 
hell, the kid's rebellious intelligence was one of the 
reasons Patterson had kept such close tabs on him. Ten 
months together, though, and Marty'd never asked, 
never once let on that he knew for sure. They'd simply 
never spoken about it. Occasionally, Sauceda'd even 
allowed *himself* to forget the fact, had gone so far 
as to call himself a friend. 

And Marty'd never called him on it. 

*Jesus, Mary. Saint Joseph--* Sauceda hiccuped on the 
fist in his throat and stared down at the finally 
peaceful face. A moment ago, this young man had looked 
at him with eyes that pleaded trust, begged for 
reassurance of a perilous brotherhood. The plea had 
not wavered even as the lids had closed over, the drug 
dragging him down into the silent current of sleep. 
And Mulder had surrendered willingly, placed himself 
upon the mercy of the man standing at his bedside. 

Sauceda's eyes roamed the room but found no place of 
rest, no corner in which he could claim solace. This 
was Marty's home; there was no place here for a man 
who was friend in name only.

"Lenny, I need an answer."

Sauceda stopped breathing under the weight of the 
ASAC's dark regard. He shrugged it off with 
difficulty.

"I don't know, Reg. So far, the kid's reactions have 
been pretty rational. I'd say he's as sane as 
circumstances will permit."

"That's not saying much, is it?"

Sauceda grimaced. "Yeah." He looked down at the 
sleeping form. Mulder's right arm twitched slightly, 
struggling against life even when drugged senseless. 
The long lashes lay black against pale cheeks, sealing 
the eyes that had closed in hope. 

Sauceda took a deep breath and scrambled for answers. 
His eyes on Purdue were cool and deceptively assured. 
"I think he's been coherent and calm. He hasn't 
refused help. Hell, Reg, he's even asked for it. 
Requested necessary medication, time out to rest. I 
think he's doing pretty damned good considering the 
hell he's been through the past year."

Purdue was back to watching Mulder breathe, apparently 
doing some fast thinking of his own. "Hospital worth 
its salt finds out the kind of stress he's been under, 
they'd refuse to release him just to keep him away 
from the Bureau. Can't say that I'd blame them," he 
admitted cautiously.

"That's not our only problem," Sauceda's voice barely 
masked the wonder of the realization. "Jeezus, we put 
Marty in a hospital ward, we get our hands slapped off 
entirely. Our access will be limited at best. Think 
about it. He's got a killer stalking him. You want to 
trust his life to hospital security? Or even a couple 
of our guys out in the hall who wouldn't question if 
Sisyphus herself walked in his room as long as she was 
dressed in hospital scrubs and carrying a bedpan?"

Purdue looked down at the crumpled lump of blanket. 
His voice was distant, "'It'll be all right', he 
said." 

Sauceda blinked. "Come again?"

"On the phone. He said 'It'll be all right.' As calm 
as if he was giving a weather report. His whole 
freaking life falling apart around him and he wants me 
to believe it'll be okay."

Sauceda had no answers for the ASAC. He had too few 
for himself. He sank quietly onto the foot of the bed, 
feeling the muscles in his legs give way, weary of 
bearing up under the anguish of thought. For the first 
time in his life, he felt old. Old and tired. *Jeezus, 
Marty, I don't wanna do this anymore. Please, Marty, 
get well so I can just walk away and not look back--*

Mulder's answer was to begin a feeble fight with his 
blanket, a hopeless gesture, a solitary hand, too pale 
in the dark room, rising to clutch at a bit of cloth. 
Long, numbed fingers curled and twisted at the linen, 
seeking to pull it closer-- or push it away. Sauceda 
could only guess. The motion stilled fitfully, 
Mulder's face frighteningly tranquil, his chest 
frozen, breath forgotten. 

Sauceda choked, waiting for some sign of life, eyes 
widening in the darkness as he willed himself to see. 
He staggering to his feet-- There was a fretful rasp 
and the hand loosened on the blanket. Mulder's chest 
resumed its peaceful rhythm, air escaping in quiet 
sighs.

Sauceda felt something brush his arm and turned to 
find Purdue standing at his shoulder, face pinched and 
bitter. The ASAC's voice was hard in the quiet. "What 
aren't you telling me?" he demanded.

Sauceda didn't even pretend to misunderstand. He bit 
his lip and swallowed. "Patterson said--" Sauceda 
choked briefly and tried again. "Patterson always said 
that Marty's life was in my hands every time the kid 
gave a case his all. Every time he allowed himself to 
cross that line of reality to stop a killer..." 
Sauceda held his gaze steady on Purdue's. "He was 
right. You've seen the kind of dreams Marty has while 
he's on a case like this. Until this Sisyphus is 
stopped, they're going to continue. You shove him in 
the hospital and he has just one dream and it's over, 
Reg. They'll diagnose paranoid schizophrenia and lock 
him in a nut ward."

A soft knock on the door interrupted Purdue's 
response. The ASAC moved to answer, blocking the view 
of the room with his body.

"Sir," an unfamiliar voice whispered in the door, 
"what do you want us to do with the cat?"

"I told you I'll handle it," Purdue snarled. "Look, 
I'll be right out." He turned back to Sauceda with a 
sigh. "You know what happens if we're wrong about 
this, Sauceda. Mulder cracks for real and we haven't 
brought him in, they'll hang both our butts for 
criminal negligence." He looked Sauceda firmly in the 
eye. "It'll mean your pension, Hot Sauce. You want to 
reassess?"

Sauceda spent a brief minute choking down the thought. 
It felt like molten lead sliding down, burning a hole 
through his gut. It must have solidified on it's way 
to his knees, however. He found himself standing 
straighter as he shook his head. 

"I don't give a shit, Reg. You want an out, that's 
fine, but I'm not backing you on an involuntary. You've 
got precedence. Marty damned near collapsed in 
Shreveport and Baez made the same call on it I'm 
making now. I'm the doctor here. No one will fault 
you."

Purdue looked away. "Sauceda--"

"You promised. He gets some time, you son of a bitch. 
It's my call." There was a pitiful crack in the 
pathologist's voice. Against his better judgment, 
Sauceda didn't look away when Purdue turned back to 
regard him.

Purdue's decision took even less time than Sauceda's 
had. The dark man's shoulders slumped in resignation. 
"You're not standing for it alone, Len." He shrugged. 
"What the hell, all this ASAC crap cuts into my 
writing time, anyway. Mulder wants to rest? Fine-- 
we'll give him tonight, at least. I'll put a call in 
to Baez, update him on the situation. He's more likely 
to toss me back to Personnel Services but at least 
I'll have tried. We'll see what Mulder has to say 
about all this when he's... once more among the 
living." He gave Sauceda a minute to digest his 
victory then nodded at the door. "Soon as these guys 
are done, I'll put a guard detail in the hall. And I 
want someone one-on-one with Mulder from here on out. 
You want the first shift?" 

"Shift, hell. I'm here. I'm staying. Just like any 
other case."

Purdue nodded. "Look, why don't you call your wife? 
Try to get some rest while the team's here. I'll... 
hell." The ASAC bit off his speculations and moved to 
the closet; he flipped on the light and disappeared 
inside.

Sauceda used the combined lights of the closet and the 
lamp to check Mulder's color again. The profiler 
looked even more pallid than he had before, if such a 
thing were possible. The Band-Aid on his cheek had 
pulled away and the scab was deep red against ash-
white skin. The trembling had finally subsided, 
however, and Mulder's breathing was deep, and as 
reassuringly steady as his pulse. 

In the closet, something fell and Purdue hissed 
curses, emerging with a panicked face. Mulder stirred 
only slightly, however; a solitary sigh of protest all 
that managed to escape the riptide of Thorazine 
holding him under.

Purdue shook off his desperation and waved an empty 
shoe box at Sauceda, his mouth grim.

"I'll be back shortly," he promised.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 16B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 21:51:47 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 16B of 27
Source: xfc

Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 16B of 27: 


Wednesday, May 18, 1988. 1:17 a.m. Apartment 42.

Mulder had always been of the opinion that he should 
wait, before he died, for his body to be dead. But 
then again, if he were dead he would probably feel a 
whole lot better than this...

He tried unfolding himself, stretching out on his back 
slowly, resolutely keeping his eyes closed: *one major 
item at a time, Fox...*

The unfolding accomplished, he waited anxiously for 
his muscles to calm. They twitched erratically, the 
muscles in his calves aching from the effort to lie 
still. His mouth felt like cotton batting and his head 
wasn't much better. 

He tested his vision, opening the left eye first. When 
that one came to no apparent harm, he worked on 
opening the other. He lay staring a long while before 
he actually began seeing anything, though: dark room, 
dim ceiling. Familiar blanket, familiar sounds in the 
walls around him. Home.

Somehow, he managed to free himself from the blanket 
and struggle to the dresser. Black jeans were the 
first thing in the drawer. He stumbled back to the bed 
to dress himself, still unsure of his balance. The 
jeans were warm after the cool air on his legs, and he 
rested a long minute, falling back onto the bed to 
wait for his energy to return. 

It was a full half-hour before he was finally able to 
roll off the mattress and convince his legs to get his 
thirst to the kitchen. His stocking feet made no 
noise, long white dress shirt pale gray in the light 
of the transom window above the sink. He found a glass 
in the drying rack. His hands shook with the effort to 
hold it and he spilled as much as he drank, but the 
water was sweet as nectar running down his throat. 

Then he noticed the bowl on the cabinet. The light 
through the window lit the residue of milk curdled in 
the bottom: curds glowing like embers, blinding white 
in white ceramic on white porcelain tile. The image 
burned into his retina, blinding him. He felt he would 
never see again. 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sauceda jerked awake at the slap on his leg. He caught 
himself just before he took the swing that would have 
landed his partner on the other side of the living 
room. Mulder, bleached as white as his shirt, glowed 
like Casper standing there in the dark.

"Jeezus, Marty, you scared the crap outta me--"

"Where's my cat?"

Sauceda sat up, scrubbing the sleep from his face. 
"Marty. It's okay--" 

"Where's my cat?" Mulder's pupils were unfocusing even 
as Sauceda's head cleared.

"Marty, listen to me. It's okay. Purdue took care of 
it. He's taking care of everything. You don't have to 
worry about anything. Okay?" Sauceda pushed his 
blanket aside and struggled to his feet. Mulder took 
four rapid steps back, however and the pathologist 
froze. 

"Marty?"

Mulder stood quite still, head down, eyes shadowed, 
waiting for the violence of betrayal, waiting to be 
hit, slapped, screamed at, drugged. Something. 

Sauceda squinted, trying to catch some subtle hint in 
the young man's stance. He'd seen Marty in this state 
before. In Shreveport. In Saint Paul. But he'd never 
understood it and couldn't identify the source of such 
certainty of treachery. Not for the first time, he 
wondered at Mulder's past and the parents he never 
mentioned.

"Look, kid," he whispered, "you're tired. It's late. 
Why don't we go back to sleep?"

"I don't want any more drugs," Mulder warned.

"Okay." Sauceda presented empty hands. "That's fine. 
Do you need help getting back to bed?"

Mulder briefly considered the question. "I'm sleeping 
on the couch," he announced. "I wanna watch TV."

Sauceda rubbed the back of his neck, willing himself 
to at least look like he was okay with all this. "You 
sure?"

"Yeah."

Sauceda backed around the coffee table, letting Mulder 
keep his distance. The young man waited until Sauceda 
was well out of range before climbing onto the couch, 
flopping the blanket over himself, wriggling down into 
the cushions. The remote control shook in his hand as 
he fumbled the TV on.

Sauceda padded across the room in his socks and 
boxers. He stopped at the sight of the front door. 
Randomly shifting shadows were highlighted in the slit 
against the floor.

"Marty, while I'm snoring in the bedroom, you're going 
to sneak out, aren't you?" He didn't mention the two 
men posted in the uncomfortable folding chairs in the 
hall. Marty didn't like being caged.

"No." TV programs flipped by frantically.

"Not even for a little while? Not even for a run?"

Mulder didn't look up, sleepy eyes staring at the blur 
of stations. "I'll be right here the whole time. I 
promise."

"Okay. You promised, Marty. Don't lie to me."

Mulder looked him full in the eye. His voice remained 
quiet and flat. "You think I'd just leave you here for 
her to waltz in and hack up?" He watched Sauceda 
blanch, and turned back to the TV. "I promised, Len. 
Now go to bed before I get up from here and kick your 
ass. Or get one of Purdue's guard dogs outside to do 
it for me."

Sauceda stood quietly a few minutes more. Mulder 
didn't acknowledge his presence, however, and he 
finally padded reluctantly off to the bedroom. The 
profiler remained oblivious even to Sauceda's 
continual tiptoeing back and forth, checking on him 
every few minutes. The trips finally slowed to once 
every half-hour or so.

Sauceda was in bed, finally asleep and unaware, before 
Mulder finally dared to investigate the sharp little 
item poking him in the ribs. He pulled it loose from 
its hiding place between the couch cushions, examining 
it in the glow of the television: Sauceda's pen knife. 
A handy little instrument that was forever slipping 
out of Lenny's pocket when he sat down...

Mulder stared at the marvelous little device for a 
long while. He held it tightly in the hand covered by 
the blanket, not thinking much of anything really. Not 
anything he could share with the rest of the class, 
anyway. He slipped it silently into his shirt pocket 
and resumed his television viewing.

"I'm going to have to remember," he noted aloud, "to 
ask Purdue about that cat."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

5:57 a.m. Apartment 42.

Mulder woke with a scream. He managed to get it 
strangled to a gasp as Gregg and Mitchell burst in 
from the hall, guns at ready. Both agents froze, 
staring into the living room as Sauceda barreled in 
from the bedroom. One look at Mulder and the 
pathologist looked like his heart was about to do 
itself serious damage.

With everything still, finally, Mulder realized he was 
on the floor. He was on his knees, in fact, next to 
the couch, hugging himself and shaking convulsively. 
There was blood on his shirt, blood on the rug, more 
blood on the blanket. 

Sauceda swore and ran for his medical bag. Mitchell 
crossed the room and grabbed the phone on the coffee 
table. Mulder grabbed Mitchell's hand.

"No!" Mulder gasped, still trying to calm himself, to 
steady his heart.

"Agent Mulder, I've got to call 911."

"No, I'm all right. I'm not bleeding." Mulder looked 
away from the incredulity on the man's face. Jeezus, 
he knew what it sounded like, but--

Sauceda was back and plopped down on his knees beside 
him, scrambling in his bag.

"Hot Sauce, tell them. Tell them I'm all right," 
Mulder pleaded.

"Yeah, Marty. We know, kid. It'll be okay--"

"Len, I'm not bleeding. Please--" Mulder was trying 
hard to keep his voice calm. Trying real hard not to 
break Mitchell's hand on that damned receiver. And 
Sauceda's expression was soft and so irritatingly 
compassionate. Mulder wanted to slap him but that 
would probably provoke Greg who was already eyeing 
Mitchell for some kind of permission. Mulder lowered 
his voice to a harsh hiss, the best he could manage 
given the circumstances. 

"Dammit, Len, I'm *not* hurt. I'm *not* bleeding." He 
tugged at the buttons on his shirt, fumbling to get 
them loose. "Dammit, look at me."

Sauceda obeyed, to humor him and because he had to see 
the wound to repair it. He assisted with the buttons 
then blotted at the blood across Mulder's abdomen with 
a corner of the blanket, one hand ready with the 
gauze.

But there was no wound. No cut, no abrasion. Nothing. 
There was nothing there.

Sauceda dabbed again, rubbing the blood into dark 
streaks on Mulder's skin. His mouth worked on words 
that didn't come and he grabbed his partner's hands, 
bloodied and cold, rubbed *them* with the blanket. 

Still nothing. 

Sauceda sat blankly, holding Mulder's wrist and 
gasping like a landed fish. Mulder, angrily patient, 
watched him.

"Open your mouth," Sauceda demanded.

Mulder obeyed, closing it back grimly when Sauceda 
finished poking. Lenny even tapped the scab on his 
cheek but as best Mulder could tell, it was still 
well-crusted and dry. Sauceda sat back on his 
haunches, looking like the poster child for 
bewilderment.

Mitchell was staring alternately at Mulder's bloody 
hand on his wrist and then at the two men on the 
floor. Just for the hell of it, Mulder grinned at him.

"Spooky strikes again, boys," he quipped.

Sauceda's entire body convulsed.

"Son of a *bitch,*" he spat, "I oughta slap the shit 
out of you, you little--" He slammed his fist into the 
coffee table, screaming at Mitch and Gregg. "Out! Just 
get the hell out!" 

The two men wasted no time in obeying. Sauceda still 
had hold of one of Mulder's wrists. He shook it at 
him.

"What the hell is this, Marty? Monkey blood? You got 
some of that fake vampire shit stashed out from 
Halloween or something?"

Mulder stopped grinning and shook his head. "No, 
Lenny. Look, I'm sorry, I--"

"That's what it is, isn't it? You just have to go 
around messing with people's heads, don't you? Goddam 
monkey blood. You little shit. You screwed up little 
shit--"

Mulder sat defeated; Sauceda's hand was squeezing his 
wrist so hard, his fingers were tingling. Mulder 
accepted the pain as his due. "Whatever's easiest for 
you to believe, Len," he conceded quietly.

Sauceda wasn't having it. His face flushed with rage. 
"Whatever's easiest-- what the hell is that supposed 
to mean? Damn you! What the hell do you think you're 
playing at here?"

"Look, Lenny, I swear. I just woke up like this. 
That's all. I had a really bad dream. And I woke up 
like this."

"Just like that."

"Just like that." Mulder pulled away to lean against 
the couch. "I don't know, Lenny. There are cases... 
Maybe it's psychosomatic--"

"Psychosomatic, my ass, you little punk bastard--"

Mulder jerked his hand away, his voice finally hard 
and heading for dangerous. "Look, I'd like to tell you 
I'm just sick enough to think this is hysterically 
funny. That I did this to myself. But then you'd go 
and tell Purdue and he'd want to see the container I 
had this crap stored in and send it to the lab for 
analysis and prints and then I'd be totally screwed 
because there *is* no container and there sure as 
*hell* would be no prints."

Sauceda sat numb in the sudden silence, frozen with 
the impossibility of truth. He watched Mulder jerk to 
his feet, watched the young man swear as another fit 
of shivers threatened to land him back on the floor.

"Marty--"

Mulder didn't bother to look down at him. "I'm going 
to take a shower," he hissed.

Mulder made it out of the room by sheer force of will. 
Sauceda followed him cautiously. 

"Marty, I'm sorry--"

Mulder turned, furious at the gentle voice beside him, 
holding his anger tightly, needing it to help him 
think, to remind him to breathe. "I don't want you to 
be sorry, Lenny," he seethed. "I don't need you to be 
sorry. I just can't afford to be kind, courteous and 
courageous just now, okay?" He moaned, jerked away, 
the explanation taking too much effort. "I'm going to 
take a shower. I just really need to take a shower."

"Marty. You're not steady enough on your feet, kid--"

"Damn you. Don't tell me what I am. You have no idea. 
Don't fucking tell me what I am!"

Sauceda followed him silently through the bedroom. 
Every step Mulder took convinced him he was in no 
shape to be standing, let alone trying it on a 
slippery surface.

Sauceda tried again. "How about a bath, kid?"

"Screw you. I hate baths." Mulder didn't bother to 
look back at him. "And you're *not* going to help me. 
I don't want you touching me," Mulder's voice was 
headed for hysterics. He bit back the words but they 
came anyway, slurred but clear enough for Sauceda to 
understand. "I don't want anyone touching me anymore."

He felt Sauceda freeze with comprehension: sexual 
molestation cases and Mulder's penchant for long 
showers. 

*Shit. Shit, shit, shit--*

Mulder steadied himself on the wall, still working his 
way over to the bathroom door, resolutely refusing to 
look his partner in the eye. He felt he'd landed in a 
Dali painting, "Burning Giraffes" perhaps, a tragic, 
surreal landscape of twisted images and illusions and 
too little oxygen. He paused, breathless, when Sauceda 
finally answered.

"Okay, Marty. Whatever you need, kid. I'll just sit 
outside the door, in case you get in trouble. Then 
I'll hear. Okay?"

Mulder swallowed hard, closing his eyes in gratitude, 
fearing the compassion even as he accepted it. He 
continued his exodus, Sauceda close beside with every 
step but careful not to touch him. 

Mulder made it into the bathroom at last and sat down 
hard on the toilet seat. He closed his eyes against 
the spinning of the room, panting with the effort to 
remain vertical. He felt Sauceda standing in the door, 
watching him, shifting nervously.

Mulder's stomach churned threateningly but he had 
other problems right now. If Sauceda knew what he 
knew, if Sauceda knew the extent of the blood, that it 
ran slick and sticky down his thighs, plastered his 
briefs to his body in areas the pathologist hadn't 
dared to check...

If Sauceda knew, Mulder'd be drifting out on that cold 
dark Thorazine sea and Sauceda'd be cussing the smell 
in the autopsy room again.

Mulder looked over at his partner, keeping his eyes 
cold, his voice malicious, holding Sauceda off guard 
and at bay. "Just let me get cleaned up. Then you can 
crawl in the damned shower with me, I don't care. Just 
keep your hands off the merchandise."

Sauceda smiled meekly, apparently satisfied with the 
compromise.

Mulder nodded at him. "Make some coffee," he ordered, 
"And close the door. I won't lock it. I promise. 
Just... go away for a while."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sauceda stationed himself outside the bathroom door as 
promised. He listened to Marty moving around, probably 
undressing. The clothes hamper snapped open, slapped 
closed again after a while. Finally, there was the 
irregular splash of water against skin.

Sauceda dashed to the phone on the nightstand and 
dialed Purdue. 

"We've got another body," he hissed by way of 
greeting.

"Shit."

The remaining conversation was hurried and whispered, 
with Sauceda interrupting himself for frequent trips 
back to the bathroom door to listen. The water ran, 
pounding irregularly as Mulder moved beneath it.

Assured the ASAC was on his way, Sauceda sprinted to 
the kitchen to make coffee, trotted back to the 
bathroom door, listening even as he scooped the 
granules, back to the kitchen to pour the water in the 
machine. Back to the door. He thought briefly about 
calling Mitch in to help but balked at the idea 
immediately. Sauceda'd be damned before he'd admit he 
couldn't deal with his own partner. Besides, Marty 
didn't like crowds. And in Marty's dictionary, just 
being alone was sometimes crowded enough.

The water still ran and after a bit Sauceda heard 
nothing but the water, no splash or step, just the 
water, running on and on. It was still running long 
after the hot water heater had played out.

It was 7:00 a.m. when Sauceda finally decided he 
couldn't take it anymore. He called out twice and 
tapped on the door. There was no response.

Sauceda chewed the inside of his cheek, took a deep 
breath and reached his hand out to the knob. The water 
stopped abruptly. Sauceda jerked his hand back 
guiltily, glancing around, trying to imagine something 
he could be busy doing when Mulder came out. The kid 
had been fairly sedate up till now, there was no sense 
antagonizing him by being under his feet. Sauceda'd 
gotten Gregg to pick up a few groceries last night. 
They would need some breakfast--

Mulder emerged from his exile, still damp, wrapping 
himself in his robe. He glanced over at Sauceda but 
refused to look at him directly. Sauceda bit his lip. 
Mulder looked like hell. No one that young should have 
eyes in that much pain. It made Sauceda's gut hurt 
just to look at him.

"You okay, Marty?"

"Go to hell, Len."

Sauceda didn't take the cussing personally. The voice 
that spoke it was tired, obviously operating on 
reflex, not fully connected to any real thought or 
malice.

"I'm gonna fix breakfast, okay?" Sauceda offered 
pointlessly. He didn't expect Marty to be registering 
words just yet, anyway.

Mulder nodded blankly and Sauceda was off like a shot, 
guiltily grateful for the reprieve.

Twenty minutes later, Mr. GQ, hollow-eyed and solemn, 
stepped into the dining room for his sugar-with-coffee 
and found Sauceda, dressed, wolfing down a second bowl 
of cereal. Mulder eyed the box: "Life."

"If memory serves," Mulder noted, "this is what's 
known as poetic irony."

"Sit down and eat, Marty."

"I'm not hungry."

"Marty, you gotta eat--"

Mulder sighed. "It'll just come back up again before 
we're done, Hot Sauce. You know the routine."

Sauceda licked his lips. "Let's wait a bit, Marty. 
Okay?"

"Why?" Mulder's eyes dropped to suspicious slits. "You 
and Purdue got something planned?"

"No. No. Really. But, it's like the man says, the 
victim can't get any deader, right? So, it's not like 
we gotta get in a big rush or anything--"

Mulder looked at him a long minute and Sauceda 
prepared himself for the argument.

But Mulder just sat down in the chair opposite and 
shrugged. "You're the one doing the autopsies. If you 
want him after the heat's gotten to him, it's no sweat 
off me."

Sauceda blanched. "Just let me call Purdue, okay? Just 
to let him know we're on the move."

Mulder didn't say anything, didn't even nod.

Sauceda sat his spoon down and tramped to the living 
room to dial Purdue's cell number. He exchanged a few 
carefully chosen words with the ASAC; Mulder watched 
from his chair, eyes too wise in that silent face. 

Purdue was three blocks away. *Jesus, Mary and Saint 
Joseph, just let him be here by the time we get to the 
parking lot. I can't to do this shit anymore...*

Sauceda reached up a trembling hand to blot tears. He 
was getting too old for this. He jerked the hand away 
at the sound of Mulder's chair scooting back. The 
profiler had stepped out the door before Sauceda could 
even get the receiver cradled.

Mulder's voice, flat and unrelenting, drifted back 
from the hall: "Good morning, boys, we're going for a 
drive now. Of course, you can come, just keep your 
hands off the suit, I just had it cleaned--"

By the time Sauceda popped into the hall, Gregg and 
Mitch were staring in bewilderment. Sauceda didn't 
bother to explain, eyes wild as he followed his 
partner down the hall. Mulder, coat swinging Joe-Cool 
easy, led them to the elevator. Mentally he was a 
world apart, towing three lesser beings in elliptical 
orbit. 

Everything was moving too fast for Sauceda. Marty was 
walking too fast, the elevator opened too fast, 
depositing them efficiently on the first floor. Mulder 
led the way again, that animal grace, those too-green 
eyes hidden behind the shades, that inhuman mind 
locked in silence with secrets no man should know-- 
Sauceda was praying again.

*Jeezus, just make him slow down. Make him still be 
here when Purdue gets here. I don't want to do this. 
Not this time. Not with all that blood already. It's 
too much. It's too weird. Just make him stop-- *

And just like that, Mulder *did* stop. Sauceda almost 
collided with him, the change of motion was so abrupt. 
Sauceda circled to check his partner's condition. The 
shades were on, but the face was very pale, the 
breathing bordering on hyperventilation. Sauceda 
frowned.

"Whatsa matter, Marty? You need to sit down, kid? 
Let's go back and sit down--"

Mulder pushed him away absently, staring at the door 
to his left. Number 9. As Mulder's luck would have it, 
his super chose that moment to come up the hall, 
wrench in hand, muttering something about the hot 
water heater. Mulder waved him down.

"Can you open the door?" he requested politely.

Sauceda's gut sank.

The super looked from Mulder to the door in question. 
"To Norman Seilman's? Just knock."

"Please."

The man with the wrench took a closer look at his 
tenant. "You all right, Mr. Mulder?"

"Please. I just need the door open."

The super's eyes went wide. "Is this official FBI 
business?"

"No!" Sauceda gasped. "Marty, wait. You can't. You 
can't do it this time. It's too much. You have to wait 
for Purdue. Let Purdue take care of it."

Mulder blinked at him like he'd sprouted another head. 
He turned back to the super. "Just open the damned 
door."

Seconds, bare seconds and they were in the room, 
through the room and into the bedroom. Mulder never 
hesitated, never slowed, certain of where he was going 
and of what he would find when he got there. Nude 
male, dark hair, somewhere one side or the other of 
six feet, gutted on the bed.

Sauceda stood at the bedroom door, defeated and 
exasperated with himself. Purdue'd asked him just one 
favor: keep the kid out of the next crime scene. And 
he'd blown it. Just that easy. Shit, he must be 
getting old. He was certainly too old for this--

He stared at the body, forcing himself to focus on the 
task at hand. The victim's hands had been cuffed to 
the headboard. The tongue protruded, laid like some 
dark patch of beard against the chin. The corpse 
retained a grimace, like he was still straining 
against the cord around his neck. Sauceda wanted to 
spit. The sick bitch had probably kept the man alive, 
strangling him, trying to get a stronger erection so 
she could--

"Oh God," Sauceda hissed, finally recognizing the 
organs spilled from their proper places. Sisyphus had 
gutted this one all right, but she hadn't stopped 
there. This time, she'd worked her way south. And from 
the look of things, she'd enjoyed it immensely. And 
this is what the kid had dreamed so vividly he'd bled 
for the guy--

Mulder turned away from Sauceda's numbed stare and 
stalked back through the apartment, Sauceda hard on 
his heels.

"You knew," Sauceda voiced the accusation.

Mulder kept walking.

"Say it, dammit. You knew."

"Okay. I knew. So what?"

Purdue was in front door, unreadable gaze flickering 
from Mulder to Sauceda. Sauceda was too numb right now 
to care. The ASAC passed them and moved to the bedroom 
without comment.

Mitchell backed out of the bedroom shaking his head. 
"Jeezus, Mulder. I think your lady friend is pissed."

"I'm paying attention, Mitch."

Purdue emerged.

Mulder had the balls to smile. It looked like a crack 
in his face. "So, what'dya think?" he asked. "Self-
inflicted?"

"Got your poem, Agent?" Purdue demanded.

"Gregg's bagging it for me now."

"Good. I want it, your partner, your bodyguard and 
your ass back in your apartment until we're done down 
here. Is that clear?"

"Yeah."

"No argument?"

Mulder shook his head arrogantly but the color was 
draining from his face even as they watched.

Sauceda's fingers itched to take the shades away and 
gauge the dilated stare that lay beneath. Mulder's 
hands were shaking now, too. By Sauceda's estimate, 
the carefully constructed shields Mulder had built 
around his life had cracked at least two months back, 
and now the reality of the corpse in the next room and 
all those that had preceded it was finally bleeding 
through.

Purdue turned as Mitchell approached. "Get him 
upstairs while you still can and this time you *keep* 
him there. Gregg, call an ISU out here. Sauceda, I'm 
arranging for a move to a safe house although we may 
have to get him in a hotel first. Damn witness 
protection must be having a two for one sale this 
week. But he's not staying here. Not after this--"

"Where's my cat?"

Sauceda's eyes snapped shut and Purdue carefully 
turned back to the man in the shades.

"I took care of it, Agent Mulder."

"Everybody keeps telling me that," Mulder observed. 
"Isn't it funny how they keep telling me that and I 
still don't know what you did with it?"

Mitchell's eyes were wide and busy calculating 
Mulder's weight and the reach of his swing. Gregg 
looked like he was trying to determine from the hang 
of Mulder's jacket if Sauceda'd had enough on the ball 
this morning to hide the profiler's gun.

Purdue's voice was soft. "I buried your cat in my 
backyard, Mulder. Next to my old dog, my wife's 
cockatoo and three of our cats. I can show you the 
spot sometime if you like."

"You didn't put him in the dumpster?"

Purdue frowned. "Did you want me to?"

"No."

The ASAC licked his lips. "I didn't put him in the 
dumpster, Agent Mulder."

Mulder nodded. "He didn't like it in the dumpster."

Purdue nodded, too, like this was the most rational 
conversation he'd had in ages. Nodded like it didn't 
feel like someone was kicking his guts out. Nodded 
like it wasn't killing him to watch the Bureau's 
finest shatter like so much misused crystal.

"Mulder--" Purdue began softly.

"Thank you," Mulder whispered and Sauceda bit his 
tongue to have a reason for his eyes to go blurry.

"I'm going home and lie down now," Mulder informed the 
room in general. "I'd like my poem, please."

Purdue nodded and Gregg presented the baggied paper 
gingerly. Mulder accepted it without looking at it, 
turned for the door. It obviously took everything he 
had left, but he managed to remain vertical for the 
trip back upstairs to apartment 42: Mercury, mortally 
wounded, his little army of satellites tagging quietly 
behind.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX


7:46 AM. Apartment 42.

Seilman's poem was more Ashbery: bright blue 
highlights of "Ditto, Kiddo" from page thirty-three:

"How brave you are! Sometimes. And the injunction
Still stands, a plain white wall. More unfinished 
business.
But isn't that just the nature of business, someone 
else said, breezily.
You can't just pick up in the middle of it, and then 
leave off.
What if you do listen to it over and over, until
It becomes part of your soul, foreign matter that 
belongs there?
Until those times when driving abruptly off a road
Into a field you sit still and conjure the hours.
It was for this we made the small talk, the lies,
And whispered them over to give each the smell of 
truth...
There was room. Yes,
And you have created it by going away. Somewhere, 
someone 
Listens for your laugh, swallows it like a drink of 
cool water,
Neither happy nor aghast. And the stance, that post 
standing there, is you."
 
Mulder sat on his couch, heedless of the dried 
splatters of blood, and reread the poem. Sauceda stood 
in the living room door watching him. Out in the hall, 
Mitchell and Gregg were arguing in harsh whispers like 
some long-married couple trying to hash out the 
divorce without waking the kids.

"Marty?"

Mulder didn't hear apparently. He hadn't heard the 
first two times Sauceda'd spoken, either. But Sauceda 
could blame those failures on the fact that Mulder was 
concentrating on the poem. 

But the poem was on the floor, now. On the floor where 
it had slipped unnoticed from the profiler's hands, 
the hands still posed like the paper was there between 
the fingers. And Mulder's eyes still roved left to 
right like there was something there to read.

Sauceda was praying like he'd never prayed in his 
life: he prayed to be somewhere else, any place but 
here, watching Mulder's slow slide into oblivion and 
knowing his part in the process. He prayed that Purdue 
would get back here to tell him what Baez had said, 
tell him what to do to make it better. Somewhere 
between the two requests Sauceda respectfully 
suggested that God do them all a favor and let some 
thug put a bullet in this bitch's brain. The prayer he 
wished most earnestly, though, was that Marty would 
just come back from wherever it was he'd stepped out 
to.

Mulder blinked slowly and finally seemed to notice 
something was missing. He just didn't seem to remember 
what. He eyed the coffee table blearily. The morning 
sun through the window illuminated the smears of 
fingerprint dust no one had bothered to remove. There 
was this morning's newspaper, too, an ashtray with too 
many cigarette butts, a Bic pen. The phone was near at 
hand, still smeared with dried monkey blood. The 
television remote sat next to it.

In seconds, the TV was on and blaring. Mulder huddled 
on the couch, still in his suited finery, hugging his 
knees to his chest. The hand with the remote worked 
furiously. Channels flipped by at warp speed, washing 
neon colors across his face: pale green, electric blue 
and crimson. Mulder scarcely blinked, his 
concentration frightening in its intensity.

"Marty?"

"Hum?"

*Thank you, sweet Heart of Jesus--* "You want 
something to eat, kiddo?" 

Mulder's head shook almost imperceptibly, wide eyes 
staring at the screen. Sauceda waited until the finger 
on the control had stilled before stepping around to 
supervise the selection. Opening credits to "Son of 
the Creature from the Black Lagoon." Mulder's 
expression was impassive but the hand holding the 
remote trembled violently.

"Marty, you cold?"

No response.

"Marty, you gotta eat something. How about some warm 
soup? Maybe some juice? Something."

Mulder's brows furrowed, intent on the opening dialog 
of the film.

"Sure. Great," Sauceda wasn't above filling in the 
blanks for himself on occasion. "So. Juice sounds 
good, you think? Good deal." 

The pathologist trotted to the kitchen to stare into 
the refrigerator, grateful for a reprieve from the 
oppressive presence in the living room. He scanned the 
shelves, chewing his lip. Decisions, decisions. 

The selections were V-8 and apple juice: good 
nutritious stuff, right? Sauceda grabbed the V-8, but 
stopped with the jug still on the shelf. He stared at 
it, considering the dull red tomato juice and how it 
looked in the clear bottle. Sort of like the stuff 
he'd scraped off the couch and put on slides for the 
lab. 

Sauceda blinked, considering the possibility-- Nah, 
Marty couldn't have just spilled juice. The jug was 
still sealed. Besides, Sauceda wasn't stupid enough to 
confuse tomato juice and blood. The smell alone--

Sauceda grimaced, thinking about that coppery odor, 
the odor of life spilling hot from the veins, the 
fragrance of impending death. It had been all over 
Marty. And all over the kid's clothes when he'd pulled 
them from the hamper: that still unidentified 
substance, dark red and sticky, drying to crusty black 
on Mulder's jeans and briefs...

*Okay. Apple it is then--*

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder's view of the television was obstructed 
suddenly: a glass of amber fluid attached to a hand. 
He rubbed at his left eye, considering the 
implications of such a vision, then realized Sauceda 
was standing over him.

"Here you go, Marty." The pathologist's eyes looked 
desperate behind the brilliant smile. "Here's your 
juice."

Mulder frowned, considering the liquid. A quick tour 
of his short-term memory located no record of such a 
request. In fact, he couldn't honestly say he could 
recall how he'd wound up on the couch. His frown 
deepened with his efforts to assess the situation, but 
too many areas of his brain seemed unwilling to 
participate in the process. He watched Sauceda's face 
do a slow slide into desperation and found that he was 
also completely unable to form simple words like "no" 
anymore. 

Well, hell, it was just a little juice, right?

He reached out to accept the glass. Sauceda, too-
joyous smile returning, pulled it away to hand him a 
pill, instead. A little yellow pill. Valium, five 
milligrams. Mulder definitely didn't recall ordering 
this and he'd be damned if he'd take it, no matter how 
pathetic Sauceda managed to look.

He opened his mouth to inform his partner of this 
decision but stopped mid-breath. Sauceda's lips were 
moving, and try as he might, Mulder was hearing no 
sounds. He knew his eyes were wider suddenly, and knew 
Sauceda could read the fear there. The older man 
swallowed hard, moved his lips again, and Mulder heard 
the words.

"I'm praying for you, Marty. It'll be okay."

Mulder considered his options once more, a tedious and 
disappointing process given his current condition. 
"Lenny?" he asked slowly.

"Yeah, kid."

"If I take the pill will you stop praying?"

Sauceda squinted at him. "No. Of course not."

"I don't want it then."

Sauceda looked like he wanted to cry. "Aw, Marty, its 
just five milligrams. It won't hurt anything."

"I don't need it."

"I do, Marty. I need you to take it. Please."

"If I say no, you're going to force me to take 
something, aren't you?" Mulder eyed the door, 
considering the two men beyond it: two well-trained, 
well-fed, completely-sane men with orders to protect 
him. Even from himself. That, at least, was one fact 
he was still clear on.

Sauceda waited for Mulder's focus to turn back to him. 
"No, Marty. I won't do that," he assured, face set to 
convey absolute sincerity. 

Mulder nodded. "Good." He turned back to the TV and 
just like that, Sauceda and the juice and the little 
yellow pill winked out of existence, lost in the melee 
of black and white images running rampant before him. 

They just didn't make films like this anymore, Mulder 
realized after a bit. Considering the dialogue, he 
could understand why. The plot was about the most 
inane thing he'd seen in years. A distressing fact 
considering he seemed to be unable to keep track of 
most of it. He shook his head, trying to knock loose 
some rational explanation for this lapse.

A big-chested blonde squealed, running through the 
forest on the screen. Mulder counted to four before 
she stumbled over the obligatory stump. The creature, 
scaled and reptilian, reached for her, music swelling 
in the background before the screen dissolved into a 
commercial. A cat food commercial. Damn Friskies 
Kitten Chow with their little yellow tabby with big 
green eyes and fuzzy face...

"Lenny. Lenny? *LENNY!*"

Sauceda trotted from the bedroom, his hair rumpled, 
unfastened belt buckle pinging like a dinner bell with 
every step. His eyes were wild and snapped to frantic 
when they turned to regard Mulder.

Mulder laid his hand across his face to shield himself 
from the fear in Sauceda's eyes. He was shivering 
again and hating it, hating the tears he couldn't make 
stop and couldn't hide.

"I'd like that Valium now. Please." His teeth were 
clenched to keep them from rattling and the words were 
slurred but Lenny seemed to comprehend well enough. 
The older man nodded, vanished, then reappeared, 
comforting and cooing. Confident hands removed 
Mulder's suit jacket, slipped off his tie and wrapped 
him in the warm refuge of an old blanket. Finally, a 
little pill was pressed into his hand. It was a 
different color this time: the soft blue of a ten 
milligram and Mulder sighed his gratitude. But his 
hand was trembling too hard and half-way to his mouth, 
the tablet fumbled away. Salvation, however temporary, 
disappeared into the folds of the blanket gathered 
across his knees.

Mulder wailed his disappointment. It was a sound thin 
and pitiful even to his own ears-- horrifying. It 
wasn't his voice. It was, instead, that of a terrified 
child. Samantha's voice. Samantha's squeal, heard in 
one of his dreams, and Mulder choked it down 
frantically, desperate to flee before the horror 
finally caught up with him, became him. He slapped 
Sauceda away, struggling to escape the blanket. *This 
was not happening. It couldn't happen to him. It 
wasn't possible. He couldn't let it--*

Mulder lashed out blindly as Sauceda reached for him. 
He was struggling against a stranger, struggling 
against himself. His panic rose as his vision blurred, 
darkened, refocused with the mind's eye of a young 
child: a room full of men, shrouded in searing light, 
a needle, pain and pulsating flashes of heat. A 
dispassionate voice: "He remembers nothing," the most 
frightening memory of all--

The pain altered, becoming more solid suddenly, 
assuming another kind of urgency. Mulder jerked his 
eyes open and his panic was instantly overridden by 
reality. He paused, panting, taking a long minute to 
realize that it was Sauceda that was holding him, 
pinning him to the couch, each fist held fast, his 
body held down by the older man's hip.

Sauceda's face was twisted in torment. Mulder turned 
away, seeking some place else to be, some place that 
required no explanations and kept no notes. He 
collapsed back into the cushion, limp and unresisting, 
face turned to the window, surrendering whatever 
ground Lenny might feel necessary to claim. 

Sauceda loosened one wrist tentatively but Mulder 
remained quite still. Sauceda's voice was a guarded 
whisper.

"You okay now, Marty?"

Mulder considered the question before nodding. He made 
no further motion, however, willing his body to relax. 
Sauceda released him slowly, sitting down on the couch 
beside him, watching him closely all the while.

"You sure?" He licked his lips as Mulder blinked a 
yes. "Where the hell did you go just now, kid?"

Mulder opened his mouth but words would not obey him, 
would not even form in his mind, and he shook his head 
finally, locking his jaw down tight.

"You still want that Valium?"

Mulder nodded, his head turned resolutely to the 
window. He squinted at the top of the sun-washed tree 
beyond: another world entirely. The room was silent; 
he could hear the clock tick even above the rattling 
of the pill bottle. A light pressure on his hand and 
he looked down, accepted the pill, and placed it 
carefully in his mouth. Sauceda stepped back, allowing 
him to sit up before presenting him with a glass. The 
juice was cooling, reassuringly real down his throat 
and Mulder drank greedily, juice sloshing onto his 
chin. The pill slipped down obediently, the sensation 
so endearing that he continued swallowing until the 
juice was gone.

"More," he whispered, still refusing to look Sauceda 
in the eye. The old man rose to obey and Mulder found 
himself repeating the word to the empty room, 
something to keep him company in the silence, reciting 
it into the blurry hum of a mantra, blocking out the 
fear that gripped his heart without reason. And 
finally, the glass was back, back in his hand and full 
again and there was Sauceda's steady grip on his 
numbed fingers, like God's, delivering comfort in a 
glass, flooding his being with munificent grace.

His thirst sated, Mulder curled up back into the 
couch, eyes falling back to the television. Sauceda 
pressed the remote into his hand and he gripped the 
familiar object, his talisman, his sole measure of 
control in this world. Thus arrayed, he waited, 
unblinking as a sphinx, for the pill to convince his 
soul he didn't hurt anymore.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sauceda set up house in the chair, discreetly going 
back over autopsy files, glancing up now and again at 
the television and the man watching it. It'd been 
twenty minutes since the Valium and Mulder hadn't so 
much as twitched, not even when the pathologist had 
removed the kid's shoes. With Mulder in this state, 
Sauceda woud have felt safer having the kid's belt off 
and squirreled safely away with certain other lethal 
objects-- cutlery and forks and a drawer full of other 
belts, an entire collection of ties-- but Mulder's 
body was too tightly clenched just yet. Maybe when the 
Valium hit its peak...

Another girlie scream from the television and Sauceda 
glanced back over to observe the action. He shook his 
head. It must be Creature Feature day or something, he 
decided: one long string of old B-movies full of babes 
with pointy boobs. Well, hey, maybe the kid was on to 
something. Sauceda grinned at the thought, looked back 
to his partner's wall-eyed stare and felt himself 
slide back to thinly veiled panic. 

"I don't know, Marty," he whispered. "Maybe it'd be 
easier on the rest of us if we *did* just stick you in 
a hospital--"

Mulder lurched to life and Sauceda jerked guiltily. 
The young man flailed aimlessly, fighting with his 
blanket. No, not fighting really, Sauceda decided, 
just struggling to push it aside. Mulder got loose 
just as Sauceda freed himself from his lapful of 
files. Finally vertical, Mulder swayed above the 
coffee table, tipsy as a drunk on a binge. He flinched 
as Sauceda grabbed for him.

"Easy, kid," Sauceda peered into eyes that didn't 
quite manage to focus. "Just trying to get you 
steady." Mulder grunted and shrugged him off absently. 
Sauceda allowed it, keeping his expression friendly. 
"So, where're you going, Marty?"

"I gotta pee," Mulder's voice was soft and distant 
with a petulant quality that reminded Sauceda of his 
six-year-old grandson.

Sauceda nodded agreeably. "Okay, Marty. That's fine, 
just let me help you--"

"Not in your best dream," Mulder growled, slapping him 
away, a rough backhand against his chest. "Hot Sauce, 
my ass."

Sauceda blinked at the abrupt transformation. The 
phone rang, however, interrupting his protests. He 
swore, releasing the profiler to reach for the 
receiver. He eyed Mulder's belt warily.

"All right, Marty," he warned. "But you take it slow 
getting there. And don't lock that damned door. You 
hear?"

Mulder didn't answer, apparently too busy 
concentrating on weaving his way across the room. 
Sauceda frowned. Ten milligrams of Valium shouldn't 
cause a man Mulder's weight to walk like that--

But voice on the line was insisting on its share of 
attention. It was the lab with test results on the 
monkey blood from this morning's little episode. 
Sauceda listened, his frown deepening.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the sanctuary of the bathroom, Mulder finished his 
business and got his pants zipped before the nausea 
hit. The juice, so cool and welcome going down, made 
the return trip like boiling acid. The vomiting was 
surprisingly discrete, however, accomplished quickly, 
almost silently. Mulder's first reaction was one of 
utter shock. One hand clutched his chest uncertainly 
and he stared into the toilet in amazement. Little 
clumps of powder blue floated defiantly in the foamy 
fluid of the bowl.

Damn. The Valium.

Really now. This couldn't be happening. Yet, there it 
was: the certain evidence of his own body's betrayal. 
Mulder decided that right now, he really needed only 
one thing in this world, a single, simple necessity: 
the reassurance of his own sanity. He'd been promising 
himself that all he had to do was hold out for a bit. 
Just hold on and all the missing pieces of his brain 
would come home and he would be all right again. Like 
when Samantha disappeared: Mulder had disappeared 
then, too. Not physically, just into the consoling 
recesses of his mind, locked in a coma for three weeks 
while all hell broke loose around him. Then when he 
woke, it had been okay again. Not good. But okay. Sort 
of.

Only now, his body refused to shut down, refused to 
bring the comfort of coma, refused him even the 
comfort of drug induced solitude. It had left him, 
resolutely, on the front lines of a fight to hold his 
own or to die, apparently oblivious to the results of 
either choice.

Mulder swayed uncertainly, trying to comprehend it 
all. But what could he do, really? There was certainly 
no way to alleviate the immediate situation. 

He turned to the sink and washed his face, trying to 
drown the roaring in his head. He couldn't scoop the 
water fast enough, however, and finally just stopped 
trying. His fingers were numb and he left them under 
the water, letting them warm beneath the faucet while 
he stared at the intruder in the mirror. The man 
regarding him, however, had no answers, met his eyes 
with only bewildered resignation. Mulder looked over 
the man's shoulder, staring hard into the space behind 
him, seeking he knew not what. 

It was a trick of his own mind, surely, but Mulder 
felt suddenly that someone else had stepped up behind 
him. Someone warmer than he, someone softer, someone 
invisible in the glass. Someone fragrant and gentle. 
He could almost feel her breath against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Kay." 

The words came without thought, only barely heard 
above the running of the water. Mulder's chest 
constricted unmercifully but he was beyond tears, the 
sorrow locked in too tight to express itself so 
easily. If he could simply believe that she had heard 
the words-- if he could know that much-- then he could 
surrender in peace. Just lay down and wait for death. 
Like the man in the Suffolk woods. Just sit and wait 
to die. Mulder wondered if that man, too, had sought 
forgiveness. If he had found it, somehow.

The numbness had spread from his hands and into his 
brain, finally. He shut the water off solely out of 
habit, and weaved his way back to the living room. 
Sauceda's back was to him, the pathologist grunting 
monosyllabic responses into the phone. Mulder rubbed 
his arms-- to be so emotionally numb, he seemed to 
ache an awful lot physically-- and remembered how 
happy just swallowing all that juice had made him. He 
padded resolutely off to the kitchen. 

Midway to the refrigerator, though, Mulder suddenly 
lost all forward momentum. For the life of him, he 
couldn't remember what he'd come for. 

The realization was bewildering and not a little 
frightening, and he felt his heart begin to pound. 
Mulder forgot things very rarely and the experience 
was traumatizing, an intimate violation, an assault 
upon his soul. When Samantha had disappeared, half of 
Mulder's childhood had disappeared with her: huge gaps 
of data, the minute details of the past eight years, 
were suddenly a garbled, nonsensical maze or, worse, 
simply missing altogether. The prospect that the rest 
of his life could disappear as easily was a recurring 
nightmare-- when he wasn't otherwise busy dreaming up 
corpses.

*It's just a trip into the kitchen, Fox. Don't panic. 
It'll come to you--*

There was a familiar clump from the living room: the 
sound of the receiver settling back on the phone. 
Mulder hugged himself comfortingly and waited for 
Lenny to find him. It didn't take long. 

"Whatsamatta, Marty?" 

Mulder lost himself in the activity on the man's face. 
Sauceda's wary eyes seemed to be configuring Mulder's 
position, triangulating his trajectory. Sauceda 
finally settled on the refrigerator and his face 
brightened visibly. 

"Hey, kid. You want some more juice?"

The words sounded familiar enough but Mulder found he 
was having difficulty registering the question. 
Sauceda's expression clearly said the older man was 
expecting a reply, however. Mulder decided he had only 
a fifty percent chance of being wrong if he stuck to 
"yes" and "no" answers and nodded after what he hoped 
was an appropriately sedate pause. It must have been 
the correct response. Sauceda got a broad grin and 
instantly transformed into Mr. Mom. Mulder watched him 
pull out a clean glass and shoo him over to the 
refrigerator to present a wealth of options.

*Oh, yeah. Juice.*

Mulder leaned down to examine the selections. He 
frowned at the bottle of red stuff, quickly looking 
away to other jug as his stomach began churning. He 
dragged the apple juice across the shelf, trying to 
get it as far as possible from that gross looking 
stuff in the other container.

Sauceda fussed gently, "Here, Marty, let me get that."

Mulder didn't argue. The jar was one of those economy 
sizes and still too close to full to make 
simultaneously standing and pouring a viable option. 
Mulder frowned at the realization. Jeezus, had he 
suddenly gone so far south, he couldn't even manage a 
jug of juice? The thought made the drink bitter in his 
mouth. He swallowed it anyway.

When he lowered the glass, Sauceda was frowning and 
reached up to blot his chin. Mulder noted the tell-
tale flecks of powder blue on Sauceda's cup towel. 
Sauceda's brows lowered suspiciously.

"You keep that Valium down, Marty?"

Even confronted by the evidence, Mulder nodded his 
lie. He didn't know why exactly, except that he just 
didn't feel like explaining. If he'd shaken his head 
the other way, Sauceda would want to know about how 
much had come up and that could get complicated. 
Mulder imagined a whole series of debates on granule 
sizes and just imagining the ensuing argument was 
exhausting. He slumped against the refrigerator, 
allowing Sauceda to finish blotting his face. Sauceda 
clucked like a hen, busy making what he no doubt 
thought were helpful noises. All the fuss made 
Mulder's head hurt, though, and he really just wanted 
to be alone...

"Lenny, I'm going to take a shower. Okay?" That 
brought the helpful noises to an abrupt halt.

"Marty, you just had a shower a couple of hours ago."

Mulder looked at Sauceda and read trouble there. When 
Hot Sauce got that look in his eye there was just no 
winning without breaking out some major hell and 
Mulder didn't have that kind of energy right now. Or 
that kind of mental capacity.

"Can I watch the TV then?" he asked sweetly.

Sauceda paled and shook his head, his jaw working with 
wonder. He looked downright disappointed.

Mulder frowned. Hell, he wasn't being sarcastic. He 
was even asking permission, for crying out loud. He'd 
let Sauceda blot his face and hadn't even punched him 
out for it. You'd think the man would look happier. It 
was just TV, after all. And *his* TV at that. 

You just couldn't please some people...

Sauceda finally stopped chewing his lip and nodded. 
Mulder smiled, so grateful he didn't even protest when 
Sauceda steadied him on the way back to the couch.

Sauceda was very quiet as he got Mulder settled in. 
Mulder didn't even have to listen to those little 
cooing noises as Lenny tucked him under the blanket 
and handed him the remote. Mulder was thankful enough 
that he didn't even protest when Sauceda asked him to 
remove his belt.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 17B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 21:52:01 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 17B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com 
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 17B of 27: 



10:13 AM

Mulder was still installed in front of the TV when 
Purdue tapped and opened the door. Sauceda rose from 
the dining room table where he'd posted himself. 
Purdue stared at the profiler a few minutes before 
following Sauceda into the kitchen.

"Jeezus, Hot Sauce, what did you give him? I've seen 
guys strung out on smack with more on the ball than 
he's got right now."

Sauceda planted his back against the refrigerator. His 
voice was weary. "Ten milligrams of Valium. Not all of 
which has managed to stay down, thank you."

Purdue frowned. "Well," he said slowly, "at least you 
didn't let him argue you out of it."

"Argue? Hell, he asked for it. Damned near panicked 
when he thought he wasn't going to get it down. He's 
scaring me, Reg. Manic, depressed, worn out, even 
drugged, Marty prides himself on being uncooperative. 
It's a matter of principle. And here he is: meek as 
Mary's lamb. Man's said 'please' twice in as many 
days, for Chrissake." The attempt at levity failed to 
amuse either of them and Sauceda scrubbed at his face. 
"Look, Reg, I've seen Marty and Post Traumatic Stress. 
I've seen Marty and Valium. This ain't it." He choked 
briefly and cleared his throat. "We heard from Baez, 
yet?"

"He's in some hotshot conference in Geneva or some 
such. He called about an hour ago though. Dispatch got 
him patched through downstairs. We had an, ah, 
interesting chat."

"Is he going to hospitalize him?" Sauceda hadn't 
intended to sound so hopeful and dropped his head. 

Purdue seemed willing to let it pass. "Baez doesn't 
want to hospitalize Mulder for the same reasons we 
don't. And more."

"What 'more'?"

"He says at this point, hospitalization would be all 
Mulder would need to push that last button that says 
'self-distruct.' Apparently institutionalization is 
Mulder's biggest fear. Baez says he's probably pretty 
much diagnosing himself at this point and thinking his 
odds aren't so hot. He wakes up in restraints, that 
may just be the last straw." 

Sauceda chewed his lip a minute. "So what do we do?"

"We've got to find this woman, Hot Sauce."

Sauceda didn't bother to point out that that much, at 
least, was obvious. "Don't suppose this place has 
surveillance cameras?"

"Damned things don't appear to work half the time. And 
nobody saw anything. Christ. How many times have we 
been here, heard this?" Purdue sighed, shaking his 
head. "There's some evidence that she might have 
climbed in through a window." He slumped against the 
cabinet and picked up a half-empty glass of juice from 
the counter, studying it blankly. "I got a sketch 
artist to work up a composite of the description 
Mulder left for us. Local PD's doing the canvas. So 
far, no one in the area remembers seeing anyone 
matching the sketch. The bartender didn't get a name 
and she paid cash. Just to cover all the bases, I 
checked Mulder's phone records for incoming and 
outgoing calls since he got back to DC."

"Yeah? You got something? Sisyphus made a call while 
she was here?" 

"No." Purdue slid his thumb across the glass, staring 
into the sugary liquid. "But something significant 
otherwise. At least for me, anyway. Enough to know 
Mulder was managing to hold it together longer than I 
was giving him credit for." 

"Hell, the fact that he managed to get that 
description written out before we showed told me that 
much."

"Yeah." Purdue set the glass down with a soft clink. 
"It seems that right before Mulder called me, he put 
in a call to his father. I spoke to *him* this 
morning, too." He noted Sauceda's grimace. "You've met 
the man?"

"Once. I made the mistake of calling Marty's mom when 
the kid was shot last year. She didn't show at the 
hospital but his old man popped by and gave me the 
what-for about calling. Said Marty was a grown man and 
if he wanted to go and get himself shot it was Marty's 
business and not my place to go bothering her about 
it." Sauceda shrugged. "Still, he stayed with Marty at 
the hospital all night. Refused to leave until Marty 
came to and told him he'd be okay. Hell, Marty's never 
complained about his parents, not that he talks about 
them much one way or the other. I don't know, maybe I 
got just got Dad on a bad day."

Purdue sighed. "Well, apparently I got him on the same 
day you did."

"So, I don't get it. Why would Marty call his old 
man?"

"Apparently he was worried Sisyphus might be digging a 
little deeper in his personnel file; he was afraid 
she'd find his parents' addresses and pay them a 
little visit. Stands to reason: if she found Mulder, 
she could find his family, too."

"So Marty called to get mom and dad on the alert? 
Shit, Reg. What'd I tell you? With everything Mulder's 
got going on head-wise, he's still five steps ahead of 
the rest of us--" Purdue's raised eyebrow stopped him 
short. Hell, Sauceda wasn't even fooling himself.

"Baez says to give Mulder time. What about it, Len? 
Think you can handle him a while longer?"

Sauceda shrugged. "Yeah. Sure." He sighed, remembering 
how Marty'd let him help him to the couch, even let 
him put an arm around his rib cage. Sauceda had felt 
bones there that shouldn't have been that close to the 
surface. "I don't know about all Baez's hare-brained 
theories but I know he pulled Marty through 
Shreveport. If he says Marty stays out of the 
hospital, then dammit, he stays out." He ran fingers 
through his hair. "Marty's just really fragile right 
now. If we can just keep him calm, maybe make him feel 
safe, he could relax long enough to get some 
perspective."

Purdue smiled humorlessly. "He's got a serial killer 
ripping out people right and left for his personal 
benefit. If that fact upsets him, I think his 
perspective is pretty much dead on target." He rubbed 
at his face, let his hands fall to slap against his 
thighs. "All right then. We're moving. I've paid cash, 
reserved rooms under an alias. Hotel suite with a 
kitchenette, and two more suites on either side. It'll 
do until a safe house becomes available. It's quiet, 
not too large to keep surveilled. Some place Mulder 
can settle in, have some peace and quiet."

"He doesn't have peace and quiet while she's killing, 
Reg. And these days she's always killing."

"And she'll get tired and start making mistakes. She 
might have forgotten her shower cap this time, Lenny. 
We found it near the head of the bed, slipped down 
beside the nightstand. And we got a strand of hair. 
Red. Hell, it's probably Clairol Number Six. But it's 
something. You got anything on that monkey blood 
business?"

Sauceda grimaced. "Yeah. The lab called. It's blood 
and it's *his*, all right. No thinners, no 
preservatives. Just Marty, fresh out of the vein."

"How the hell--" 

"And he's anemic." Sauceda looked defeated. "The kid 
musta been puking for weeks. His electrolytes are shot 
all to hell. I've order B-12 injectables. He needs 
Feosol, too, but all that damned iron would just tear 
his stomach up even worse than it already is--"

"So where'd the blood come from, Hot Sauce? He just, 
what, coughed and--?"

Sauceda shook his head. "I want to tell myself that 
maybe he just bit his tongue in his sleep and didn't 
realize it, but there was just too much of it for 
that."

"You checked him out, right? You're sure you checked--
"

"Hell, yes, I checked. It's like... Hell. It's like it 
just came out his pores, Reg."

"But that's not possible--"

"Of course it's not possible! But Jeezus God, it had 
to come from somewhere. This isn't a bad remake of 
*The Exorcist,* you know."

"I don't know *what* I know about this man anymore." 

Sauceda's silence was an unwilling agreement.

Purdue sighed again. "Baez says Mulder's got the most 
formidable set of coping mechanisms he's ever seen. 
But that it may just be taking longer for them to kick 
in. He says Mulder has a history of shutting down 
mentally, while his brain restructures all those 
wonderful Polaroids he's been collecting in that 
mental gallery of his."

Sauceda's frown slid into confusion. "History, hell. 
Look, Reg, I was with Marty every step in Shreveport, 
even before Baez got there. I didn't see anybody 
shutting down, especially Marty. I swear, the kid was 
running the rest of us in circles mentally. Sick as a 
dog, and a physical wreck but mentally-- well, hell, 
he wasn't this bad anyway. Not then. And he kept on 
that damned profile, refining it so clear he could 
tell them what the next victim was going to look like. 
Hell, he even gave them a name before they started 
drugging him out of his mind."

"He's given us one, too. It's not his profile I'm 
worrying about."

"I'm telling you, Reg. Marty never shut down and this 
Baez is full of shit if he says otherwise."

"Earlier, Lenny," Purdue spoke slowly, watching him. 
"In his childhood."

Sauceda's confusion was getting thicker and a few 
internal red lights started snapping on. "Come again?"

"Medical history, Lenny. Mulder's medical files 
covering his childhood were sealed. Some nonsense 
about family members of State Department employees. 
Total bullshit. The Bureau got a court order to open 
them for Baez, though."

Sauceda sat down on a stool near the doorframe, face 
twisted with the effort to comprehend the implications 
and not certain that he was doing too well. "Who the 
hell seals medical records on a kid?"

Purdue shook his head. "I've requested the file. Even 
requested the Missing Persons file on his sister. 
Apparently no one at HQ knows what the hell I'm 
talking about. Baez admits only to seeing Mulder's 
file once. Hell, he sounded guilty that he'd even 
mentioned it. He swears he wasn't allowed to keep a 
copy, but... Seems damned odd to me." The two men were 
silent, listening to the roar of the TV and the 
oppressive silence sitting before it.

Purdue tugged at his bottom lip. "You ever known 
Mulder have any kind of selective amnesia?" Sauceda's 
face scrunched up and Purdue made vague motions with 
his hands, grabbing for words that wouldn't come. 
"Baez says Mulder's mind rearranges things, locks down 
events until he's practically convinced they never 
happened, at least not to him. Ah... how did he say 
it? It's like gluing photos in an album, then closing 
it and locking it away. And you can't get at it again 
until you have a specific key. He thinks that's what's 
happening now-- Mulder rearranging his memories so he 
can cope."

"Uh huh," Sauceda said slowly but without agreeing. 
None of this was making any sense. He could tell from 
the look on Purdue's face that Reg was having similar 
problems. "Marty never mentions his childhood. I know 
about the sister, I've heard him talk about her in his 
sleep sometimes. She disappeared, kidnapped or just 
snatched, his parents divorced, but that's it. That's 
all I know." 

"I know Patterson raised billy-hell trying to get his 
hands on the sister's case file. The Bureau said there 
wasn't one." Purdue was watching him intently.

Sauceda squinted. "The girl's father worked for the 
State Department and we have no file?"

"Maybe..." Purdue seemed to have to force the words 
out. "Maybe mom and dad just didn't want to lose 
*both* kids. Maybe they got Mulder help. Maybe they 
hoped it was in time--"

The look on Purdue's face was enough to get the pieces 
in place for Sauceda. His shoulders set, his fists 
clenching of their own accord. "Hold the goddam phone 
here. The sister disappeared and they investigated 
Marty. That's standard procedure, Reg. The family's 
always the first investigated. It doesn't mean they 
thought he was guilty, dammit." 

"No, of course not." Purdue growled. "It's just-- 
Well, there was talk of a cover-up-- I don't know. It 
makes a certain kind of sense--"

"Like hell. There's nuts out there that swear the CIA 
killed Kennedy, too. Get a government official in a 
bad situation and everyone screams cover-up. God, Reg, 
would you listen to yourself? We're talking about a 
twelve-year-old kid hiding a body-- and no one's found 
one clue about it after fourteen years? It's 
ridiculous. But then, of course, it's the only goddam 
thing that you can pin on him that will lead back to 
this case, isn't it? A murder." Sauceda was off the 
stool and livid, his voice a hiss as he spat the 
words. "You think he killed Kay too, don't you? You 
son of a bitch. You think he killed the cat and that 
guy up the hall. Hell, he probably flew to Wheeling on 
his day off and hacked up those vagrants, too, huh? 
And the prostitute." Sauceda slammed his hand against 
the counter and silverware danced in the sink. "This 
is just freaking great. Just freaking--"

"Someone's hot to give the impression, Sauceda," 
Purdue closed the small distance between them. His 
face was less than a foot away, now, distorted in 
rage, voice very low. "*Someone's* dropping major 
hints, Hot Sauce. *Someone's* hot to see this case 
closed. Right now."

Sauceda stopped quite still. 

"Yeah," Purdue sneered. "Tell me, Sauceda. Ever wonder 
who it was you and Patterson trotted out reports on 
Mulder *for*?"

"I don't--" Sauceda didn't bother to complete his lie. 
His mouth worked a moment. Anger finally overcame 
shame and slid his brain back into gear. "There's no 
evidence that Marty was at any of the crime scenes, 
Reg. We've got prints--"

"We've got prints that match nothing and we've got no 
evidence, period. Nothing but Mulder, in no position 
to defend himself against charges. They want to pin 
the last two murders on him, Sauceda. Barring that, 
they're working up a case for institutionalization." 
Purdue ground his teeth. "The only thing keeping them 
off his back at this point is me and Walter Skinner. 
And I've got my doubts about Skinner." 

"They can't--"

"The cuffs on Seilman were Mulder's."

Sauceda thought he might never be able to breathe 
again. 

"They're running Mulder's switchblade, too," Purdue 
growled. "They found traces of blood inside the 
handle. Fibers and blood matching Mr. American Lit, 
thank you very much. And Mulder's are the only prints 
on the goddam thing." Purdue was shouting now and 
Sauceda flinched against the violence staring him 
down.

"There's no way, Purdue. You can't let them arrest 
him. You son of a bitch. In his condition--"

"Like hell--" Purdue hissed, paced to the dining room, 
Sauceda hot on his heels.

"It's circumstantial evidence, Reg," Sauceda spun the 
ASAC around before he could reach the living room. 
"It's circumstantial," he hissed, "and that's all it's 
ever gonna be. If she could get into his room for a 
damned poem, she could get in here long enough to get 
his knife and back in to return it. Christ, Reg, you 
had two men posted outside his door all night-- you 
think Mulder could slip past me *and* the two of them 
to kill Seilman--"

Purdue kept his voice down, now too, mindful of Mulder 
in the room beyond. "Seilman's death is the only thing 
keeping Mulder out of jail right now. Sisyphus is 
doing her beloved a favor-- whether she knows it or 
not."

"See? The kind of so-called evidence they've got 
couldn't convict him. It wouldn't stand up in a court 
of law--"

"They don't need him in a court of law, Sauceda. They 
just need him right where he is: freaked out on his 
own damned couch, damned near catatonic. You think 
he'd pass a psychological examination? No. They'd 
institutionalize him tonight. And conveniently lose 
the key. Tell me why? Who the hell are they? And what 
is he that they're so damned scared of him?"

Sauceda's chest hurt too bad to even swear. "I dunno. 
But I know Mulder didn't do this. *You* know he didn't 
do this. And if they've got some kind of evidence he 
killed his sister, well, they've rigged that, too. I 
swear to you, Reg, he's not capable--"

"We're all capable, Lenny. I just don't think he did 
it."

"Damned straight he didn't--"

"And I want you to prove it."

"Say again?"

Purdue was obviously tired of whispering, tired of 
leaning down to make certain Sauceda could hear. He 
squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep steadying 
breath. "If someone in the Bureau's building a case 
against Mulder, then I want to know what they've got. 
And I want that dammed Missing Persons file."

"On the sister?"

"I don't know who's after Mulder. That damned cancer-
mongering bastard you and Patterson kiss-assed--" 
Purdue looked like he wanted to spit. "--Blevins, or 
even Skinner himself. And I don't care. They're coming 
through me to get him. Guilty or not." 

Sauceda flexed his shoulders, pulling himself to his 
full height. The effort still left him a good six 
inches shorter than Purdue. "You can trust me, Reg--"

"Like shit."

"But--"

"You look me in the eye, you little bastard." Sauceda 
obeyed, blinking painfully. "You screw Mulder over on 
this," Purdue growled, "and I'm taking it personally. 
You understand?"

Sauceda swallowed down grief. "Honest, Reg, I-- I'm 
not doing that. Not anymore."

"You want to stay employed long enough to retire, sir, 
you just make certain of that fact."

Words quite beyond him for the moment, Sauceda simply 
nodded. Purdue didn't seem to notice, however, his 
attention on the long slender form occupying the 
couch. 

Mulder returned the regard without blinking, silent 
and utterly still. 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 21:52:08 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 18A of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com 
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 18A of 27: Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night: 
No, make them drug you first....



Wednesday. May 18, 1988. 4:58 PM. Apartment 42.

Sauceda was in the bedroom patting a stack of freshly 
laundered T-shirts into a suitcase when the television 
snapped off in the next room. The ticking of Sauceda's 
Timex was thunderous in the sudden silence and he 
glanced up. Mulder, unshaven and barefoot, was 
watching him from the door. 

"Hey, Marty. Enjoy your nap?" 

Mulder didn't answer. Didn't move. Sauceda licked his 
lips nervously, waiting for some hint of recognition 
on the profiler's face. He'd opened the blinds that 
afternoon and the room was now awash with late evening 
sun. In the doorway, however, Mulder was nothing more 
than a darkly shadowed form, deep grays and black, 
absorbing all light, devouring it whole. He looked 
like death's apprentice come to call.

Sauceda stared down into the suitcase on the bed, 
struggling to reorient himself. His palms had started 
to sweat and he wiped them on his undershirt as he 
moved back to the dresser, checking the next drawer 
for necessary clothing, struggling to remain calm. 

"You, ah, you hungry, Marty? I got some barbecue 
chicken from the deli up the street. We got soup, too. 
All kinds. Mitch went to the store and stocked up for 
you, kid."

Mulder again failed to answer, intent on watching 
Sauceda stuff socks into the case between stacks of 
underwear and blue jeans. He had the predatory stance 
of a stalking panther, muscles taut, coiled, perfectly 
motionless. The apartment was so quiet, Sauceda could 
hear Mulder breathe: short, desperate gulps following 
hard one after the other, but the struggle never 
reflected in the young man's shadowed face.

Sauceda moved to the closet, keeping his distance from 
the sentinel in the door. He kept his motions slow and 
deliberate and dredged up a tune to hum softly, a 
talisman against dread. He shuffled through the 
clothes hanging before him, his peripheral vision 
prepared for assault. Mulder moved into his visual 
field and he flinched, but the attack never came. 
Instead, Mulder crawled onto the bed, an image of 
cautious grace as he curled, catlike, on the far side 
of the mattress, back tight against the headboard. He 
resumed his silent vigil of Sauceda.

"Hey, kid, you want me to do this later so you can go 
back to sleep?"

Mulder's eyes, cold and feral, narrowed and he drew 
his knees tight against his chest. His head shook just 
a bit. Sauceda couldn't tell if it was an answer or 
just an attempt to find a comfortable spot on the 
pillow. He sighed and tugged Mulder's last remaining 
suits from the closet.

"Okay, kid, I'm about done anyway. So. You want me to 
pack the blue suit and the gray one?" He paused, 
regarding the nearly empty rack, knowing he was 
talking just to hear his own voice. "Or how about the 
brown one? You don't have much left till the cleaners 
get done--"

He turned from the closet, holding the selection up 
helpfully, expecting no more response than before. 
Mulder was sitting up, however, still staring, 
breathing through his mouth.

Sauceda licked his lips. "Okay. Blue and gray it is, 
then--"

"Where..." Mulder tried words on for size, "are we 
going?"

"Marty, Purdue told you--" Sauceda bit his lip. 
*Jeezus, Len, it's the kid's first full sentence of 
the afternoon, cut him some slack why don't you?* 
Sauceda tried again, pronouncing his words carefully, 
but keeping his tone agreeable. "We're moving to a 
hotel, kiddo. And not one of those dive joints, 
either. An honest to God three-star jobby." Mulder's 
expression hadn't changed much except for a twitch in 
his jaw. Sauceda shrugged reassuringly. "We'll still 
be in Washington. Purdue just thought it'd be better 
if this Sisy-whatsit wasn't visitin' your neighbors. 
Okay?"

He wasn't certain how much Mulder had managed to 
digest of that, but he gave the young man time to sort 
it out as he shimmied the suits into Mulder's carryall 
and tried to steady his own breathing. 

"We're not going to the hospital?" Mulder's voice was 
painfully small. Sauceda froze, looking up into those 
haunted eyes.

"No, Marty," he answered solemnly. "Do you want to go 
to the hospital?"

Mulder blinked several times but didn't seem to be 
able to form words anymore. Sauceda barely managed to 
find enough spit to speak himself.

"You're not going to the hospital," he repeated 
carefully. "Okay, kid?"

Mulder blinked once more then, without a sound, folded 
abruptly down onto the bed. It was a movement of such 
total collapse that Sauceda was certain he'd fainted 
and sprung onto the mattress, kneeling to reach him, 
his heart pounding. But no, Mulder's eyes were still 
open, still slowly blinking. A fine sheen of 
perspiration bathed his forehead.

Sauceda checked Mulder's pulse tentatively. The young 
man watched him without comprehension. Sauceda took a 
deep, steadying breath.

"Marty? Look, I know you've got a lot going on right 
now, but I really need to know you're okay. Okay? Can 
you talk to me?" Mulder blinked at him calmly, 
apparently unconcerned or simply unable to speak. 
Sauceda ran a hand across Mulder's face, brushing the 
sweat away. It occurred to him that he had never dared 
such a touch before. Mulder would have never allowed 
it, would have removed Sauceda's arm just for having 
the audacity. In fact, Sauceda realized, he'd been 
touching Marty an awful lot lately, completely without 
retaliation. Sauceda's hand trembled as he pushed the 
rumpled curls from Mulder's forehead.

He'd surrendered. No defenses remained. 

Marty had given up. 

Sauceda wanted to slap him, suddenly. Hit him just to 
*make* him fight, just to have some kind of reaction 
other than this vapid withdrawal. The desire was so 
strong that he laced his fingers through his own 
graying curls, gulping air. He didn't dare strike the 
younger man. If he slapped him and Mulder didn't 
respond-- 

Sauceda backed off the bed, frantic, bumping into the 
suitcase in his flight. The lid slamming down echoed 
like a gunshot in the silence and brought him to his 
senses. He took another deep breath. And a second, 
just to be sure, and dredged up a smile from somewhere 
around his ankles. 

"Okay, Marty. Look. How about I just fix us some tea? 
How would that be? You like iced tea, doncha, Marty? 
Yeah?" Mulder blinked at him rapidly for a second and 
seemed to be trying to remember. Sauceda grinned, 
relieved by even so minor an improvement. "Yeah. Yeah. 
Sounds good, huh? I'll be right back, then. Don't you 
go anywhere, 'kay?"

Sauceda stumbled for the kitchen and busied himself 
with getting ice into a couple of disposable glasses. 
His hands were shaking and ice cubes kept escaping 
him, splintering onto the tile, skittering this way 
and that. Sauceda was oblivious to the mess. Something 
had to give, here. He couldn't hold up to this. Hell, 
he didn't think he could even stand to look at the kid 
anymore. Not like this. Jeezus, if Marty had some 
drugs in him, he could see it, but the kid was stone 
cold sober--

Sauceda jerked at the soft click of a door closing 
somewhere in the apartment, then the even quieter 
click of a lock.

"Marty?" 

Sauceda tossed the glass into the sink. More ice, 
slivered by the impact, joined the water on the floor 
as he sprinted for the bedroom. Mulder wasn't on the 
bed any longer and the bathroom door was shut, light 
shining from the crack near the floor. Sauceda jerked 
the doorknob, already anticipating its resistance, 
swearing anyway when it refused to yield. He slammed 
his fist against the doorframe.

"Goddam it, Marty, you open this door!"

"I'm taking a shower." Mulder's voice was muffled. The 
"screw-you" tone had Sauceda's blood pressure soaring 
on the first word. *That damned Baez is gonna have a 
lot to answer for on these freaking mood swings--* 
Sauceda froze there, his jaw working with realization. 
*Well, hell, Sauceda, this is the fight you wanted, 
isn't it?* He choked down grief and gratitude and got 
his voice level.

"Okay, kid, you can take a shower if you want. But you 
need to unlock the door, okay?"

There was no response.

"Marty, come on. Unlock the door. You don't have to 
open it. Just unlock it. Hear?"

Again, no sound in the room beyond.

Sauceda was suddenly, guiltily, missing the compliant 
patient from earlier today. Still, he was grinning 
like a madman while he shouted. "Look you little ass, 
I know you're not in the shower, yet, the water's not 
even running-- Shit!" The water started up obediently 
with the words still in Sauceda's mouth. He listened, 
shaking with anger, fear and joy. 

And all he heard was water, just the water hitting the 
tub. No irregular splash, no thump of a body beneath 
the stream. Sauceda's grin dissipated. He'd spent most 
of the day locking away knives and breakables, just to 
be on the safe side. He'd even removed the glass 
tumbler from Mulder's toothbrush rack. All the young 
man had in there was a cake of soap, a bottle of 
shampoo and a dozen towels. Still, Sauceda had too 
much respect for Mulder's intelligence to convince 
himself he'd covered all the bases. He swore softly, 
realizing he hadn't gotten around to unscrewing the 
medicine cabinet from the wall. It had such a nice big 
mirror on it, too.... 

Sauceda shook his head, amazed at his own stupidity. 
Marty was his partner and Sauceda trusted the man with 
his life. He just wasn't too keen on trusting Marty 
with *Marty's* life right now. 

Sauceda backed up, gauging the door for where to put 
his foot. He'd never kicked in a door in his life and 
he knew that most efforts were not as easy as they 
might seem. He'd seen Marty kick them open with 
leading man abandon, but Sauceda had never been the 
leading man, not even in his own life. Besides, Marty 
was liable to kill him for this-- Sauceda pushed the 
thought aside, licked his lips, and sucked in a good 
breath. Then stopped, his foot in mid-air. *Well, 
screw this,* he stomped his foot down and popped his 
hands on his hips, *that's what the hell I've got 
Mitch and Gregg for--*

Still as if on cue, someone tapped on the front door. 
Sauceda rolled eyes at no one in particular and 
slammed a fist into the bathroom door before stalking 
into the dining room.

Purdue was already on his way in, and paused in the 
doorway, Gregg peeking curiously over his shoulder.

"Sauceda? What's going on--"

"Well, it's about goddam time you showed up," Sauceda 
wailed. He flapped an arm in the general direction of 
the bedroom. "Hell, the kid's locked himself in the 
bathroom and won't open the damned door." 

Gregg's eyes were wide and he opened his mouth but 
Purdue closed the door in his face before he could get 
the words out. The ASAC eyed the older man gently. 
Sauceda paused, trying to remember what he'd looked 
like the last time he checked. Razor burn ran across 
his cheeks and halfway down his neck on both sides. 
The paunch he usually strapped in with a corset was 
resting over his belt, and he had barbecue sauce and 
ink stains on his T-shirt-- and that was just the 
stuff he could identify. Sauceda imagined the mixture 
of rage and relief on his face wasn't too pleasant, 
either.

"I'll handle Mulder, Hot Sauce. Why don't you go home 
for a while?" Purdue suggested quietly. "You need a 
break."

Sauceda regarded the confident face and finally felt 
the full impact of his own anger. "Oh," he growled. 
"So, now I need a break, do I? Well, screw you, sir." 
He slammed back the nearest dining room chair and 
dropped into it heavily. "I sit here all damned day, 
alone, thank you so very much, supervising the Mayor 
of Loony Tune City, and now I need a freaking break--" 
Sauceda wanted to cry, suddenly, but he'd be damned 
first. He shook his head, marveling at his own 
impulsive mood swings. "Shit." He sighed. "You want 
the latest update? The kid caught me packing his 
things and thought we were hauling him to a hospital."

Purdue bit his lip and glanced away.

"He knows he's not going," Sauceda moaned, "but now he 
won't unlock the bathroom door. I can't follow his 
mind, anymore, Reg. Hell, he was five steps ahead of 
me before all this shit. Now I don't even think we're 
on the same planet half the time."

"Well, I don't need the two of you lost in space, 
Sauceda. You're going home for a while. That's an 
order."

Sauceda studied his hands, flexing his fingers, 
thoughtfully. "Well... I *did* hear back about that 
file. The one on the sister?" 

Purdue took a step forward, "Yeah?"

"I've, ah," Sauceda blushed unaccountably, cleared his 
throat. "I've got a, ah, friend in Records and--"

"And she found the file. Good work. Have her courier 
it over ASAP. I want that damned thing yesterday."

Sauceda was blushing in earnest, now, not wanting to 
know how Purdue knew the *friend* was a woman. Hell, 
the last time he and Dorothy Bahnsen had... met, was a 
decade ago. Sauceda still couldn't think of her 
without breaking out in a sweat, though. He'd give the 
ASAC credit, his instincts were good.

"Tell her to be discreet about it," Purdue was saying. 
"I had lunch with Skinner this afternoon. A 
clandestine little cafe in Logan Circle, *his* choice. 
Hospitalizing Mulder's out of the question. That 
smoking bastard has something up his sleeve and he's 
sniffing around for an excuse to bring Mulder in on an 
official evaluation. Skinner claims he doesn't know 
what the hell it's about, but I need that file. And 
Mulder on his feet, fast."

Sauceda shook his head. "The file, I can handle. I 
told her to leave it where it was, that way she's not 
responsible for it, ah, disappearing without a file 
request, you know? The only record on it was on an old 
card file, back before the Bureau went so damned hi-
tech. Anyway, I can pick it up in the morning." Purdue 
nodded. "Tell you what," Sauceda rubbed at an ache in 
his shoulder, "we get the kid set up in the hotel 
tonight and I'll go home for a few hours. You get 
someone else to take a shift--" He glanced up, the 
words freezing on his lips as Purdue grimaced. "What?"

"We've-- got a security problem--"

"Security problem." Sauceda repeated the words 
blankly.

Purdue waved his hands, helpless. "Hotel's closing out 
a vacuum cleaner salesman's convention--"

"And you're afraid of what? Some clown trying to sell 
Marty an Electrovac?"

"There's just too much going on there, Sauceda," 
Purdue's own strain was evident in his deliberate 
patience. "I'm not moving him until I have a few more 
empty rooms on our floor. Most of the reps will be 
gone by tomorrow anyway. We'll wait, move him about 
one in the afternoon. I've got a few more details to 
cover tonight, then I'll start running shift with 
you."

Sauceda scrubbed at his face. "Hell, Reg, there's no 
sense in that. You've got a damned department to run. 
I'll go home tomorrow night and--"

"No. You'll go home tonight. Gregg and Mitch will 
watch the kid. They know him well enough. Mitch's 
mom's diabetic so he's used to needles. I want you to 
explain the Valium to him. Maybe load up some 
Thorazine, just in case. Tell him what to watch for."

Sauceda was staring at him like he was sporting that 
secondary head again. "So, you think it's just that 
easy, huh?"

Purdue sighed. "No, Hot Sauce, I don't think it's just 
that easy. I think you need a rest and right now, 
dammit, this is the best we can do. You think he's 
going to be a problem the boys can't handle, put him 
down before you leave."

Sauceda's answer was cut short by the whispered 
movement behind him. Mulder, clad in jeans and a T-
shirt, limped slightly as he entered the dining room. 
He paused in the doorway, gaze drifting past Sauceda 
to the ASAC. He met Purdue's eyes defensively, hugging 
himself against the ASAC's quiet regard.

"Agent Mulder," Purdue acknowledged softly. It was 
more a question than a greeting. Mulder didn't answer 
it.

Sauceda frowned, staring at the leg Mulder was 
favoring. "Whatsamatta, Marty? You bump into 
something?"

Mulder searched Sauceda's face coldly, but didn't turn 
his head, keeping Purdue in peripheral focus. "Yeah," 
he agreed distantly. "I bumped into something."

"Want me to look at it--"

"I put a Band-Aid on it. I'm fine."

"Really?" Sauceda was watching the young man's eyes.

"Really." Mulder stood like he expected to be tackled. 
Purdue frowned, watching the exchange. Sauceda ran his 
tongue over his bottom lip, trying to track the lie he 
was certain of. Mulder's stance was intractable, 
however; he would tolerate no dispute. The pathologist 
decided that discretion was perhaps the better part of 
confrontation, for the moment.

Mulder hesitated, taking one long look at the men who 
had invaded his home before turning for the couch and 
his remote control. He managed not to limp at all now, 
Sauceda noted, suddenly completely confused.

Purdue studied Sauceda's face. The older man chewed 
his cheek a minute, watching Mulder, before glancing 
back to the ASAC. 

"You're right, Reg. I need a break. I'm starting to 
see symptoms behind every breath that boy takes."

Purdue kept his voice low below the blare of the TV. 
"What symptoms? What's going on now?"

Sauceda stood, and Purdue followed him through to the 
bedroom, quick-stepping past Mulder's fierce focus on 
the television screen. 

"I was worried," Sauceda admitted, sotto voce, "about 
that list of symptoms Baez nixed on his official 
report. You know, fascination with suicide, self-
mutilation and such. So, anyway, I child-proofed the 
entire apartment straight off: knives, forks, glass, 
belts, ties, spare electrical cords. Everything I 
thought we could do without, I had Gregg lock up in 
the trunk of my car. That doesn't cover everything, of 
course. He could always hang himself with a lamp cord 
or something..." He sighed, scanning the bathroom for 
some hint of mischief. "I don't let him wander off 
anywhere by himself for more than a couple of minutes. 
Hell, I don't even trust him with safety razors. If 
anyone could turn something like that into a weapon, 
it'd be Marty, you know?"

Purdue nodded solemnly.

"So far," Sauceda shrugged, "he hasn't had the snap to 
complain. Which is not necessarily a *good* thing with 
Marty, you understand. I'm hoping it just means that 
he's not contemplating anything drastic. Hell, I'm 
probably being paranoid for no good reason, but--"


"I understand, Lenny." Purdue peered over Sauceda's 
shoulder into the bathroom: there were damp towels on 
the floor and one in the sink. Sauceda collected them, 
shaking them out, pausing as he noted the Band-Aid 
wrapper in the sink. Actually, there was more than one 
wrapper. More than several, in fact.

Sauceda frowned and leaned to examine the contents of 
the trash can: tissue and another wadded up Band-Aid. 
Another bit of wrapper floated in the toilet bowl. The 
bathroom was humid with shower mist, the mirror still 
frosted with condensation. Sauceda collected up the 
wrappers, counting out a good half dozen, then 
considered the combination of slightly damp skin and 
cheap adhesive. He tossed the wrappers into the toilet 
and flushed them away with a sigh. Purdue rose to tip-
toe, watching the paper swirl in the bowl.

"Yep, seeing symptoms behind every breath he takes." 
Sauceda gauged the height of the sink cabinet and 
leaned to examine that, too. The lower edge was rough, 
the Formica on the corner loose and sharp as a knife-
edge. Mulder could have easily scraped his upper 
thigh, just below the groin. 

"Well, hell, it's not like the kid's going to bleed to 
death or anything."

Purdue straightened from his own examination and 
considered the calm on Sauceda's face. "Everything 
okay, then?" he asked.

Sauceda nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, it's okay. Look, I'd like 
to put him down for the evening, I'd feel better about 
leaving if I could, but he's in son-of-a-bitch mode 
again and it's not going to go over too well." He 
grimaced. "I need to get him to eat something first, 
anyway. Wish me luck."

"Good luck," Purdue intoned without enthusiasm.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 18B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 21:52:16 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 18B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com 
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 18B of 27: 


But Mulder wasn't hungry. And he didn't bother to look 
up from the television when he informed Sauceda of 
this fact.

"I'm going home for a while, Marty."

Mulder didn't look up for that announcement either, 
patiently enduring Sauceda's heavy sigh. Purdue, 
Mitchell and Gregg were making soft noises at the 
front door.

"You gotta eat before I go, kid. Otherwise I ain't 
going. Understand?" Sauceda said it like it was some 
kind of threat and should warrant compliance. Mulder 
kept his eyes on the screen before him and didn't so 
much as blink.

Sauceda threatened to bring him some soup; Mulder 
continued his oblivious routine. He really saw no 
point in all this emphasis on eating. Hell, if he 
couldn't keep down something as useful as a Valium, 
then what was the point? He sniffed thoughtfully, 
rubbing at the pain behind his left eye, now a 
constant companion. Maybe he should ask for something 
stronger. Something injectable perhaps, bypassing his 
finicky stomach altogether. The thought was 
frightening, though. Lenny would chose the Thorazine 
and Thorazine robbed Mulder of, well, everything: all 
will, all reason. It was just a little too damned 
thorough and Mulder enjoyed the sensation of blissful 
thoughtlessness too much not to fear it. It's why he'd 
been so busy in the bathroom, locked in with his 
numbness and the penknife, carefully slicing his way 
back to conscious thought, using the pain to force 
himself to think. It wasn't enough, though. He 
wondered how deep he'd have to cut next time, just to 
find himself beneath the layers of apathy. Lost in 
such considerations, he scarcely noticed that Sauceda 
had trotted off, swearing softly.

The clinking of can, pan and can opener echoing from 
the kitchen brought him back to a semblance of numbed 
reality. Purdue had taken Sauceda's place, kneeling on 
the floor to put himself at Mulder's eye-level. The 
ASAC explained the situation to the profiler like 
Lenny hadn't just told him all this crap. He 
introduced Gregg and Mitch like Mulder'd never met 
them before. Like Mulder hadn't sat beside Mitch at 
the RICO lecture at the Academy, like he hadn't come 
this close to breaking Gregg's nose for that smartass 
remark about Mulder's collar wearing the same lipstick 
as Grace Anderson over in Handwriting Analysis. Even 
if it had been hers, it'd been none of Gregg's goddam 
business, as far as Mulder could recall.

Mulder flicked the volume control up another notch as 
Purdue droned. "Bride of Frankenstein" was coming on, 
for Chrissake. Didn't the man have any respect for the 
classics....

Purdue swore and relieved him of the remote. Mulder 
registered the sudden loss and instantly rewarded the 
ASAC with more attention than he'd apparently 
anticipated.

The ASAC rose and took an involuntary step back as 
Mulder swung his legs off the couch. Mitch and Gregg 
stepped forward, training evident in every muscle. 
Gregg was stone white. Sauceda paused in the process 
of entering the room, soup bowl in hand, jaw suddenly 
slack.

And just as suddenly, everyone froze. Even Purdue's 
"Easy, Agent" warning was forgotten on his lips as he 
watched Mulder slip into catatonia in mid-breath.

For seconds that felt like years, Mulder stared at 
Purdue without seeing, feet on the floor, hands braced 
on the edge of the couch to help him rise. Only Mulder 
didn't get up. He just sat there, lost in amazement.

He moved his chin finally, a parody of slow motion, 
and looked down to his left hand where it gripped the 
couch cushion. He lifted the hand cautiously, left it 
hovering in mid-air as he examined the spot where it 
had been. The dark leather gleamed from the track of 
his sweaty palm. And there they were: the tiny set of 
pin holes he'd felt beneath his hand as he'd struggled 
to rise.

No. Not pin holes.

Kitten claw holes.

He felt entire corridors shutting down in his brain. 
The pounding of his heart became the echo of 
impenetrable walls slamming into place, barring both 
entry and exit. This was the final betrayal, then: his 
mind had had quite enough of him and was shutting down 
occupancy.

His vision was still operational, however, his hearing 
functioning. Mulder registered the fact that he was 
still breathing, that his muscles, while sluggish, 
were managing to hold him upright. *Great. Take my 
sanity and leave me living. Son of a bitch--*

Mulder felt the dip of the couch cushion and vaguely 
registered a large, hulking shadow next to him. He 
flinched as the shadow moved and it immediately 
stopped. Mulder licked his lips hesitantly, still 
staring down at the tiny holes invisible to all eyes 
but his own.

There was a bowl moving slowly from the shadow into 
his line of sight. Mulder surprised himself by 
accepting it. The dish was hot, stinging his hands, 
and the burning was answered by the throb of the cuts 
the penknife had left on his thigh. Between the two 
pains, Mulder felt almost alive again. Well, alive 
enough at least to hear Sauceda telling him he had to 
eat. He *had* to. 

Well, of course he had to. Lenny told him so and Lenny 
didn't lie. Not much, anyway. Not about something like 
that.

Mulder complied as best he could, frowning when his 
hand sloshed most of the liquid out of the spoon. 
Noodles were a distant temptation, tiny bits of 
chicken a lie he couldn't swallow. Lenny had told him 
he had to eat and he wasn't eating. But he had to. 
There was just not enough of Mulder's mind available 
to explain why all this should be so frightening. He 
stared into the bowl, the spoon rattling against the 
ceramic even as he fumbled to hold it steady, and his 
vision blurred into a soup of its own.

Beside him, Sauceda's voice came soft and pained.

"Here, Marty. That's too hot to eat, isn't it? Let me 
get you some more."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sauceda stood in the kitchen with the bowl of soup 
forgotten in his hand. He wiped tears with the back of 
his arm, blinking his eyes, trying to make them stop 
watering. He registered Purdue's footstep in the 
dining room behind him, knew instinctively the ASAC 
would be putting himself in a position to watch both 
ends of this partnership, seeking an area where he 
could help. Damned if Sauceda knew what to tell him 
now. 

The pathologist's coffee mug was on the counter. 
Amazing how such mundane objects could be so damned 
comforting, could rouse the mind back to rational 
action. Sauceda dumped the remains of morning coffee 
into the sink, and washed out the ring before filling 
it with Marty's soup. Most of the noodles remained in 
the bottom of the bowl but Sauceda was in no shape to 
fret about it. He sloshed a little water into the 
broth and tapped a spoon around in it. A few quick, 
deep breaths and he spun on his heel for the living 
room. 

Purdue watched him pass, followed him silently. Gregg 
and Mitch were politely staring out the window, 
unwilling sentinels in Mulder's brave new world. Marty 
had at least completed his examination of the couch 
cushion. Sauceda frowned; when he'd left the room he'd 
been reeling with the image of Marty so vulnerable and 
lost. Mulder was still seated where Sauceda had left 
him, but his eyes were closed in concentration, his 
left hand a fist, pressing hard on his thigh. There 
was nothing overt that Sauceda could identify but 
something in the action spoke of ravenous anger, a 
desperation dangerous in its intent. The pathologist 
licked his lips, the cup trembling suddenly in his 
grip. 

"Sauceda?"

Purdue's quiet voice made him turn, assuming an ease 
he didn't feel. Sauceda let his eyes rake over the 
ASAC and quickly away, unwilling to look him in the 
eye. He moved on to the living room but didn't dare 
presume to sit beside the man on the couch. He 
squatted down beside Mulder instead, his back to 
Purdue, leaning to address his partner softly.

"Marty? I brought you some more soup, kid."

Mulder's eyes snapped open with a gasp. And there it 
was again, that lost, wondering quality that Sauceda 
had left when he'd stumbled to the kitchen. There was 
a wild desperation to it now, however, that made the 
skin down Sauceda's back crawl. 

"Marty? You still here?"

Mulder scanned his partner's face. There wasn't a 
great deal of comprehension in his expression but he 
accepted the mug, holding it with both hands, staring 
into it's depths like a young Nostradamus pondering 
his mirror of time. 

"It's okay, Marty. I cooled it down for you." Sauceda 
waited, then whispered. "Drink, Marty."

Mulder sipped the hot liquid dutifully, then greedily. 
Sauceda actually smiled, watching him, turning to 
share the smile with Purdue. The ASAC had planted his 
back against the wall, like he didn't trust his legs 
to keep him vertical. He held Sauceda's glance a long 
moment. By the time Sauceda turned back to Mulder, the 
mug was lowered, empty. The profiler was watching him 
expectantly. 

Sauceda grinned at him, delighted with such progress, 
and leaned to blot soup from Mulder's upper lip; the 
young man's eyes narrowed, however, and Sauceda 
thought better of it. Mulder wiped the liquid away 
with the back of his hand, his focus never leaving 
Sauceda's face.

Sauceda took a deep breath and gently retrieved the 
mug, backing away before he asked the burning question 
of the evening. "You want to sleep *now*, Marty?" He 
pronounced the words carefully.

Mulder's eyes went wide with comprehension, narrowed 
again, his head lowering and Sauceda's heart sank. But 
Mulder nodded, a grateful glance from under dark 
lashes. Sauceda blinked at him, his own comprehension 
slower, unwilling to believe his grave good fortune.

His voice remained wary. "You want to sleep in the 
bed, kid?"

Mulder's eyes were wide again. A shake of the head.

"Okay," Sauceda assured. "That's okay, kid, you sleep 
out here if you want to." Purdue handed Sauceda the 
syringe full of tranquilizer. Sauceda received it 
without looking away from Mulder's face, waiting for 
explosive retaliation. 

But at the sight of the syringe, Mulder wriggled back 
onto the couch, not in fear, but passive expectancy. 
He lay on his side, his left hip within Sauceda's 
reach, and cradled his head against the pillow. His 
gaze swung from the syringe to Sauceda's face 
patiently.

Sauceda heard himself thinking *you lay down and we'll 
go night-night* in a voice he usually reserved for his 
grandson. He bit his tongue to keep the words from 
popping out. Mitchell and Gregg made themselves scarce 
as Sauceda worked the button on Mulder's jeans.

Sauceda delivered the drug, and quietly handed the 
syringe back to Purdue. Then he pushed Mulder's hip 
back against the couch. Watching the profiler's face 
all the while, Sauceda tugged Mulder's jeans down to 
his knees. Mulder's eyes were big and the profiler 
stopped breathing momentarily, but he did not resist. 
The pathologist examined Mulder's upper left thigh: a 
half dozen Band-Aids lined up neatly across the skin, 
disappearing up into the leg of Mulder's briefs. Blood 
soaked through the little pads and oozed in bright 
rivulets from the pressure Mulder's fist had applied 
to the wounds. Sauceda tugged at the leg of Mulder's 
black jockeys: two more Band-Aids lay hidden in the 
hollow of his groin but the injuries appeared to go no 
further.

Purdue laid a towel across Sauceda's shoulder and the 
pathologist fumbled for it blindly, patting at the 
blood. Sauceda's medical kit appeared from nowhere and 
he busied himself with gauze and antiseptics. Mulder 
watched the two men silently, completely without 
expression, his head pillowed on his hand. 

The wounds bandaged to his satisfaction, Sauceda 
patted down the pockets of Mulder's jeans, seeking the 
weapon. There was nothing.

"Where is it? Marty, where have you got it hid? Huh?" 

Sauceda stared into the eyes regarding him. A man 
could get lost in those fathomless black holes that 
sucked in whole worlds of horror and let nothing back 
out again. The drug had began its work and Sauceda 
watched in fascination as Mulder's eyes glazed slowly 
over, still unmoving, unblinking. 

"I swear, Marty, we'll tear this damned place apart 
till we find it. Hear?" But Mulder didn't hear.

Sauceda sighed, turning to tug the young man's jeans 
back up. He got them zipped and buttoned then ran his 
hands across Mulder's chest and back, looking for a 
razor blade, perhaps, taped to the skin. Purdue patted 
down his legs, producing the same results.

Sauceda looked away at last, up at the ASAC standing 
at his shoulder. Purdue's eyes begged assurance and 
his head nodded solemnly when Sauceda couldn't give 
it. Together they tucked Mulder under his worn 
blanket. Purdue surrendered the remote control and 
watched a minute as Mulder's thumb twitched through 
fifty-six channels of cable.

Pathologist and ASAC joined the two other agents in 
the kitchen. No one seemed particularly chatty and 
Sauceda handed Mitchell a pad of paper with a 
breakdown of symptoms and possible drug reactions. 
They waited, listening as Mitch read them aloud. 
Gregg's eyes were big by the end of the page. Mitchell 
shook his head but didn't protest. 

"Can do," he vowed hollowly.

Sauceda frowned but nodded anyway. He wriggled his 
finger for the man to follow him and wound up with the 
whole kitchenful following him to the bathroom. As if 
a unit, they double-stepped past the television; 
Mulder's glazed stare might as well have been 
radioactive. 

Sauceda's little band gathered outside the bathroom 
door, Mitchell front and center with his pad of paper.

"Got a pen, Mitch?" Sauceda asked, yanking open a 
cabinet drawer.

A dark hand handed Mitchell a Bic over his shoulder.

"Ah. Yes, sir," the agent assured.

"Take notes." Sauceda's voice rose and fell as he 
opened drawers, patted them down, pulled them out and 
turned them over, and slammed them back in place 
again. "Okay. Marty should sleep all night, probably 
most of the morning with that dose I gave him." 


"Sle-ep a-ll ni-ght," Mitchell inscribed this 
information on his pad of paper as he quoted. "Uh-
huh."

Sauceda was on to the next cabinet; his voice muffled 
as he flipped out towels and linens.

"Under no circumstances," he growled, "do you clowns 
let him sleep on his back. He likes to sleep on his 
back but if he gets nauseated-- and he does-- he's 
liable to choke if he's on his back--"

"Keep-him-m off his baa-ck," Mitchell mimicked, 
scribbling dutifully.

"If he starts in on his 'I-wanna-shower' routine, tell 
him that as God is your witness, you'll drug him 
again. And call me. Do not call 911, unless my wife 
tells you I'm dead or something. If you have to call 
911-- which you're *not* going to do-- tell them I 
gave him Thorazine--" the rest was obstructed as 
Sauceda dropped to his knees and shoved his head in 
the cabinet under the sink.

Gregg was watching over Mitchell's shoulder. "I don't 
think there's an 's' in Thorazine, Mitch--"

Mitchell gave him an elbow to his ribs and returned to 
his dictation as Sauceda popped back out of the 
cabinet, catching his breath, both hands planted 
against the floor.

"I wrote the dose and all on the pad next to the 
phone. If he wakes up, let him go to the john-- but 
*not* by himself, no matter who he threatens to kill-- 
He gives you any flack, make him pee in a damned cup. 
Then give him a Valium. A blue one. But just one. And 
call me. I can be here in ten minutes." Sauceda sat on 
the floor and frowned up at the ASAC. "I don't know 
what the hell he's used. I've even checked for razor 
blades taped to the plumbing. Nothing."

Purdue nodded at the toilet. "How about the tank?" 

Sauceda scrambled up. "I checked that earlier today--" 
He checked again, however, peering into the water, 
then running his hands down the back of the ceramic, 
then down the tile wall. He sighed as he straightened, 
rubbing his face wearily. "Nothing. Hell. I don't 
know. There's not much we could do with him now, 
anyway." He pointed a stern finger at the two younger 
men in the door. "I swear to God, if I come back here 
and find one scratch on him that I didn't know about 
beforehand, I'll castrate the both of you, 
understand?"

Both men nodded solemnly, shuffling as they said their 
"Yes, sir's," and Sauceda rolled his eyes at the ASAC.

Purdue shook his head. "I need you rested, Sauceda. 
Especially now that we know what we're up against." 
His voice softened. "We're fresh out of options here."

Sauceda regarded Mitchell and Gregg, sizing them up 
carefully. Mitchell was tall like Mulder and a good 
fifteen to twenty pounds heavier. And Gregg, well, 
Gregg could have been a halfback but it was clear that 
Gregg was about half-scared of Marty. Which probably 
meant he had pretty good sense.

"He's hell on wheels when he's angry, boys," Sauceda 
warned. "He'll look you straight in the face with a 
smile like an angel and lay you flat out, and not take 
a second breath in between. The kid's old man learned 
to swear from Patton himself and there's enough acid 
in that tongue to corrode platinum. Barring that, he 
can charm you into letting him sleep with your sisters 
and convince you he's doing them a favor. You keep him 
calm. You keep him quiet. And you do *not* under any 
circumstances leave him alone. Not even to take a 
leak. Especially to take a leak."

Mitchell nodded. "Can do," he assured again.

Purdue and Sauceda stared at him like he'd grown a 
second head.

"Jeezus, Reg," Len sighed. "Why can't I just wait and 
do this crap tomorrow night?"

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

10:20 p.m.

After an hour's worth of effort, Mulder finally 
managed to get his feral greens open. His brain felt 
thick as cotton batting but was operational enough to 
inform him his remote was gone and some inane sitcom 
was droning away on the TV screen. Gregg was piled up 
on the floor-- Mulder could make out his blonde head 
propped up on the other side of the coffee table-- 
grunting every time the canned laughter notified him 
something was funny. 

Mulder couldn't recall inviting Gregg over. Hell, he 
couldn't even imagine *why* he would have invited him 
over. He felt no great shock or outrage one way or the 
other, however. He was still quite well cocooned 
within his Thorazine haze, his emotions and body both 
pleasantly numb. There was the dispassionate patter of 
rain against the window, the distant percussion of 
thunder in the unseen sky another floor above. Mulder 
listened quietly, taking comfort in the ominous 
rumble. He liked the rain; somehow it always reminded 
him of Samantha and days spent indoors playing board 
games or reading. Days when life was pleasant, or at 
least when unpleasantness was blissfully forgotten. 
Through the fog in his head, he felt neurons spring to 
life, off to analyze these thoughts, unbeckoned, 
clambering their way down the more accessible 
corridors of his brain. He waited, contentedly, 
confident of their return.

Mitchell passed into his line of sight and reached for 
a slice of still steaming pizza from the box on the 
coffee table. He stopped as he noticed Mulder blink.

"Hiya, Mulder. You hungry?"

The face was kind, but not pitying; Mulder had always 
liked Mitchell. He was that rare combination of honest 
investigator, blue-flamer and solid family man: 
everything, in fact, that Mulder had ever wanted to 
be. And knew he never could. Another set of neurons 
bumped about in the fog, seeking out theories for this 
random observation but Mulder ignored them-- he was 
still waiting for the first group to get back. He 
didn't respond to the proffered pizza, too involved 
with the internal exchange to reply.

He did note, at last, that Gregg, too, was all 
interest now, wide blue eyes regarding him over the 
coffee table. There was an awkward silence and not for 
the first time in his life, Mulder realized he was the 
cause. He wished he hadn't wakened and wondered 
vaguely why he had.

He managed to get out "I'm thirsty," even as he 
searched the Thorazine haze for snatches of a dream 
strong enough to have roused him. He'd surrendered the 
quest by the time Gregg got back from the kitchen with 
a glass. Mulder watched blearily as Mitchell poured 
soda from the two-liter bottle on the coffee table. 
Mitchell hesitated, with the glass half-full, 
continued to the three-quarter mark before finally 
offering the drink to Mulder.

"Uh-uh," Gregg intercepted the glass and popped in a 
straw. He nodded to the profiler while he held the 
liquid to an angle Mulder could manage.

The fizz burned on the way down but didn't manage to 
dispel the Thorazine cotton wadding in his brain. 
Mulder drank the liquid greedily until the fizz began 
to choke him. He stopped to cough and then drank some 
more.

Gregg's hands were patient but not overly gentle when 
he settled the profiler back under the blanket. Mulder 
realized he probably would have slapped Gregg for any 
overt show of kindness and the agent knew it. Mulder 
frowned at the thought and what it said about him. 
After twenty-six years, however, he had grown 
accustomed to the realization that sometimes just 
being himself was unsettling enough for most people.

Mitchell leaned back over the coffee table. "You need 
to take a leak or anything, Mulder?"

Gregg sighed wearily.

Mulder shook his head. He would have thought the 
caffeine in the soda would have given him a bit more 
snap but if anything, he was drowsier now. He frowned 
again, eyes automatically back to the TV screen: a 
bunch of people at a bar. One of them was wearing a 
postal uniform...

Mitchell's voice in the gathering haze: "Well, hell, 
Gregg, man's gotta take a leak sometime. Think 
something's wrong--"

"Mitch, any idiot can look at him and tell he's 
dehydrated. If he needs to go, he'll say so. There's 
no sense in getting him riled up over nothing. Hey, 
what kinda games has he got in that computer, anyway--
"

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thursday. May 19, 1988. 2:43 AM.

The VCR clock had rolled over to 2:43 a.m. when it 
finally dawned on Mulder that he was awake again. 
Numbed hands rubbed sleep from his eyes but couldn't 
manage to get at the fuzz in his head. His mouth 
tasted like someone had shoved more cotton batting in 
it.

After a number of efforts, the most strenuous being 
mental, Mulder managed to get relatively vertical. He 
sat a while longer, recovering, before his brain began 
the slow and arduous task of assessing his current 
situation.

Remains of pizza littered the coffee table, cold and 
unappetizing in the light of the TV. Soda in a bottle. 
More soda in bright disposable glasses. A well of 
comforting familiarity flooded him at the sight of the 
glass with the straw.

He was thirsty, he realized, a solid bit of reasoning 
for his conscious mind to latch onto.

He knew better than to trust his still unconscious 
fingers, though, and leaned precariously to the coffee 
table, using the straw to sip the liquid from where it 
sat.

He frowned. The soda was flat. *Well, Of course, it's 
flat, Fox. You've been asleep how many hours now?* 

The VCR clock was still in view but he didn't bother 
to consult it, not certain he could handle the math 
just yet. Besides, it wasn't the flat part of the soda 
that bothered him. It was that bitter edge it left in 
his mouth. A bitterness he wouldn't have tasted with 
the fizz...

Mulder sat back on the couch, eyes large and empty in 
the darkness. 

He sat in the flickering glow of the television, 
listening to the familiar sounds in the walls, the 
sounds of home. The chilled silence left by the 
passing rain.

He sat staring into the dining room, lit by the dual 
glow of the hall light through the transom windows and 
the computer screen on the desk.

He sat a long time thinking about that oppressive 
stillness, thinking about the fact that he'd 
surrendered his gun. Thinking about the deadly 
seriousness of a .22 slug through the heart.

Thinking that it, at least, would be quick...

He didn't remember reaching for the phone. Didn't 
remember dialing it. Just knew that somehow Sauceda's 
sleepy voice was suddenly on the line and that the 
sleepy was gone at the sound of Mulder's quiet "Len?"

"Marty? Hey, kid-- Hey, you okay? What-- ah, where's 
Gregg?"

"I dunno."

"You in the living room, kiddo?"

"Uh-huh."

"Then he's probably in the bedroom asleep. Where's--"

"Lenny?"

"Yeah, kid. Listen--"

"Remember in Wheeling. 'Member when I asked if you'd 
come see me if I was laid out and gutted on my dining 
room table?"

"Jeezus, Marty, don't think about that stuff right--"

"Lenny, how 'bout if it's Mitch instead?"

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 21:52:26 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 19A of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 19A of 27: A Trojan Horse of a Different Color.

Disclaimed in Part 1.



"And to tell the truth he was by temperament more 
reptile than bird and could suffer extensive 
mutilation and survive." Samuel Beckett, "Malone 
Dies"; New York: Grove Press, Inc. 1956.

Thursday, May 19, 1988. 3:40 AM. Apartment 42.

Sauceda thundered off the elevator, his weapon drawn, 
loafers slapping the floorboards like gunshots. The 
door to apartment 42 opened before he was halfway down 
the hall, and he came to a skittering halt, bringing 
his revolver to bear, the trigger already half 
depressed. Mulder stepped out, regarding him 
stoically, and Sauceda stumbled, gasping. Every muscle 
in his body was screaming and it took conscious 
thought to pull his finger from the trigger.

"Jeezus, Marty--"

Mulder didn't bother to answer. He just stood there, 
his arms loose at his sides. He was still in his T-
shirt and jeans but had slipped on a pair of work 
boots, the laces apparently tucked somewhere in the 
trunk of Sauceda's car. The apartment behind him was 
an abyss, the glow of the computer monitor encircling 
his body with a deep blue halo. The light of the hall, 
however, made Mulder's eyes glow like unmitigated 
hell.

Sauceda heard himself swallow in the silence, and 
Mulder turned and walked back into the apartment's 
murky gloom. Sauceda followed cautiously, the grip of 
his revolver slick with sweat. The movement of his own 
shadow startled him, and he froze as the light behind 
him divulged the contents of Mulder's dining table. 
Mitch's head hung limp, upside down over the table's 
edge. The face was simply too calm, too utterly still 
to have ever known life. The rest of the body was a 
pulpy mess with arms and legs, and Sauceda turned 
away.

"Marty?"

Over the wail of sirens, he heard the rattling of 
keys. Mulder re-emerged from the shadows, shrugging 
into a leather jacket. Sauceda recognized the car keys 
dangling from his hand and swore, making a wild grab 
for them. Mulder blocked the move, shoulder lifting in 
an easy shrug, his forearm firm across Sauceda's 
chest. Sauceda continued his struggle, however, and 
Mulder shook his head, slamming the pathologist 
backward into the doorframe as the older man cursed 
him. Sauceda lashed out, too busy trying to keep his 
gun hand out of reach to be very effective. Mulder 
grunted as Sauceda's fist grazed his chin but made no 
move to strike back. 

"Lenny." 

Mulder's voice, remarkably reasonable, made Sauceda 
stop struggling. He searched the young man's face, not 
bothering to hide his surprise, his hope. Mulder 
endured the scrutiny calmly. He was haggard, his skin 
fine as porcelain beneath the stubble of a two-day-old 
beard. His pupils were tightly constricted, the light 
from the hall making his eyes too pale, clear as 
glass, almost completely devoid of color. Sauceda 
searched them, seeking some reassurance of sudden 
sanity. The man he sensed looking back at him was 
Marty, all right. Just not a Marty who seemed at home 
in his own skin quite yet. 

Mulder dropped his arm and took a step back, wavering 
slightly. "Look, Len. I'm just going downstairs to sit 
in my car. I'm not gonna go anywhere. I promise." 

The voice was weary, but Mulder's tone bespoke 
complete comprehension. Sauceda's jaw worked, trying 
to absorb what his senses were telling him. He 
couldn't force his mind to make that kind of mental 
leap, though. After days of madness, Mulder was 
suddenly far too rational. It just wasn't possible. 
Sauceda shook his head, holstering his weapon. "Gimme 
the keys, Marty."

Mulder grimaced. He slapped Sauceda's hand back. "No! 
Dammit, you can come with me if you have to. But I'm 
going. Understand?"

"Marty-- I don't get this at all. You're just gonna 
*sit* in your car? That's crazy--" Sauceda winced at 
his own declaration, damning himself for so little 
tact. "Christ, Marty, I didn't mean--"

Mulder turned away, his face clouding with bitterness. 
Regret battled with the sudden moisture in his eyes 
and he ducked his head abruptly. "I've just got no 
place else to go--" he choked on the words, fled 
through the door. 

Sauceda grabbed for him, managing to get a good 
handful of wrist and jacket sleeve as Mulder tried to 
shrug him off. The profiler swung around in Sauceda's 
grip but Lenny's hold was resolute, the grasp of a 
drowning man, clawing his way to a too-distant 
surface. To his surprise, Mulder didn't lash out. 
Instead, he seemed suddenly intent on dragging Sauceda 
with him across the hall. Lenny struggled with the 
wrist and the leather jacket, clawing like a man 
possessed, but couldn't slow the young man's momentum, 
couldn't slip free of Mulder's grip. In the blur of 
their motions, Sauceda's mind was whirling, trying to 
envision Mulder's strategy. If he were Marty, he'd use 
the wall, sling him into it like a sledge. Sauceda 
imagined the bone-jarring blow and moaned in 
anticipation. He refused to release his grip however, 
tightening his hold on Mulder's sleeve, preparing for 
the impact. 

Sauceda almost lost his grip from shock when Mulder 
himself slammed into the wall, knocking the air from 
his lungs with an agonized cough. 

"Jeezus Christ, Marty--"

Mulder gasped, gulping oxygen, eyes tightly closed, 
unperturbed by Sauceda's cussing and frantic pleas. 
He'd taken the force of the blow in his back and he 
maintained the position, spine set firmly against the 
wall, pressed tight like he planned to disappear into 
the paint. He planted his feet resolutely, an 
immovable force and pocketed his keys defiantly. The 
older man shook his head. 

Up the hall, the elevator "pinged," resolving into a 
low rumble as the doors opened. Purdue and the backup 
team thundered out into the hall. The ASAC caught 
sight of the two men immediately and paused, waving 
the team of agents past him. They spilled into 
Mulder's apartment, brandishing weapons and snapping 
on lights. Sauceda composed his features, but Purdue's 
focus was on Mulder, the young man's unyielding 
stance. The profiler was fragile and trembling, but he 
held his ground with the tenacity of a bull elephant, 
his head resolutely down. He didn't even bother to 
struggle against Sauceda's fierce grip on his wrist.

Purdue approached slowly. "What's going on, Hot 
Sauce?"

Mulder didn't raise his head, but his jaw tightened. 
Sauceda took a deep breath. Bewilderment lent his 
voice a measure of calm he didn't possess.

"He wants to sit in his car." 

Purdue considered the words, scanning Mulder 
critically, assessing the situation. Sauceda knew he'd 
be calculating the tension of Mulder's muscles, the 
weakened trembling of his hands, the fact that Sauceda 
was apparently unharmed.

"Mulder."

The profiler understood the unspoken command and 
pulled his head up, leaned it back against the wall. 
It seemed to take a supreme effort, but he looked the 
ASAC in the eye, refusing to blink as Purdue studied 
him, an unlicensed doctor of the soul weighing the 
intent of his heart. The muscle in Mulder's jaw 
twitched once, but even his breathing seemed to be 
tightly controlled. 

Purdue himself remained stoic. He nodded finally. "So 
take him to his car, Lenny. Just make sure it stays 
parked."

Mulder swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut, dropping 
his head again before he found the energy to push 
himself away from the wall. He surrendered the keys to 
Sauceda's outstretched hand and glanced up at Purdue 
once more, just the briefest glimpse, fathomless eyes 
under damp lashes. Sauceda thought that he might have 
noted a hint of gratitude before Mulder brushed past 
the ASAC and tugged Sauceda to the elevator.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

7:48 AM.

The investigative unit worked efficiently, solemnly, 
checking every detail with the thoroughness born of 
anger and the desire for justice-- or at least for 
vengeance. It was one of their own gutted on the 
table, after all. One of their own ripped open on the 
bed. And one of their own, almost as lifeless, curled 
up in the red Monte Carlo in the parking lot.

Diana Fowley scanned Mulder's cluttered desk. The 
computer screen was blank: the word processor 
displayed an empty page, no new file saved and nothing 
recovered. They'd found no note elsewhere, either. If 
this Sisyphus person had left another love letter, 
Mulder was keeping it to himself. A framed photo sat 
beside the monitor: a young boy, smug and confident, 
leaning against a tree. Beside him in the frame was a 
little girl with long dark pigtails and a wistful 
smile. Well. An interesting photo to find displayed in 
a bachelor's apartment.

Fowley had always heard that you could determine a 
man's character by looking at his home. Personally, 
she had her doubts. While still a rookie, she'd helped 
investigate a prostitute in Oceanside: a woman living 
in an abandoned church who collected icons and 
figurines of the Virgin Mary. Each item had had the 
appearance of being lovingly placed and adorned, but, 
in fact, they served as objects of ridicule, 
spectators to the woman's murderous fascination for 
preadolescent boys. Fowley'd since learned not to take 
too much at face value.

Still, Mulder's rooms were darkly masculine, filled 
with books and files and mismatched collectibles. 
There was a definite design, the organized chaos of 
one accustomed to discerning order in random facts. 
This was the domain of a man who lived in his head, 
who tracked the regions of the soul and viewed shelter 
simply as a place to lay his head when it was too full 
to reason any longer. The haven had offered too little 
shelter last night, however, and in the cold light of 
day, everything she touched smelled of remorse.

A solitary plant claimed a perch in the window, 
stubbornly competing with the drapes for the sunlight. 
Fowley decided it might have been a rubber tree once, 
before someone watered it with Agent Orange. Still, 
considering the status of the apartment's other 
occupants, the little rubber tree didn't look half-
bad. If plants served as reminders of the impermanence 
of life, Fowley decided, then Mulder had obviously 
learned the lesson well.

She heard Purdue swearing behind her and turned. The 
ASAC stood at the entrance to the living room, deeply 
absorbed in a losing argument with his cell phone. He 
shook the unit, jabbed a few more buttons before 
placing it to his ear again. The results only drove 
him to another round of profanity. Fowley had worked 
only briefly with Purdue-- AD Kersh didn't loan her 
out from Domestic Terrorism very often-- and that had 
been years ago when she was still just an overly 
nervous rookie. She didn't recall Purdue being easily 
agitated, however. The stress of this particular 
investigation must be hitting a critical juncture. Two 
dead agents could do that to you, she supposed.

"I don't give a shit if he's on freaking Mars--" 
Purdue informed the phone, "You find Skinner and you 
tell him to call me. Now. I'm sick of him dodging my 
goddam phone calls." He paused, growled, "*Yes,* you 
can quote me," and jammed his finger at the number 
pad, dialing yet another set of digits. This effort 
failed to yield the desired results as well, 
apparently, and he swore again, this time at some 
unreachable individual named Baez. His tantrum halted 
abruptly as he glanced up, catching sight of Fowley.

She feigned chronic hearing loss as he disconnected 
the call. "Quite a case you have here, sir," she 
offered sociably. "How is Agent Mulder holding up?" 

Purdue glowered at his phone. "That's what I'd like to 
know. Shit." He shoved the instrument into his coat 
pocket and tried to rotate the tension from his 
shoulders. "Sauceda packed him a bag a couple of hours 
ago. Took him down to the YMCA for a shower. They 
should be back by now."

Fowley raised a solitary brow. "Couldn't that wait 
until we got him to the hotel?"

"Mulder said he needed a shower." Purdue answered 
evenly, like such things should be obvious. He glanced 
away, scanning the walls for answers. "At least there 
are no private stalls and Sauceda could keep an eye on 
him." He seemed to have said more than he'd intended 
and looked over at her sharply. Fowley was careful, 
however, not to react, and his sigh was a low rumble. 
"You got any *useful* theories on this one, Agent?"

She shrugged, ignoring the barb. "Seems fairly obvious 
on the surface. There's a tap on the phone. If 
Sisyphus had access, maybe she heard the boys ordering 
pizza, ran a drug-laced bottle of soda up and set it 
by the door. The delivery boy found the soda sitting 
there when he got here. He says he thought someone had 
put it down to unlock the door and just forgot it. He 
handed it over when Gregg paid for the pizza. I figure 
the guys thought they'd lucked in on some kind of 
weekly special." She leaned against the desk, long 
legs crossed at the ankles. "What's your take on it, 
sir? You think she's one of us? Someone in the Bureau? 
Or at least someone with access to wiretapping 
equipment and personnel files?" Purdue regarded her 
coldly, chewing his cheek, and she paused, suddenly 
wondering if she'd wound up on the wrong page. 

"Maybe she just set the soda outside and hoped they'd 
pick it up. Ever consider *that* option, Agent?"

Fowley's mouth opened but she closed it again. There 
was something in the ASAC's eyes, something she 
couldn't read clearly. "Well, certainly that's 
possible but--"

Purdue turned abruptly. The investigative unit was 
still processing the bedroom, but the coroner's office 
had returned, ready to collect their second grisly 
project of the morning. Mitchell had been carted out 
in his body bag a good twenty minutes ago. The event 
had been marked by a solemn assembly of the entire on-
site unit. The body passed, venerated by absolute 
silence, and after a moment, the teams had dispersed 
again, soundlessly, back to their duties, collecting 
lint samples and fingerprints. The soft whir of a 
hand-held vacuum in the kitchen had sounded like 
sacrilege.

Purdue didn't seem to relish the idea of a second 
memorial, however. He waited for the techs to enter, 
then vacated the apartment like a man fleeing a fire. 
Fowley jerked to life, skittering after him. 

The ASAC tossed a notebook of orders to the officer in 
charge, but didn't wait for a response, plowing his 
way to the elevator. Fowley trotted to catch up, 
silently cursing his long stride. She felt ridiculous 
chasing after the man, but she'd be damned before 
she'd let this kind of opportunity pass her by. She 
had lobbied for admission into Violent Crimes for 
seven years. Patterson, ViCap's mystical guru, had 
taken an interest in her, but aside from a brief-- and 
best-forgotten-- reassignment, Fowley had been snubbed 
repeatedly. She'd continued a tenuous association with 
Patterson and the man had no qualms about using her 
research skills. He'd never reciprocated, however, 
never offered a recommendation, and side-stepped the 
issue deftly whenever she'd worked up the nerve to ask 
point blank. She'd screwed up for him once, and with 
Patterson that was all it took. Still, if Fowley could 
make a difference in this case, Bureau brass might 
reconsider. This, after all, was not just any 
assignment. This case had put the Bureau's brightest 
and hottest-burning star on the line. This was Fox 
Fucking Mulder and she'd make good if she had to screw 
Blevins himself to stay here. 

"Sir, you seem so certain the wiretap has no link to 
Sisyphus--," her voice bounced with her footfalls as 
she hurried but she had to offer the observation to 
Purdue's back. The ASAC didn't answer, jabbing the 
elevator control impatiently. She followed him in as 
the doors slipped open. "Sir? May I ask why?" 

Purdue still refused to respond, poking at the desired 
button then cramming his hands in his pockets. He 
rocked on his heels, eyes on the ceiling. Fowley 
couldn't decide if he hated confined places, or if he 
was just simply that eager to be free of her. 

"Sir. Have you assigned anyone to that angle yet? If 
not--"

"Yeah. Sure. Like it's going to do me some freaking 
good." Purdue didn't volunteer anything further, 
slamming his fist against the doors as if he could 
make them open any faster. They shuddered obediently 
after several long seconds, freeing them, and Purdue 
bolted out of the building. Fowley double-stepped 
after him as they fled across the parking lot. 

Mulder's Monte Carlo was back, parked in a far corner 
of the lot, radio playing softly. Sauceda was in the 
driver's seat, his window down as he chewed on the 
side of his thumb, eyes vacant. He looked about 
eighty. A smile of relief flooded his face as he noted 
Purdue's approach. He opened the door and stepped out, 
pausing to squint at Fowley. He didn't speak.

Purdue bent at the waist, peering in the door at the 
figure slumped in the back seat. Fowley stood behind 
him, flustered from her haste and her inability to 
control her rising anger. Sauceda moved aside and 
Purdue pushed the driver's seat forward, prepared to 
crawl into the back seat of the two-door.

"*Sir.*" Fowley had had enough and didn't bother 
concealing the fact in her tone. Her temper would be 
her undoing some day, but enough, dammit, was enough. 
The man wasn't *her* ASAC, after all. Not yet, anyway.

Purdue turned and did her the courtesy of looking her 
in the eye.

"If I may respectfully point out, sir, you called *me* 
in on this case."

Purdue looked her over, shoulder-length hair 
disarrayed by the wind, cheeks flushed with anger and 
some measure of embarrassment. "So I did, Agent. So 
get in the damned car."

He slipped behind the driver's seat quietly, and 
motioned for Sauceda to pull the door to without 
shutting it. Sauceda obeyed, resuming his place behind 
the wheel and turning to watch the two men in the back 
seat. Fowley was left on the blacktop, her hands on 
her hips. Well, hell-- She circled the car and availed 
herself of the front passenger seat.

Sauceda's eyes narrowed at the intrusion, and he 
looked like a man at a tennis match, glancing from 
Fowley, to Purdue and back again, looking for some 
kind of clue. The ASAC paid no heed, busy assessing 
the man slumped in the seat beside him. Fowley turned 
to do the same and her breath caught in her throat.

Fowley had never met Mulder. She'd *seen* him, of 
course; there wasn't an agent in the Bureau that 
hadn't offered his right arm for a peek into 
Patterson's bullpen, just to get a glimpse of the 
golden boy that had set ViCap all abuzz. Fowley had 
made the pilgrimage herself several times, casting 
hungry eyes after the GQ suit, that confident I-don't-
give-a-shit stride as she'd tracked the man through 
the halls of Quantico. Mulder turned heads both 
professionally and personally. She'd glanced back 
herself more than once, when she thought no one would 
notice. But this-- 

"Jesus H. Christ," she hissed, swallowing back the 
words as Purdue glanced at her sharply. "I'm sorry, 
sir. I know you said he'd been ill, but-- I'm sorry." 
She turned away, looking out the windshield, waiting 
for the flush to leave her cheeks. She couldn't shake 
the image of the man seated behind her however: the 
thin body curled in restless sleep, the face in 
profile, unshaven, the dark stubble a stark contrast 
to the pallor of the skin. Long black lashes shadowed 
deep circles beneath the eyes. His hands, palms up on 
his thighs, trembled spasmodically, his breathing a 
series of weary sighs. 

There was the whisper of leather as Purdue shifted 
uncomfortably. "You give him another dose, Sauceda?"

The pathologist shook his head stubbornly. "I offered 
but he said he didn't want anything. He said he needed 
to get his head clear." He glanced over at Fowley, 
then away again, lowering his voice like he was 
divulging some guilty secret. "I think the shower 
tired him out." He glanced over at her again, looking 
her up and down closely enough to make her check the 
length of her skirt. She curled her legs up daintily, 
turning to get a better view of the back seat. 

Sauceda nodded at her, reluctant but respectful. "He's 
not been eating," he explained. "Just hasn't been able 
to keep anything down." He glanced back at Purdue. "If 
he doesn't make a turn around pretty quick, I'm going 
to start him on Compazine. It'll knock him flat on his 
butt, though." He grimaced. "And it makes him dream 
more vividly."

"Hell," Purdue sighed the word, letting his own head 
slump against the window. 

"So," Fowley whispered, "do you think that's what he's 
doing now? Dreaming up more facts on the killer?"

Both men looked at her like she'd turned into some 
ranting hydra. "I'm sorry, sir. I thought you'd said 
that he--"

"He's asleep," Purdue growled. "Just asleep. Period. 
Until he tells us otherwise. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

Mulder stirred, pausing mid-breath. His leg jerked 
involuntarily and he moaned. ASAC and agents alike 
held their collective breaths as Mulder slipped back 
into fitful sleep with the barest flutter of his 
lashes.

Purdue slapped Sauceda on the arm. "How about it?" he 
hissed. "Is he dreaming? Can you tell?" 

Sauceda squinted. "Hell, I don't know. I don't see any 
REM activity, do you?"

Purdue leaned in closely, then shook his head. He 
collapsed back in the seat like he was his own 
heaviest burden. "Well. We get an analysis on the drug 
she put in the soda, maybe we can trace it--"

"I don't get it." Fowley kept her voice down but 
didn't bother hiding her exasperation. "Why am I the 
only person that seems to be surprised that there's a 
tap on Agent Mulder's phone? And a very 
*professionally* installed tap by the look of it. This 
is clearly a matter for investigation. OPR has been 
notified, correct?"

Sauceda ducked his head, laying his forehead on his 
arm, leaving Purdue to answer. The ASAC's whisper was 
cool, a dispassionate tone not reflected in his 
enraged glance.

"Mulder's been surveilled since his admission into 
Quantico. Maybe even before. No one knows for sure. No 
one has taken responsibility for it and no one has 
been investigated. OPR has been notified repeatedly 
with the same results. Nothing. They deny all 
knowledge of the situation. Every request for an 
official investigation has been ignored. Patterson 
filed four times on it himself and I co-signed three 
of them. There's no record the requests were even 
made."

Fowley's brows crawled up to her hairline. Her mouth 
worked silently for a moment before she thought to 
close it. Purdue's expression was absolutely 
impassive. 

"Just to let you see," he hissed, "what you're getting 
yourself into."

That statement brought Sauceda's head up. He stared at 
Purdue, open mouthed, then turned the same attention 
to Fowley, his eyes narrowing to hard slits. He looked 
her up and down again and she tugged her skirt down 
self-consciously.

"As I was saying," Purdue's tone brooked no further 
interruption. "We get an analysis on the drug, maybe 
we can trace it to a pharmacy somewhere--"

"It's Thorazine."

Three sets of eyes jerked around at the sound of 
Mulder's voice. The profiler sat up slowly, rotating 
his chin to ease the tension in his neck. His efforts 
seemed to tire him, however, and he rested his head 
against the window, scanning the faces around him but 
meeting no one's glance. His eyes were puffy and 
bloodshot, but his focus seemed clear enough. He 
swallowed convulsively a moment before he spoke and 
Fowley wondered if he were thirsty.

"I drank some of the soda last night," he explained, 
pronouncing his words carefully like he was unsure of 
them. His voice was raspy and raw but calm. "I didn't 
taste the drug for the fizz. Drank some more when I 
came to."

"You sure, Marty? You sure it's Thorazine?"

Mulder tried unsuccessfully to work his face into 
smile. "I'm a connoisseur. Remember?" He wiped sweat 
from his neck, peering at Sauceda, his vision still 
bleary. "You do what I told you?" 

Sauceda frowned. "You mean all that mess about getting 
Imelda to a safe house? Well, hell, no."

"Christ, Len--" Mulder stared at his partner, 
struggling to get upright in his seat. Purdue laid a 
steadying hand on the profiler's arm and he ignored 
it. "You didn't even listen--"

"Listen, hell. You weren't making any kind of sense, 
Marty. Starting a sentence. Never finishing it. 
Jumping though ideas like I could read your mind or 
something--"

"She got into my room for the poems. You don't you 
think she could get into yours for the drugs? Dammit, 
Len, what else do you cart around with you in your 
suitcase? Pictures of your family? A phone book with 
addresses, maybe?"

Sauceda's mouth worked a minute before the words would 
come. "You little shit!" He lurched to life, digging 
out his cell phone. "You could have told me this three 
days ago--" He jerked the door open and tumbled out, 
frantically punching buttons on the cell.

Mulder bit his lip and noted Purdue beside him. "I-- I 
didn't put it all together straight off. I should have 
and I didn't--"

"Don't go there, Mulder. You're not the only one 
working this case. It should have been the first thing 
on my list. It's my responsibility."

"No! I should've--"

"No. *We* should've. *We* didn't. And you've had a 
hell of a lot on your mind, in case you haven't 
noticed." Purdue lowered his voice and ran a hand 
through his hair. "Let it go, Mulder. We don't have 
time for regrets just now." Purdue's gaze was as calm 
and professional as his tone, but he held it too 
intently, like Mulder's slightest action could reveal 
the secrets of life.

Mulder turned away, glancing down, and noted his hands 
trembling on his lap. He shoved them to either side of 
his chest, crossing his arms, fingers tucked out of 
sight. "So," he quipped hollowly, "if I confess to all 
this you think they'll lock me away some place safe?"

"She sashays into your apartment and kills two men and 
a damned kitten," the ASAC's voice was an accusation. 
Outside the window, Sauceda was tapping more buttons, 
his face not so frantic now, but determined. Purdue 
laid his hand on driver's seat's headrest, knuckles 
white as his grip tightened. "She's killed five people 
since she discovered you, Mulder. Everyone but her 
primary target. Why didn't she just kill you?"

Mulder looked away out the window, his face hard. His 
eyes had too much water in them suddenly. "'Cause 
she's cruel." His answer was bitter but he seemed to 
find the control he'd been looking for and turned back 
to Purdue. "She and I understand the same things." 
Purdue waited. Mulder closed his eyes against that 
unrelenting stare. "Death is the easy part," he 
explained simply. "It's living that's so damned hard."

"Is that why I'm having to treat you like a walking 
suicide?"

There was an uncomfortable silence and Purdue turned 
away from the man beside him, from the trembling 
shoulders and the tightly set jaw. He found nothing 
out the window to ease his mind, however and he turned 
back, his gaze rock hard as he leveled it on the young 
agent. "Why would she want to make you suffer, Mulder? 
What the *hell* is her point?" His voice was so hard 
Fowley flinched with the words.

Mulder considered for a long moment. He loosened his 
arms, allowing his hands to fall to his sides. They 
shook when he relaxed them, which wasn't often, but he 
seemed actually to draw strength from Purdue's rage; 
Fowley's eyes widened as she considered the fact, 
wondered if that was the rationale behind Purdue's 
hostility. 

Mulder answered at last, keeping his tone neutral; his 
voice was steadier now. "She's suffered. She wants to 
share the experience with someone who comprehends it." 
He shifted away from Purdue's scrutiny, his fists 
clenched beside him. "Maybe, she's screwing me over 
for the psychological advantage." His own sigh shook 
him. "It's what I should be doing to her. Where the 
hell was my poem, anyway? Or did she leave two of 
them? One for each--" He couldn't seem to complete the 
sentence and slumped down into the seat, letting his 
head fall back against the upholstery.

The position brought his eyes up and Mulder finally 
seemed to realize that he had a brunette curled up in 
his front seat. She returned his regard with her own 
open appraisal. A relatively attractive woman, Fowley 
was accustomed to a certain level of reaction from a 
man, even when the male in question was merely a 
colleague. Mulder, however, froze beneath her gaze, 
the startled reflex of a deer caught in the headlights 
of a semi. For a moment, she thought he was seeking 
something in her face, recognizing someone he couldn't 
quite place. The intensity of his examination made her 
blush. His response was to pale, becoming suddenly so 
ashen she thought he would faint. He gasped instead, 
fumbling his arms across his chest once more, 
shuffling back away from her, pushing into the 
upholstery, fleeing with nowhere to go. He never broke 
his gaze, however. 

Fowley was reminded of one of those tragic cats in the 
zoo, the ones that paced their cages. Sitting stock 
still, Mulder was roaming yet, side to side to side to 
side seeking that one point of weakness, that one weak 
link he could worry until it released him. The eyes 
were too bright and artificially calm-- surely, 
Sauceda had lied about the drugs. Fowley was, however, 
certain of one thing: this wasn't Mulder. This was 
something from "Zombies of the Stratosphere," a 
leftover Patterson had tossed Purdue. 

Purdue needed to get his money back.

She nodded by way of salute. Mulder's response was to 
look away, staring out the window without really 
focusing, blinking rapidly. 


CONTINUED IN PART 19B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 21:52:36 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 19B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 19B of 27: 



Purdue's focus was dancing between the two of them, 
Mulder to Fowley, Fowley to Mulder, back. She could 
sense some mammoth gears turning behind those 
intelligent eyes. 

"We get anything on Mulder's personnel records, 
Fowley?" he asked quietly.

She shook her head, licking her lips to recover 
herself. "The only record of access is from Personnel 
Services."

Purdue frowned. "I had Personnel call--," he glanced 
at Mulder, glanced away as Mulder turned and raised 
eyebrows at him.

"Oh, this is just great," the profiler quipped, "so 
now you think we got a serial in Personnel Services. 
Shit."

Fowley snorted. "You think we got someone that 
inventive over there?"

Mulder turned back to her, surprised. A slow smile 
spread across his face but it didn't reach his eyes. 
"Not likely." The smile disappeared as he watched her 
and she was blushing again, unaccountably. "Who are 
you?" he demanded slowly.

Purdue moved to make introductions. Fowley beat him to 
it, offering her hand to the profiler. Mulder didn't 
accept it, keeping his arms across his chest, holding 
himself together.

"Diana Fowley?" He seemed to be absorbing the name. "I 
wrote a couple of profiles once based on some of your 
field work. That spree killing in Westchester." He 
blinked, benign as a cobra. "The one the DA sent you 
packing on after you came up with that asinine astral 
projection theory."

"I've heard of your work, too," she answered 
neutrally. "They say you catch serials from visions. 
That true?"

Purdue was watching them closely. Mulder's eyes turned 
a deeper shade of green, the soul roaming, roaming-- 
"I've been told," his tone was that of a challenge, 
"that I can catch them because I'm as twisted as they 
are. You think that's true?"

She answered gravely, "I wouldn't know, Mr. Mulder."

"Do yourself a favor," his glance at Purdue was 
volatile and brought the ASAC to attention. "Keep it 
that way."

Fowley wasn't to be outdone, however, not with Purdue 
near at hand and paying attention. "I've also heard 
you don't like being called Fox, Fox."

Mulder looked like he was already losing interest in 
the game. He growled, embitter and tired, "You may 
have also heard I tend to get people killed."

She shrugged. "That's one of the charms of working 
Violent Crimes, Mr. Mulder. You get to meet so many 
violent criminals." She let her gaze flick him up and 
down. "Look, *I'm* no rookie, sir. I've been in this 
outfit seven years now. I've had my share of bad calls 
but I've been advanced and commended with the best of 
them. I'm reliable and I make damned certain that I 
pull my own weight. Any time you don't think so, 
you're free to report me."

Mulder's eyes were suddenly all wisdom. Fowley could 
see the wheels turning in that formidable brain, 
Mulder putting two and three together and finding the 
square root of six. She tried to mask the surge of 
adrenaline, biting her lip to keep the triumph off her 
face. She *could* do this. She could pull this off. 
Spooky Mulder-- Patterson's Second Coming-- was now 
dawning on *her* career horizon. She didn't let it 
bother her that he seemed less than impressed with the 
realization. He'd get used to the idea once he 
realized how valuable she could be, how much she could 
bring to his work. Purdue might have warned her, 
however. Might have warned *him.* It was suddenly 
glaringly obvious-- unthinkable, but obvious-- that no 
one had bothered to tell Mulder that his partner was 
bailing on him. Now he was expected to deal with 
betrayal on top of everything else. The sons of 
bitches. No one had even bothered to tell him--

Sauceda slipped back into the front seat beside her, 
sighing gratefully. 

"How we doing, Lenny?" Purdue asked. "Everyone 
accounted for?"

"Yeah. Everything's okay. I'm rounding up Imelda, my 
daughter and her family. Dispatch is sending out a 
couple of agents. They should be in Memphis tonight." 
He licked his lips, regarding Mulder regretfully. "I'm 
sorry, Marty. It dawned on me-- hell, I had *your* 
number in that book, too. You know? *Your* address." 
Mulder didn't respond, studying the floorboard, 
scarcely breathing. Sauceda shook his head, making his 
confession to Purdue, now. "She never had to access 
Mulder's files. I handed him to her all by myself. I 
told you, didn't I? I told you I was too damned old, 
too damned stupid for this shit--"

"Lenny." The ASAC shifted in his seat carefully, a 
casual gesture, or an overly tired one. "Agent Mulder, 
Sauceda had asked me to begin making some 
arrangements--"

"No." Mulder's voice was low and vicious. Sauceda 
squeezed his eyes shut, blinking them open again as he 
took a shuddering breath.

"Marty--"

Mulder ignored him, intent on the ASAC. "You're not 
doing this." 

Purdue didn't bother to look confused. He didn't 
bother to answer, either, waiting for Mulder to make 
his case.

"Damn you," the profiler growled. "I'm not doing this-
-" Mulder leaned forward over Fowley's shoulder, 
jerking the door handle. Purdue grabbed for him but 
Mulder shook him off, slender body slipping free of 
the back seat and stepping out into the sun. He'd 
stumbled several feet across the parking lot before 
Purdue managed to get Sauceda out of his way and climb 
out his side of the two-door.

"Agent Mulder!"

But Mulder wasn't fleeing, just seeking room to 
maneuver. He spun to meet Purdue's approach, body 
trembling with rage and fatigue. Sauceda was just a 
few paces behind Purdue's back and Fowley hovered near 
the car, waiting for some indication that she was 
needed.

"I'm not doing this," Mulder repeated. "Goddammit, you 
*know* what she does to women. What she did to Kay." 
He waved an arm at Fowley. "You're just giving her 
another target!"

Purdue's brows gathered. "How the hell do you know 
what she did to Kay? If Sauceda showed you that goddam 
file--"

Mulder's eyes were cold and feral. "Maybe," he hissed, 
"you boys shouldn't go jumping to conclusions about 
what it is I hemorrhage for."

Sauceda looked like he might faint. Even Purdue 
gasped, a landed fish gulping air. Fowley had heard 
about the so-called monkey blood and her heart was 
pounding.

Mulder stepped sideways toward her, keeping his focus 
leveled on Purdue. "How about it, Fowley?" he 
demanded. "You've seen the file, haven't you? Sure you 
have. Everyone gets a copy but me. Right?"

Fowley desperately wanted to glance over at Purdue, 
find some clue for the situation in the ASAC's face. 
Mulder was close enough to backhand her, however. 
Close enough that she could feel the rage pouring off 
him with his sweat. Even in his weakened condition, 
she knew Mulder's reputation well enough to understand 
the damage he could do. Besides, to look away would be 
an admission of fear, of uncertainty. Something in her 
told him he deserved better.

"Yes," she said calmly. "I've seen the file."

"And?"

"I've seen worse," she lied.

"What'd Purdue tell you about me?" 

*Jeezus but his eyes were vicious--* Her voice was 
smaller than she cared for. "He told me that half of 
what I've heard about you isn't true."

"He lied," Mulder hissed, nodding his chin at the two 
men waiting him out. "He tell you I've already run one 
partner off and run another into the ground?"

Sauceda shifted where he stood but didn't speak. 
Fowley didn't answer either. Mulder took a step back, 
away from her, still tightly focused on the ASAC.

"What's she supposed to do that someone else can't, 
Purdue? You think a woman's going to settle me down?"

Purdue bit his lip and refused an answer.

"You son of a bitch." 

Mulder's tone was savage. Fowley shivered but she was 
the closest one to him, the only one he wasn't 
directly angry at. If she could diffuse the situation-
-

"Maybe," she quipped, "he just thinks you won't take a 
swing at me, Fox. Like you did Lamana."

"Shit," Purdue answered absently, licking his lips, 
studying Mulder. "I took a swing at Lamana once 
myself."

"So have I," Fowley took a tentative step toward the 
profiler, watching Mulder's eyes, making certain they 
were still on Purdue. "But that's beside the point, 
isn't it? I think Agent Mulder deserves an answer."

Purdue paused, taking in the sight of Fowley, thin 
boned and elegant, her head almost touching Mulder's 
shoulder, she was so close. Mulder was watching her 
too, scarcely breathing. The profiler stepped back 
warily and she swallowed hard. 

"Why do you want me here?" she repeated, her voice 
light, trying to provide a gentling force on the young 
agent just three feet away.

Purdue set his jaw, playing along, biding his time. 
"You're strong," he conceded, "you're discreet. You've 
got a strong stomach." He glanced back at Mulder, 
still addressing her. "And you usually give as good as 
you get." 

Mulder glared at him. It was a ravenous, haunted 
expression, like one of those big cats in a little 
cage-- 

The ASAC turned to Fowley. "He has visions--"

"Shit!" Mulder exploded behind her and Fowley recoiled 
in spite of herself. Mulder's arms were back across 
his chest again. He looked like he was in pain this 
time, though. He swayed and Fowley reached out, 
steadying him. He flinched from the contact. 

"He has visions," Purdue repeated breathlessly. He'd 
taken several steps forward, closing a small bit of 
the distance between himself and the profiler. His 
focus was completely on Mulder. "He has visions, 
Fowley, and dreams that don't just come true, they're 
already true when he dreams them. And they're straight 
out of hell." Mulder finally looked up. "They're 
straight out of hell," Purdue insisted, "and that's 
just where he'll take you when he wakes up. He'll haul 
you fifty miles to find a body. And three days later," 
Purdue was almost spitting the words, "he'll sit there 
and tell you it was just something his friggin' 
subconscious was working on."

Mulder's motions in the next moment were little more 
than a blur. One arm grabbed Fowley from behind, 
cradling her waist roughly as he jerked her against 
him. She gasped as his free hand groped beneath her 
jacket. There was the hiss of metal sliding on 
leather, and as the pistol cleared her holster, Fowley 
felt the hair stand up on the back of her neck. Just 
as quickly has he'd claimed her, Mulder shoved her 
away, his hand on her back like flame, searing clean 
through her jacket, her blouse. Purdue caught her as 
she stumbled, pulling her behind him. Sauceda kept his 
own hands in plain sight, arms half-raised, a 
conductor who'd forgotten his baton and was suddenly 
uncertain of protocol.

"Goddam you--" Mulder hissed. He stepped forward, the 
weapon trained on Purdue, knuckles white around the 
pistol grip. He held it right-handed, his left arm 
cradled against his chest as though paralyzed or just 
too numb to trust anymore. He trembled convulsively 
but the gun was remarkably steady, aimed straight at 
the ASAC's chest. "I'm not doing this, Purdue. I'm not 
doing this with her. You get that much straight right 
now."

"Marty--" 

"I'll do it alone," Mulder vowed. "But I'll be damned 
if I do it with her. Do you understand? I'll fucking 
end it. Right here, right now."

Purdue's voice was a haven of calm. "Put the weapon 
down, Mulder. We'll talk it out--"

"I *won't* put it down and we'll still talk it out," 
Mulder mimicked. "I can't take this, don't you 
understand? I don't need anyone else dying! It's over, 
Reg--"

"Mulder. Listen to me. This just temporary. Sauceda's 
request. I just need someone to assist you. Someone to 
help me understand all this." He swallowed, 
maintaining his poise before that murderous gaze. 
"Diana has some experience in psychology and the 
paranormal. She's studied the kinds of things you're 
experiencing, precognitive dreaming, spontaneous 
bleeding--" Mulder was staring at him. Not hearing, 
just staring. Purdue took one step forward, motions 
easy, non-threatening. "Everything's fine, son. Just 
put the gun down."

Mulder shook his head, hefting the weapon, flexing his 
hand for a better hold. "Mitch was just helping, too." 
His face pinched with misery. "And Gregg. They're 
dead, goddammit!"

Purdue was inching forward carefully, never taking 
more than half a step at a time, steadily holding 
Mulder's gaze. "What are you going to do, son? You 
said it yourself. You don't need anyone else dying. So 
what are you doing with the gun? Just think about it, 
Mulder. Think about what you're doing."

Mulder blinked rapidly, watching Purdue's creeping 
advance. He took a step back, but only one and even 
that motion seemed to require more strength than he 
possessed. His knees tried to buckle in mid-step and 
he faltered. Purdue stepped forward, ready to assume 
the advantage but Mulder brought the weapon's front 
sight higher, trained on Purdue's head, now.

Purdue didn't halt, simply nodded, still maintaining 
his slow steady pace. "Are you going to kill me, 
Mulder?" he asked quietly, "Is that what you want?"

Mulder shook his head again, all the grief in the 
world constrained into one man. "Ultimately," he 
confessed, "she has only one target."

Purdue stopped. The muzzle of the semi-automatic 
trembled just inches from his forehead. Purdue's 
voice, his face, the stance of his body-- nothing 
betrayed the ASAC's studied calm. "Is that the plan, 
then?" he asked softly. "You finish the job for her?" 
He watched the muscle in Mulder's jaw work. "And then 
what? You kill yourself, Mulder, she'll just find 
another target. You have to see that, son. You know 
this woman. Is that what you want? All these people 
dead for nothing?" He straightened, took a deep 
breath. "I would have thought that *Kay,* at least, 
deserved better."

It was a cruel, calculated blow and it hit its target 
full in the chest. Mulder staggered under the words, 
the briefest conflict in his concentration and Purdue 
was on him, quick as a heartbeat. The ASAC grabbed for 
the hand that held the pistol, aiming the weapon into 
the air as it discharged. Mulder refused surrender, 
however, fueled by desperation. He twisted, slamming 
into the ASAC's gut with his shoulder, driving it into 
Purdue's left rib cage with the force of a sledge. 
Purdue bent double from the blow, but used the 
momentum of Mulder's maneuver to pull the agent 
forward, Mulder's back against his chest. Mulder 
stumbled, falling against him, and Purdue aimed a 
sucker punch for the young man's kidney. Fowley's Sig 
hit asphalt as Mulder staggered. He didn't fall, 
however, his left hand reaching up and back, grabbing 
Purdue by the scruff of the neck and he twisted yet 
again, finally facing the man, shoving him backward.

Purdue only barely managed not to go down. He 
skittered back, trying to regain his balance. Mulder 
pursued him, the deliberated steps of a man with 
unfinished business. Sauceda circled around behind 
him, but the fight had moved the two men into the 
midst of several parked cars and the pathologist paced 
too wide an arc to be a threat. Fowley circled the 
opposite direction, seeking to retrieve her weapon. 
Mulder ignored them both. Purdue had no such luck, 
however, and no such fear. He regained his footing, 
steadying himself against an aging Buick, then bounded 
forward suddenly to take a punishing swing at his 
profiler's jaw. 

Mulder dodged it with astonishing ease, instead 
catching the fist with both hands, twisting Purdue's 
arm so hard Fowley swore she heard bone snap. Mulder 
held back the coup de grace however, pushing Purdue's 
too stiff arm and the ASAC with it, driving Purdue 
back against the automobile. 

Purdue laid himself hard against the hood, using the 
smooth surface to slide along the side of the vehicle, 
slowing Mulder's momentum even as the younger man 
freed one hand to take his next swing. Purdue rolled 
his upper body, suddenly, letting his knees buckle 
down. Mulder's left fist connected with the glass of 
the driver's door and it cracked with the explosion of 
a gunshot, spider-like veins splintering through the 
window. Fowley gasped at the sound, racing to the near 
side of the vehicle. Purdue, however, hadn't pulled 
his own weapon and she hesitated, pistol at her side, 
uncertain of the plan. Threatening to shoot a man who 
was already suicidal didn't seem too intelligent 
somehow. Meanwhile, Mulder hadn't even changed 
expression, too far gone to even register his own 
pain. 

Purdue launched himself from his crouched position 
against the fender and lunged again, wrapping his arms 
around Mulder's hips. The profiler, already 
unbalanced, flailed wildly at Purdue's back as the 
ASAC propelled him into the side of a nearby van. 
Mulder's spine and the back of his head hit glass and 
metal in rapid succession. There were two equally 
sickening thuds and he dropped to the ground, stunned.

Purdue was taking no chances and made certain Mulder 
stayed down, dragging the profiler flat on his back 
down onto the asphalt. Mulder, dazed and bleeding, 
still struggled, swearing frantically. Purdue held him 
fast, straddling him, one hand holding his right wrist 
tight against the pavement, the other trying to 
capture the bloody fist Mulder was pounding him with. 
Sauceda managed to do what Purdue could not, catching 
Mulder's left arm as he swung and pinning it down as 
well.

ASAC and pathologist considered one another a moment, 
both of them gasping. Mulder swore at them, ranting-- 
"You can't do this to me. You can't make me do this--" 
Sauceda shook his head. Mulder howled his frustration, 
kicking against the pavement and managing to drag 
himself and Purdue several inches in his effort to 
break free. Purdue held tight, but refused to fight 
any longer. He looked like he wanted to grieve, just 
taking it all in.

"Goddam it, Hot Sauce, give him the Thorazine--"

"But--"

"Do it!" Sauceda obeyed, waiting only for Purdue to 
shift his grip and take control of Mulder's right hand 
as Sauceda released it. The pathologist ran for the 
car and Fowley moved in to help Purdue but the ASAC 
shook his head at her. She stared down into hellishly 
green eyes and found no hint of recognition in 
Mulder's face, no whisper of human reasoning. No 
breath of surrender.

"Oh, Mulder," the ASAC rasped, his breathing as 
labored as the agent's beneath him. "God forgive us 
for what we've done to you." 

Sauceda was back, brushing Fowley aside as he found a 
spot for his bag and rummaged through it. He spent 
another few precious seconds trying to find a suitable 
location for his needle. 

Purdue growled, "Jeezus, Sauceda, do I have to do it 
myself? Move it!"

Sauceda jerked into motion, settling on Mulder's right 
arm, and shoved the needle through the shirt sleeve. 
Mulder's too tense muscles fought the syringe and 
Sauceda gasped at the effort it took to drive the 
needle in. He winced at the pain he was inflicting, 
and Fowley found herself doing the same, knowing 
Mulder was unable to do it for himself.

"NO!" Mulder gasped. "Nonononono! I'll be good, God-- 
I'll be good, don't do it, don'tdoitdon'tdoitdon't--"

"Sauceda," Purdue gasped as Sauceda tried to push in 
the plunger. "Stop."

"What the--"

The ASAC shook his head. "Don't do it. It's okay. 
Just-- leave him be a minute."

Sauceda's jaw worked but Mulder was quite still 
suddenly. The young man's eyes were wide, watching the 
ASAC, not even daring to breathe. There were too many 
emotions on his face and Fowley lost herself, trying 
to track them all.

Sauceda obeyed finally, pulling the syringe away 
without delivering the drug. He didn't bother to recap 
the needle immediately, settling back on his haunches 
as Purdue nodded down at the profiler. 

"How about it, Agent?" Purdue asked levelly. "Can you 
hold it together now?"

Mulder seemed to take another minute to register the 
question. He nodded but offered no other explanation 
for himself.

"You okay?" Purdue asked reasonably, as dispassionate 
as if he were asking over the health of a distant 
aunt. Mulder found the strength to nod again, but 
Purdue waited another minute before releasing the 
profiler's left hand. Mulder didn't move, and Purdue 
released the other wrist, straightening. Another few 
seconds without a response and the ASAC struggled to 
his feet, grunting as he tugged on Mulder's limp 
weight. 

Sauceda pitched in to help and between the two of 
them, they managed to get the profiler vertical. 
Mulder moaned several times during the process but 
they ignored him dutifully. Once his legs seemed 
steady enough, Mulder pushed them away. His actions 
were entirely without malice, however, and Fowley 
noted that the two men seemed to accept this as a kind 
of psychological defense rather than an overt act of 
aggression. 

Mulder leaned against the van that had felled him, and 
then doubled over, his hands on his knees, gasping. 
Drops of sweat glistened in his hair, burning gold in 
the sunlight, and Fowley, standing three feet from 
him, caught her breath, unable to look away. Sick, 
half dead from grief, he was still the most beautiful 
man she'd ever laid eyes on. Prometheus in shirt 
sleeves, tormented by the gods for bearing gifts to 
Man. Just to look on him, wracked with pain and 
preferring death to life-- it was an intrusion, an act 
of intimacy. There was a sudden warmth in her lower 
abdomen and for once she was grateful not to be the 
object of attention. 

Purdue wasn't looking too steady himself, in fact, and 
he backed away to lean against a car. Sauceda fished a 
handkerchief from his back pocket and began solemnly 
folding it into a longish rectangle. Mulder watched 
the motion of his hands, fascinated or just too tired 
to look away. Sauceda stepped toward him finally, the 
bandage ready, but Mulder moved back, matching the 
distance, sliding down the length of the van, still 
firmly focused on Sauceda's hands. He stopped when 
Sauceda did, slid just a bit more as Sauceda took 
another step. The pathologist halted, Mulder did the 
same. Sauceda sighed and simply offered up the bit of 
cloth. Mulder accepted it, still not looking up and 
Sauceda watched critically as Mulder wrapped the 
handkerchief around his hand. The bleeding was 
minimal, but there would be a hell of a bruise, Fowley 
imagined. 

Sauceda shook his head, his voice low. "Dammit, Reg, 
I'll rot in hell before I let anyone else see him like 
this. Do you understand me? It's bad enough *she's* 
here." Sauceda looked back at the profiler, expecting 
some kind of reaction. Mulder didn't give him one, 
however, busy tending his injuries. Sauceda scowled. 
"We're taking him to my house," he declared, "screw 
the damned hotel."

Purdue grunted. "Sure, Hot Sauce. You got neighbors 
giving you problems?"

Sauceda opened his mouth, closed it with a grimace. 
"Well, shit."

Fowley found her voice at last, a suitably penitent 
tone. "I'm sorry, sir. I take full responsibility for 
this situation--"

"Jeezus Christ," Purdue moaned. "What the hell is 
this? A meeting of Martyrs Anonymous? We're going to 
the damned hotel. We'll just let him get himself 
together first, all right?" He crossed his arms and 
regarded his profiler. Mulder had straightened, still 
leaning against the van, and was watching the 
proceedings now, unconcerned, apparently, that he was 
being discussed like he was no longer present. "Well, 
son," Purdue said evenly, "it looks like you're going 
to get another nice long shower."

Mulder blushed and looked away, cradling his left arm 
across his chest unconsciously. Purdue didn't move, 
just watching Mulder breathe. Sauceda, for all his 
fidgeting, was doing the same. Fowley decided that 
she'd probably need drugs to deal with these two 
herself.

"Mulder," Purdue's voice was quiet. "I need to know 
what you're thinking right now."

Mulder licked his lips, pulling the sweat and grit 
into his mouth and running the moisture across the 
inside of his cheeks. "I just wanted it all to stop," 
he whispered hoarsely. "You know? I don't want to 
die." He sighed. "Not really."

"You sure?"

Mulder didn't answer, didn't look up, his face 
renewing its flush but his resolve was evident. "I 
don't know anything else to do."

Purdue clamped his jaw. "You can make me a promise. 
Promise me that I can trust you to live. At least 
until this is over."

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, his uninjured hand 
clawing fingers through his hair, trying to comb 
through the tangle of emotion clouding his mind. He 
shook his head. "I can't--"

The ASAC exploded forward, slamming the profiler back 
against the van. He held each of Mulder's wrists tight 
against his chest, pinning him in place. "I made you a 
promise in Seattle, you little bastard. Now I want you 
to promise me this one thing. You promise *me*!"

Sauceda watched wide-eyed and at a safe distance. 
Fowley felt as though she were spying on the souls in 
hell, locked in their respective torments, desperate, 
drowning within an overwhelming tide of flame.

There was nothing Purdue could threaten that would 
force Mulder to comply. Nothing he could do to force 
the words or enforce their sanctity. How do you 
threaten a man who has nothing left to forfeit, not 
even his own sanity? The ASAC had to realize the 
foolishness of the effort and, indeed, it was written 
on his face, the muscles twisted with horror and fear. 
His gaze was fierce, however, determined. He would 
have this much. He would have his promise or kill the 
man. Fowley realized she was trembling.

Mulder's face, just inches away, was rapt with 
surprise. He searched Purdue's eyes, blinking like a 
startled rabbit. Whatever he discovered there seemed 
to be enough, however and finally, he nodded.

"A promise for a promise," he said simply.

Purdue stepped back, releasing Mulder's wrists to lay 
a hand against his chest, still holding him in place.

"Don't lie to me, Mulder."

The profiler looked like he'd been slapped. "Fuck 
you."

Purdue grinned. 

Mulder glowered at him, embarrassed again. "You give 
me back my goddam gun."

Purdue's smile dissipated abruptly. "You, sir, give me 
that goddam knife." He nodded at Mulder's left leg and 
the profiler flushed a deeper shade of red.

"I'm not insane," Mulder insisted. "Not now." 

Purdue didn't answer. He seemed to be having 
difficulty just swallowing. Mulder gulped air for a 
few minutes himself, staring into the distance, coming 
to some kind of decision. He held his hand out to 
Sauceda but didn't bother to look over at him. "Give 
me the keys, Len." Sauceda didn't move and Mulder 
growled. "Gimme the *goddam* keys." 

Purdue nodded consent, and the pathologist complied, 
slipping the car keys into Mulder's outstretched hand. 
His fingers brushed Mulder's wrist as he released the 
bits of metal. The profiler jerked away from him, 
stumbling the short distance across the parking lot.

"Jeezus, Marty--"

Fowley remained quite still as Mulder passed her. She 
might as well have not been there for all the notice 
he took of her. Purdue followed him closely, ready 
with a steadying hand, but Mulder only staggered 
twice, seeming to grow stronger with each step as he 
paced to the back of his vehicle. 

Fowley followed Sauceda, taking her place at the rear 
fender as Mulder slipped the keys into the lock on the 
trunk, reached in to unzip a duffel bag. He slung a 
bottle of shampoo and some damp towels into the 
recesses of the trunk, items that Sauceda had 
apparently packed for Mulder's trip to the Y. He 
paused a moment, his hand motionless in the bag, 
biting his lip as though considering his options. 
Purdue was silent beside him, waiting for Mulder's 
decision.

The profiler shook his head, a gesture of remorse, 
eyes shielded beneath a wisp of dark hair. He pulled a 
white terry cloth robe from the bag, holding it like a 
cloth of gold, lifting it to his face and inhaling its 
scent, eyes distant suddenly, and pained. Sauceda 
shifted, fidgeting again, and Mulder seemed to come to 
himself. Back from his netherworld, the profiler 
pushed his fingers into one of the terry pockets and 
turned to Purdue. His eyes looked like his soul had 
been ripped out, but his hand was steady as he pulled 
out his fist. He turned the hand over and opened his 
fingers. The penknife lay in his palm, closed and 
benign.

Sauceda blanched but Purdue didn't glance at him, 
studying Mulder. The young man's eyes were still 
hazel, still sane. Purdue accepted the weapon like a 
man in a trance and Mulder tossed Sauceda the robe, 
scarcely looking at him. The pathologist caught the 
garment, holding it at bay like it might bite him.

"Now, you give me back my gun," Mulder demanded.

Purdue squared his shoulders. "I can't do that, son."

Mulder's jaw worked a minute. "No. You promised--"

"No, Mulder, I didn't promise." He swallowed. "I just 
asked for the knife."

Mulder searched his short-term memory, his face 
clouding ominously. 

"I'm sorry." Purdue hefted the knife, truly regretful. 
"You haven't left me much of a choice. You know?"

Mulder's eyes narrowed, his face grim. "Son of a 
bitch." He stepped back, scanning the faces around him 
like a thing trapped. He flinched to find Fowley 
standing so near, licked his lips, glancing back to 
Purdue. "I'm going to end this thing, Reg. One way or 
the other." He grimaced. "You get in my way, I'll chop 
you in half. *That's* a promise."

The ASAC nodded, solemn but satisfied. "You just make 
sure you're still standing when it's over."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Mulder had no clever comeback for Purdue's challenge, 
no witticism worthy of the ASAC's betrayal. His rage, 
his guilt, were overwhelming and his attempts at 
physical assault had done nothing to relieve the 
turmoil. He'd spent days locked in apathy-- brief 
bursts of agony suspended in an emotional vacuum. This 
morning, however, every breath was torment, every 
glance-- at Purdue, at Sauceda, at the windows of his 
apartment-- a reminder of grief, of the crisis beyond 
his control. 

Purdue was watching him closely. Sauceda was doing the 
same. Mulder didn't even glance in Fowley's direction, 
preferring to imagine that at least one clown in this 
circus had good sense. Why were they always looking to 
him? After everything, how could they stand here like 
this, anxiously waiting some marvelous pronouncement? 
What was it they wanted to hear? All will be well, my 
children, you may breathe now? Jeezus, was he really 
that good a liar, or were they just that desperate?

"God damn." Mulder backed away, squeezing his eyes 
shut. Someone spoke but his chest was constricting 
with the effort to remain calm, and he had to 
concentrate to hear, to distinguish just who had said 
what. It scarcely mattered; he knew no words that 
wouldn't choke him in mid-sentence. Hands laid hold on 
him-- 

"No!" 

*No more.*  He jerked away, fleeing for the front seat 
of his car. Purdue blocked his access to the driver's 
side so he wound up in the passenger seat. Sauceda 
caught the door before he could close it. He laid a 
steadying hand on Mulder's wrist as his fist clenched 
defensively. 

"Easy, kid. Hey." He waited for Mulder to focus, for 
the heartbeat beneath his fingers to stabilize. "Come 
on Marty. I'll get you back to the Y. Okay? Get you 
cleaned up?"

The ringing in Mulder's ears had finally subsided and 
he nodded, grateful. As he lay back against the 
headrest, Purdue crossed into his field of vision. 
Mulder watched the ASAC dig for his cell phone, dial a 
number. The phone at his ear, Purdue turned, studying 
the young agent through the windshield. Mulder didn't 
bother to glance away. 

Purdue was impossible to read, dark eyes shielded 
under drawn brows as he squinted in the sun, body 
perfectly motionless. The ASAC had made his reputation 
as a master interrogator. He knew the subtle tell-
tales signals, the body language that betrayed the 
mind, the thoughts that energized the blood, the 
muscles. He was giving Mulder nothing. And Mulder had 
already given him everything. 

*What is happening to me?* Mulder wondered. *So many 
mistakes. So many errors in judgment--*

Judgment, hell. He hadn't even thought this morning, 
just lashed out with blind instinct. And buried 
himself. There was no way out of this. Mulder had 
pulled a gun on a fellow agent-- more, he'd threatened 
the life of his own ASAC. The least the Bureau would 
do was terminate him, but Mulder was too high profile 
to be let off that easily. Brass couldn't have every 
second year rookie, especially one as privileged as 
he, brandishing weapons with impunity. No, Mulder was 
looking at criminal prosecution. 

Or institutionalization. His heart was pounding again 
with the realization. It would be in Mulder's best 
interests after all, to lock him away some place quiet 
for a good long while. And the PR would be better too: 
press reports would inform taxpayers that another 
agent, overworked, overwrought by his responsibility 
to the public good, had cracked beneath the strain. It 
played well with the masses. And it helped to have so 
much public sympathy when it came time to plan the 
budget. Much more popular than the idea that J. 
Edgar's heirs had handed a badge to a murderer. 

Christ, how could he have been so stupid? So-- 

So lost.

Mulder knew his first mistake, the foundation he'd 
laid for all the others: he should have remained with 
the BSU. Better the devil you know, after all. Of 
course, Mulder had never pulled anything this 
desperate with Patterson. No, he'd always been so very 
sure of himself, so carefully contained.... Still, 
with Patterson on hand, Mulder could have maneuvered 
his way out this mess, he was certain of it. Bill was 
always too involved with his own psychological 
manipulations to be swayed much by Mulder's, too 
content to wait out the case, giving the profiler room 
to work, calmly waiting for Mulder to become the thing 
he hunted. 

But Purdue was an honorable man, too set on doing the 
right thing, whatever the hell he perceived that to 
be. Purdue saw himself as Mulder's only trustworthy 
friend, whether Mulder ever reciprocated that regard 
or not. The ASAC would have Mulder put away in a nice 
quiet hospital and all for his own good, case or no 
case. And Purdue wasn't the type to let a little thing 
like a promise stand in his way. Not if he was smart. 
He was probably calling the hospital right now--
 
Just beyond the windshield, Purdue lowered his phone. 
He stood a moment, shoulders relaxed, breeze cooling 
the fine sheen of sweat on his face. And then he 
saluted his profiler. It was a slow movement of the 
hand, fingers lightly brushing his forehead, 
deliberate and respectful. His expression was still 
cautiously neutral, but not unkind. Jeezus, the man 
almost smiled-- 

Mulder held his breath, refusing to respond. His face 
was a perfect blank as Sauceda backed the car out of 
its space and turned them away. 

One block down, two, and Sauceda chanced a glance 
behind him. He kept his voice low, like Purdue might 
actually be able to hear him. Mulder resisted the urge 
to turn around and check.

"I'm sorry, Marty. You know, about not giving your gun 
back. Purdue just-- Hell. *We* don't think it's a 
really good idea for you have access to a weapon right 
now. Not just yet. You understand."

Mulder kept his focus out his own window. He watched 
Chinquapin Park fleeing past, then shrugged, his voice 
hoarse. "What the hell. I can always borrow Fowley's, 
huh?" 

Sauceda's foot slipped off the gas abruptly. 

Mulder sighed. This was hopeless. "I'm *kidding,* 
Len."

"Uh. Uh-huh." 

The rest of the drive was blissfully silent, Sauceda 
allowing Mulder the space to recoup if he could. 
Nothing much was said when they reached their 
destination, either. Sauceda signed them in and Mulder 
dutifully followed him down the hall, standing to one 
side as Sauceda commenced setting up house in a corner 
of the locker room. The pathologist staked out an 
entire bench, arranging first aid kit, toiletries, and 
a change of clothes with the precision of a scrub 
nurse prepping for surgery. 

Mulder watched him quietly, marveling. Sauceda's 
attitude was simply business-as-usual. He was well 
acquainted with his role in this partnership, 
especially when Mulder was quiet like this, and he 
evidenced no false hope, no anticipation of Mulder's 
continued cooperation. But he wasn't nervous, either, 
or belligerent. Sauceda had simply made himself a 
neutral target, a disinterested canvas, suitable for 
any shift in Mulder's emotional landscape. His smile, 
genuine but tired, was careful, his eyes quick as he 
registered everything, motions deliberately open and 
non-threatening. 

"Lenny?"

"Yeah, kid."

"You ever think about going into hostage negotiation?"

Sauceda turned to eye him cautiously. "As the 
negotiator? Or the hostage?"

Mulder decided the conversation had headed too quickly 
into deep water. "I wanna wear a suit," he said. 
Sauceda simply nodded and repacked his jeans.

Mulder didn't bother with the ceaseless showering that 
had so occupied him of late. A quick wash up and a 
change of clothes was enough: a white shirt with extra 
starch, and his blue suit. Dressing well usually made 
Mulder feel better, and right now he was pretty 
desperate to feel better. There would be Purdue to 
deal with shortly and no matter what the ASAC had up 
his sleeve, Mulder knew he couldn't afford another 
loss. 

Sauceda, however, had his own agenda: Mulder wouldn't 
be wearing a belt-- no belt and no tie. Mulder took 
several ragged breaths before cussing him savagely. 
Sauceda endured the diatribe in silence, bearing up 
with practiced stoicism. He remained oblivious to the 
other patrons as they fled the room, turning only the 
barest shade of pink and crossing his arms. 

Mulder stripped as he ranted, tossing his pants at the 
older man, then the shirt. Lenny said nothing, 
stooping to retrieve the items as Mulder grabbed his 
jeans from the suitcase. Something solid slapped the 
floor and Mulder caught sight of it out of the corner 
of his eye. He froze mid-breath, his violence 
forgotten. Sauceda, too, had come to a complete halt, 
only halfway straightened, staring at the small, 
leather bound notebook on the tile next to his hand. 
Mulder's journal. The pathologist jerked upright, 
guiltily, but Mulder's focus remained on the book. 
Surely this was further betrayal-- Lenny's confession 
was written on his face as Mulder finally met his 
eyes. 

Mulder's growl was so deep only part of the words were 
distinguishable. "...treasonous bastard... piece of 
shit--"

"Now, don't start, Marty." Sauceda shook his head, 
taking an unsteady step backward. "You know I can't 
read your damned shorthand. Jeezus. I just thought you 
might want it, is all. Honest." 

Mulder's jaw worked, trying to think beyond his panic. 
But it was true. Sauceda had no way of comprehending 
the symbols in the journal. He'd tried. Patterson had 
tried, too. And Blevins. Each mark on the paper, 
however, was Mulder's own particular product, a code 
devised for his personal use, defined nowhere outside 
his head. Through the preceding year, the Bureau had 
confiscated his laptop, "borrowed" his books, 
memorized his files. Mulder's journals, however, 
remained intact. His final inviolable armament. 

Mulder calmed himself with the reassurance, taking a 
deep breath to steady the trembling of his hands as he 
slipped into his jeans. Sauceda moved in slow motion, 
face set with his "just being helpful" expression, 
leaning down to retrieve the book. His partner's look 
made him think better of it, however. He danced back 
as Mulder lunged for his feet, snatching the journal 
off the floor and shoving it roughly into his back 
pocket. Sauceda nodded, apparently relieved that 
Mulder considered him unworthy of actual physical 
assault. He snaked out a hand as Mulder zipped his 
pants and handed the young man a polo shirt, 
relatively free of wrinkles. Mulder accepted it 
indignantly but didn't bother to tuck it into his 
jeans; maybe this way no one would notice his lack of 
a belt, after all. Sauceda reached up to straighten 
his collar and got his hand slapped for his trouble.

Ultimately, Sauceda did concede one bit of ground: he 
would let Mulder shave-- as long as he could supervise 
the activity. Mulder, wearied by his own histrionics, 
agreed. He accepted the safety razor with a restrained 
bit of profanity, but otherwise feigned complete lack 
of concern. Sauceda had no response either way. 

Standing over the sink of running water, however, 
Mulder was almost reluctant to scrape away the shaving 
cream. His own reflection would betray him, he knew 
it. Above the snowy lather, his face was hot with 
embarrassment, his hand trembling violently with every 
stroke. The simple act of shaving, an activity he'd 
performed without thought every day for a decade, felt 
like a rape with Sauceda's eyes so intense over his 
shoulder. Lenny watching him pee hadn't been this 
humiliating.

Sauceda gave no indication that he noticed Mulder's 
discomfort, however. The pathologist had no probing 
questions-- "whatsa matter? You okay?"-- and demanded 
no explanations. Mulder watched the lather swirl down 
the drain, falling down, down into endlessness, and 
decided that he owed Lenny for that much then, at 
least.

Dressed, dried and finally fit for public consumption, 
Mulder followed Sauceda out into the hall. Lenny 
wasn't headed for the parking lot, though. He turned 
into the gym and proceeded to stake out a seat on the 
bleachers: front row for the suitcase, second row for 
himself. The place was almost deserted. A couple of 
spectators on the bench across the room, a half a 
game's worth of kids on the court, practicing hoop 
shots. 

Mulder remained at the door. "Len, what the hell--?"

"Have a seat, Marty." Sauceda patted the lump the cell 
phone made in his jacket. "Purdue'll call when he's 
ready for us." 

Mulder came over reluctantly. "Lenny. Don't you think 
we should be at the crime scene, processing evidence?"

Sauceda blinked at him calmly and Mulder blushed. 
Where did he get off with this self-righteous schpiel? 
Hell, he'd spent the best part of the morning hiding 
out in his car, unable to face his own blood-
splattered apartment. 

Sauceda's voice was irritatingly gentle. "Kid, 
anywhere you *are* lately, turns into a crime scene. 
Why don't we just say you're here processing this one 
a little early?" Mulder was lost suddenly, trying to 
digest this reality, but Sauceda shrugged. "Bad joke, 
Marty. Sorry. Look, just... take a seat and watch the 
game, okay? Give the rest of us a chance to get caught 
up this morning. It'll be okay." 

Mulder bit his lip but the conversation seemed to have 
ended without him. Sauceda rested his elbows on the 
bench behind him and crossed his legs, obviously ready 
to enjoy what little game was to be had on the floor. 
Mulder felt foolish just standing there, like a child 
dismissed to his room. He considered walking out. It 
would do him good just to be alone for a while, to 
catch his breath mentally, maybe hear himself think. 
The fact that it would also piss Lenny off royally 
would just be icing on the cake. Escaping, however, 
would only make his situation worse. They wouldn't 
just put Mulder in a hospital, they'd have him in 
restraints. And he hated restraints. Besides, Sauceda 
had his car keys. 

Mulder resigned himself to his fate and climbed up the 
bleachers, settling several rows behind Sauceda, and a 
full arm's length further down the bench. The journal 
made an uncomfortable lump against his backside; 
Mulder pulled it from his pocket, holding it 
awkwardly. 

He watched the young men below, tall, burly boys so 
much younger than himself, playing at free throws and 
practicing rebounds. Mulder envied them the gritty 
feel of the basketball in their hands, the sensation 
of sweat on skin, the cooling breeze of their own 
motions as they skittered between baskets. He knew the 
satisfaction of a shared goal, the certainty of muscle 
and sinew, reflexes honed to instinct, the comfort of 
obvious bounds. These were the pleasures of the game. 
The comforts of life.

His mind would not leave the journal, however, it's 
leather hot against his palms. Unbidden, the memory of 
his final entry burned in his brain: a note to ask 
Harris for the name of a decent restaurant. Some place 
really nice. Someplace where he could take Kay and 
have it mean something to her. He remembered the 
words, their positions on the paper, could read the 
code in his mind's eye: a slash, a Greek "e," a lower 
case slash before an undotted "i"," a looping "o" 
resolving into a lingering dash... The symbols, their 
meanings were sharper to him now than any knife blade, 
deeper than any self-inflicted mutilation. They hit 
bone and jarred their metallic agony so deep Mulder 
could taste it in his teeth, toxic, bitter, lethal as 
mercury in the vein. 

Memories of Wheeling flooded him, swallowing him 
whole. He thought for a moment that he would drown, 
suffocate right there in the bleachers. His throat 
constricted, his chest suddenly too heavy to retrieve 
oxygen. Random flashes of lights crossed his field of 
vision and he fought overwhelming panic. Mulder gasped 
silently, realizing that Sauceda only had to turn to 
see. Lenny would rescue him, damn him, use drugs and 
CPR like weapons to force him to submit to life--

But there was no need to worry. The episode passed too 
quickly, Mulder's lungs sucking in air against his 
better judgment. Sauceda glanced over then and Mulder 
covered his distress with a fit of coughing, ramming 
the heels of his hands into his eyes to kill the tears 
of disappointment before they could fall.

"Need some water, Marty?"

Mulder jerked his hands down and shook his head 
vehemently, suddenly so very interested in the game 
below. Sauceda chewed his lip but turned his attention 
back to the court. A kid in a faded Michael Jackson T-
shirt had chased the ball out of bounds and there was 
an indignant scuffle as he tried to return it to play 
and slam-dunk it. No one called for personal fouls, 
however. The cheap-shot artist surrendered easily 
enough, passing the ball to a lanky, tow-headed boy 
sporting a pair of bright yellow Nikes. Yellow Shoes 
hit a jumper straight off, bouncing to the far end of 
the court as the rest of the team scrambled for 
positions.

"I can't have a tie," Mulder grumbled just loud enough 
for Sauceda to hear. "Or a belt to hold my damned 
pants up. Think you can trust me with a freaking pen?"

Lenny wobbled his head. "Nope." 

But Sauceda passed him one anyway. A felt tip marker, 
fine point. Mulder actually considered not accepting 
it, regarding it with grave suspicion. Sauceda's 
concession had come far too easily. Mulder hadn't 
actually wanted a pen, after all; he'd just wanted 
something to be angry about when Sauceda refused. He 
needed the rage right now, it helped him think. Life 
had taught him that animosity provided no room for 
grief, no time for it. Ironic, that. Doubly ironic 
that the one person he knew capable of fully 
appreciating that fact was the woman who'd put him 
here. Sisyphus, a woman much aggrieved in her time... 

Mulder rose, snatching the pen from Sauceda's 
outstretched hand, refusing to look the man in the 
eye. The pathologist faced forward with a studied 
nonchalance, flicking imagined lint from his trouser 
leg. 

Mulder's knuckles were still scarred from his impact 
with the mirror, but they offered little protest as he 
gripped the pen. He studied the marker carefully. The 
barrel was a simple construction, quite self-
contained, soft plastic, the cap possessing no bit of 
metal. A preschooler pen with water-based ink. Lenny 
never used a pen like that. The prick. It was enough 
to be angry over, surely... 

Mulder settled the journal on his lap and flipped it 
open. An entry dated May 13 bared itself for 
inspection and Mulder stared at it, considering its 
time, its place. Kay had been alive that day, with 
just two days remaining to her. She hadn't known, and 
she'd laughed a lot. Mulder hadn't known and he'd 
laughed with her. It was a Friday, wasn't it? Yeah. 
Friday. Mulder had done something to hack Purdue off 
and the ASAC had sent him back to the motel and told 
him to go to hell while he was at it. Kay had been 
waiting for him. They'd made love the rest of the 
afternoon and well into the evening: passionate and 
intense the first time, then slowly-- they'd had all 
the time in the world, after all-- exploring, 
learning, memorizing the details of skin and the nerve 
endings beneath, the responses of each touch, just so. 

He felt even now the warmth of her against him, the 
sensation of her skin sliding beneath his hands, her 
fingers digging into his upper arms as he held himself 
above her, her grip intensifying with her pleasure, 
intensifying his. An endless circle. He'd thought of a 
ring then, just before thought was rendered 
impossible. A circle of gold. And he'd understood, 
finally, the ancient tradition of golden bands, the 
mystery of handing eternity to another as a solemn 
pledge.

His groin burned with the memory, his heart answering. 
The journal waited patiently, as he forced his eyes to 
finally start focusing again. At the top of the page, 
he'd written Kay's name in plain English, large 
fanciful letters. There was a bit of coded poem below 
it, snippets of Irving Feldman copied from memory: 

"Only now have I understood
I have no better measure for
the fitness of things than her gesture...
a soul at focus in its instant of sight."

It was a foolish thing to write, childish, or so he'd 
thought four days ago, listening to her moving about 
in the bath. Poems and the spelling of names were 
juvenile expressions, and he was a grown man, after 
all, with one long-term relationship to his credit not 
so many years before. Mulder knew better than to 
believe that love was so simple, that devotion should 
be won so readily. He had started to line through the 
words as soon as he'd written them-- see? There was 
the mark where he'd rested the tip of his pen, 
considering. His hand had refused to comply however, 
had not obeyed. Then Kay had returned, body still 
slightly damp, shy as she approached the bed, 
embarrassed by her own nudity, excited by his. The 
journal had been forgotten as he sought to inscribe 
his feelings on more tender objects.

Now the memory of it all lacerated his soul, and he 
cursed himself, eyes squeezed tightly shut. He could 
see her even more clearly, though, all distractions 
forgotten. She was glorious, her face aglow with the 
light that filtered through his eyelids, smiling at 
him, searching his face as he spoke her name. The face 
transformed again, searingly bright, one with the sun 
shining behind her. She reached for him, blinking 
through the haze of his pain as he gasped up at her, 
struggling to reach her as Reg held him against the 
asphalt. She stood above him, staring down, a single 
tear in her eye-- 

Mulder sat forward, gasping again. His fingers numbed 
almost instantly, colored lights spotting his vision. 
This time, however, he had no illusions regarding his 
own mortality. He would live, goddammit. And God damn 
him for it. Kay dead less than four days and this 
morning he had found her watching him, her expressive 
eyes still framed by soft brown hair, regarding him 
from the front seat of his own car. Smiling at him 
with Diana Fowley's mouth. 

Just what the fuck kind of monster was he? 

"Marty? You okay, kid?"

Mulder didn't bother with the lie, bowing his head 
over his journal, yanking the cap off the pen. He 
flipped through the pages, finding an empty bit of 
paper. Sauceda waited patiently as Mulder drew a 
random circle and took a deep, steadying breath.

"So. How's Imelda?" Mulder glanced up, voice steady, 
his face a mask. He'd managed to impress himself with 
the transformation. "I mean-- Really?" And he did 
suddenly, honestly need to know.

Sauceda propped his knee on the bench, leaning back on 
one elbow. He looked grateful for the conversation, 
for the sobriety in Mulder's voice. Mulder was struck 
suddenly by Sauceda's appearance. He looked so much 
older, somehow. Decades older. He'd lost weight, too, 
but Mulder couldn't fathom how such a transformation 
had taken place without his noticing, couldn't 
remember Sauceda's skin ever sagging around his jaw 
quite like that. The rash he did remember, though, and 
it was only slightly better. 

"She's good, kid," Lenny smiled fondly, which made 
looking at him all the more painful. Mulder controlled 
his expression as Sauceda tilted his head, watching 
him. "She's... good. Marty, everything's okay, I 
swear." 

The kids on the court called for a free throw, 
scampered into the necessary positions, sneakers 
squealing in protest. Mulder looked away to the basket 
opposite him, grateful for the excuse not to hold 
Sauceda's gaze too long. 

"I'm glad she's okay, Len. I--" *God, he couldn't do 
this--* "I'm glad everyone's okay."

"Marty." Sauceda's voice was a plea but Mulder didn't 
dare turn to look. "It's not your fault. You know?" 
Mulder's nod wasn't terribly convincing, apparently. 
"She's *safe,*" Sauceda insisted, "and the kids are 
fine." Mulder glanced at him, at last, offering a 
smile he didn't feel. Sauceda fidgeted with his watch. 
"Look, ah, she told me to tell you that she's praying 
for you." He looked up, blinking uncertainly. "You 
don't mind, do you, Marty?"

Mulder stared down at the book in his hand, took a 
deep breath. "No. No, it's okay." He drew a slow heavy 
line through the circle on his paper, the ink soaking 
into the pages beneath, bleeding out from its source 
in feathery wisps. "Tell her thank you," he requested 
softly. "Look, ahm. So when's your flight out to 
Memphis?" 

Sauceda shrugged sheepishly. "I'm not going, Marty. 
I'm already on a case, 'member?" He talked faster, 
surprised by the confusion on Mulder's face, eager to 
reassure. "Purdue sent Hovind and Braden with her. 
They're good men. Better than me." He grinned. 
"Besides, she's getting some time with the kids. 
She'll have me under her feet soon enough. We're 
heading for Maui come December. You remember. I've 
been promising her for years. Since our honeymoon." 
Lenny actually blushed. "She's real excited. Real 
excited." 

Mulder nodded as if in a trance. Sauceda was asking 
his permission, he realized, requesting a release of 
some kind. An amicable divorce. He felt his chest 
tighten, marveling that Sauceda would care so much, 
that it should matter to him, after everything. 

"Purdue should have sent you with her, Len," He 
answered gently. "Hell, he's got a whole freaking army 
out there." His voice was almost a whisper now and 
Sauceda had to lean forward to hear him above the 
scuffling on the court. "You don't need to be dealing 
with this shit anymore."

Sauceda's jaw set determinedly. "I'm not bailing on 
you, Marty. I know it looks like it with Purdue 
hauling Fowley in like this, but I'm not. I'm staying, 
dammit--"
 
Mulder shook off the despair that threatened to devour 
him whole. "No. I don't think that-- Christ, Hot 
Sauce, you've lasted a hell of a lot longer than you 
should've tried to. Don't you understand what these 
bastards did to you? They should have settled you in 
at Quantico for a milk run and instead they threw you 
out here on the road chasing after every goddam nut 
with a knife. They had no right to do that to you. I'm 
just--" he couldn't trust his voice suddenly and took 
another deep breath, let it out slowly. "I'm sorry I 
was so rough on you." He couldn't look up as he said 
the words but his voice was steady. "You're a good 
man, Len. You deserve to retire in peace and raise 
your grandkids."

"So do you, Marty." 

Mulder glanced up, surprised by the words. Sauceda 
looked back at him, dark eyes shining too brightly. 

Mulder's thoughts overwhelmed him temporarily: the 
image of himself, standing in Sauceda's shoes some 
forty years hence, his career over, his star long 
burned, blushing as he spoke about the woman waiting 
for him, her arms the reward for all battles fought, 
won and lost. It hurt. It hurt because he couldn't see 
it happening. Not for him. And the realization had the 
bitter edge of prophecy, like too many of his dreams.

"I'm... tired, Lenny." Mulder barely managed the 
words, surprised himself that he had confessed as much 
aloud. 

Sauceda answered carefully, watching Mulder's face. 
"You haven't been eating right, kid. You can't keep 
doing that to yourself."

"I know. I don't mean to. I just-- I'll eat lunch. I 
promise. Soon as we're at the hotel." Mulder studied 
the circle he'd drawn, the line. Some embittered area 
of his brain informed him it was the symbol of 
eternity, voided. "I just want to sleep," he said and 
it was true, only not the way that Lenny would want to 
interpret it.

The cell phone buzzed hollowly in the vaulted room. 
Mulder rose and surrendered the pen, not waiting to be 
asked.

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 20B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 21:52:51 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 20B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 20B of 27: 



10:53 AM. En route: Georgetown, Washington DC.

Five escort vehicles of various makes and models, none 
with government plates, each manned by agents in 
various stages of casual attire. Each positioned at 
staggered intervals as they wound their way through 
the streets of DC: two units preceding Purdue's 
Chrysler, three following after. The ASAC had plotted 
the logistics of the move with the ingenuity of a 
military analyst, but if he had anticipated a quiet 
little drive he was surely disappointed. 

First off, Mulder had refused to sit in the back. He'd 
commandeered the front passenger seat, ignoring 
Purdue's arguments. And flatly denying his orders. 
Hell, Mulder insisted, they were expecting Sisyphus, 
not a sniper. The ASAC had slammed the door in 
disgust, then leaned back through the window.

"Right now," he'd growled. "I almost wish she was a 
damned sniper. Just so long as she could hit her 
actual target. Just once."

Mulder's answering grin hadn't helped in the least but 
Purdue had surrendered, apparently ashamed of his 
outburst. The ASAC had climbed into the backseat and 
they'd fallen into their place in the convoy.

Things didn't improve much once they were on the road. 
Within the first two miles, one of the rear vehicles 
pulled aside to accost a hapless delivery van, 
insisting it had been following too closely. Mulder, 
lounging calmly, thought the van's lettering had a 
nice twist given the circumstances: "Amaz-A-Color: 
We're just Dyeing for You." In the backseat, walkie-
talkie gripped with ashen knuckles, Purdue wasn't 
laughing. Not even when it turned out to be a false 
alarm.

The second escort to stir into action took out after a 
woman in a hot red Pontiac. She didn't slow. Purdue 
barked orders and Mulder kept his smartass remarks to 
himself as Fowley made several too-quick turns, almost 
losing the remaining escort units in her efforts to 
follow Purdue's convoluted instructions. She slammed 
on her brakes at a red light and the tires squealed in 
protest, the back end fish-tailing precariously. 

Mulder blinked his eyes open, his immediate focus 
falling on the bumper sticker of the yellow Impala 
they'd almost rear-ended. "Beam me up Jesus" glowed in 
hot pink neon. Mulder wondered if the prayer would 
work for him, an infrequent Jew, blessed/cursed with 
an even less frequent Methodist father. There were 
less turbulent ways to die, after all. When Mulder had 
joined the Bureau, Mulder's father had warned him 
that-- no matter what-- he should at least try to 
leave his mother a decent corpse.

Mulder felt Purdue's silence over his shoulder, aware, 
yet again, that he was being observed in the mirror of 
his visor. The ASAC had probably caught Fowley's 
nervous glance in the rearview mirror a few dozen 
times, too. Mulder's hand itched to snap the visor up, 
but the action would be too much of an admission and 
he'd be damned before he'd concede Purdue any more 
ground. Besides, after days of too little lighting, 
the sunlight was already more than Mulder's eyes could 
handle without tearing; no one, apparently, trusted 
him with his shades anymore.

The traffic light was a long one, and he patted his 
pockets down unconsciously, looking for a cigarette. A 
second's thought and he gave that effort up. They 
hadn't trusted him with his cigarettes, either, of 
course. Well, hell, he might die of self-inflicted 
lung cancer in about twenty years. Couldn't have 
*that* on their consciences, now could they?

"In my purse," Fowley said.

"Pardon?"

"There's a pack in my purse. Help yourself."

The offer surprised him, given the circumstances, and 
he glanced over at her. His 'thank you' wouldn't quite 
voice itself, however. The sight of her was... 
disturbing. The day had gotten warmer and she'd 
removed her jacket, turning the a/c on 'high.' The 
force of the blast blew her blouse tight against her 
breasts, leaving nothing to his already formidable 
imagination. The gun on her hip was too dark in its 
leather holster, too great a contrast to the 
translucence of her skin, the softness of the hair 
fluttering against her neck. The hair, the eyes-- 
Christ, all of it belonged to Kay, and this woman had 
no goddam right to them.

He was aware suddenly that he was gasping with pain. 
Conscious, again, of Purdue's presence not three feet 
behind him. 

Mulder turned back to the floorboard, seeking the 
purse Fowley had tossed next to his feet when she'd 
crawled into the car. He waited for another red light 
before handing it to her. She took it with an only 
half-irritated sigh and offered him the pack. Then, 
because it was another long light, she lit the 
cigarette for him. He tried not to look at her until 
the deed was done, but couldn't help glancing up as he 
took the first drag. She blushed, suddenly as aware as 
he of how intimate a gesture she was making. She 
shoved the lighter back in her purse, tossing the bag 
at his feet again. 

Purdue was silent behind them, as omniscient as the 
eye of God.

They made the Embassy Suites Hotel, passed it and 
parked in the garage. Purdue informed them they were 
to stay put, that he was waiting for the units to 
gather and for the agents inside the hotel to give him 
the all-clear. Sauceda's driver pulled in behind them 
and Purdue climbed out, eyes scanning, for a brief 
conference.

Fowley shifted awkwardly in the silence. She'd heard 
only about a half dozen words pass Mulder's lips since 
the confrontation in the parking lot. Mulder imagined 
that his current condition-- physically and mentally 
exhausted, complacent as a lamb to the slaughter-- was 
a considerable contrast to what she would know of his 
reputation. Hell, he didn't much resemble what *he* 
knew of it. His sudden voice beside her made her jerk.

"You baby-sit often, Agent Fowley?"

She recovered quickly and frowned at the suggestion, 
what it might imply about her abilities. What it 
implied about him. "I take care of my partner, Fox. 
That's all."

"Purdue said this assignment was temporary." He kept 
his voice light, indifferent.

She flipped her hair back from her shoulder. 
"Whatever." 

Mulder smiled in spite of himself. Dammit. He liked 
her. In spite of himself. Liked the way her legs went 
on forever and her nipples stood small and hard 
against the friction of silk...

Shit. Purdue was going to regret this. Hell, *he* 
regretted this.

She was watching him and fighting a faint blush. She 
looked like Kay again, suddenly--

*Damn.* Mulder turned away, staring out the passenger 
window. J.J. Levin stood at the bumper, hands held 
before him. A casual observer, noting Levin's pleasant 
smile, the way he looked first this way, then that, 
then again slowly and without undue concern, would 
assume that Levin was simply waiting for someone. And 
in truth, he was. Someone stupid enough to wander too 
closely, to look suspicious or hesitant. Someone who'd 
make a suitable target for the .45 in the unclipped 
holster beneath his jacket. Beyond him, Purdue was 
giving orders to the flock of agents lounging against 
their own vehicles.

"Jeezus," Mulder hissed, angry but not at the ASAC. 
"Five freaking cars. What the hell is he thinking? JFK 
only had four."

"JFK's dead."

"Then this was your idea?" 

He didn't bother looking over at her and she didn't 
bother denying the accusation. "Obviously, the Bureau 
finds you worth the effort, Fox."

"Shows what they know." His voice was completely 
level. He didn't take his eyes from the scene out his 
window. "So, how long have you bought into all this 
paranormal crap, Diana? Too many reruns of *Casper* 
and *Scooby Doo?*"

She stiffened and he knew he'd hit that nerve again. 
"Why is it everyone acts like I'm supposed to 
apologize for my views?" she demanded. "I've 
researched the paranormal for the better part of a 
decade. There's some very credible evidence for ESP-er 
phenomenon. The Soviets have been studying--"

"The Soviets have been standing in lines for three 
hours every day just to buy a loaf of bread. They've 
got to do *something* to pass the time." Mulder rolled 
his head against the headrest and feigned disinterest. 
"That case in Westchester should have taught you 
something. You try building another case based on 
psychic phenomenon and this bunch will lock you away."

"How about this, then? How about I *don't* admit to 
profiling a case with paranormal ability, psychic 
dreaming, clairvoyance, visions? How about I just do 
it and keep quiet-- think maybe they'll pump *me* full 
of Thorazine?" She didn't flinch from his glare. "I've 
read your case files, Fox. All of them. Baytown, 
Seattle, Shreveport. Every one of them. Completely 
uncensored."

She seemed rather proud of this personal triumph. 
Mulder's brows rose appreciatively. "Well, well. 
Another of Patterson's little pets-- and squirreled 
away in Domestic Terrorism just in case he needs 
something really juicy. Personally, I never kissed the 
man's ass well enough to rate that kind of courtesy. 
What's it like?"

"I'll let you know when I try it." If looks could 
kill, Mulder would have been well out of his misery.

He grinned. "You ever experience precognitive dreams, 
waking visions, Ms. Fowley?" He said it like he was 
propositioning her.

"Not personally. What's it like?"

Mulder's mouth opened, closed in a tight line. The 
victory twinkling in her eye was too much for him to 
choke down but he didn't trust himself to answer. He 
really didn't need this crap. It was pointless. 

He shrugged back against his seat and flipped the 
radio on. Jimi Hendrix. Well, *someone* had good taste 
in music. He turned up the volume until "Spanish 
Castle Magic" was thumping the windows. He no sooner 
pulled his hand away than she adjusted the volume to a 
more suitable level.

"Look," she insisted. "I'm a psychologist by training, 
Fox. Just like you. But I happen to think that the 
human mind is capable of more power than we give 
ourselves credit for. It just manifests itself more 
readily in some people than others: like precognition 
and psychokinesis--"

"You know, a few years ago they had a scientist at Cal 
Tech that was convinced there was a direct connection 
between microwave ovens and mass murder. They found 
him dead, with his head shoved in his gas oven. No 
pilot light."

"And your point would be?"

"There's more than enough strange and unusual things 
in this world, enough insanity built into human nature 
without having to resort to some paranormal, 
delusional crap. I'm not a damned psychic, I'm not a 
side show magician and I'm sure as hell not your 
goddam lab rat. I'm a profiler. Highly trained? Yes. 
Talented? Damned straight. And I maintain my spooky 
reputation by hard work and malice aforethought. No 
hocus pocus, no witchcraft, just a determined resolve 
to hack off as many people as possible. As frequently 
as possible." He smiled. "Actually, I've been told 
that I'm pretty good at it."

Her gaze was unblinking, hard as nails. "So. It 
doesn't bother you that I think you're full of shit?"

Mulder considered the question. "Should it?"

She looked like she was trying to come up with some 
kind of suitable answer. And not having much success. 
Well, his work was done here. He turned up the radio, 
offering the woman an out, trying not to contemplate 
why he felt her worthy of such mercy. She didn't seem 
to take hints very well, however, and reached for the 
control. Mulder raised his hand, leaving it floating 
at the radio dial. It was a languid gesture, as though 
the outcome of the argument didn't concern him. 
Perhaps it didn't. He didn't glance at her, not 
inviting conversation, simply blocking her access to 
the control. She could have easily pushed his hand 
away and availed herself of the appropriate dial, but 
her hand flew to her lap instead. From the corner of 
his eye, he noted her checking the hem of her skirt, 
adjusting it quickly down a few more millimeters. It 
didn't help that much.

Kay wouldn't have worn such a skirt. He heard the 
words in his head and the observation surprised him. 
Where had that come from? 

But Kay *wouldn't* have worn such a skirt. Even her 
uniforms had been longer than the other women on 
Chris' staff, settling just above her kneecap, the 
tailoring, however, unable to conceal the tantalizing 
curve of hip and thigh. Away from her carefully 
restricted role at the diner, Mulder noticed that Kay 
never even glanced up as she walked. He pictured her 
in his mind, strolling with studied modesty, eyes 
down, inviting no unwarranted attention, never 
noticing the heads that turned to watch her pass, 
never responding to an appreciative glance. He had 
marveled at that. Marveled that she had blushed, 
honestly flustered, when he'd told her she was 
beautiful. She didn't know. And she didn't believe him 
although she loved him for saying so. She had asked 
for so little. Expected nothing. 

How had she slipped through his defenses like that? So 
unassuming, so unsure of her own footsteps-- how had 
she navigated, almost unnoticed, past the worst of his 
walls? Had he opened himself so completely? It was 
possible, he supposed. After the body count he'd 
mopped up over the past several months, Mulder's need 
for reassurance, for mercy, was strong enough to be 
frightening. Frightening, because there was only one 
source from which he'd ever learned to receive such 
comforts: the soft, fragrant hands of women.

The training had come early and permeated his life. 
Mulder's father had been distant when he'd been home 
at all. They'd discussed sports scores and politics; 
Bill Mulder seemed to know little else about the 
world. It was Fox's mother who had shushed the fears 
and tended the wounds of childhood, did what little 
she could to console him when Sam had gone away.

Then suddenly, in his early teens, Mulder had stepped 
outside his mother's world. In one life-altering 
encounter, he'd discovered that there were other hands 
and softer, hands that translated the art of 
compassion into far-flung worlds of fierce passions. 
And Mulder, at twenty-six, still had far too little 
arsenal against the onslaught of desire. 

Kay hadn't known him well enough to be scared, hadn't 
known him long enough to realize the danger he 
presented. She'd made her cautious way through the 
wastelands he'd constructed about his life, walking 
head down, eyes averted, to bring him peace. And one 
morning he'd awakened to find her, her body trapped 
between the barbed wire and the sniper fire that 
seemed to destroy everything he touched--

Above the radio dial, Mulder's hand was shaking 
uncontrollably. He snatched it back, furiously 
adjusting his seat belt to conceal his turmoil. 
Moisture gathered ominously in his lower lashes. 
Fowley's voice was quiet.

"Fox, you can't deny that you have some very unusual 
abilities--"

"I'm not interested in your bullshit, Diana," his 
response was a full-throated growl, dangerous. "Why 
don't you go tell some more of your fairy tales to 
Purdue? He's so goddam impressed with you."

She licked her lips, carefully considering him, her 
voice neutral. "Maybe he has reason to be impressed."

"Why? Does fucking Patterson give you some tremendous 
insight into psychotic behavior? And you just absorb 
it by osmosis?" Mulder knew he was pushing a few too 
many limits. He just hurt too bad to care right now. 
"Or maybe you're kissing Purdue's ass, too?" He mocked 
a bow. "Busy lady."

He hit more than one nerve with that one. She 
positively seethed. "Screw you, Fox Mulder."

"Here?"

Sauceda popped the back door open and leaned in. "Hey, 
kids, how's it going?"

"I'd rather screw *him*," Fowley hissed as the 
pathologist plopped in innocently.

Mulder shrugged. "Go ahead. Shouldn't take him long. 
Anybody else you want to add to your list?"

She gave Mulder a glare hot enough to fuse bronze but 
remained silent, eyes resolutely forward as Purdue 
opened his door. The ASAC leaned in and paused, wary 
eyes rolling over the tension in Fowley's shoulders 
and ending at Mulder's languid smile. Sauceda gave him 
a lost shrug.

"Whatever he's done this time," Purdue growled. "I 
really do *not* want to hear about it."

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 20C

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Tue, 2 May 2000 21:52:58 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 20C of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 20C of 27: 



11:37 AM. Embassy Suites Hotel. North of Georgetown.

Purdue went through the lobby first, checking last-
minute details, assuring that everyone was in 
position. Mulder shook his head at the continuing 
series of delays. Just when had this operation gotten 
so completely out of hand? The transfer should have 
been simplicity itself: rent a couple of rooms and 
haul the luggage in, for Chrissake. Instead, Purdue 
had agents manning the security cameras, running 
background checks on hotel personnel and inspecting 
the laundry service. Mulder honestly couldn't fault 
him on the precautions, though. Sisyphus' body count 
was intimidating and with two Federal agents already 
to her credit, the ASAC was taking no chance that she 
wasn't up to taking out a few more. Purdue wasn't just 
protecting Mulder anymore; no one had any illusions on 
that score.

Mulder was escorted to the atrium via the side door: 
nothing obtrusive, everyone walking casually, the 
point man several yards ahead as though he'd simply 
walked in on his own, Sauceda well behind Mulder, 
another stag guest. Yet another agent tagged after 
him, pausing to inspect an island of plants, calm, 
unhurried, a businessman with a few minutes to spare.

Just to keep up appearances, Mulder took Fowley's arm, 
furnishing the room with a lazy grin. The muscles of 
Fowley's arm tightened beneath her jacket but she 
didn't pull away and her smile never faltered. 

The covert unit joined Purdue in the elevator, just a 
bunch of strangers slipping into a convenient 
elevator, riding to their respective floors. The 
elevator itself was glass, providing an undisturbed 
view of the atrium and the open floors of rooms above. 
There seemed to be no halls in the building: each room 
was accessible by the long balcony-hall that ran 
around each floor and overlooked the atrium itself. 
For visual access, the layout was ideal. One or two 
men in the lobby could view practically every door in 
the house. Mulder glanced over his shoulder, granting 
Purdue a respectful nod. The ASAC didn't respond. 
Mulder faced forward, slipping his arm around Fowley's 
waist, just for Purdue's benefit. She stiffened but 
didn't protest further. Mulder let his thumb swirl 
over her waist, humming "Honky Tonk Women" softly as 
they waited for their floor to ding.

The Embassy Suites Hotel might not have been the 
finest digs in Washington, but it was better than most 
of the dives Mulder had slept in in recent months. 
Each accommodation was a series of suites: sitting 
room with a little nook masquerading as a kitchenette, 
bathroom accessible from a discrete hall, and finally 
a bedroom. A real three-star jobby, just like Lenny 
had promised.

Purdue had reserved three suites on the third floor, 
each under a different name. The idea was to settle 
Mulder in the center suite and flank him with the two 
remaining units. This would provide a protective 
buffer of sorts: the rooms to the left serving as a 
command center, the unit to the right providing a 
place for the assigned agents to recoup when 
necessary-- all without disturbing the much-lauded 
profiler.

Someone, however, had decided the debriefing should be 
brought to Mulder. The door of Mulder's suite opened 
to Purdue's specific knock and Mulder found himself 
swallowed up by an assembly of agents. They greeted 
him with handshakes and solemn welcomes. Purdue, 
Sauceda and Fowley were left on the balcony to wait 
out the crush, the two other agents in the escort 
dispersing to their respective positions downstairs.

The sitting room had a table and it was piled with 
papers, maps, drawings. Personnel spilled out around 
it, claiming chairs and slapping one another for knee 
room on the sofa. With all the seating taken, more 
agents had plopped up on the sink cabinet in the nook, 
or propped themselves against the walls. Mulder 
divided his time between trying to be sociable and 
counting heads. They'd left one man in the garage, two 
agents downstairs-- and here were another dozen 
agents... Jeezus, surely this was just for the 
transport. Purdue wasn't stupid enough to expect the 
Bureau to put up with this kind of personnel drain--

Mulder knew most of those present, had worked with 
each at some point in his short career. They'd gained 
his respect and, apparently, he'd done some small 
favor to gain theirs. It was odd having them all 
assembled like this, knowing that he, for once, was 
the object of their case, rather than merely a 
colleague. He wondered how many had volunteered for 
this assignment. How many were donating their time.

Everyone was friendly, solicitous, but suitably 
sedate. Gregg and Mitchell were foremost on their 
minds, of course, and Mulder couldn't meet Purdue's 
eyes without blushing, ashamed suddenly of his 
childishness in the elevator. No one else seemed to 
notice, though. Ten-year veterans rose to offer the 
rookie a seat, proffer a handshake, nod respectfully. 
Samuel Lurie made a point of patting Mulder's back, 
speaking some nonsense designed to be encouraging. 
Word was, Lurie was bucking for Deputy Assistant 
Director. He'd probably get it, too. He pumped 
Mulder's hand with such abandon that the profiler 
briefly glanced around for a camera, certain he'd 
wandered into some kind of photo op. Lurie seemed 
sincere enough, however, if that meant anything. 

The truth was, Mulder was speechless before all the 
nerve-wracking kindness, uncertain of his role. He was 
the odd man out, he felt, a corpse resurrected at his 
own funeral, trying to mingle with the distant 
cousins, the forgotten friends come to bury him. He 
declined all offers to sit here or there and retired 
to the far corner of the room, content to leave the 
spotlight for whoever the hell wanted it. Fowley had 
made herself at home, settled on the arm of the sofa, 
her long legs folded serenely, a conspicuous 
attraction: the only female in a room rank with 
testosterone. She seemed quite at home, Mulder noted.

Purdue outlined their course of action. The shift 
schedule was fairly simple-- three agents would remain 
on site at all times, one in Mulder's suite, one in 
the lobby with a view of every floor, and one in the 
security office monitoring the camera feeds. No one 
would be expected to be on duty for more than six 
hours at a stretch. Mulder's fears of overkill were 
relieved, at least. Every agent onsite would have a 
closed-frequency walkie-talkie and a cell phone. There 
were set signals and codes, check-ins scheduled at 
irregular intervals, all the standard procedures for 
witness protection. Everyone was playing this one by 
the book. Purdue did the standard disclaimer of full 
Bureau support, et cetera, as well as the blessings of 
the US Marshal's office: murder of a Federal officer 
was a capital offense even if the Supreme Court had 
rescinded the death penalty. The only injustice was 
they wouldn't be able to sentence Sisyphus twice.

Q and A time rolled around quickly, everyone crowding 
the table to receive their respective assignments. 
Mulder wasn't too surprised to learn that no one had 
thought to give him anything to do. Just staying alive 
seemed to be the most they expected him to manage. He 
understood their reasons but it was wounding all the 
same. He skirted the crowd, mumbling something he 
hoped was appropriately grateful, and retreated to the 
bedroom. No one seemed to mind, too kind to inquire. 
Too busy. Besides, Wayne and Sandidge had turned up 
with lunch: Kentucky Fried Chicken and Mickey D's.

Sauceda wasn't letting his partner off so easily, 
though. He followed Mulder down the little hall, the 
greasy bag in his hand smelling suspiciously of Big 
Mac and Fries. Mulder stepped into the bedroom without 
bothering to turn on the light. He glanced around, 
gaining his bearings while keeping his back to 
Sauceda. He just didn't think he could handle any 
detailed conversations at the moment. Sauceda remained 
behind him, waiting patiently in the door.

"You gonna take that nap now, Marty?"

"Hum?"

"You know. You said earlier that you wanted to sleep--
"

Mulder was grateful that he'd kept his back turned. He 
paled dramatically, could feel the blood rushing from 
his face, leaving him light-headed. He ducked back 
into the hall, brushing past Sauceda and excusing 
himself to the bathroom abruptly, not trusting himself 
to answer further. Sauceda said nothing but Mulder 
didn't bother trying to close the door before 
relieving himself. Making a scene was the last thing 
he wanted right now after all. 

When he emerged, however, Sauceda was gone, certainly 
an unexpected turn of affairs. Mulder glanced around 
the bedroom, assuming at first that he simply hadn't 
noticed him. His journal was on the night table, next 
to an extra large Coke and the bag containing his 
lunch. The felt tip pen lay atop the little book, a 
flag of truce, an impulsive act of grace. Mulder 
crossed the room to touch it gingerly, needing to 
reassure himself of its reality and the brotherhood it 
implied.

Behind the bag, next to the lamp, was a photo in a 
frame-- the picture from his desk: Samantha and a much 
younger version of himself standing beneath the tree 
at his family's house in Chilmark. So many years ago. 
A lifetime. His hand trembled as he reached out to 
touch the photo but he didn't complete the gesture, 
hand frozen in mid-air, fingers extended. His own 
confident smile mocked him from the frame, his own 
young, unwounded face, Samantha's assured eyes beside 
him. The lamp shone down upon the glass, creating a 
flash of hazy light that obliterated her chin, her 
chest, her pigtails. She seemed to float there within 
the glossy paper, like those surreal photos people 
take in old cemeteries and try to pass off as evidence 
of ghosts.

"Fox is home!" He could hear the words, the soft lisp 
of Sam's voice echoing in his memory. "Fox will fix 
it." He heard her light, quick tread as she sought 
him, weary of the futile efforts of their less-than-
mechanically inclined father. And Fox-- irritated, 
impatient, secretly delighted-- would wait for her to 
find him and present her latest victim: the wounded 
Barbie, the loose shoe skate... 

Mulder's hand dropped as a fist against his thigh, 
pushed against the wounds there until the physical 
pain obliged him and overrode the throbbing in his 
head. 

Christ. He never carried photos with him, Sauceda knew 
that. What would possess Lenny to pack such an item?  

Hell. Mulder knew why. Lenny thought he was doing him 
a favor: Mulder had been run out of his home, so 
Sauceda was doing his determined best to make him 
comfortable here. A photo. His journal. 

*No ties or shoestrings, though. And no belt. Don't 
forget the belt, Fox. Jeezus.*

Mulder couldn't fault the man, much as he wanted to. 
Sauceda understood loss, certainly. Unlike Mulder, he 
had lost both parents. Mulder himself, though 
embittered by the disappearance of a sister, couldn't 
conceive of such an enormity. But sometimes, watching 
Lenny's face, Mulder wondered if the man comprehended 
the turmoil of inexplicable loss. The horror of just 
not knowing. Mulder had asked once and Sauceda had 
tried to explain the heartache of losing a father to 
cancer; the tragedy of a mother dead from a brief 
illness and the subsequent ringing of his phone in a 
distant motel room. It was like trying to explain 
color to a man born blind.

Was there a disparity in the experience of grief? Did 
each man feel it differently? How could you tell, how 
did you measure suffering? Did it come in flavors like 
ice cream, lingering on the soul like quinine on the 
tongue? If it were so, who could say that they truly 
comprehended the pain another? And would Mulder *want* 
Sauceda to know his loss if it meant inflicting still 
more agony, in new varieties, upon his friend? Was 
Mulder's need to be understood so vital? Was Sisyphus 
right? Was he everything she was? Just as great a 
monster even if his talents were yet unexpressed?

Until Kay, Mulder had known death only vicariously: 
through bereaved spouses as they were questioned in 
police stations. Through parents waiting to claim 
their children at the morgue when he was finally done 
with the bodies. He had had no first-hand experience 
of death's unrelenting hand; instead, Mulder's rage 
was against life's uncertainty. In his visions, there 
was no hope of a bright heaven where Sam smiled, at 
rest. Every day, he woke to one simple fact: she was 
simply, unaccountably, not there. Kay's death had been 
a revelation, a look into another layer of hell. 

Still hell, though. All the same.  

He switched off the lamp, watching the photo blur into 
shadows, and sank to the edge of the bed, too burdened 
to stand any longer. He'd been thinking of the knife 
for the better part of an hour. Lenny's little 
penknife. Missing it. It had lent him a certain level 
of control over his life, however destructive. And 
here he had surrendered it, giving his life away to 
another, a near stranger. Were things so bleak that he 
no longer trusted himself with himself? Mulder didn't 
honestly know. He'd told too many lies too long, 
mostly to himself, concealed his darkest thoughts too 
deeply to decipher what was his heart and what was 
simply more layers of bullshit. He rubbed at his face. 
Hell, he'd need an emotional backhoe just to find 
himself if he ever actually had the guts to go 
looking--

His head hurt. The room was permeated with the odor of 
cooked meat, sickening if he allowed himself to think 
about it. He retrieved the bag dully, grimaced at its 
contents. Burger, double meat, double cheese, pickles 
no onions and an extra large order of fries. He'd made 
a promise, and Sauceda, apparently, intended to make 
the most of it. 

"Clever, Lenny."

Mulder dropped the fries back in the bag and took the 
biggest bite possible from the burger. He chewed it 
just long enough to choke it down, then took another. 
Between determination and Diet Coke, duty was served 
within a few minutes. He dropped the ketchup-stained 
wrapper into the bag and pitched it onto the dresser 
for Sauceda to inspect later. Lenny didn't really 
expect him to eat the fries. There was a limit even to 
honor, after all.

The voices in the next room rose briefly, fell. Mulder 
recognized Douglass, and Heller, Douglass' arch 
nemesis in the theory of testimonial evidence. Two 
better investigators couldn't be found anywhere, but 
in the same room, shaken, not stirred, they were a 
Molotov cocktail looking for a match. Purdue should 
have known better; well, the ASAC would have his hands 
full for a while. 

Mulder lay back on the bed, trying not to think about 
why he should be so tired. The burger was lead in his 
stomach but at least it seemed willing to stay down 
without an argument. The voices were quieter suddenly, 
scarcely a steady drone down the little hall, one long 
hum just slightly deeper than the whisper of the air 
vent above his head. The room glowed serenely with 
drape-filtered sunlight, warm amber and speckled with 
gold. Mulder kicked off his shoes, and stared for a 
while at the television across the room. He made no 
move to turn it on.

Footsteps padded in the hall, shoes scuffing softly 
against carpet. Mulder turned his head away but there 
was no need. The bathroom door clicked shut in the 
next instant and he stopped holding his breath. In the 
sitting room, the television blared. There was a 
volley of protests and it muted abruptly to a more 
sociable level. The artificial voices had the 
unhurried pace of a news broadcast. Some kind of 
announcements, weather or sports.

Mulder was unaccountably tired but his brain 
demonstrated no willingness to shut down. Too many 
memories, too much undone, unsaid. He should be 
putting it all down in his journal, as much of it as 
he could manage, anyway, nailing down his observations 
in some location other than his brain. This was the 
true purpose of the journal, after all: a kind of 
itinerant priest, receiving his confessions, offering 
no absolutions. But now the empty pages mocked him 
even from across the bed. There was no peace for him. 
There would be no coming to terms, and he had to face 
the fact. His whole life had been split down the 
middle now. Twice. Before, Mulder had divided his life 
in terms of Sam's disappearance: things that had come 
before her loss, as opposed to the events that 
occurred after. Now, the After was further broken 
down: the long interminable struggle that was his life 
Before Kay; and the waking death that was After Kay.

His chest thudded ominously, a warning, a threat. 
Mulder could feel his heart beneath his fingers as his 
hand lay across his chest, swore he could feel his 
lungs exchanging oxygen with his blood cells. Life was 
strange. His life was, anyway. Before Kay-- well, 
before Shreveport, anyway-- Mulder had possessed an 
almost inhuman ability to shut off emotionally, step 
back, at least for a while, and deal with the grievous 
and the dire. It was a talent he'd acquired early, 
from somewhere, and it had often worried him. The 
Bureau's training had enhanced it, his instructors 
lauding it. And still it had bothered him. Didn't the 
fact that he could shut himself away so brutally, even 
just temporarily-- didn't that make him inhuman, 
somehow? A cold-hearted son of a bitch? But no one had 
seemed to understand the question.

God. Patterson would be laughing his ass off. Mulder 
could just hear him: "So, you're a cold-hearted son of 
a bitch, Mulder. At least you're a sane one." It was 
one of Patterson's credos. Right below the one that 
read: "Never fail." But did sanity have any value if 
you lost your soul trying to maintain it? Patterson 
hadn't been able to answer that one, either. Had 
cussed Mulder soundly for asking. There'd been 
uncertainty in the man's eyes though, and a fair 
measure of fear.

Right now, Mulder had no hope for answers. What he 
really wanted was a Valium. Just a quick shot of... 
something, anyway, to keep his heart in his chest. He 
could ask. Sauceda wouldn't deny him, certainly, but 
it would hurt the old man. Sauceda had problems of his 
own now, with Imelda possibly running for her life. He 
didn't need to be worrying about Mulder anymore. Hell, 
let Sauceda think he was healing, that things were 
starting to turn around for him. Mulder owed him that 
much.

Mulder tried to quiet himself, stretching, tightening 
major muscle groups one at a time then relaxing them 
with concentrated effort. His body only half listened, 
however. His muscles contracted well enough but flatly 
refused to ease, denying him physical rest even as his 
mind refused the comforts of sleep.

Trying another tack, he allowed his thoughts to free 
fall, passing unmolested across his frontal lobe, not 
lingering long enough to assign themselves any kind of 
emotive quality. Memory assailed him, however, in full 
color, overwhelmingly vivid. Months of work, bodies 
swirled in his mind's eye, piecemeal and disordered: a 
dock foreman in Baytown shot point blank in the face. 
A twelve-year old dug up in Memphis, her hands and 
feet discovered four months later in St. Louis. The 
toddler Mulder had never recovered, twelfth victim in 
the Shreveport serial killings, her body buried 
somewhere in the four million tons of concrete that 
now composed the Red River dam. 

The bathroom door fumbled open, the footsteps 
retreating back to the sitting room, accompanied by 
Lurie's booming voice. To Mulder, however, the voices 
and the television had become a continuous, 
indecipherable blur, accompanying music for the 
holocaust roaring in his head. An occasional snatch of 
conversation would become distinguishable, only to be 
overridden by another, a disjointed Babel impossible 
to translate. It took effort to remember that the 
voices belonged to someone, men who stood ready to 
take a bullet for him. Just because they had been 
asked. Like Mitch had. Like Gregg-- 

A soft feminine laugh floated through the open bedroom 
door, quite clear. Echoing. Mulder turned away to his 
side, trying to shut it away. His hip ached at the 
action, burning beneath him, an old bruising from 
Sauceda's needles. He ignored it, busy swearing at 
Purdue beneath his breath. 

The laugh repeated, completely unaffected this time, 
genuinely delighted. Mulder flung his arm over his 
head. His face twisted in grief and his body went 
rigid in his efforts to crush back the pain, the 
tears. One hand clawed at the bedspread, twisting it 
up and grinding it to his chest. His other hand was 
clenched so tightly his nails drew blood, unnoticed. 
His legs kicked, pulled up to his chest then kicked 
away again almost spasmodically. 

Mulder's struggle, however, was absolutely silent. An 
occasional gasp and the ragged breath that shook him 
from head to foot-- only these betrayed his agony. 
When he felt he could not possibly contain himself any 
longer, he buried his face between the pillows to 
muffle his sobs. And wished that he could smother 
there.

The laughter, the muted bickering and the best-laid 
plans of the men beyond the wall were a separate 
reality, nonexistent. Grief took everything he had, 
everything he was. He wore himself out with his 
efforts to contain its fury to this room alone and 
after a long while, his body simply could take no 
more. Still gasping sporadically, he slipped into 
sleep, fitful, arduous, fists clenched tightly as his 
mind continued to rail against the horror that had 
become his life. 

It wasn't until Mulder was finally breathing steadily 
that Purdue stepped back from the door.

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:23:51 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 21A of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 21A of 27: Sight-reading Braille

Disclaimed in Part 1.



...."'Old fool,' 
I say, 'what living man would wear your suit?
You sew for monsters, or sew for no one.'
He glances up, blue eyes still squinting:
....'I sew an endless suit
to clothe the mist and keep it warm
and give it any shape I can.
My son, my son, here, please put it on.'"
        --Irving Feldman. "Family History."


Thursday, May 19, 1988. 2:22 PM. J. Edgar Hoover 
Building. Freight Elevator to the Basement Level.

"Aw, come on. She's gotta be kidding..." 

Sauceda peered from the open elevator into the gloom 
of the corridor stretching beyond. The overhead 
fluorescents were the economical low-watt variety, 
great for the national economy, no doubt, but not good 
for much else. And only half of the lights scattered 
down the hall were even on at all. The air 
conditioning didn't seem to be operating on this 
floor, either; the basement was sweltering. Humidity 
weighted the heated air, and Sauceda's lungs labored 
to draw it in. He patted his pocket for the key 
Dorothy had handed him, trying to reassure himself 
that she had made no mistake. 

Dorothy Bahnsen had been with the Bureau even longer 
than Sauceda. By a few years, anyway. She'd worked 
records when every file in the Bureau could be housed 
in cabinets along the walls of the bullpen. And she'd 
developed the records system to keep track of those 
files when they'd grown too cumbersome for simple 
alphabets. Through the years, Dorothy had supervised 
the transition of records from handwritten index 
cards, to computer punch cards, to microfilm, and now 
into massive databases. Her current project was the 
installation of a computerized scanning system, 
guaranteed to render every file in the Bureau 
instantly accessible-- from anywhere in the world-- 
with the touch of a button. And the proper password, 
of course. The Bureau's case files were Dorothy's 
life, her children, and she boasted that she had 
touched-- at least once-- every record ever filed in 
the Bureau Headquarters. Few people disputed the 
claim.

Sauceda had contacted her the morning before, slipping 
off to Mulder's bedroom and keeping his voice low. He 
needed anything, he'd explained, that might shed some 
light on the disappearance of Samantha Mulder and the 
subsequent investigation. But he didn't want a trail 
of file requests that could be traced back to him. 
Dorothy assured him that she would fulfill the request 
herself, and set to work immediately, discreetly 
sending data searches into every file system and 
database at her disposal. 

Most turned up zilch. The National Center for Missing 
and Exploited Children coughed up a file on the case 
but it was far from the usual NCMEC standards. The 
Center hadn't been founded until 1984, but they'd done 
a fair job of developing files on earlier cases, in an 
attempt to centralize records. Still, the Mulder 
report was unusual in its brevity. You'd think when a 
man worked for the State Department there'd be a 
little more interest shown when his daughter vanished 
from the face of the earth, leaving her brother on his 
knees in the middle of the living room, completely 
catatonic. Maybe Purdue had been onto something. Maybe 
Skinner's cigarette-smoking friend *did* have 
something up his sleeve--

Sauceda's only other reference had brought him here to 
the basement. It wasn't anything Dorothy had 
discovered, though. Yesterday afternoon, still locked 
up tight in apartment 42, Mulder's unrelenting stare 
devouring the television, Sauceda had pulled out his 
much-thumbed copy of Baez' report. He had the paper 
all but memorized by now, but he was desperate for 
some kind of help, some glimpse, however brief, into 
the working of Mulder's mind. Or at least someone's 
intelligent attempts at interpreting it. The 
psychological analysis had to hold some kind of key. 
Something they had all missed.

Sauceda was proud of his version of the report-- but 
secretly. He kept it hidden in a pocket of his 
suitcase, squirreled away like miser's gold, fingering 
it occasionally to reassure himself of its reality. 
His copy, after all, was not the pristine, sanitized, 
officially-sanctioned summary submitted to Blevins and 
Skinner and filed so methodically into Mulder's 
personnel records. No, Sauceda had obtained his copy 
directly from the source-- "borrowing" Baez's draft 
from the man's motel room in Shreveport and availing 
himself of a copier at the pharmacy up the street. His 
partner's life duplicated in blinding pulses of light 
at five cents per page. 

There were discrepancies between the draft and the 
final report. Concerns carefully edited, a few minor 
points added, but for what reasons, Sauceda had no 
clue. Baez had pages of notes from his sessions with 
Mulder, a kind of fact-finding question-and-answer 
procedure that had surely done little to help the 
young man come to terms with the escalating body count 
in Shreveport. From what Sauceda could tell, most of 
the questions attempted to document childhood memory 
lapses-- Mulder could remember birthday parties, but 
not those who came. He recalled men visiting with his 
father at all hours, but never seemed to have seen 
their faces. He could remember sports scores, games 
played before he was even born, but his entire senior 
year of high school was a blank-- The subject seemed 
to fascinate Baez. For that matter, it fascinated 
Sauceda and he'd been furious when Baez failed to 
comment on the subject in his official report. Had the 
man simply decided that the subject was irrelevant? 
That the young profiler's carefully veiled anxieties 
were moot? Perhaps Baez had attempting to curb his own 
personal curiosity in favor of a more balanced 
assessment. Maybe he decided that detailed 
documentation of dream states, Mulder's astounding 
leaps of logic and the mental shorthand that generated 
them, were beyond the scope of law enforcement and 
bureaucrats.

Sauceda couldn't ask, of course, not without revealing 
his own duplicity, his theft. But the report had 
burned into his brain over the past several months, 
intruding at odd times during cases, and even during 
his sleep. He'd found himself reciting whole 
paragraphs whenever he'd glanced over to find Mulder 
staring out the window of a plane or a car, dark eyes 
bright but distant, that formidable brain arranging 
and rearranging the world fleeing past his vision. The 
unedited report was cramped, handwritten notes lining 
all margins, mostly indecipherable. But even the 
legible ones were couched in language that shed little 
light on the man entrusted to watch Sauceda's back, 
who shared his meals and slept in the next motel room.

This time, however, in Mulder's apartment, one 
notation had suddenly become quite clear. So clear 
that Sauceda marveled that he hadn't noticed it 
before. But there it was on the left margin of the 
third page: a letter and a dash followed by a short 
string of numbers. The standard format of a Bureau 
file number. Sauceda'd called it in to Dorothy that 
afternoon, just on the dubious hope that it might mean 
something to her. 

She'd laughed at him. "And just what kind of hocus 
pocus do they have you investigating, Dr. Sauceda?" 

She always called him by his title-- on duty at least. 
Always so proper. Always so carefully professional 
when other eyes were around to notice, other ears. It 
was the *way* she said the words that was seductive as 
hell, like the way she had of glancing at him over her 
glasses. She could still make his southern hemisphere 
burn, even after all these years and he'd been 
grateful she couldn't see his blush through the phone. 

"I dunno, Dot. I was hoping you could tell me."

"Well, sir"-- again that warm purr-- "when they send a 
man of science to pull an X File, I think maybe it's 
time you retired."

And then she'd explained it to him. X Files. 
Paranormal psychobabble and UFO baloney. For years 
she'd filed them under "U" for "Unsolved/Unexplained" 
until she'd simply run out of room in the file cabinet 
and moved on to the mostly unused letter "X." Her own 
personal contribution, she'd confessed, and Sauceda 
could hear her pride through the line. But in recent 
years, the files had been banished to the basement 
despite her objections, a reflection of the high 
regard the Bureau brass held for this nonsense. 

Now, standing in the poorly filtered basement, Sauceda 
wondered why the brass even bothered. Why keep track 
of cases that didn't even warrant a decent share of 
the electric bill?

He sighed, eyes aching in the flickering fluorescents, 
his head pounding from lack of sleep. This was a wild 
goose chase and he had only himself to blame. His 
partner was locked down in a hotel room like some 
caged animal, and here Lenny stood: fiddling around in 
the basement looking for crap so ridiculous no one 
even wanted to admit it existed. Still, it was the 
best lead he had at the moment. 

Talk about a sorry state of affairs-- 

"Third door," Dorothy had told him solemnly. "Third 
door on the left from the elevator." 

Actually locating a third door, however, was quite 
another matter. File boxes and office discards 
littered the corridor on both sides, some of the 
debris stacked to the ceiling. Sauceda found the first 
door blocked by cases of copier paper, no doubt 
hoarded away by some over-achiever department head. He 
almost missed the second door, noticing it in passing 
only as a knob sticking out beside some oversize file 
cabinets.

The third door, however, was just past a short corner, 
unblocked. Sauceda grinned at his good fortune. 
Apparently, not many people bothered to come this far 
down the hall, not that he could blame them. An old 
oak desk had been pushed against the wall across from 
the door. It was littered with boxes of unused folders 
and envelopes, an ancient stapler. There was a rather 
foul looking coffee cup on the desk's one free corner, 
someone's ash tray still filled with cigarette butts. 
Either the rats were getting bigger or some hardy soul 
had made himself a quiet break area.

Dorothy's key slipped into the lock easily enough. The 
odor of dust and old paper, sulfuric in the heat, 
burned down his throat as he pushed the door open. 
Sauceda laid his hand over his mouth and nose but it 
didn't help much. Within seconds, he was sneezing 
convulsively; he left the key in the lock to dig for 
his handkerchief. Dorothy had warned him: the basement 
was the deep dark hell of filedom, where bad files go 
to die. Sauceda hadn't thought it wise to laugh at 
that bit of information. Dorothy had an odd way of 
being serious when he least expected it.

The lighting, when he found the switch, wasn't much 
better here than it had been in the hall. An old 
drafting table dominated one corner of the room, along 
with an even more ancient typewriter. Another ashtray, 
used, sat beside it, along with a neat stack of typing 
paper. The room rambled on disjointedly to his right, 
a few dusty tables shoved together piecemeal in 
another corner, shelves disappearing into the darkness 
beyond the scope of the light. 

Two file cabinets sat alone against the wall facing 
him. Sauceda's brows drew into a single concentrated 
line and he peered into the darker recesses of the 
room. Nothing. He regarded the cabinets again, 
thoroughly disappointed. Hell. Two lousy cabinets and 
they went to the trouble to shove them way off down 
here? These were just files, for crying out loud, not 
harbingers of a plague. Sauceda had dealt with 
bureaucracy for the better part of his life-- it just 
never seemed to get any clearer to him.

He fumbled in his pocket for the scrap of paper with 
his file number: "X-40253" and began his search with 
the left-hand cabinet, the top drawer. The cabinet was 
full, the folders packed in so tightly he could 
scarcely get his fingers in to search the file tabs. 
He jerked his hand back several times as the folders 
bit in defense-- damned paper cuts-- but persistence 
paid off soon enough. He found the file in the third 
drawer and cursed the dim light, squinting to verify 
the number.

Well. It looked like his number but the stamp was 
faded, and his own shadow made it even more difficult 
to read. That "0" might be an "8." That "3" might be 
another one.... Sauceda struggled with the file, 
trying to pull it free from the crush of the 
surrounding folders. He managed to get it halfway 
loose before his knuckles cramped up. He massaged the 
offended hand, frowning at the label, head held 
awkwardly to keep from blocking the light. If this 
wasn't what he'd come for he was going to be *very* 
pissed. 

"X-40253: Subject: Samantha T. Mulder. I.D. 378671." 
Hey. All right, then--

Then Sauceda frowned in earnest. He'd come down here 
expecting to simply find another slim folder, a 
duplication of the information filed with the National 
Center for Missing and Exploited Children. But this 
file was a thick one, several inches deeper than the 
NCMEC's. 

So what the hell was it doing squirreled away down 
here with all the crap files? 

Sauceda blinked, trying to adjust his eyes as he 
fanned through the papers in the folder-- and then he 
grinned. Well, of course this file was thicker-- there 
was another folder tucked inside it, creating the bulk 
of the paperwork. No doubt just someone's careless 
filing. Yep. A wild goose chase.

His headache was getting worse. Hell, it was time to 
get back to Marty. He didn't like the idea of being 
away too long, he didn't care what Purdue said about 
keeping an eye on the kid himself. No one knew Marty 
like he did and-- 

Sauceda yanked the file free, but lost his grip just 
as it came loose from the drawer. The folder thumped 
to the floor, the shock of its impact echoing in the 
tombed silence, papers and contact sheets and glossy 
x-ray film skittering free across the concrete. 

*Clumsy old man...*

Sauceda knelt, gathering papers guiltily. Dorothy was 
going to have his hide. Of course, he could always 
tease her about her sloppy file clerks. He glanced at 
the misfiled folder, trying to determine which papers 
went where. "X-71009." My. Someone really *had* been 
doing some shabby filing. 

Sauceda's eyes traveled further down, however, just a 
scant inch, to the name below the number. The faded 
letters knocked the air from his lungs. His knuckles 
slammed down hard against the concrete as he struggled 
to remain upright.

"Subject: Fox William Mulder. 10-13-61. I.D. 292544."

And such a nice thick file, too-- 

Sauceda's hands trembled as he scrambled for forms and 
photos, trying to view them in the miserable lighting, 
unable to wait until he could see adequately, unable 
to trust his legs to stand. He flipped the folder 
open, scattering its contents into a collage around 
his knees.

It was the oddest case file Sauceda had ever come 
across. There were no police reports, no crime scene 
photos, no witness statements or search warrants. 
Instead, the papers seemed to document a series of 
rather oddly divergent tests. Sauceda settled on his 
haunches, flipping through pages hesitantly, 
recognizing the significance of scarcely half of what 
he perused: EEG's, Rorschach psychological 
evaluations, REM patterns, something labeled "Kirlian 
and ESP-er Data." He held a sheet of X-ray film to 
catch the light across the room and recognized the 
disjointed dashes of DNA imaging. 

Pages of them. 

And there were pages of other things, too, each with 
unfathomable labels: Ganzfeld, DMILS.... One page 
provocatively declared itself 
Precognition/Clairvoyance DAT. Sauceda noted a 
frequently recurring reference to something called 
MKULTRA and Project Ultra stamped along the upper 
right hand corners. The DNA film was labeled "PROJ. 
MRKURY," an unassuming stamp along the lower corner. 
Sauceda, lost in the overload of incomprehensible 
initials and terms, began looking for what he could 
understand and his eye focused on the dates of each 
report. His heart began to pound, banging in his ears 
as he scattered papers across the floor, scanning the 
forms, incredulous. 

The DNA testing was recent, covering a scant 3 years, 
but other dates went so far back, Marty must have been 
a toddler-- Sauceda wiped sweat from his brow and 
looked again. No. Younger, even. Some of them. Christ. 
The files chronicled a lifetime of tests conducted 
since birth. He noted a very recent date: Marty's trip 
to Georgetown for that gunshot wound last year.

God Almighty, but Marty hadn't said jack-- Sauceda 
pulled that set of papers loose: "REM Analysis" and 
"P/C DAT Followup." The subject, the report informed 
him dispassionately, had been dosed with Halcion 
following the testing. Sauceda shook his head, 
blinking to verify the dosage as the paper trembled in 
his hand: Halcion at that level was notorious for 
causing black-outs, short-term memory loss. There 
would have been no legitimate reason to subject a 
gunshot victim to that kind of drug, especially at 
that level-- 

Sauceda searched the papers again. There was a 
definite pattern: Mulder, younger and younger, tested, 
and dosed with various drugs that could erase the 
memory of that testing. These weren't physician's 
reports, he realized. They weren't even the credible 
records of researchers. The men who'd signed these 
forms were psychological rapists, vultures awaiting 
any opportunity to get Mulder in a medically fragile 
situation so they could perform a few more tests-- 

That was it, then. That was the reasoning behind the 
latest push to verify Mulder's stability. They weren't 
worried for him. The bastards needed some more blood. 
A few more EEG's-- 

A single name leapt at him from the page in his hand. 
It made his blood freeze.

"Rorschach Evaluation. Subject Age 12. Martha's 
Vineyard Hospital, Linton Lane, Oak Bluffs." Test 
results signed by a Dr. Heitz Werber, project 
psychologist. Followed by a letter requesting the 
assistance of a Dr. Emil Baez, psychiatrist.

He remembered the first meeting with Baez in 
Shreveport. The man introducing himself to Mulder, 
smiling, Mulder scanning him cautiously. With no hint 
of recognition. And Baez had said nothing. Like he 
hadn't *expected* Mulder to remember--

*Christ. God. Sacred Heart of Jesus--* 

"Drop something, Dr. Sauceda?"

Sauceda jerked at the silken voice from the door. He 
spun around painfully on his haunches and the hair 
stood up on the back of his neck at the sight of the 
man framed in the gloom.

Sauceda had never known his name but he recognized the 
craggy face well enough. That glacial gaze had been 
silent witness to Sauceda's assignment to Marty nine 
months ago, a solemn sentinel in the corner of 
Skinner's office as Patterson had detailed Sauceda's 
duties and rationalized Mulder's peculiar quirks. The 
stranger's silence, his snake-sure eyes, the way he 
flicked his cigarette ashes-- an overly finicky cat 
pronouncing judgment on some less-than-delectable 
morsel-- unnerved Sauceda even then. But neither 
Skinner nor Patterson had acknowledged his presence. 
It was as if he'd been invisible to all eyes save 
Sauceda's.

And the smoking bastard hadn't changed a bit. Sauceda 
wondered how long the man had been lingering in the 
shadows of *this* office.

The man in the door smiled languidly. The action never 
reached his eyes, not even to crinkle the wrinkles 
that much deeper. 

"Find some interesting reading material, Dr. Sauceda?" 
The man sucked at his drug of choice like it was some 
kind of oxygen delivery system. He took a leisurely 
step into the room and Sauceda jerked to his feet, 
wiping his hands on his jacket, seeking to be rid of 
whatever had attracted the attention of this carrion-
eater.

The smoking man continued to advance, however. Sauceda 
retreated steadily, uncertain why, but determinedly 
following his instincts, his training serving him 
well. His back hit the open drawer of the cabinet, 
slamming it shut. The noise was an explosion, echoing 
in the vaulted room and the other man stopped, one 
foot on a page of Mulder's file, an action calculated 
for casual accident. Sauceda didn't fool himself that 
anything this man did was accidental.

*He knew.* He knew about the file. Its contents. Its 
significance to Mulder-- Sauceda felt his blood rush 
to his feet as he accepted the realization, saw his 
comprehension register in the indifferent eyes behind 
the veil of smoke.

"Marty doesn't know." Sauceda's voice was small, he 
surprised himself that he had found his tongue at all. 
"He has no idea--"

The man smiled again; it looked like a gash in a death 
mask.

Sauceda's heart pounded ominously, his shirt sticking 
under his arms. He shook his head to clear it. It 
wasn't like he was being held at gunpoint, dammit-- 
"He thinks he's going crazy. And he's not. It's-- the 
spook--" he waved frantically at the scattered reports 
on the floor "--it's something that's been done to 
him. On purpose--"

Smokey clicked his tongue. It sounded vaguely obscene. 

"See here, Dr. Sauceda. You give us entirely too much 
credit." The cigarette waved the air, a lazy sweep, 
disregarding whole lives, executing nations. "Just 
what is it you propose we've done? Created some kind 
of mutant? A serial killer detector? A modern vampire 
slayer, perhaps?" Again, the self-indulgent smile. "I 
assure you that is all far from the facts. Still. 
We've had the occasional interesting side-effect, 
don't you think?"

Sauceda was breathing much too hard. "Just what the 
hell have you done to--"

"What we have or have not done is insignificant to 
this discussion, Dr. Sauceda. What *you* intend to do, 
however-- that would be the determining factor, now. 
Wouldn't you say?"

Another patient drag off the cigarette. The movement 
reminded Sauceda of a man delicately pulling the wings 
off a fly. Right now, he had entirely too much 
sympathy for the fly. The dark-suited man shrugged at 
Sauceda's silence, flicked ashes over the DNA data. 

"How's your wife, Dr. Sauceda? Imelda, isn't it? And 
that grandson of yours? Doing very well in school, I 
hear. Kindergarten, isn't it?" A tilt of that skullish 
head. "Such a bright young boy. So much promise."

Sauceda's knees buckled slightly but he refused to 
kneel. He heard the words well enough, though. Their 
meaning. And the words the man didn't bother to speak. 

"A shame," the stranger purred, "if something should 
happen to them... Tragic. And completely avoidable, of 
course."

Sauceda closed his eyes, opened them. Opened more than 
just physical eyes, saw more than just the day to day 
of his mundane life. Saw things too clearly for an old 
man just waiting on the bliss of a well-deserved 
retirement... 

The man regarding him noted that change as well and 
smiled contentedly.

"You needn't worry about your partner, Dr. Sauceda. 
Young Mulder will be just fine. I'll see to that." A 
slow solemn flexing of the mouth. The repetition of a 
vow. "I've seen to that for years."

Sauceda didn't remember the long trip back to his car, 
didn't remember even leaving the room, or what had 
become of Dorothy's key. And he didn't care. He was 
too numb to reason, too shaken to allow himself the 
luxury of concern. He stood shivering in the heat of 
the parking garage, laid a steadying hand on the hood 
of his car and vomited his fear beside the wheel.

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 21B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:23:57 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 21B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 21B of 27:



5:38 PM. Embassy Suites Hotel. Room 328.

Mulder woke to the sound of seed husks cracking in 
another room. He lay quite still, eyes closed under 
the crook of his arm, heartbeat lulled by the 
comforting noises of his dad in his study, calmly 
munching sunflower seeds. His own breathing echoed in 
the stillness-- silence so deep that the earth seemed 
uninhabited, only he and his father remained. Mulder 
smiled, reveling in the assurance that everything, 
finally, was okay. Everything would be better now.

Until he made the mistake of opening his eyes. And 
there it was waiting for him, as it did each time he 
woke: that gut-wrenching assurance that Samantha was 
not there, and that nothing was better and 
nothingwouldeverbebetteragain.

Sitting up was a struggle. Mulder was groggier than he 
would have expected following legitimate, undrugged 
sleep-- had just been too long without it, he 
conceded. The last vestiges of sunlight filtered 
through the drapes, heavily muted, the room one great 
shadow in the gathering evening. There was a blanket 
laying across him that he didn't recall having before. 
The discarded Mickey D's bag was gone from the 
dresser. His journal was untouched though, still on 
the little table, the pen exactly as it had been when 
he'd lain down, the photo beside it. Mulder shrugged 
himself free of the blanket and wobbled to the 
bathroom to rid himself of excess soda.

Finished with that necessity, Mulder spent a few extra 
minutes washing his hands. The water was cool and 
oddly comforting as it flowed across the scabs on his 
knuckles: old injuries from his impact with the 
mirror, new ones left by his struggle with Purdue. The 
memories of the encounters stung and he flexed his 
hands, concentrating on the sharp pangs of protest as 
the skin stretched, popped open. Rivulets of water 
tinted just the barest shade of pink. 

The persistent if irregular rustle-crack-silence in 
the next room was distracting and entirely too 
intriguing. He could hear the television again, too, 
muted voices, the occasional swell of mood music. 
Mulder splashed water on his face, moaned softly as 
the liquid flowed across his eyelids, cooling their 
incessant burning. More water-- he'd kill for a shower 
right now-- and his fingers found the barest hint of 
stubble along his jaw. Mulder glanced up to the 
mirror, to check the circles under his eyes, the 
pallor of his face. 

He glanced up into blank wall.

"Well. Fuck me."

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Purdue glanced up from the sofa as Mulder entered. The 
young man stumbled blearily, scrubbing his face dry 
with his hands. It might have been an amusing sight: 
Mulder with a serious case of bed head, his shirt 
askew and spotted with water-- Amusing, if the 
profiler didn't look like total hell otherwise: pale, 
ghost-gray, and about twenty pounds too damned thin. 
One knuckle oozed the barest bit of blood-- 

Mulder pulled his hands from his face, combing his 
finger through his hair, then reaching back to massage 
his neck. He glanced up into Purdue's eyes and the 
ASAC nodded and looked away quickly. Cats, Purdue had 
learned, don't like being stared at. It was a sign of 
aggression, inciting antagonism, and Mulder was as bad 
as any cat he'd ever met. The ASAC cracked another 
peanut and popped it into his mouth, content to resume 
his television viewing. He sat comfortably, big feet 
propped on the coffee table, big bag of roasted 
peanuts in his lap. A big plastic bowl was at the far 
end of the sofa and he tossed empty shells at it as he 
munched. He missed, though. A lot. Not that he cared 
much.

Mulder stood a moment, wavering slightly on the balls 
of his feet. Purdue took him in peripherally, Mulder's 
hazel gaze boring holes through his thin veneer of 
indifference. The profiler was probably considering 
giving Purdue a piece of his mind. It'd serve the ASAC 
right, no doubt. Taking mirrors off walls-- 

Mulder plopped into the nearest chair, however, 
without so much as a grunt. Purdue covered his 
surprise by readjusting the remote balanced on his 
knee, cracking another peanut. Mulder was to his 
right, slightly ahead, well into the ASAC's field of 
peripheral vision. The back of Mulder's chair curved 
just slightly though, and when Mulder leaned back, 
Purdue would be visible only as a pair of shoes 
propped on the coffee table. Mulder might even 
convince himself that he was just as invisible to 
Purdue-- if Purdue was careful. The ASAC wasn't out to 
be deliberately deceitful but every man needed at 
least the *illusion* of privacy. And right now, 
unfortunately, illusions were about all that Mulder 
could afford. 

Purdue's chosen channel had dredged up an old Humphrey 
Bogart movie, one where he had Lauren Bacall and a 
boat. Purdue couldn't quite place the film, but it 
seemed to have some semblance of a plot, a poor man's 
"Casablanca" as best he could tell, right down to the 
French Resistance and some of the cast. Mulder stared 
at the screen for a while. He even managed to focus on 
it occasionally. Purdue kept to his casual 
tranquility, and the profiler slowly relaxed into the 
confines of his chair, the muscles in his shoulders 
loosening, eyes half-closed, breathing slow and 
restful. Purdue realized that the silence between them 
was surprisingly comfortable. He blinked slowly, 
trying to determine when this state of affairs had 
developed. 

Mulder's eyes focused again. Bacall was trying to 
sing. She looked all of eighteen-- but in that 
provocatively mature way Hollywood seemed to paint all 
females back in the 'forties. She was sultry and leggy 
and built like a ton of bricks, but her singing voice 
was remarkably masculine, deep, and slightly off-key, 
with a husky, nearly monochromatic delivery that 
managed to be sexy as hell. Bogie was awfully 
impressed with it, too. Him and about half a bar full 
of sailors. Mulder leaned his head back as she droned, 
lost, apparently in the warmth of that impossible 
voice. His hands, lax upon the arms of his chair, 
trembled sporadically but he didn't seem to notice. 
Purdue didn't allow himself to stare. He'd hoped 
Mulder's nap had done the young man more good than 
this, though--

Bacall's lullaby was short-lived. Now she was lighting 
Bogie's cigarette-- and getting the same look from him 
that Mulder had given Fowley when she'd lit his this 
morning. Purdue tossed another peanut shell at his 
bowl. It hit the lamp on the end table and he didn't 
bother to retrieve it. 

"Sauceda's on his way back," the ASAC mumbled around 
his peanuts, sociable as if they'd been chatting all 
evening. "He's stopping off to get some dinner. 
Thought you might like some Chinese. Tso's chicken 
okay?"

Mulder nodded, not really focusing as he scanned the 
litter of Pepsi cans and candy wrappers on the coffee 
table. He didn't ask where Sauceda might be coming 
back from, Purdue noted. And why should he? They were 
in town, after all. Mulder probably figured Sauceda 
had gone home for a while.

"Where's Diana?"

Purdue glanced up, eyeing Mulder a little more sharply 
than necessary and mentally kicking himself for the 
reflex. Hell, it was just a question. Mulder ignored 
the look, and the ASAC concentrated on actually 
hitting his bowl with the next shell. 

"Diana's taking a nap. I asked her to take shift with 
you tonight. Hot Sauce sounded pretty well beat when 
he called in--"

"I meant what I said this morning," Mulder's growl was 
soft, still sleepy. "I don't *want* her here."

Purdue shrugged, refusing the challenge. "Fine. Then 
you got me."

"No!" 

Purdue paused, peanut midway to his mouth. Mulder had 
jerked to the edge of his seat with the word. Now he 
clawed the arms of his chair, pushing himself back 
behind his upholstered shield. 

"Sorry, Mulder. It's one or the other--"

"This place is lousy with agents," Mulder's voice was 
calculatedly calm. "And Sisyphus doesn't climb walls. 
I don't need anybody camped out in here with me."

"That's not the game plan--"

"The hell it isn't." Mulder was sitting forward again, 
fists clenched, but his focus resolutely on the 
television. "I'm a grown man, I don't need a freaking 
babysitter."

It wasn't babysitting, of course. It was policy. But 
Mulder had policy overrun his life too often lately to 
appreciate it much and they both knew it. Purdue 
wasn't playing the game of averted eyes and lackluster 
interest anymore, though. 

"You don't get left on your own, Agent. And you know 
damned well why."

Mulder blushed deeply, retreating into the confines of 
his chair. "Goddam--" he hissed.

"No, goddam you." Purdue slung his shell at the lamp 
without bothering to remove the nut. "You want me to 
treat you like a child? Lock your butt up someplace 
and stick someone else out here as bait to catch her 
with? I'm doing you the courtesy of letting you take 
an active part in your own defense, dammit. You want 
out of the loop altogether? Just open your mouth one 
more time. I'll slap you clear to Canada and we'll 
take this bitch without you." 

Mulder's jaw worked a minute, grinding over the words 
and Purdue suddenly reconsidered. The situation was 
clarifying itself to Mulder rapidly, that much was 
obvious. Purdue could see the gears turning from 
across the room. How could Mulder have been so 
clueless, though? Purdue had explained the plan to the 
profiler himself--

But that had been yesterday. And yesterday, Mulder 
hadn't even known his own name, let alone been able to 
appreciate the intricacies of their little trap. Or 
even remember there was a trap.

"Shit," Mulder glanced away, licking his lips. "You 
mighta told me we weren't just running," he whispered. 
It was a poor defense but apparently the only one he 
had at the moment. It was an admission, too, if Purdue 
needed one.

Purdue didn't, although he appreciated the gesture. 
The ASAC held his tongue, offering no defense for 
himself, no reprisals for Mulder. He rolled his 
current peanut across the inside of his cheek, sucking 
the salt from it, allowing the man in the chair time 
to recover. On the screen, Bogie was chatting with 
some fat man and not enjoying it much. He seemed to 
like it even less when Fatty's pal took a slap at 
Bacall. 

"Hell," Purdue shrugged finally, face solemn. "Who 
knows? Maybe we *are* just running. Sisyphus doesn't 
seem to want you directly, anyway. Just whoever 
happens to be around."

"And that's why I don't want Fowley here." The 
belligerence was back, but wary now. 

"And you'd say the same thing about anyone else I'd 
pair you up with." He spit a bit of stray shell off 
his tongue, wiped his hand across his mouth. "Problem 
is, Mulder, you just don't want anyone in the line of 
fire. Sauceda told me you're trying to get *him* off 
the case, too." He shook his head, watching the 
profiler grit his teeth. "You know, personally, I 
think we need Patterson on this case. Sisyphus'd be 
doing the Bureau a favor taking out that one." Mulder 
blinked at him owlishly and Purdue glanced away. The 
ASAC couldn't bring himself to apologize for the 
words, though. And he didn't particularly like what 
that said about him.

Mulder swore, still finding himself at square one. He 
combed at his hair again with frustrated fingers. 
"Okay. Fine. I can't be trusted. I deserve that. But I 
want Lenny here. No one else." Purdue shifted 
uncomfortably and Mulder's brows furrowed. "I want my 
*partner,*" he repeated obstinately.

The ASAC scrounged in his bag for another peanut, his 
tone carefully neutral. "You know, you might as well 
get used to the idea of a new partner--"

"He doesn't retire for another four months, dammit. 
You send him with Imelda or you leave him with me."

The ASAC chewed his peanut solemnly. It was a bitter 
little bastard but he swallowed it anyway. "Sauceda's 
tired, Mulder. You scare him. You know that?" 

Mulder looked away. He was breathing hard, suddenly, 
eyes wide like he was fighting some kind of impending 
hysteria. Purdue bit his lip. Great. Now the kid was 
on to panic attacks. Well, hell-- 

Mulder laid a fist against his chest, every pore in 
his body breaking out with sweat. Purdue hadn't 
expected the reaction and watched him numbly. Mulder 
hadn't expected it either, apparently, and was working 
hard to control it. Scooted tight against the back 
cushion, he leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair 
and rested his head on his hand, effectively shielding 
his face from Purdue. His hand shook violently. He 
swore under his breath, desperately focusing on the 
television: Bacall slamming doors and Bogie grinning 
like a Cheshire cat. Purdue chomped his peanuts 
furiously, allowing Mulder the illusion that his 
reaction had gone unnoticed. 

The attack passed within minutes. Mulder relaxed by 
degrees, cautiously releasing muscles held too tightly 
controlled, and Purdue's heart subsided back into its 
usual position in his chest. Purdue reached for 
another peanut, winced as the salt rubbed into cuts in 
his palm. He contemplated his hand dully: he'd been 
squeezing his fists so tight, his fingernails had 
bitten into the skin. He wiped the salt onto his pants 
leg.

"You okay, now?" 

Mulder nodded, still not removing the shield of his 
hand. 

Bogie's rummy pal was asking Bacall if she'd ever been 
bit by a dead bee. Jeezus, who did they get to write 
this crap? Purdue forced himself to crack another nut. 
There was soft *ping* across the room as the nut shot 
free and ricocheted against the television screen. 
Mulder glanced over at the sound, quickly away, then 
back again as he realized Purdue was watching the 
screen rather than staring at him.

"You know," the ASAC informed the television, "I used 
to have the damnedest nightmares as a kid." Mulder had 
no overt reaction to the statement other than to hold 
his breath. Purdue continued his confession without 
glancing at him. "I'd wake up shaking, vomiting 
sometimes. Just like you." That got a blink from the 
profiler. Purdue lick salt off his lips. "Used to... 
used to terrify me. I thought something was wrong. 
That I was losing my mind." He stared down into his 
peanut bag a minute, trying to re-orient himself. "I 
never told anyone, 'cept one night I screamed so loud 
it woke my dad." He grinned sheepishly up at the 
screen again. "My old man slept like a log most 
nights, but--" Purdue caught himself, sobered. 
"Anyway, he told me that dreams were just the answers 
to questions we didn't know to ask yet, you know? Just 
the mind turning things over. I think it's why I went 
into law enforcement. Because of the terrible things I 
would see in my dreams. I didn't want anyone to have 
to live through them. Maybe--" He glanced at Mulder, 
that calm, impenetrable face, too pale, one cheek, one 
eye lit blue by the glow of the television, the other 
in shadow-- Purdue jerked his head away, flushing 
furiously. "Shit. Look. I just-- Oh, hell, just forget 
it."

Mulder hadn't laughed though, had made no smart-ass 
remarks. It took Purdue a moment to register that 
fact. He glanced up to find the profiler watching him 
solemnly.

"What do you want?" Mulder asked.

Purdue shook his head. "I don't want anything from 
you, Mulder. I just need to know you're okay."

"I'm okay."

The ASAC nodded. "Yeah. I noticed that."

It was Mulder's turn to look away. God, but Purdue 
hated this tactile-less dance, this overly-polite 
psychological slaughter. Mulder's confrontation in the 
parking lot had been honest, at least: aggression, 
understandable under the circumstances, played out to 
a logical conclusion-- the impact of fist against 
bone. Reassuringly simple. So how had they wound up 
here? Purdue grunted. They were here because, despite 
all Purdue's assurances, the ASAC had simply become 
another Patterson in Mulder's life. The realization 
burned like the salt in his palm. The move to Violent 
Crimes had changed nothing-- not for Mulder. Purdue 
had no right to sit here like this, desperate to get 
into the young man's head, the one place on earth 
Mulder held sacred. It'd serve him right if Mulder 
pulled another gun on him. 

Still, reading human nature was the brick and mortar 
of Mulder's profession. If he didn't want to talk, 
then dammit, he wouldn't-- and he wouldn't let Purdue 
make him feel guilty about it, either. Purdue could 
respect that. 

"Look, son. I told Diana about your dreams. It'll be 
no surprise--"

"She thinks I've got some kind of ESP-er ability or 
some such crap. Is that what you think of me? That 
I've got some kind of microchip tuned into Mars, and 
little green men are feeding me clues from Serial 
Central? What did you do, Reg? Pull my records just to 
figure out how I passed the psych test to get into the 
Academy?"

"I don't think you're insane, Mulder--"

"No. You just think I'm subject to hallucinations and 
emotional breakdowns--" Mulder face altered as he 
spoke the words, as he recognized the proof in the 
trembling of his own hands. Purdue didn't answer and 
watched him fall back against his chair without 
actually bothering to scoot back in it. The profiler 
sprawled there, panting silently, eyes wide, furiously 
reordering his perceptions. 

"You're not insane, Mulder." Purdue was using his 
Special-Agent-In-Charge voice, calm, certain, every 
word authorized by God. Mulder didn't even blink. 
"Mulder." Finally, the hazel eyes focused on him. 
"I've got no problems with your abilities as an 
investigator, son. Or as a profiler. Personally, I 
think you're better than *you* think you are. Diana 
isn't here to second-guess your judgment-- or your 
method of getting there. And just between you and me, 
I seriously doubt she knows *what* she thinks. Baez, 
on the other hand, seems to believe you have a, ah--"

"Gift?" Mulder almost spat the word.

"Yeah. A gift." Purdue's voice was extraordinarily 
careful. "Do you?"

"Sure, I do." Mulder's face was impassive. "My dad 
sends me aftershave for my birthday every year." 


CONTINUED IN PART 21C

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:24:04 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 21C of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 21C of 27: 



On the screen, Bogie tough-talked a line and everybody 
jumped. Purdue wondered vaguely why it never seemed to 
work for him. "Look, you're under enough stress as it 
is. You've got a problem with Diana being here, I can 
understand that--" 

"No, you don't. You have no idea."
 
"Fine. So explain it to me."

Purdue had Mulder biting his lip now. They were silent 
by mutual consent, watching Bacall walk across the 
black and white room and slam a door. Woman could be 
arrested for walking like that. Having legs like that-
-

"Diana's a good agent," Purdue insisted. "She's done 
some fine work. Sure, she comes at things from an odd 
angle sometimes, but so do you. Most times." He raised 
a hand as Mulder scathed him with a glance. "Okay, so 
maybe not from the same *kind* of angle, but she's had 
some good result. She's trained to handle herself--"

"She trained to handle me, too?"

Purdue frowned. "I know you better than to expect that 
kind of machismo crap from you, Mulder. You're doing 
it on purpose. It's not working."

"She tell you about that?"

"Tell me about what?"

Mulder shook his head and closed his eyes, passing a 
hand across his brow like he was trying to wipe away 
some pressure there. "Nothing," he said. 

Purdue's frown deepened. So, Mulder had Fowley holding 
out on him, now, too. Nice trick, that. And it hadn't 
taken the little punk a day-- Purdue felt his blood 
pressure rising but he didn't bother to work out why 
the situation should bother him so much. "You listen 
up, Agent. Diana Fowley walks into this case with my 
permission to knock you on your ass if she so much as 
wants to--"

"Oh. So she needed your permission to do that?"

"No, she doesn't. And that's exactly why I chose her."

Mulder chewed the inside of his cheek, refusing to 
answer. 

"Look Mulder, let's just cut the crap for once. I 
brought Diana in on this because I thought she might 
be some help to you in getting a handle on this 
thing." 

"*What* thing?" 

Purdue fisted up his bag of nuts. "Okay, fine. You 
wanna play twenty questions? Let's do it." Purdue was 
on the edge of the couch now. "You told me in Wheeling 
that you couldn't just dream this stuff on demand. 
That you couldn't just *make* it happen. So tell me 
this: can you make it stop?"

Mulder's face flushed hot again. He jerked forward, 
but his hands clawed into the chair, refusing to let 
go. 

"Yeah." Purdue nodded slowly. "I didn't think so."

Mulder swore but said nothing further, surrendering 
his struggle abruptly. He sank back in the chair, like 
he could become small and invisible at will.

"So where was the spook last night, Agent?" Purdue 
demanded. "No dreams? No psychosomatic hemorrhaging?"

Mulder shrugged against the flint in the ASAC's voice, 
impervious, suddenly, to Purdue's attack. "How much 
did you have Lenny give me?" Anger kept his gaze 
unblinking as he regarded the ASAC. "How much 
Thorazine to make sure I stayed down while she waltzed 
in and butchered two men?"

Purdue tossed the bag on the coffee table. Watched it 
lie there. Why did he feel so responsible for this 
man? Hell, it wasn't his job to hold him together. To 
pick up the pieces as Mulder threw them down.

Deep within his chair, the profiler shook his head. 
"If I dreamed, I don't remember," his voice was 
mournful, and he refused to glance at Purdue, instead 
watching Bogie tell Bacall to take her bottle and go 
to bed. She did it too. "Maybe it was too close this 
time. Like Kay--" He strangled on the word and looked 
away, back to the bedroom. "Nothing like a good 
night's drug-induced coma," he managed.

"So what was all day yesterday about?" Purdue held 
very still. "Who was walking up behind you then, 
Mulder?"

Mulder shook his head, this time almost imperceptibly, 
his eyes closed against the room. Purdue watched the 
anguish constricting Mulder's forehead, waiting for it 
to ease before he whispered, "Yesterday was just you, 
wasn't it? Shutting down from too much..." He didn't 
finish the sentence and Mulder didn't deny the words, 
too busy pressing his fist into his left thigh. 

"Goddammit-- stop that!" Purdue cleared the distance 
between them, one hand jerking Mulder's wrist up to 
relieve the pressure on his leg, the other hand 
capturing the profiler's fist before he could take his 
swing. "You son of a bitch!--" 

Mulder endured a long string of profanity, apparently 
too surprised to resist. Purdue paused finally, 
vaguely aware that he was repeating himself and that 
he was gasping. Mulder's eyes on his were wide, dark, 
and frightfully transparent. Flecks of gold gleamed in 
the irises, mingled with browns and blues and violets. 
The colors moved, swirling, mingled, and paled as 
Purdue watched, blurred as Purdue's gaze penetrated 
deeper, drawn to the unfathomable depths below-- 

Purdue inhaled suddenly, the gut reaction of a man 
just as he hits the water that will surely drown him. 
Mulder blinked then, slowly, terminating the vision, 
releasing him. The irises, when Mulder opened his 
lids, were an unassuming gray. The ASAC dropped the 
young man's wrists and paced across the room, seeking 
some place safer.
 
On the screen, Bacall was trying to teach Bogie how to 
whistle. And doing a pretty good job. God, but he 
needed a drink. The wet bar was across the room, 
however. He'd have to pass Mulder-- 

And Mulder was watching him. Those impossible eyes, 
body perfectly motionless. Mulder didn't even look 
like he was breathing.  

Purdue shook his head. Damn Fowley. *He* should have 
taken the nap. He leaned against the wall, crossed his 
arms, crossed his legs at the ankles, physically 
boarded up nice and tight while psychologically trying 
to look so nice and casual. Yeah. Like Mulder was 
buying it. 

Purdue bit his lip. "Okay. Gift or not, I realize that 
this stuff doesn't come cheap. Profiling is easy for 
you, a talent, but only at a cost." He waved a hand, 
indicating the room, Mulder's carpeted prison. "So now 
you're paying for it. *I* expected it at some point. I 
think you did, too. And this is where it happens, 
where you get it worked out. I'm just trying to make 
it easier on you. That's all."

Mulder took a slow breath. He seemed to be pondering 
the statement, shrewdly seeking the ambush he was 
certain awaited. 

Purdue nodded under the regard, ignored the shirt 
sticking to the sweat on his chest. "I told you 
before, son: I've been where you are. Still drop in 
for the occasional visit." He pushed himself free of 
the wall but kept to the far side of the room, safely 
out of Mulder's sphere. "All I'm saying is if you need 
to talk I'm here. If you'd rather talk to someone 
else, that's fine, too. But you can't keep pretending 
it doesn't hurt--"

Mulder set his jaw and shoved his body to the far side 
of the chair, a wounded cat seeking a burrow-- or a 
wall from which to launch himself. "Okay," his 
response was low and slow, tightly controlled, "I 
admit it. It hurts. Gee, Dad, I feel tons better. Can 
I go home now?" His brows descended abruptly. "Or is 
this where you tell me I should spill my guts because 
it's what *Kay* would want me to do?"

Purdue resisted the urge to slam his fist through the 
wall. "I'm not going to lie to you and tell you I'm 
sorry for what I said on the parking lot. But, yeah, I 
didn't know the woman and I won't presume to tell you 
what she would and wouldn't want for you. I just know 
what *I* would want for you. For whatever the hell 
that's worth."

On the television, Bogie had Bacall walking around 
him, checking for strings. No one was paying attention 
though, not even Mulder who was watching without 
seeing. 

"She deserved better than me," Mulder confessed, 
apparently not realizing he'd spoken aloud. "She 
deserved better than a lot of things she got, I 
think." He spoke from a weary bewilderment, the 
blunted sensibility that overtakes the soul worn out 
by tragedy and grief, when the first glimmerings of 
objectivity begin to color memory and experience. It 
hurt just listening to him, to hear the certainty in 
his voice.

"You didn't kill her, Mulder," Purdue's voice was 
cautious, treading carefully on the space that Mulder 
had allowed him. "I know Patterson sent you on so many 
guilt trips you had frequent flyer points, but it's 
not your fault she's dead. You've got to know that."

"Yeah."

Purdue didn't quite know how to interpret that weary 
monosyllable: whether it was evidence of Mulder's 
failure to be fully convinced, or simply an expression 
of exhaustion. There probably wasn't that much 
difference. Guilt was not about intellect; it's about 
emotion. And emotions, unfortunately, have a logic all 
their own. 

Purdue tried again, still steadily wary. "You will 
heal, Mulder. I know it's hard for you to believe, but 
you will. Eventually. It'll feel like betrayal and 
you'll hate yourself for it, but you'll do it." 

"In spite of myself?" Mulder glanced up finally, his 
voice bitter. Purdue took in the image: Mulder white 
as a ghost, bones too-prominent beneath his skin, 
circles under his eyes-- eyes as penetrating as a 
cobra's. Mortally wounded, Mulder would go down 
fighting. Even wanting death, it wasn't in him to give 
up.  

"Yeah," Purdue nodded, certain now. "In spite of 
yourself."

Mulder sat forward, sick of the conversation. "The 
condition you're describing is popularly known as 
survivor's guilt. And I really don't need the 
refresher course on psychological theory--"

"Funny, isn't it?" 

"Pardon?"

"How knowing the name of something doesn't mean jack 
when you're trying to live through it."

"Shit." 
 
Purdue resumed his place on the couch. Mulder watched 
him, sliding back just a bit more to the far side of 
the chair. Shadows crept across his face as Bogie 
pistol-whipped Fatty with gusto. The action on the 
screen was cartoonish and had no place in their 
reality. Purdue scarcely registered it. He'd been with 
Violent Crimes too many years to take the Hollywood 
ideal seriously. Hollywood had no idea how bad it got. 
The horror show that was every day life for the men 
and women who worked the scenes, who dealt with the 
carnage left behind when the perpetrators had fled. 
The fallen bodies, locked in unnatural positions. The 
insects, just hatching or fully grown, that gave the 
coroner an approximate time of death. The smell. The 
families, wives, husbands, children who answered the 
doors and stared up at you, innocent, unaware that you 
had arrived to shatter their lives with a few 
sympathetic words. 

The work was hard. Hard on the nerves, on the heart. 
If you wanted to survive, you learned to shove your 
emotional involvement into a hole in your soul and 
simply ignore it until you had time to deal with it. 
And even time was taken on the run: sitting in the 
back of a car, riding in a plane, long sleepless 
nights in unfamiliar motel rooms. Just like Mulder 
now. 

The truth was that the work was often so bizarre that 
you needed some external source of emotional 
stability. Something, someone else, that could provide 
a sense of normalcy. You didn't just need it. You 
craved it, the reassurance that someone close held the 
sense of true north even when you didn't trust 
yourself to know. Maybe Kay had been that for Mulder, 
just like Olivia had been for him for so many years. 

And now here they both sat without a compass. The 
blind leading the blind-- and there were dragons in 
the ditch. It was kind of pathetic when you thought 
about it. Purdue refused to think about it, though. He 
didn't like being pathetic. He *wouldn't* be pathetic. 
And he'd be damned before he saw Mulder in that 
condition, ever.

"Sometimes," Purdue chanced, one foot on the coffee 
table, "I wonder if God even knows what the hell he's 
doing. He always seems to be taking the wrong ones. 
Killing the strong, the ones who enjoy life and 
leaving the rest of us to deal with it." He pulled his 
peanut bag back onto his lap, stared into it. "Lousy 
way to run the world, if you ask me. Hell. Not that 
anyone *is* asking."

"Is that why you didn't have me arrested?" Mulder 
demanded from his corner of the chair. "'Cause you 
feel *sorry* for me?" Purdue's brows raised. Mulder 
was watching him, both hands on the near arm of the 
chair, clenched tight. "This morning, you son of a 
bitch," Mulder growled. "The parking lot? Or am I 
hallucinating on top of everything else?"

Purdue shrugged. It was becoming a chronic gesture. 
"As far as I'm concerned that stunt you pulled was 
just so much psychological hyperventilation." His eyes 
narrowed, a warning. "And I *don't* feel the least bit 
sorry for you, sir. You try it again and I'll kick 
your ass. We clear on that?"

"Psychological hyperventilation?" Mulder repeated the 
words, rolling them across his tongue. "I was mad 
enough to kill you--"

"No, you weren't."

The profiler's brows climbed up into his hairline. "I 
pulled a *gun* on you, dammit--"

"I noticed. Nice try at suicide, Mulder. Not terribly 
subtle, but it could have been pretty effective." He 
slung the bag of peanuts back at the coffee table. "I 
mean, if it works, you get to die and don't even have 
to waste energy pulling the trigger, right? Just wave 
your pistol around and wait for me to pull my gun and 
do your dirty work for you." Mulder's mouth opened, 
closed as he turned away abruptly. Purdue slammed a 
fist into the couch cushion. "Look me in the eye, damn 
you!" Mulder obeyed, reluctant, but holding the ASAC's 
gaze determinedly. "That's what you wanted, wasn't 
it?" Purdue demanded. "For me to put you down like a 
goddam dog in the street? Wasn't that your plan? Well, 
here's a little advice for next time, Mr. Mulder: 
number one: try for a place not quite so public. And 
number two: find yourself another goddam executioner."

Mulder dropped his gaze and seemed grateful for the 
television to focus on, the Vichy shooting at 
bystanders, the clandestine meetings, the imagined 
tragedies that bore no resemblance to his own. His 
eyes were too bright in the dim light, profile 
reflecting the garish red light of a sudden 
commercial. His right hand rubbed a small comforting 
circle against his chest.

Purdue was registering every emotion fleeing across 
the young man's face, and finally understanding. 
Mulder hadn't consciously intended a suicide at his 
hands. Hadn't planned it. The very thought seemed to 
amaze him, maybe even frighten him, eyes widening 
hollowly. But what the unconscious mind desired-- that 
was often a very different story. One that Mulder, for 
the moment at least, didn't seem able to discern as he 
sat there, struggling with the economics of doubt.

Purdue shook his head, tried to make his voice light. 
"Just between you and me and the door post, I tried it 
myself once. Lucky not to be in Leavenworth, right 
now." Mulder's eyes sought out Purdue's general 
direction but his face remained in profile, listening 
but not trusting himself to look over. Purdue shrugged 
his brows. "A word of warning if you ever feel the 
need to take Skinner down a few notches: watch your 
aim. The man's got a jaw like concrete." 

Mulder seemed to have registered the words, the easy 
smile in Purdue's voice, the reassurance. He was 
unable to reconcile the information with the 
conversation running through his own head, however. 
Elbow on the chair arm, he propped his temple against 
his fingertips, his palm once more an ineffective 
shield. Purdue waited for the onslaught of yet another 
panic attack. It didn't come, though and Mulder simply 
sat, eyes down, unfocused, jaw lax as he breathed 
through his mouth. He looked like he seriously needed 
to lie down. Purdue wondered how he might suggest it, 
sans affront to Mulder's self-esteem. The young agent 
surprised him, however, and spoke, his voice distant.

"She doesn't kill at random any more," Mulder noted 
the fact, as if this had been their topic of 
conversation all evening. "She kills by a common 
thread. Me."

"Mulder. You're not responsible--"

"It's like the observer in Einstein's theory: the 
observer changes what he observes by the fact that he 
is there observing it. I *am* responsible at some 
level. Her choice of victims proves that."

Purdue opened his mouth, closed it. It was becoming an 
old argument, one he'd run out of ammunition for. He 
pulled a baggied paper from his pocket, unfolding it. 
"Is that the explanation for this, then?" He handed 
the slip over and Mulder removed his hand from his 
forehead, accepting the item gingerly: standard 
printer paper, like he used on his Epson at home, the 
edges rough where the tractor-feed strip had been torn 
away. 

"Sauceda found it tucked inside a picture on your 
desk," Purdue explained. "I asked him not to mention 
it until you'd had some time to rest up." He watched 
as Mulder read, face completely without expression, 
voice flat.

"*It must be an old photograph of you, out in the 
yard, looking almost afraid in the crisp, raking light 
that afternoons in the city held in those days, 
unappeased, not accepting anything from anybody. So 
what else is new? I'll tell you what is: you are 
accepting this now from the invisible, unknown sender, 
and the light that was intended, you thought, only to 
rake or glance is now directed full in your face, as 
it in fact always was, but you were squinting so hard, 
fearful of accepting it, that you didn't know this. 
Whether it warms or burns is another matter, which we 
will not go into here. The point is that you are 
accepting it and holding on to it, like love from 
someone you always thought you couldn't stand, and 
whom you now recognize as a brother, an equal. Someone 
whose face is the same as yours in the photograph but 
who is someone else...*"

Mulder glanced up, offering nothing in response. No 
flicker of emotion.

Purdue licked his lips. "So she really has moved onto 
prose. Like you thought she would. She--"

Mulder shook his head. "Same book," he said quietly. 
"Page sixty-four."

The stillness of Mulder's face was unnerving. Purdue 
mouthed an "Oh" but couldn't seem to locate his own 
voice. Mulder surrendered the sheet of paper, 
apparently unconcerned.

"What she did to Seilman," Purdue struggled with the 
words, "is that what she intends to do with you?"

Mulder shrugged, very distant and just four feet away. 
"She's like the moon's child," he lisped. "Trying her 
wings."

"That's crap, Mulder. Answer the question."

Mulder looked away to the television, an act of 
defiance or confusion. Purdue couldn't determine 
which.

"It's an invitation, isn't it?" the ASAC tried again. 
"She's inviting you to join her, to become what she 
is."

"She wants what she's never had: someone thinking 
about her, anticipating her, not taking her for 
granted."

"Killing eleven people. That's a hell of a cry for 
attention." Purdue chewed his cheek, wondered when 
that had become a habit. "When did the sex bit come 
in?"

Mulder shrugged. "It's always been there at some 
level. It's the intimacy she's after. The need to 
share who and what she has become."

"So it's not just the physical act."

"It rarely is for women," he grimaced. "Not any *I've* 
been with, anyway."

Purdue shook his head, trying to follow the logic. 
"And she thinks what? That you're just going to sit up 
and perform for her when she gets around to you?"

Mulder smiled languidly, hollowly. "We don't have that 
kind of relationship, she and I. We're engaged in 
intellectual intercourse."

Purdue watched the eyes bleeding green almost to 
clear. "Yeah," he said. "You hope."

"She'll make her move tonight, you know." 

Across the room, Purdue sighed deeply. "Yeah. I 
figured."

"Probably just as well," Mulder picked at a loose scab 
on his knuckle. "I need to get back to my apartment 
before the neighbors start complaining about the 
smell."

Purdue shivered, suddenly. *Someone trompin' on your 
grave,* his Granny would have said. He was left with 
the oddest sensation when it had passed, the instant 
awareness of heightened senses: the give of the 
upholstery against his back, the solidity of the table 
against the sole of his shoe, the coolness of the air 
on the skin below his rolled up sleeves. The air was 
tinged with the faint odor of Diane's cigarette and 
barbecued chicken wings. Purdue had experienced the 
sensation many times: rushing a suspect, thundering 
into the lair of a wanted fugitive, shotgun in hand, a 
flack jacket the only barrier between him and 
mortality. It was the type of thing that happens when 
a man is certain of death, aware that each second 
could be his last. Purdue wondered why it would be 
happening to him now specifically. 

"I got someone cleaning up your place." He shrugged at 
Mulder's surprise. "Thought it might help. Not trying 
to get into your personal business or anything."

Mulder shrugged back. The motion said, *Yeah, like I 
have any personal business anymore. Like I even have a 
*life* anymore.* There was no animosity in the gesture 
however, just a quiet resignation. Purdue couldn't say 
that he liked the implication.

"Don't suppose you want to keep the table..." Purdue 
waited patiently.

"Table, mattress. Hell, tell them to haul off the 
whole damned bed." Despite the profanity, the words 
were spoken lightly, a quiet abandonment. Mulder 
stared at his knuckles, studying his handiwork. 
"Christ." He sank back further into the chair like 
living itself had become oppressive. "I'm sorry," he 
said without glancing up. Purdue was silent and he 
clarified: "About the parking lot."  

Purdue nodded, his face a mask. Not that Mulder ever 
looked over. Purdue himself concentrated on the 
television, unwilling to intrude further on the man 
crumpled in the chair. He spent a minute watching 
Bogie convince some guy that he wasn't much into 
kissing Frenchmen. Strange film. 

"So," Mulder licked his lips, watching the screen 
himself, "when you slugged Skinner, this was *before* 
he was an AD, right?"

Purdue waved a hand vaguely. "Skinner was born an AD. 
Slapped his mother when he popped out and reassigned 
her to an obscure regional office to avoid 
embarrassment." Mulder grunted softly, a concession of 
good humor that didn't reach those lifeless eyes. 
Purdue's voice was softer. "Just give yourself some 
time, Mulder. That's all I'm asking. Hell, between the 
stress and the spook--" Purdue choked momentarily. 
"Just let me help you. Stop fighting me."

"I don't know how to stop." The words were scarcely a 
whisper and Mulder's brows drew to a frown, not 
entirely certain he'd spoken aloud. He looked away 
from the ASAC, apparently not wanting confirmation one 
way or the other. His eyes grazed the coffee table 
again, focused on the Whitman's Sampler box, its lid 
open, the candy untouched. 

Purdue sat in silence, struggling with words that 
didn't seem to want to form. He'd already said 
everything he'd known how to say; it would be just as 
pointless to repeat it. He noted the direction of 
Mulder's gaze and nodded at the Whitman's. "Go ahead," 
he offered, "Help yourself."

Mulder looked up from the box of chocolates like 
Purdue'd just offered him the key to Fort Dix. Purdue 
glanced away, embarrassed suddenly, confused, staring 
at Bogart.

"It was my wife's favorite," he explained finally, 
"I'd-- I'd buy her one for our anniversary every year. 
I didn't think and did it again yesterday. Habit, I 
guess."

Mulder was silent too long. Purdue struggled to follow 
the action on the screen through the haze over his 
eyes. *The blind leading the blind--*

"It was Sam's favorite, too." Mulder finally found 
words. He frowned, apparently wondering why they 
should have been those words exactly.

"Sam?" Purdue blinked, vision clearing rapidly.

"Samantha. My sister."

Purdue took a good long look at his agent. *Finally. 
The sister. The one that disappeared--*

The brother's eyes refocused on the box and he leaned 
forward slowly to receive a chocolate. He held it 
carefully, as a man would regard a gem brought up from 
the belly of the earth, a rough jewel, encrusted with 
magma and graphite and the blood of those who died to 
bring it forth to daylight. "My mom buys me a 
Whitman's every year," he said the words with some 
amazement. "In memory of Sam." His voice was old and 
tired, flat. Purdue almost didn't recognize it.

Purdue whispered, "Like putting flowers on a grave."

Mulder nodded. "Only we don't have a grave. We just 
have Whitman's Samplers." He placed the chocolate in 
his mouth and chewed solemnly. Purdue's tongue had 
dried up completely, swollen with salt suddenly, too 
wearied with pointless words. 

"I loved her," Mulder whispered, an escaping thought, 
"as much as I could." 

Purdue bit his lip, but the words would not remain 
unspoken. "Samantha? Or Kay?"

The rattle of the door and Mulder glanced up. Glanced 
up to find Sauceda there, Chinese wafting from the bag 
in his hand, Diana over his shoulder. 

Diana, Purdue realized, 
withhereyesthatlookedlikeKay's.

Mulder didn't answer the question.

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

"I have no trouble with my enemies. I can take care of 
my enemies all right. But my damn friends, my goddamn 
friends. They're the ones that keep me walking the 
floor nights."
    -- Warren G. Harding.


Fowley, ever observant, sensed the tension in the room 
immediately. She remained at the door, rooted to the 
spot with her carton of cold drinks, waiting for some 
kind of cue. 

Sauceda, however, plowed straight in, completely 
unconcerned, and headed for the table beyond the 
television. He was full of his usual bluster-- "Hey, 
kids, how's it going hope everyone is hungry man the 
traffic was a bitch"-- and dropped his box of 
styrofoam containers on the table, gesturing grandly. 
Not waiting for a response of any kind, he commenced 
to describe their impending meal with the air of a 
sideshow barker: its ingredients, its cost, and the 
infinite pains he'd gone through to acquire it-- 
without once seeming to come up for air. Fowley 
finally joined him at the table, her smile tentative, 
her steps grave with uncertainty. 

Sauceda unpacked the meal as he lectured, disclosing a 
dozen waxed cartons and insulated containers of 
various denominations. The air was suddenly thick with 
the sticky sweet fragrance of oriental spice and 
Mulder found himself starved for a cigarette-- 
anything to dispel the smell. He liked Chinese and he 
was certainly hungry enough, but his stomach wasn't at 
all amused by the prospect of actual work. 

There was a pack of Winstons on the coffee table and 
he caught Purdue's eye. The ASAC nodded at the 
unspoken request and surrendered his lighter with only 
the barest hint of hesitation. Mulder pretended not to 
notice and lit his cigarette, the tip burning orange 
to an angry red as he inhaled. He handed the lighter 
back without meeting Purdue's eyes. The ASAC accepted 
it in kind, and Mulder retreated to the depths of his 
chair, smoking grimly. 

Purdue, perhaps unwilling to intrude further, rose to 
assist in the sorting process at the table. Mulder 
listened to the three-way conversation, marveling that 
it could be just over his shoulder and yet so far 
removed. Would the easy banter, he wondered, dissolve 
to silence if he chose to join in? He decided he'd 
rather not know the answer to that, and remained in 
his chair, mute. 

Fowley floated past him, heels whispering against the 
carpet. She sat an extra large iced tea on the coffee 
table, positioning it within his reach. The waxed cup 
was too thin for its burden and the little plastic lid 
had snapped up. She bent to correct it. Mulder studied 
her briefly out of the corner of his eye: her hair 
sweeping down, almost concealing her face, only her 
eye and forehead visible in profile. The scent of 
Chanel was softer now than it had been this morning. 
Warm and refined, it was had no place here with the 
candy wrappers, scattered peanut shells and cheap 
take-out. The fragrance suited her though. Fowley's 
head lifted finally, turned, but Mulder's gaze was set 
fiercely on the television. She retreated quickly, as 
silent as she had come, and Mulder cursed himself. 

*It's just a glass of tea. You don't have to be such a 
bastard about a glass of freaking tea.*

Behind him, Sauceda was still in announcement mode. He 
had, he declared, steamed dumplings and shrimp tempura 
for starters. No, there was no vegetable fried rice-- 
the restaurant was fresh out of that, but he'd gotten 
extra lo mein. Fowley didn't like lo mein. No matter, 
Purdue did. Sauceda had ordered vegetable egg rolls. 
Fowley didn't like those either but she'd kill them 
both for the fu yun shrimp. Somehow, all the picking 
and choosing dissolved into a debate on the merits of 
egg drop soup over wonton with Fowley and Purdue 
arguing the issue. The two scarcely noticed when 
Sauceda backed away from the table and surreptitiously 
slapped Mulder on the arm. 

"Come on," Sauceda insisted, sotto voce.

"What--" Mulder's question was mouthed with a puff of 
smoke. He had wedged himself low against his cushion, 
the tall back of his chair a wall between him and the 
voices at the table. Now he twisted awkwardly to eye 
his partner. Sauceda stood behind the chair, just far 
enough to the right to be able to lean around and 
reach Mulder's ear. It was a position also calculated 
to keep his back to the table and Purdue. Mulder noted 
the fact and his protest died on his lips. 

"Just shut up and come on," Sauceda hissed. There was 
a panicked resolution on his face, completely 
incongruous with his effortless repartee at the table 
just seconds before. Mulder hesitated, his mind 
whirling, but Sauceda jerked his sleeve insistently, a 
plea too pathetic to deny. Mulder complied, rising 
from his chair with no real comprehension, certain 
only that resistance would be an act of treason.

"Problem, Sauceda?" Purdue's voice behind him stopped 
Sauceda short. The ASAC was watching them from the 
other side of the table, perfectly motionless, his 
brows knitted, one hand holding a bowl of wonton, the 
other holding the lid, steam making a foggy shadow 
across his chin.

Sauceda didn't turn immediately and Mulder observed 
the blood rush from the man's face, noted how his eyes 
widened: a conspirator caught at the gate, blinded 
before the searchlights. When it came to subterfuge, 
Sauceda was a sprinter, and he'd exhausted all his 
reserves with his performance at the table. It 
apparently just never dawned on the man that life 
might occasionally require a marathon. 

Sauceda's mouth worked dully but no excuses seemed 
forthcoming. He turned to Purdue, a parody of slow 
motion, but duty-bound to face his accuser.

It was time, Mulder decided, for a professional. "So 
this thermometer," he demanded of his partner's 
profile, "is going in my *mouth* right?" 

Sauceda turned back, blinking spasmodically. His jaw 
still worked, but it was more of a quivering rather 
than any effort to form actual words. Only surprise 
kept him from laughing in relief. 

Mulder felt acid begin a slow boil in his esophagus. 
It was busy grinding at something resembling lead.

At the table Purdue scanned the assorted cartons of 
rough chopped vegetables and spiced meats and swore 
mournfully. "You going to be able to eat any of this, 
Mulder? I can get room service to send up something 
else if you're sick--"

"It's fine. I'm fine. Hot Sauce just wants to play 
doctor." Mulder shrugged and gave Sauceda a playful 
shove. "Fine with me." He put his cigarette in his 
mouth and spoke around it. "As long as I get to be on 
top."

Fowley raised an appreciative brow and Mulder found 
himself storing the response away for future reference 
without knowing exactly why. Sauceda swore gleefully, 
just a few notches short of hysterics. Mulder grabbed 
his arm, his grip gentle enough to provide Sauceda a 
lifeline, rough enough not to arouse suspicion. He was 
uncertain of just who was supposed to be leading this 
charade, but Sauceda needed to get somewhere else 
before Purdue's eyebrows became one dark line. 

"Kid's runnin' a fever--" Sauceda offered as he and 
Mulder tugged one another to the bedroom. "Just need 
to check him out. It's nothing. Say-- nobody touch my 
egg roll. Okay?" 

Purdue nodded, only half-listening and chewing the 
inside of his cheek. Mulder felt the ASAC's eyes 
burning through him, felt himself flush hot, then 
tremble like he was fighting a sudden chill. Hell, he 
probably *did* look ill. He certainly hoped so. For 
Sauceda's sake.

And then finally the bedroom door was closed, a 
barrier between them and the rest of humanity, 
blocking out the intrusive stares. Sauceda spun, 
planting his back against the door, more a motion of 
collapse than an attempt to thwart interruption.

"Len? What's going on?"

Sauceda held up his hand for silence, and whispered 
hoarsely, "What would you do, Marty, if you had a 
gun?"

The words caught Mulder like a slap across his jaw. He 
blinked, rolling his cigarette between fingertip and 
thumb, sounding out the landmine ticking beyond the 
question. Words. Simply words and suddenly Mulder felt 
he'd stepped back into one of his more horrific 
dreams. The room, unlit, was too dark, heavy with 
impending evil and Sauceda's face, wrapped in shadows, 
yielded nothing. 

Mulder reached for the light switch. "Len, what are 
you up to here--?"

Sauceda grabbed Mulder's arm before he could get it 
half extended, pushing him backward, away from the 
switch, away from the door and deeper into the room. 
Mulder's back felt exposed suddenly, cold fingers of 
air whispering down the collar of his shirt. He was 
afraid and it angered him, this unnamed dread tickling 
the edges of his mind. He tried to shake Sauceda free 
but he'd underestimated the pathologist's 
determination. Sauceda tightened his grip, hissing as 
he walked, careful to keep his voice low.

"Look, dammit. Don't think and don't ask questions." 
Sauceda tugged Mulder close, holding him still like he 
truly needed him to concentrate. "If--" Sauceda 
repeated slowly, "*if* you had your gun, what would 
you do with it?"

Sauceda's eyes were perfectly level, fiercely 
determined. The drapes were partly opened and the 
ambered glow of streetlights through the sheers lent 
his features an artificial warmth. He looked battered, 
although Mulder could detect no bruises, and he held 
his body like a man in need of a few casts. His face 
was unnaturally calm, though, eyes reddened, garish 
against the deep blue-gray circles beneath them, 
cheeks and jaw still purpled with hints of razor rash. 
Mulder wondered momentarily if Sauceda had been 
dipping into the Valium. If he hadn't, then maybe he 
needed to.

Mulder chewed his lip a moment, trying to comprehend 
meanings, words spoken and words unspoken, lost within 
the difference between the two. "What's wrong?" he 
whispered. "Lenny, what's happened?"

"Christ, Marty--" Sauceda, disgusted, shoved him away 
and paced to the far wall. "I said, don't ask me-- 
anything. You understand? Don't ask me. I can't--" He 
stood a long minute, several heartbeats, his back to 
Mulder, a stubby column of black amongst the shadows. 
"Nothing's wrong," he said finally, his voice 
steadier, weighted by burdens Mulder couldn't guess 
at. "Just-- Just what we're doing to you. That's 
wrong." 

He turned. Mulder stood very still, watching him. 
Sauceda seemed to have difficulty swallowing, finding 
his voice again only with an effort. "You remember 
what you told me in the gym, Marty? That you were 
sorry for being so rough on me?" He spoke the words 
like they would choke him. Mulder nodded numbly. 
"Well, kid, you weren't half as rough as you should 
have been."

"But--"

"I deserve every bit of hell you ever dished out." 
Sauceda's eyes glinted in the darkness, unblinking. 
"More, even. You remember that. And don't you ever 
believe otherwise. You hear me?"

"I hear you, Len." Mulder's voice was small in the 
stillness and he didn't care, his mind swimming, 
damned near drowning with half-finished thoughts and 
theories, none of which made much sense at the moment. 
He watched Sauceda lick his lips.

"That's good, kid. You just *keep* remembering that. 
Deal?"

Mulder nodded again, wary as Sauceda fished in his 
coat pocket and closed the distance between them.

"Here." Sauceda's hand clamped around Mulder's wrist 
and the profiler felt the warmth of a pistol grip 
slide into his palm. His fingers closed on the 
polished wood, operating on reflex, instantly locating 
their respective places on the unfamiliar weapon. His 
index finger slid along the trigger guard, hesitant, 
and suddenly he was trembling again.

He shook his head. "Len, you can't do this. Purdue--"

"You can't tell Purdue, Marty. You know that, right?"

"Jeezus Christ, will you--" 

Sauceda's grip tightened, panicked as his eyes 
flickered to the door. Mulder lowered his volume to a 
boiling hiss. 

"Will you just tell me what the *hell* is going on?"

"I'm leaving, Marty." The words poured from Sauceda 
quickly, like he couldn't rid himself of them fast 
enough, like they would scald his tongue if he held 
them too long. He stepped back, staring, horrified by 
his decision. "You're on your own, now," he whispered, 
voice no longer quite steady.

It was not an excuse for the weapon and Mulder wanted 
to tell him so, but he couldn't quite get the argument 
out. Instead, he felt his knees buckle, overcome by an 
unexpected grief. He sat down on the end of the bed, 
dead weight just managing to remain upright. He had no 
clue why this should be such a shock. Hell, he'd told 
Sauceda to leave just this morning, right? What was 
wrong with him now? Wasn't this what he'd wanted? 
Hadn't he known this was coming?

Sauceda moved to the window, staring at the drapes 
like they were the most interesting view he'd seen in 
years. Mulder glanced down at his hands as they 
dangled between his knees, his forearms propped across 
his thighs. His left hand still clung to the remains 
of his cigarette. It was quietly smoking itself to 
ash. In his right was a snub-nosed .38 Smith and 
Wesson. A single action with a smooth combat trigger. 
Sauceda's secondary service revolver. It was the only 
weapon Lenny had ever fired off a range. Sauceda had 
told Mulder the story the first day they'd met: 
Sauceda and three other agents had tracked a 
kidnapping suspect across four states, finally 
cornering him in a railroad yard in Albany. The 
suspect engaged them in a gunfight and Sauceda, the 
only agent with a clear shot, had aimed his .38 over 
the hood of a brand new 1957 Buick convertible. 

And he'd missed. Sauceda had admitted the fact to 
Mulder with some measure of pride. His smile was shy 
as he awaited the derision that usually followed such 
confessions, but he was also too obviously pleased. 
And in that moment, Mulder had felt he understood the 
man: Leonardo Sauceda was a doctor not just in 
profession, but in his heart. He was proud of the fact 
that he'd never managed to take a life. Mulder had 
respected that. Admired it. Perhaps even envied it. 
And in the span of two heartbeats, Mulder had admitted 
his new partner within the charmed circle reserved for 
genuine friendship. It mattered little what Sauceda's 
reputation was otherwise, or what he would do behind 
Mulder's back-- Mulder had seen the man's true face 
and would stand beside him, his decision to do so 
already settled. 

The silence between them now was deafening, and had 
begun to compete with the roar in Mulder's head. He 
spun the chamber of the weapon. The room echoed with 
the solid *click, click, click* of a full load. Five 
live rounds.

So full of portent and promise. And prophesy, perhaps-
-

"Marty?" 

"When's your flight?" Mulder didn't look up, his voice 
a harsh rasp. His eyes ached with the effort to focus 
in the muted light. He cleared his throat and flexed 
his shoulders, trying to relieve himself of the weight 
that had dragged him down to the bed. He was desperate 
for his cigarette but couldn't manage to raise the 
appropriate hand. 

Sauceda watched him fidget, trying to comprehend the 
random twitching in his partner's arms. A column of 
cigarette ash glowed comet-like as it rained down on 
the carpet.

"Ahm, morning," he said. "At seven. Look, Marty, I'm 
sorry to dump this on you like this--"

"It's okay, Len. I told you should have gone. 
Remember? You don't owe me anything."

Sauceda glanced away again, Adam's apple bobbing 
desperately. "Don't you believe it, kid." He turned 
back, pinning Mulder with his glare. "Don't ever 
believe any of it." 

"Believe any of what?" Sauceda didn't answer and 
Mulder slammed the side of his fist against the bed, 
oblivious to the possible harm to his cigarette. 
"Goddammit, Len, you're not making any sense--" It was 
another hiss. Damn Purdue for being just beyond the 
door. Mulder wanted to roar, to shake some sense into 
Sauceda, to shake himself free of this unnamable ache. 

Sauceda flinched, but didn't move otherwise, a dark 
shape against the backdrop of the drape, arms crossed, 
shoulders hunched. Mulder swore again, feeling 
ridiculous-- sitting in a darkened bedroom with 
another man, playing with guns-- 

He dropped the weapon on the bed beside him. It felt 
good to be free of it, its weight, its potential for 
misery, and after a moment's consideration, he leaned 
forward and pushed it across the mattress, leaving it 
just beyond the reach of his arm. He resumed his place 
at the other edge of the bed and took a steadying puff 
from what was left of his cigarette. 

"Look, Len, you're obviously in some kind of trouble. 
Let me help you sort--"

"Shit!" Sauceda thundered across the room and snatched 
up the revolver. "You can't even help yourse-- Shit! 
Shit! Shit!" Sauceda stood a moment, rocking on his 
heels like he didn't know whether to run or collapse 
onto the mattress himself. He put his free hand on his 
hip and gestured with the weapon without managing to 
point it at Mulder. "Look," he lectured, "sometimes a 
man just has to make some decisions, okay? And this 
one-- this one's mine, Marty. 'S got nothing to do 
with you." 

"Uh huh. So that's why you're trusting me with a gun 
all of a sudden? What's next? A belt? A shoelace, 
maybe?"

Sauceda didn't answer immediately, and Mulder realized 
finally that the man was panting, dark curls plastered 
to his forehead despite the too-cold blast of the a/c. 
Sauceda's mouth worked again, but it took a few tries 
before words began to form. 

"Don't you do me like that, Marty. Don't you go kill 
yourself and leave me with the guilt for the rest of 
my life. You son of a bitch! Don't you *do* me like 
that--"

Mulder's face twisted, a combination of sarcasm and 
the bitter taste in his mouth. "Ah, come on, Len. 
Don't tell me you haven't fantasized about having my 
body on your gurney--"

Sauceda took two rapid steps, the gun swinging up, 
butt-end first, ready to slap some sense into his 
partner's head. He stopped before Mulder could react, 
however, and stood there, gasping in horror, words 
quite beyond him.

Mulder's head was pounding like he'd already received 
the blow. He didn't rise, though. He couldn't. He 
pressed the heel of his left hand against his eye, 
needing his right hand on the mattress to keep him 
vertical. "I'm not," he answered carefully, "going to 
kill myself." Sauceda was too quiet and Mulder glanced 
at him. Sauceda, red-faced, looked far from convinced. 
Mulder resisted the urge to grit his teeth. "Jeezus 
Christ, Lenny, if that was what I really wanted, don't 
you think I'd've done it by now? I swear to God--"

"We both know you and God aren't exactly on speaking 
terms, Marty," Sauceda seemed to be enjoying his 
anger. "I swear, you'd lie to *Him* faster than you 
would to me, even."

For some reason, that one hurt. Perhaps it was just a 
cumulative effect, but for Mulder, it was all finally 
far too much. Sauceda's face fell, anger subsiding 
back to anxiety, as something in Mulder's eyes 
registered for him. Mulder wasn't in the mood for 
apologies right now, however. And he'd be damned if 
he'd take part in some emotional striptease just to 
validate his own sanity.

"So," Mulder hissed, "I won't swear. And you take your 
fucking gun and go to hell."

Sauceda's shoulders slumped and he dropped his eyes, 
chewing his lip. The revolver slapped against his 
thigh softly. After a deep breath, Sauceda slapped it 
again, an unconscious gesture, apparently just needing 
to feel something solid and real on the end of his arm 
while he came to a decision. He nodded without 
glancing up.
 
"Okay, then, Marty." 

Mulder watched him move to the headboard and pull back 
the bedspread. Sauceda walked as though through water 
and it took several grabs before he located the sheet. 
He tossed the corner of it aside, then took a moment 
punching the pillow back into shape, dully pounding 
out the impression Mulder's head had left on it. The 
pillow endured the assault patiently, Mulder watching 
in fascination. Satisfied at last, Sauceda shoved the 
weapon beneath the pillow, then stood, staring at it. 

"Len--?"

Mulder didn't complete the sentence. Sauceda had 
pounced at the pillow again, holding it pressed down 
tightly with both hands. Mulder was struck with the 
idea of Sauceda trying to smother his own revolver. 
Somehow, though, it just wasn't very funny. 

Sauceda regarded him over his shoulder. "Our secret. 
Right, kid?"

Mulder blinked, lost in this impetuous maze. His 
conscious mind said he was a fool. Said that Sauceda 
was an even bigger one. That one of them was obviously 
having a nervous breakdown. Mulder's unconscious mind, 
however, was ominously still, conspicuous by its 
silence. 

Sauceda straightened, still watching Mulder, and 
chewing his lip again. He rubbed his hands on his 
thighs, scrubbing like something had soiled his palms. 
Mulder was reminded, oddly enough, of a picture he'd 
seen once during a rare trip to a friend's Sunday 
school class: Pilate drying his hands before the 
screaming mob. It had fascinated him all those years 
ago and he saw it again in dreams occasionally even 
now: the too-vibrant colors, the flat, empty faces 
portrayed by the artist. Pilate's hands crumpling that 
crimson cloth.

Sauceda managed a hollow smile, despite the fact that 
Mulder hadn't answered. "Right then," he chirped. 
"That's, uhm-- that." He said it like some business 
had been settled, and like he was glad of it without 
knowing exactly what business it was he had settled. 
Damned if Mulder could tell him. "Come on, kid--" 
Sauceda waved an arm awkwardly and Mulder thought at 
first he was going to be slapped. Or hugged, God 
forbid. "Let's go eat--"

"I'm not hungry." Mulder growled the words, fighting 
for the anger that had so insulated him of late. It 
was a familiar shield, a well-worn armor, and slipped 
easily into place now. It lent a straightness to his 
spine, steadiness to his limbs and he stood. The 
motion was abrupt, electric, and Sauceda stepped back, 
wary and suddenly anxious. It was Mulder's turn to 
cross to the window. He tugged the sheers aside and 
stared out without really seeing. DC at night was like 
most any other city, anyway. 

He felt Sauceda watching him and shoved his cigarette 
into his mouth just to have something to be doing. 
There wasn't much of it left now and Mulder heard some 
area of his brain musing over the fact that there 
wasn't a great deal left of a lot of things in his 
life. He didn't follow the thought very far though.

"Marty?"

"I'm gonna take a nap. I'll eat later." He didn't turn 
to regard the man.

"Marty, you just took a nap--"

"So I'll take another. Or is the Bureau rationing 
sleep now?"

He took a deep drag off the cigarette without enjoying 
it. Sauceda was right. He needed to give the damned 
things up. Behind him, Sauceda shuffled, approaching, 
paused as Mulder stiffened. The same shoes shuffled 
back again, restoring the distance uncertainly.

"I didn't mean to upset you with the gun, Marty. I 
just wanted you to be safe, is all. We can't-- Purdue 
can't protect you from everything." The final sentence 
was whispered with such pain Mulder felt the hair 
stand up on the back of his neck.

"You're not going to tell me what this is about are 
you?" Mulder's own voice was soft, kinder than he 
felt. He didn't turn, giving Sauceda the privacy he 
might need to reconsider. It was Sauceda's decision, 
and the idea of forcing the old man to violate it just 
made his gut burn.

There was no response for a few minutes, although he 
thought he heard Sauceda moan just the slightest bit, 
a kind of pitiful little half-choked noise like a 
kitten might make-- 

Mulder lowered his head and swore silently.

Sauceda whispered behind him. "I can't Marty. I'm 
sorry."

The answer echoed in the room and Mulder's mind echoed 
Purdue's voice right behind it: *Sauceda's tired, 
Mulder. You scare him. You know that?*

"You're gonna do okay, though, kid. Right? Purdue'll 
keep your back covered. And Fowley won't be such a bad 
partner once you set her straight. Besides, she's got 
better legs than me." 

Even with his back turned, Mulder could hear the 
smile, forced as it was. He nodded, ignoring the 
invitation to provide information on his emotional 
state. He just didn't have any at the moment. He knew 
only that he couldn't step out that door and pretend 
anymore. Not for a while anyway. 

"I'm okay, Len. I'm just tired." Mulder wondered how 
many times he'd spoken that lie. Wondered how many 
times Sauceda had told similar lies to him. Wondered 
how often those lies had become the truth. Like now. 
Suddenly, Mulder felt he could sleep forever. He 
leaned his hand against the window, felt the glass 
yield-- oh so slightly-- with the pressure of his 
palm. A few more heartbeats in silence and he sensed, 
more than heard Sauceda's slow shuffle to the door. 
Felt it when he turned back.

"Marty. I-- I'll call you. You know, to keep in touch. 
Okay? Will that be okay?"

Mulder nodded, again. "Sure, Len." He was grateful for 
the window there steadying him, grateful for something 
to hold him up against the weariness. "That'd be 
great." 

Across the room, Sauceda seemed to be weighing his 
sincerity. Or maybe he'd just lost the ability to 
walk. Which ever, it was a temporary problem, and he 
moved again after a long moment, Mulder certain of 
every step he took even without seeing it. There was a 
soft *click* as the door opened slightly, Sauceda 
taking one final look, at war with himself and losing. 
Then the door closed, finally, another soft, solid 
*click.*

And even with the door between them, Mulder knew what 
Sauceda was thinking: he had made, without doubt, the 
biggest mistake of his life. 

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

9:40 PM. Embassy Suites Hotel. Room 328.


"Fox?"

There was a hand on his face. The touch was as 
tentative as a new lover's, an intimate partner not 
yet familiar with the details of his flesh, and 
uncertain of welcome. The hand pressed whisper soft, 
trailing hesitantly across his brow, lingering, 
fingers ruffling his hair. Another reticent stroke, 
down toward his neck this time, and as the palm passed 
his cheek, there was the faintest scent of lavender 
soap. The brush of manicured nails on the pressure-
points of his throat set up a vague warmth in his 
groin, then the fingers were in his hair again, gentle 
and concerned, lovingly tangling his mind around too 
many images: Phoebe giggling at him over the edge of a 
book, Rachel asleep on his arm, Kay settling her body 
across his to receive a kiss-- 

Passion, wrapped in various disguises, stirred, trying 
to free him from the paralyzing fever of his dream, 
the pounding of his heart seeking a more comfortable 
rhythm. The nightmare, however, would not be ignored. 
It retaliated viciously, dragging Kay down in its 
fathomless haze, engulfing Rachel in blood and 
grabbing Phoebe by the throat. Mulder struggled 
against the images, but could not escape the 
battlefield that lay between sleep and consciousness, 
held hostage on the front lines of his own psyche. 
Memories of what was real and what was merely imagined 
whirled like a Mobius strip, twisting round and round 
and round until he lost all sense of time and place, 
until he could no long distinguish between wakefulness 
and sleep. 

Nightmare drew the hand on his face-- soft and 
feminine-- within its world, and Mulder recalled the 
events of his dream, living them again in one 
tremendous rush: a child's giggle, a gasp. The 
explosion of a hollow point in his chest, the weight 
of his body falling backward, sprawling onto the bed. 
His sweat was blood suddenly, and it boiled like lava 
across his ribs, soaking into the tangled sheet 
beneath him. 

And the hands themselves-- the hands, so tender, 
running over his body, taking their fill of him before 
she would fill him with the blade-- 

Fingers, no longer simply dreamt, but felt, slid from 
his neck onto his chest, a gentling gesture that 
inflamed his every instinct and ignited adrenaline 
into a frenzied panic. The nightmare was no match for 
his desperation, for his will to live, and it fled, 
releasing muscles from the paralysis of sleep. Mulder 
grabbed for the woman before he even got his eyes 
open, clutching her with both hands, his chest 
screaming for air he couldn't draw in, would have no 
need for if he failed to stop her. She squealed, too 
surprised for a full-throated scream, caught 
completely off guard. He should be dead after all, 
shouldn't he? Shot through the heart. He shouldn't be 
capable--

-- Of feeling her knee in his gut as he wrestled her 
down onto the bed with him-- Of feeling her gasping, 
calling his name, pleading-- His mind had no time for 
such considerations, however. There was only one thing 
necessary. Where was the knife? Where was the fucking 
knife? Which hand--


CONTINUED IN PART 22B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:24:20 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 22B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 22B of 27:


Mulder straddled the struggling body in the darkness, 
running his palms up her arms savagely, crushing silk 
and bruising flesh, seeking her fists and the weapon 
that she surely must have ready for him. Within 
seconds he held both her hands in his-- empty! He 
pressed her deep into the mattress as she continued to 
resist. 

"Goddammit, where is it? Where's the goddam knife? 
I'll kill you right now, bitch!--"

"Fox!"

The voice was wholly, completely terrified. And 
horrifyingly familiar. Mulder forced his eyes to focus 
in the gloom.

"Diana?"

Fowley, held tight between his knees, stopped her 
struggling, wide-eyed, pupils dilated with fear. She 
nodded, too busy panting to manage words.

Mulder swore, releasing her abruptly. He scrambled 
against the rumpled bedclothes, getting himself free 
of her, of the bed. Standing was difficult, walking 
impossible, but he tried it anyway, stumbling as he 
backed away to the door. He was shivering, suddenly 
and uncontrollably. It possessed him like angry 
spirits. He was furious. With himself. With Fowley. 
With Sisyphus for not being here. For not letting him 
finally settle this--

Fowley, slowly realizing that Death had found her 
blissfully unworthy of attention, struggled to sit 
upright. One hand, guilty and shamed, fluttered to her 
throat, grasping a small chain of gold to steady 
herself. 

"I'm--" she flushed pure scarlet. "I was just checking 
on you, Fox. I didn't mean to startle you. I'm 
sorry...."

The apology and its sincerity almost strangled him. 

*You could have killed her. You would have killed her-
-* 

He remembered the feel of her body under him, the 
slender hips beneath his thighs, and snapped to the 
fact that she wasn't wearing a holster. If she had and 
he'd found the gun, if he'd had the presence of mind 
to remember *Sauceda's* gun beneath his own pillow-- 

The door frame was near at hand and he leaned against 
it, unable to walk the short distance to the sitting 
room, unwilling to abandon a victim. *His* victim.

"I'm sorry." He surprised himself that speech was 
possible.

Fowley blinked at him from the center of the bed, 
registering he knew not what. She suddenly seemed 
aware that her skirt was way too far up her hips, 
though. Mulder turned his head as she jerked at the 
fabric, making a valiant effort to back out of the bed 
and right her clothing at the same time. 

Mulder kept his eyes down. He had problems of his own. 
His shirt was soaked with sweat. Icy liquid ran down 
his body, saturating his waistband and slicking his 
hips and thighs. His jeans felt like they'd been glued 
in place. His trembling rose and fell with each breath 
and he tried to tell himself it was just the 
combination of the a/c and the sweat. More lies. 

Mulder propped himself against the door and called 
into the sitting room. "Lenny!"

"He's not here, Fox." 

Mulder glanced back, surprised by the steadiness of 
Fowley's voice, grateful for it. She was almost 
herself again: her blouse wrinkled but tucked, her 
skirt down to a slightly more modest level. She was 
busy smoothing her hair into place, using her fingers 
like a comb. 

"So where is he?" Mulder demanded. His throat burned, 
leaving his voice a harsh rasp. He hated being scared 
like this, emotions still locked somewhere in dreams, 
coloring everything that should now be reality. Light 
and shadow didn't fall quite right, either. Vague 
impressions of people not actually present still clung 
to the corners of his mind, whispering just outside 
his peripheral vision. "Why isn't Lenny here?"

Fowley frowned at his injured voice. She shook her 
head, rounding the bed, but taking each step slowly, 
afraid of startling him again. Mulder felt himself 
blush and hated that, too.

"He was next door," she tilted her head, indicating 
the wall and the suite beyond it. "He wasn't feeling 
well and decided to get some rest before his flight. 
But Purdue was called out a couple of hours ago. I 
think he may have taken Sauceda with him."

"Called out? Called out where?"

She smiled, actually smiled at him, delighted to have 
something of value to him at last. The war on the bed 
was forgotten, apparently.

"Detective Harris," she explained, "called a few hours 
ago. He'd been searching old medical records looking 
for those miscarriages you mentioned. In your 
profile." She paused, frowning again as Mulder nodded, 
trying to hurry her past ancient knowledge. She 
obviously didn't realize the problems he was having 
just standing.

She studied him, fingering her chain of gold again. 
"Anyway, Harris said one of the names rang a bell and 
he kept going back to it. Then it dawned on him. 
Cecile Fuche. Sisy-phus." She said the word slowly, 
like she feared he wouldn't note the similarities 
without such assistance. He nodded again, irritably, 
the motion painful, his head raging. Her smile 
broadened with his acknowledgement, too caught up in 
her personal triumph to note his impatience. "So 
Harris tracked her down. She fit your profile to a T, 
Fox. Full-time housewife. Husband dead about a year. 
No kids. She'd lived in Columbus but had been making 
regular trips to Wheeling since the murders there 
began. Her credit cards put her in DC now. In the 
Embassy *Square* Suites on N Street." 

Which was, what? A half block up, maybe two blocks 
over? Fowley didn't bother saying the words. They 
echoed loudly enough on their own.

"Shit!" Mulder fled, anger lending him strength. The 
room tilted a bit as he stepped through the door, and 
he caught the doorframe to right it again, willed 
himself into the sitting room. He just couldn't watch 
Fowley play with her little chain any longer. The 
television played softly, another movie no one was 
watching, Woody Allen droning endlessly. He felt 
Fowley moving up behind him, close but not touching, 
giving him a measure of personal space.

"Fox? Are you all right? I--"

"They've found her, then. It's over." His voice was 
hollow in his own ears, grating, and it hurt to speak. 
Silence, however, was impossible. "Fuck Purdue. *I'm* 
the primary agent on this case and he leaves me 
napping like some damned old man while he goes out to 
make the collar. All that bullshit about trusting him-
-"

"No, Fox. It isn't like that--" 

Mulder had reached the table and turned to squint at 
her, both hands squeezing the back of a chair for 
support as the room took another dive. "The hell you 
say--" Purdue's actions were not standard operating 
procedure. Hell, they weren't even common courtesy.

"Sisyphus checked out of her room this afternoon, 
Fox." Fowley's tone was patient but not condescending. 
"Purdue didn't want to create a SWAT situation and 
called the hotel management to put them on alert. They 
confirmed that she'd check out at 3:30 this 
afternoon." She waited for some sign of surprise or 
disappointment, shrugged when none seemed forthcoming. 
"Evidence techs are going over her hotel room, and 
meanwhile we've got an APB out for every cab, bus, 
plane and rental car company in three states. We'll 
find her, Fox. And you'll be there. It's still your 
case."

Mulder shook his head, regretting the motion when the 
room whirled a bit faster. This time it showed no sign 
of slowing. He swore, blinking hard, trying to clear 
the doubled vision just behind his eyes. The nightmare 
was far from being done with him, but the impressions 
it had left him were too confused to be easily 
categorized and dealt with. Too many of the images 
just held no connection to the others: a motel room, a 
suburban sidewalk, a child's scream, a body across a 
bed. A wooded lot, trees and roots that tripped and 
tore. A gunshot, a strangulation-- his Adam's apple 
still throbbing from the pressure of the hands around 
his neck-- 

Not Sisyphus' hands, either. Too strong, too large. A 
man's hands. Besides, Sisyphus wouldn't kill with her 
bare hands. A gun, a silk tie she could hold by the 
very ends-- these were close enough for her. She 
enjoyed the feel of death but was still too squeamish 
to thrill to the sensation of the actual dying. Such 
intimacy embarrassed her. 

Tonight there had been more than one dream, then. More 
than one murder. And more than one murderer, with 
separate crimes having nothing to do with one another, 
nothing in common. Except that Mulder was privy to 
them both, tripping over them tangled together in the 
darkness, defenseless in his sleep. Two against one.

Had they caught that bastard in Fredericksburg? Damn 
them--

Caught in the emotional upheaval of other people's 
destructions, Mulder tried concentrating on his 
breathing, something rational and normal, something he 
could control. Fowley took a step forward and he 
jerked away, moving into the room, refusing to look at 
her further.

"Call Purdue," he demanded.

"Fox, he swore he'd call before they made an arrest--"

"No, dammit, *call* him. Tell him to search her hotel. 
The other rooms. There's a body there somewhere." He 
licked his lips. "I'll lay money on it." 

He didn't need a dream to tell him the truth of it. 
The similarities in the names of the hotels were 
enough: Sisyphus knew where he was. There had been no 
error on her part. She was simply teasing again, 
playing with Purdue and his best-laid plans. And that 
meant she had plans all her own. Purdue would have 
guessed that much, though.

Fowley was searching his face. He realized the fact 
but refused to return the regard, focusing instead on 
the not-quite empty air just above her head. She 
didn't stare long, however, and she didn't argue. The 
phone was in her hand in a minute. She dialed without 
hesitation. 

"Do you want to speak to him?" she asked as she waited 
for the line to answer. 

Mulder gave a brief twist of his head in response. He 
felt far too ill, suddenly, the room too close, too 
warm, surreal within his epidemic lack of clarity. His 
skin crawled with the sensation of touch, the careful, 
proficient hands of Sisyphus-- no, Cecile Fuche. 
Beautiful name. As she had been beautiful once. Too 
many years ago now, she would say. And how did he know 
that she would say so? He wondered at his certainty, 
wondered why such things should be so important now. 

"It's bad, isn't it?" 

Her voice, Fowley's voice, startled him with its 
proximity, and he realized that some minutes must have 
passed: the phone was back in its cradle and she was 
watching him. She maintained a respectful distance, 
certainly, but those eyes would not release him, 
concerned and expectant, her body turned slightly away 
in an attempt not to be too invasive, fingers tense on 
her necklace, a private talisman. Mulder squinted, 
trying to determine if there was some small charm 
attached to the chain, an amulet, perhaps, a cross. 
There was nothing.

"Fox?"

"What?" He asked the question, but slowly, wanting no 
answer, wanting no one to be there to need an answer. 
He wanted to be alone. He really *needed* to be alone-
-

"I've read your other cases, Fox." Her voice was 
careful, but intent as if the words were being dragged 
from her. "You're a fine investigator. But some of 
it..." she bit her lip against his silence, his 
refusal to look directly at her. "After a while," she 
insisted, "you know who the next one is, don't you? 
Not a name or enough to pick them out of an entire 
city, but you can describe them, know how they're 
going to die--"

"Like shit." The room was closing in, the violence of 
his dreams catching up with him, and Mulder trembled 
against the inevitable. There was a Doppler shift in 
the light beyond Fowley's head, a subtle alteration in 
the color of the wall in just that particular spot. 
Air, taking shape--

Fowley stared at him, not bothering to hide her 
frustration. "You're denying it? Police and sheriffs 
in over a dozen counties have falsified reports 
regarding your work?" 

Mulder's arms flinched up across his chest, fingers 
digging into his arms, talons to hold himself still, 
to protect himself from the explosion building within. 
Fowley's voice echoed in his head and he saw Kay, her 
face bruised, one eye puffy. *He'd* done that. He 
could do it again. When the visions overcame him like 
this, he was capable of anything--

"Or is it shit because you wish you hadn't told them?" 
Fowley demanded, oblivious to the roar in his head, 
the fear making his heart skip. "Because it did no 
good: they still didn't find them in time and you came 
so close to being labeled psychotic yourself? You know 
what I think?" she plowed on, ignoring his grunt. "I 
think you know more than you're telling even now. Not 
enough to stop the killings, you're not that cold-
blooded, but things that they'd put you away for just 
for knowing--"

"What will it take?" he pleaded. He shouldn't be 
pleading, dammit, but he was lost and losing more 
ground with every second. "For five minutes alone? 
What do I have to do?" He backed away from her, moving 
slowly, cautious in spite of his terror, not trusting 
his eyes to see the truth of things, the location of 
things. The figures were moving, slipping in and out 
of his peripheral vision, walking along the walls and 
whispering. Soon he'd be able to hear only them if he 
wasn't careful--

Fowley, however, didn't see them. "Fox. I... Paterson 
showed me your journal. The one he took from you in 
Shreveport."

Mulder froze, the shadows dancing now.

"I only read a few pages," Fowley continued, biting 
her lip against the intensity of his face. "On the 
third victim. Jenny Weidenfield."
 
Mulder turned back to glance at her, remained there, 
caught in some kind of spell. His eyes were hypnotic 
as she made her confession, and Fowley was unable to 
hold the words back, charmed by the cobra's gaze as 
Mulder focused on the wall just beyond her shoulder, 
squinting like the light hurt his eyes.

"You wrote what you couldn't tell the sheriff," she 
said and her voice quavered slightly. "How she'd 
believed this was happening to her because she'd 
stolen her brother's X-Man comics and hid them under 
her bed. That she was so sorry for having done it, but 
the killer just told her to shut up when he... before 
he silenced her. You were angry that... that no one 
would ever know how sorry she was or how much she 
liked cherry ice cream. That her favorite color was 
yellow and that she had a crush on Ernie, that little 
muppet on Sesame Street. And you couldn't tell them 
for her. Because that just wasn't done. That was 
certifiable insanity."

She bit her lip again and Mulder blinked as one of the 
shadows stepped from the wall beside her and walked 
unperceived across her face. Mulder's eyes followed 
the fleeing specter. The shadow turned to regard him, 
the rapt face of a child, and he turned away abruptly. 

"I'm going to take a shower," he rasped. Hide behind 
the wall of water where they wouldn't come.... Maybe, 
too, it would wake him up from this nightmare, wash it 
all away... And if it didn't, well, Fowley wouldn't be 
so close when it all went to hell--

Fowley followed him into the bedroom, silent, 
watchful, allowing him several lengths of distance. He 
walked faster, retreating before her advance but 
unable to run. He stumbled, tugging off his shirt as 
he reached the bed. He was shaking, and it was from 
fear. Fear because the tide was turning, the spook was 
rearing up to take control and the sea of madness was 
not so far behind him now. Fear because Fowley was 
here, an unknown quantity, would be here when the wave 
hit, and he had no guarantees that he could spare her 
from it, how it would react to her presence. He 
turned, a final effort.

"Diana, you need to leave me alone." His voice was a 
rasp, viciousness forced but unwavering. There was a 
thinly-veiled threat in his posture, in his tone, that 
froze her where she stood. No, this-- this wasn't 
right. He shouldn't be panicking her. He should be 
reassuring her that all was well-- God, he really 
wasn't handling this very well-- Mulder decided to try 
to recover the situation, tried exuding reassurance he 
didn't have.

"I just want to take a shower," he repeated 
rationally.

"I'm not stopping you, Fox." She blinked twice, body 
stiff, quite still, voice carefully patient. She was 
good. He'd give her that much.

"I'm not leaving the damned door open. Understand?"

She favored him with that appreciative brow again, so 
oblivious to the whispers in his head, unconcerned 
that several people had just stepped through her, 
fanning out through the bedroom to take their 
positions. "Not *every* woman on this planet is hot 
for your body, Agent Mulder," she quipped. "Don't give 
me a reason to come in there and I won't."

Mulder didn't answer, couldn't think clearly enough to 
speak. He stumbled for the dresser, amazed that he 
could recall that he would actually need clothes-- 
froze to find a little figure between him and the 
dresser. She smiled at him. She had two front teeth 
missing, and a memory he could not possibly possess, 
recalled itself to Mulder suddenly: a bedroom done up 
in pink wallpaper and Barbie sheets. The little girl's 
excitement as she'd slipped the teeth beneath her 
pillow. Last week. Just last week, she'd placed two 
tiny teeth under her pillow. Just last week she'd 
knelt down to say her prayers and said an extra one 
for the Tooth Fairy, requesting safety for her 
journey. 

She giggled at him now, teeth still missing, standing 
there a foot away from him, knowing his thoughts. *You 
didn't pray for yourself, though, did you?* he wanted 
to scream at her. She shook her head, the smile never 
dimming, and stepped aside to let him pass. 

Mulder grabbed the dresser to keep from falling down, 
fumbling for the knob only on instinct. It took 
concentration just to convince himself he was still 
sane. 

Fowley watched his choices: jeans, T-shirt, socks-- 

"No, Fox," she commanded imperiously. "Just underwear 
while you're in the bathroom. You can wrap up in a 
towel and change when you're back in the bedroom. 
Sauceda's orders."

"Screw Sauceda," Mulder hissed, slamming the drawer 
and yanking open another. He wasn't certain he could 
walk just yet, anyway.

Fowley's voice was caustic with sarcasm. "You screw 
Sauceda, sir. Just underwea--"

"Goddammit--"

"Look. You want an argument? Fine. We'll stand here 
and argue. I can do that in spades. And I'll win." She 
crossed her arms as he spun around to face her, but 
she took a step back. Just one step before she caught 
herself. Her voice was steady. "I'm under orders, sir. 
You're not taking anything but your jockeys in there 
with you. Argue with me and you'll be streaking."

Mulder's clothes twisted in his fists. Shadows, flung 
at light speed, splattered across the wall, turning 
slowly, peeping out at him from around the framed 
prints and the drapery. Were they retreating? Or 
regrouping? There was a horrifying pressure in his 
chest that he was supremely grateful for. It helped 
him to concentrate.

"I-am-not-going-to-hurt-myself." His voice was hard. 
He wondered why he should find it so important for her 
to believe him. 

"I'm glad to hear it," she answered reasonably. "Then 
you'll have no objections to the order."

Mulder hurled his collection of clothes onto the bed. 
"First you're reading my journal, now you're telling 
me what I can't wear--"

She took a deep steadying breath. "I'm sorry, Fox. I 
had no more right to read it than Patterson had to 
steal it. But I didn't know you then. I apologize--"

"Fuck you. You don't know me *now.* Don't you 
patronize me. Don't you *ever* patronize me. I'm 
taking this shower. You understand? And I'm locking 
the door." If Mulder's eyes got any darker, they'd be 
bleeding.

Fowley licked her lips. She formed the words 
carefully. "The locks, sir, have been removed. 
Purdue's orders."

He stared at her. She temporarily stopped breathing 
and her eyes changed to Kay's again. Kay standing 
shivering in a motel room with a maniac three steps 
away--

Mulder slammed against the dresser in his panic to be 
free of her, to have her at a safe distance. She 
stepped back as he passed her-- several steps this 
time, body tense-- but Mulder didn't notice, intent on 
his new mission. He stumbled to the bathroom door and 
checked the lock. There wasn't one. 

*Jeezus god, Jeezus god--* 

Terror overcame him. He was trembling again and it had 
nothing to do with locks. Locks were suddenly, 
however, his only frame of reference, the most 
important things on earth. He scrambled back to the 
bedroom, Fowley wide-eyed and open mouthed as she 
watched him from a safe distance. No lock on the 
bedroom door and he slammed it into the wall. He spun 
to flick on the light switch and scan the room. All 
the exposed electrical sockets had been sealed. The 
bedroom phone had been removed to avoid any nasty 
entanglements with the goddam twisted little cords--

Mulder paced back through the suite, ignoring the 
shadows dancing after him: the little hall to the 
bedroom, the cramped, empty bathroom, the sitting room 
with its half-assed kitchenette. The bar was locked. 
The glasses on the shelf above it were soft plastic. 
He slapped at them, jerking a drawer open: cheap 
plastic utensils and no knives. There was a stained 
ring in the Formica where the Mister Coffee should 
have been--

The entire suite had been politely and efficiently 
childproofed, probably before they'd even allowed 
Mulder into the hotel. And except for the bathroom 
mirror, he hadn't even noticed. They must have been 
laughing their asses off--

"Shit!" Didn't they see? Didn't they understand? If 
he'd wanted to kill himself, all he'd had to do was 
stay home and wait for Sisyphus to do it for him-- or 
just use Lenny's gun. "Fucking hell!"

And Fowley had followed him again. Still giving him 
distance, but following, silent as he slammed cabinet 
doors and overturned chairs, using every word of 
profanity he'd ever learned.

Adrenaline poured off him with the sweat. He was lost 
now, completely unable to turn the tide of mania 
threatening to engulf him. He could feel it, a hot 
breath rasping against the back of his neck, and there 
was no place to hide from it, no place he could run--

He spun around anyway, fleeing back the way he'd come. 
Fowley flinched as he passed her, and he stopped, 
frozen with the sudden realization of how truly 
vulnerable she was--

Facts ran helter-skelter with the fear now as he 
stared at her: she was a woman, not exactly dressed 
for a fight. He outweighed her by a good fifty pounds 
and he'd had just as much training as she had, maybe 
more. Some twisted part of his mind rolled over with 
the comforting thought that she'd hesitate to use a 
gun on him even if she had one. It was the same set of 
warped brain cells that made him equally conscious of 
the fact that he was only half dressed and she was 
breathing too hard. 

*God damn Purdue.* 

Mulder backed away, putting a additional yard of space 
between himself and his soft-eyed warden. Fowley was 
pale, breathing through her mouth.

"Do you want me to call Sauceda?" she asked softly, 
apparently not knowing anything else to say.

*It's too late, it's toolate, it'stoolate...* 

"I don't need Sauceda," he rasped, a plea he scarcely 
had words for. "I just need to be alone right now."

"Fox," she caught herself pleading, and choked on the 
words, regaining her composure with supreme effort. "I 
can't trust you alone. Purdue's orders."

Mulder bit back more profanity, jerking with it 
anyway.

"Just ten minutes," he managed finally. "Diana. Just 
ten minutes. You stand outside the door. In the hall. 
And then I'll let you back in."

"Fox, would you like something to calm you down--"

"It's too late for drugs. Help me, Diana. Please. Just 
ten minutes. Not a second longer. I promise. I'll be 
okay. I swear."

She trembled against the sweat making her blouse 
stick. He licked his lips at the sight of her, 
panicked and trembling and wrapped in softly revealing 
silk. He closed his eyes against the image, shocked 
that his mind could still go there even now. Marveled 
that her voice could be so steady.

"I know you need to feel in control of your life," she 
was reasoning aloud, the psychobabble he'd used too 
many times in similar circumstances. "I know you need 
the time to yourself, I just can't give it to you 
right--"

"You don't know shit," he hissed. "Don't tell me what 
I need."

"Then what the hell does ten minutes buy you?" She was 
shouting finally, the fear and confusion too much. 
"What is it you need to do in ten minutes that I have 
to be outside the damned door--"

Her loss of control was all Mulder needed to slip 
headfirst into chaos. It all snapped suddenly. He 
closed the distance between them, stalking, eyes hard, 
beyond reason. He watched her flinch but kept walking. 
He pronounced his words deliberately, desperately. 
"I'm not going to *do* anything. I just need the time. 
I need to be alone. I need you to leave me alone." It 
was a mantra now and even he wasn't hearing it.

She swallowed hard, looking up at him, his face inches 
from her own. She took a deep breath. And braced 
herself.

"No," she whispered.

He grabbed her upper arms-- more gently than she would 
have given him credit for-- but firm enough to lift 
her from the floor. She knew, somehow, that his 
intention was simply to get her out the door. It 
didn't make her fight any less desperate, however, as 
he carried her across the room. They had the same 
training but he had size and desperation on his side 
of the balance sheet. And this was one argument he was 
determined to win.

She struggled wildly, twisted in his hands. Mulder 
held her upper arms pinned to her body, however, and 
her nails scratched uselessly at his elbows, trying to 
claw at his bare chest. She twisted her hips, legs 
flailing to trip him up. He held her too close to knee 
him effectively, but he jerked anyway, twisting her to 
his left side. Her heels slammed hard into the wall, 
and then suddenly she was kicking at the door, pushing 
with everything she had, trying to keep him from the 
doorknob. 

Christ, wasn't there anyone out there to hear--

But no. No one was expecting attack from the inside. 
Not on the third floor.

Fowley braced herself to scream, to make herself heard 
by the agents in the lobby three floors down. One 
final kick, however, and Mulder had finally lost his 
grip. She slipped from his grasp, feet still flailing, 
her shout nothing more than a surprised "Oh!" 

Mulder grabbed her up on instinct, trying to protect 
her from the fall even as he struggled against his own 
overwhelming demons. His hands found her waist, the 
small of her back, and he had a clear vision suddenly 
of a wall in a diner, a petite brunette stumbling, 
laughing as he caught her-- 

Fowley wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs 
around his hips, instinctively allowing him to gather 
her up, and they stumbled together until her back was 
against the door. Mulder was panting, certain he would 
faint from lack of oxygen, longing for the event. 
Still, Fowley refused to yield her ground. 

"By God," she gasped, "if I'm going out the door 
you're coming with me--"

Mulder gulped air, trembling, his cheek against her 
ear, her hair plastered to his face, the silk of her 
blouse stuck tight against his chest. 

Her breathing was just as frantic as his own. "You 
can't do this to me, Fox Mulder." He could have sworn 
she was crying. "You can't. I'm staying. 
I'mstayingI'lmstayingI'msta-"

He shut his eyes against her voice, against her 
breath, hot and sweet as feather kisses on his chest. 
His body was braced no longer against her struggle, 
but against his own approaching defeat. He shook with 
the effort to choke back the tide but it was hopeless. 
He couldn't spare her. The wave broke over him in a 
flash of blinding agony, his head exploding with the 
force. It tore down his neck and slammed into his 
chest and his body clenched with the sudden impact.


CONTINUED IN PART 22C

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:24:26 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 22C of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 22C of 27: 


Fowley cried out in terror at the convulsive 
transformation. Mulder registered her panic and 
released her abruptly, slamming both fists into the 
solid door to either side of her, seeking pain-- 
anything that would drive the horror away. Fowley 
cringed against the violence but refused to let go her 
grip. 

The howl that escaped him was pure animal, absolute 
pain.

He swore all the way down to the floor as he 
collapsed, swore because he was collapsing, swore 
because she was here to see. Fowley held him tight, 
crumpling down with him. He didn't resist her, pulled 
her to him instinctively as the sobs shook him. 

This was no cry of release, no washing of shame. It 
was hard and violent and harrowing. It made her body 
ache as it rattled though his chest and into her own. 
Her bones screamed in echo against the onslaught.

She said not a word. No soft cooing noises, no sighs 
of reassurance. She had none. Nothing was adequate for 
this. Nothing in her experience could have equipped 
her for it. All the pain Mulder had feared to lash out 
with, he turned resolutely in upon himself. 

In his last vestige of conscious reason, he released 
her, throwing his arms wide across the floor. Fowley 
refused to let him go, however. She feared him as much 
in that moment as she had when he'd raised his fists, 
but she clung all the tighter. Draped across his 
chest, her legs wrapped across his hips, she held him 
fast and he was powerless to prevent her. Her hands on 
his neck were cool, motionless. Her breath was warm on 
his chest. Her lips touched him occasionally, moved to 
the hollow of his sternum in what might have been a 
caress had he been conscious enough to comprehend.

She waited with him for the grief to concede. Not 
abate, not dissipate, just surrender to exhaustion. It 
was a long wait, it felt like hours. And still she 
held him, her hair fanned across his chest, and he 
allowed it, words and motion beyond him.

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The bulb in the bedside lamp was amber, and the shade, 
a dusky Indian red, filtered the glow even further, 
casting the room in hellish hues. The air belied the 
illusion, however. It was getting steadily colder in 
here. The thermostat dutifully registered sixty-two 
degrees, as ordered, and turning his coat collar up 
wasn't proving to be much of a defense. A flick of the 
switch and the bright white of the overhead bulb would 
dispel both darkness and damnation, if not the chill. 
Still, he made no move to the appropriate wall. There 
was no particular reason for his failure to do so. Not 
now, anyway. But the softer light held the illusion of 
warmth, at least. It was even kind of homey, if you 
were into that kind of thing. 

Alex Krycek, however, was most decidedly not into that 
kind of thing. 

What he was into, at the moment, was a quiet bit of 
search and seizure. Nothing too obvious, of course, 
nothing that would be missed or couldn't be explained. 
An incriminating letter, perhaps. A list of lucrative 
telephone numbers. Or -- dared he hope? -- a journal, 
like the one he'd found in New Mexico, filled with 
formulas and scientific tables. And some very 
interesting notes. After three years, Krycek's cache 
was small, certainly, but carefully hoarded: a tiny 
phone book in a safe deposit box in Evanston, 
Illinois, three cryptic letters strewn from Akron to 
Portland. The journal bided its time in a coffin 
buried in a quiet Houston cemetery -- a kind of secret 
insurance policy, the cash value yet to be determined.
 
He'd been here only a few minutes, but had scanned the 
room thoroughly. No surprises in the bathroom: he'd 
checked the toilet tank both inside and out, patted 
down the small collection of towels, shaken the 
shampoo bottles for tell-tale rattles. The closet had 
yielded a suit jacket and the ubiquitous trench coat. 
The pockets of both had been empty, and he left them 
hanging, none the worse for his molestation. A pair of 
brogans under the bed, a candy wrapper. Magazines on 
the night stand: *Newsweek,* *TV Guide* -- open to the 
crossword section -- and *Cosmo.* No extraneous notes 
or papers shook loose. 

Krycek opened the drawer with a gloved hand and found 
a weapon and a wallet. A trim, no-frills Smith and 
Wesson, .38 caliber. The wallet held credentials. The 
badge reflected the light above it, "F.B.I." burning 
with maddening flames.

"Shit!" Krycek hissed. The Brit was playing it close 
to the edge here. Krycek's mind whirled and he felt 
dizzy for a moment. Another bit of heated swearing 
made him feel better, though. Hell, he'd taken out 
bigger fish than this, he supposed. What was one more 
badge? At least the name on the ID confirmed that he'd 
taken out the right target. Krycek considered his 
motions over the past quarter hour, recalling details, 
turning them over, reassuring himself that there was 
no trace evidence to worry about. He shoved the items 
back into the drawer, and moved across the room to the 
dresser. His motions were silent, efficient. Like most 
predators.

The light, such as it was, followed him, bathed him, 
licking tormented flames across his back, painting the 
soft leather of his jacket with a reddish gore. The 
glow threw his shadow before him and it stretched, 
unnoticed, climbing the wall, lumbering and alien. 
Krycek continued his advance, and the shadow twisted 
its head and shoulders flat across the ceiling, 
paused, hunched, sighed. 

He pulled the first drawer open and blinked down into 
the well of darkness. His orders had been precise: 
nothing was to be disturbed except the target. The 
words rolled over in his head, reverberating in that 
clipped British tone that too often grated down his 
spine. It was all so cloak and dagger, so dark, he'd 
often wondered if he'd hired himself into some old B-
movie crew, a badly scripted film noir, its characters 
moving only in shades of gray: pitch black against 
charcoal against slate against ash against blinding 
white.

"The presentation of the target," he was reminded, "is 
essential." Well, wasn't it always? "No deviation from 
your explicit orders will be tolerated. You have no 
personal agenda here. Understood?" 

No matter how absurd it got, Krycek never laughed. 
There was a knife-edge to the old Brit's voice, a 
less-than-subtle reminder of the dagger that lay 
ready, always ready, even beneath the old man's most 
casual conversations. He had no doubt that the Brit 
would cut him in half as soon as look at him. And 
probably would, someday. 

Krycek's response had been calculatedly indifferent: 
"Of course," the slight elevation of one eyebrow 
simply repeating the words. It was a pro forma 
response, nerveless, the bravado of the terminally 
criminal. Sometimes Krycek wondered why they let him 
live. The possible answers to that question made him 
sweat in spite of the cold. 

He explored the recesses of the drawer with his gloved 
palm, probing to assure himself that it was indeed 
empty and not merely a trick of shadows. The second 
drawer held someone's sweater. Krycek patted it down, 
motions careful but quick, the activity a reflex, 
skillfully honed. Again, nothing.

He moved on to the third drawer, a fourth, his 
reflection in the mirror mimicking his movements. The 
face in the mirror was young, impossibly so, ashen in 
the shadows, blood-red when he turned just a bit, 
catching the light. Krycek was twenty-three going on 
thirteen, face smooth as a mannequin, scrubbed and 
ready for the back-to-school sales, inoffensive as 
Mary's lamb. His eyes glittered in the ambered light, 
green flecked with crimson and orange, feral. 

Krycek failed to notice this reflection. And what of 
it? They say only the mad truly see their own face, 
after all. A man -- a sane man -- will steal and lie, 
stab his colleague in the back, then excuse himself to 
the men's room to wash the blood from his hands. He'll 
glance up into the mirror then, adjust his tie or pat 
down his hair. And the glass will give back only a 
preordained reflection, the barest statistics of what 
is viewed. The simple truth is: the soul has no two-
way mirrors, no observation portal into the 
interrogation room where the truth awaits, wringing 
its hands, eager to speak and be done. Truth is a 
prisoner relegated, without trial, to the darkest 
recesses of the spirit. Truth is an abomination and 
the mind cannot abide it. It is a horror that the 
heart refuses even to consider. 

Krycek -- and his shadow brooding above -- hesitated 
as a thought crossed his frontal lobe. A small twitch 
of vision, a tightening of the skin along one cheek. A 
blink and you missed it.

Done with the drawers, Krycek moved to check the back 
of the dresser itself. He pressed his shoulder to the 
wall, his shadow collapsing down upon itself, close as 
his breath. He stretched to pat down the back of the 
dresser mirror. Nothing taped to the rough wood, 
nothing clinging to the papered backing of the glass. 
This assignment would be a dry run, then. He didn't 
allow himself the luxury of disappointment; most of 
the time, he walked away with nothing. At least this 
time he'd had time to look.

"Theirs not to reason why," Krycek chanted softly in 
the gloom. "Theirs but to do or--" He failed to 
complete the quote. It was bad luck to speak of one's 
own death and he had enough to answer for tonight 
without brokering Fate face to face. He glanced back 
at the man in the bed: the tousled curls, dark beneath 
the light, one arm flung in careless repose above his 
head.

Krycek froze as a voice penetrated the wall next to 
his ear: a gravelly tenor, not quite distinct enough 
to be translated. He listened, cheekbone tight against 
the wallpaper. A door slammed somewhere and there was 
the slightest answer in the reverberation of the wall. 
It vibrated his teeth softly. Again the voice, oh, so 
brief. A private dispute, surely; nothing that would 
concern him. Back, then, to the business at hand.

He turned, noting the dark shadow of a suitcase next 
to the chair. Possible treasure? One last look and 
then he'd be gone. He scooped up the battered old case 
and dropped it onto the bed. It bounced once, 
dangerously close to the foot peeking out from the 
rumpled blanket. The foot failed to note its peril, 
but Krycek slid the suitcase over a few inches, 
anyway, mindful of the blood soaking out across the 
sheet. 

He'd been given a .22 Ruger for this assignment, 
untraceable, naturally-- standard issue for an 
assassin unless the client wanted something truly 
messy. The death itself was to be clean, he'd been 
told, the mess to be made afterward. Krycek had 
recognized the MO from local newspaper reports but 
hadn't commented. He'd parroted any number of crimes 
in the past few years. The ballistics wouldn't match, 
of course. The details wouldn't be exact. But then, 
they didn't have to be. They just needed to be close 
enough for law enforcement to dismiss the crime as a 
copycat. Business dispatched, a threat eliminated, and 
no nasty questions left to answer. Again, for Krycek, 
it was all routine. 

The first part of the night's business had been 
accomplished easily enough. Entry hadn't been 
difficult. He was slender and athletically inclined, 
and the ventilation system was more spacious than 
most. Besides, his tool kit would make a CIA operative 
blush with envy. Krycek had popped the screws and 
shimmied through the one-by-two grate in the ceiling 
of the bathroom. Lowering his long frame carefully, it 
was ease itself to drop soundlessly to the tile. His 
shoes were still in the airshaft, awaiting his return. 

It had been a nice clear shot, too. The man in the bed 
had already been dead to the world, so to speak, sound 
asleep as Krycek had been promised. A soft snore had 
greeted his arrival. The silencer had muffled enough 
of the blast for neighbors to mistake it for a sound 
effect on a television program; meanwhile, the old man 
had never known what hit him. He lay exactly as he had 
when Krycek had entered: flat on his back, mouth open, 
the hand above his head resting against the headboard, 
palm up, the other hand tangled in the blanket. The 
eyes were open now, though -- a reflex just before the 
heart had failed -- but the face was still pleasantly 
serene. 

Krycek frowned into the suitcase. The old boy's mother 
would have been proud: a dozen pairs of clean 
underwear gleamed at him in bleached cotton splendor. 
Some files had been slipped between the boxers and the 
rumpled collection of shirts: autopsy protocols, 
mostly, and a manila envelope filled with Polaroids. 
Krycek shuffled through them without interest. There 
was nothing important here, nothing not attainable 
from other sources. The phone book, black and well-
thumbed, was an enticement he couldn't resist, 
however. Krycek scanned it eagerly, the pages tinted 
pink by the light: various first names, written in an 
orderly hand, probably just friends and family, a 
bank, a dentist, dry cleaner and pharmacy. Krycek 
pocketed the book for later investigation, but without 
much hope of finding anything useful. He took a moment 
to scan the contents of the shaving kit: an electric 
shaver, nail clippers, deodorant, toothbrush, Dentu-
Creme-- 

He dropped the kit abruptly as something slammed into 
the wall behind the dresser. Tubes and toiletries 
thumped across the carpet. Krycek slid his weapon free 
of his belt with the speed and grace of a gunfighter. 
The noise, surely made by something small and solid, 
repeated itself once more, just a few feet farther to 
his left. There was the muted echo of a grunt. 

Okay. Krycek nodded in the dark, his shadow on the 
wall repeating the gesture. They were either moving 
furniture next door or *someone* was getting some 
pretty intense sex. 

Either that, or someone was having a pretty tough time 
dying. 

As yet, however, it was none of his concern. He had a 
job to finish, and he'd wasted enough time as it was. 
He'd need to get his butt in gear before the bunch 
next door started arousing someone else's interest. 
Krycek squatted, collecting the debris at his feet, 
then paused again as a long low animal howl echoed, 
rumbling through the wall.

*Hell.* These guys just got more interesting by the 
minute. 

Krycek swore again, poking the kit into the suitcase. 
He stood, then froze as a flash of pale peach caught 
his eye. The barest corner of a sheet of paper peeked 
out at him from the edge of the suitcase's lining. A 
page of white copy paper, tinted all nice and rosy by 
the lamp shade. 

Krycek grinned. Well, well. Something hidden was 
always something worthwhile. Perhaps Fate was not as 
forbidding a lady as he'd imagined.

But it wasn't just a single paper. Instead, the lining 
yielded up an entire stack, Xeroxed copies of both 
typed and hand-written notes, tucked like padding 
beneath the quilted satin. A report of some kind. Or 
at least the foundation for one. Krycek stepped closer 
to the lamp, hunching down to decipher the scrawl. The 
old man's empty eyes watched him as he read. 

A psychological analysis, patient sessions. All 
concerning one Fox Mulder. The tickling on Krycek's 
neck intensified. He knew the name, had heard it 
alternately cursed and revered. From what little 
leaked through the impassive faces of his cancerous 
mentor and the Brit, Mulder -- the whole clan of them 
-- was a kind of personal treasure, beyond approach. 
And beyond control. From what Krycek had noted, he -- 
this Fox, specifically -- was nothing short of sacred, 
a cache against some imminent holocaust. 
  
Krycek fanned the papers carefully, considering. It 
might change his life tomorrow or it might not be 
useful for years. It might be nothing at all. Or it 
could be the fucking Holy Grail-- 

*Note!* The word caught his eye as the page flipped 
past and he scrambled to recover it: page eleven, a 
cramped scrawl of ink along the narrow margin. Krycek 
squinted, trying to decipher the quick, angular 
scribble. His own handwriting was just as bad, 
fortunately, and he had a vested interest in 
comprehending the words: 

*Re: handshake. Subject seems to have recognized my 
touch. Reacted strongly as though remembering some 
unpleasantness associated with my presence. Overt 
reactions included instant flight/fear response, 
antagonism. Subject instantly assumed control of the 
session, refusing to answer questions, distracting my 
efforts to direct topics. Arrogance to this man is an 
armor. Wit is dangerously sharp. Subject is capable of 
extraordinary malevolence which, while impersonal, is 
disturbing in the accuracy of its aim. I sense that he 
knows me. I believe he senses it as well, while not 
comprehending how. Speculation: Is this a 
manifestation of subject's attempted abreaction? Is 
his reaction to my touch a spontaneous revivification 
of past tests? Is he subconsciously recalling 
repressed events, events that he finds consciously 
intolerable? Postulated: We have succeeded in 
controlling the memories from the subject's conscious 
mind. Have we failed to do the same with his cellular 
memory? Subject has proven extraordinarily adaptive -- 
is he truly capable of recalling something as basic as 
touch? If so, do we have a continence plan in place? 
Must explore possibilities with Dr. Zama--*

Krycek stared at the words, read them again, trying to 
make sense of too many things at once. Perhaps -- he 
chewed his lip, considering -- perhaps he was too 
quick to seek simple financial gains in this business. 
Perhaps, just perhaps, there was something here far 
more interesting--

Krycek folded the sheaf of papers in half and shoved 
them into the waistband of his pants, next to his 
weapon. There'd be time to contemplate the error of 
his ways later. Right now, it was his hide that needed 
saving. He restored the suitcase to its former 
location, not concerning himself with the state of the 
lining. The case was old. No one would consider it 
important, anyway.

The old man's eyes regarded him passively as he 
stepped back to the bed. They were black, jet black, 
void. Even the garish shade would not reflect in them. 
Krycek shook his head. Sometimes this job just 
required more overkill than he had the grace to 
appreciate.

The room next door remained silent. Krycek took a deep 
breath, unsheathed the hunting knife and set to work.

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:24:32 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 23A of 27
Source: xfc

Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 23A of 27: Moths to the Flame

Disclaimed in Part 1.


"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice 
remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all 
mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have 
come here."

- Lewis Carroll


 
A circle of light. A tunnel in great darkness and at 
its center, the resplendent blaze, radiant and pure, 
increasingly bright, brighter -- blinding. 

The little form was drawn to it, bidden, fearful but 
eager, a small glowing dot against the vastness of 
lucent splendor, dodging this way, that, then -- 
decision made -- soaring for the heart of glory, 
whirling, rising--

Falling, a charred husk, wings folded, useless, 
scorched. It joined its dead and dying companions on 
the concrete below, their bodies still illuminated, 
bleach white, by the electric glow that had been their 
undoing. Other companions, those yet living, danced 
high above, awaiting their turn, vying for their 
entrance into the brilliance, too dazzled to heed the 
little mound of corpses below. 

She'd watched the moths for hours as they danced 
before the security bulb across the parking garage. 
Silly little creatures. But then, aren't we all? She 
was no different, certainly, for here she sat, 
awaiting her turn with just as powerful a force. 

No. A greater one. 

She'd tried to convince herself that it was otherwise, 
that he was the moth to *her* light, bidden and 
seeking, eager. The truth, however, was quite the 
opposite; it did no good to pretend. *He* was the 
electric flame, deadly bright, the source which drew 
her forward, driving her, no other choice possible. 
She could no more avoid him than live without oxygen. 
He knew, and it comforted her that he took no pride in 
the knowledge, that he'd simply accepted it as a 
matter of course, as part of her nature. It remained 
unspoken between them, naturally. Even in the bar 
while she'd watched him eat his soup, while he'd 
watched her warily, appraising her with no hint of 
embarrassment as she sang to him. He'd been in far too 
much emotional pain to recognize her, too locked in 
grief, an ancient ache that had engulfed him long ago, 
long before she'd become aware of his existence. 

She'd regretted that, and had come to him later, to 
his apartment, hoping to heal, hoping to end it for 
both of them. She hadn't been quite ready for death at 
that moment, however, and let the opportunity pass, 
content to simply watch him sleep, a painful, nerve-
wracking activity for him, apparently. She'd availed 
herself of his spare car keys before she left, leaving 
him an earring: an exchange of personal effects as 
lovers are wont to do. 

With her second visit he had abandoned her, called 
away to see to that fool in Georgetown. She'd noted 
her displeasure, certain he would not mistake her 
determination for a proper audience.

On the third visit -- although the lock was a simple 
affair -- she'd knocked, uncertain of the drug's 
effectiveness in caffeinated beverages. She hadn't 
been entirely disappointed when the door was answered. 
She'd dealt with the man quickly: a single shot, the 
muzzle against his chest, angling upward into the 
heart. He'd jerked even before she'd pulled the 
trigger, the result of muscles primed to flee, and the 
body had bounced, falling across the table. 

There were two of them, though. She'd made note of the 
fact earlier in the evening, counting the figures 
through the windows as they'd crossed back and forth. 
So secure behind their walls, so smug, weapons ready, 
daring her to prove their prowess. Neither figure had 
been *his*, she was certain: the one too stocky, the 
other moving with such a total lack of grace-- 

With one down and one to go, she'd closed the door 
behind her, gliding silently into the apartment, into 
the living room, into *his* presence-- 

A blonde young man -- the stocky one -- had come 
barreling out at her from the bedroom. He was bleary 
with drugs and had the audacity to look surprised 
before fumbling for his gun. She'd shot him full in 
the face -- not as serious a wound as she would have 
imagined at that distance, not with a .22. Painful, 
yes. Oh, very. Almost completely incapacitating, in 
fact. Blondie dropped his weapon -- a nice semi-
automatic cannon as far as she could determine -- and 
stumbled back the way he'd come, making small choking 
noises that might have been some attempt at speech. 
She followed calmly. No one here was going anywhere; 
she had all night. Blondie noted her presence behind 
him and panicked. He fell across the bed, misjudging 
distance in his agony, and tried clawing his way to 
the far side of the mattress. She ended the struggle 
with a single shot, muzzle of her Ruger against his 
back, a clean blast through the heart, just the way 
she liked it. He flopped to his back, eyes wide, 
glassed as a china doll's, mouth gulping fish-like for 
one final gurgle. She'd wiped blood from her pistol 
using the corner of the blanket, slipped it in her 
pocket and returned to the living room.

*He* was still on the couch, waiting patiently, his 
eyes scanning frantically beneath closed lids, locked 
in his accustomed harassed slumber, so still, so thin, 
so bruised. So beautiful she'd simply stood there, 
drinking him in. Only the blaring of a television 
commercial finally forced her to move -- a profane 
hawking in the death chamber. She'd located the 
remote, her gloved finger pressing the "mute" button. 
Then she'd knelt beside him. Removed her earrings. 
Prepared for her work. Knife poised-- 

And he'd breathed. One deep, lingering breath. 

In the strobic glow of the television light, her blade 
had flashed red, green, a thousand shades of blue, and 
she'd stared, fascinated, as his chest rose with the 
process of breathing: up, up, filling with oxygen, 
rising steadily toward the point of the knife-- Then, 
even though they were surely sated, his lungs refused 
to fall for one long moment, tender skin waiting only 
millimeters from the blade, taunting death even in his 
drugged stupor. The exhale, an eternity later, had 
been just as slow, a lingering sigh, a regret. Then 
the chest had risen again, but it was too late: he had 
frozen her where she knelt. The muscles of her arm 
were suddenly fixed: elbow out and bent, knife 
clutched tightly, its tip hovering bare inches from 
the soft well of flesh that nestled between his ribs 
and sternum.

She'd sat there for over an hour. Just watching him 
breathe, again completely unable to touch him. She'd 
left him a note, more discreetly placed this time. 
Just something between the two of them, not meant for 
unworthy eyes.

This could not go on, though. This wasn't life for 
either of them, this dance, this waiting for Fate. He 
knew it as well as she did. All things being equal, he 
would have been out looking for her now, tracking her 
until she found him, but *they* wouldn't allow it. 
What did they know? To them, she was an evil to be 
captured, punished, studied perhaps. To *him,* 
however, she was no monster, no specimen to be 
bottled. To him -- she could not speak his name, would 
not even in her mind, it was magic, her particular 
magic, and called forth too much of the terrible 
future -- To him, she was not something to be 
catalogued and inventoried, filed away in his list of 
accomplishments, a freak. To him, she wasn't 
fascinating, no, not even particularly rare. To this 
man, she simply *was,* a separate entity quite beyond 
him, autonomous, sovereign. The realization thrilled 
her. Since childhood, she had gauged her right to live 
by her usefulness to another, had solidly believed 
that every breath had to be earned, or it was stolen. 
And thieves went to Hell. Her mother, haggard and 
exhausted, had been her proof. Her father had reminded 
her of the fact daily. Nightly. Her husband, too. Thus 
all her life, she'd breathed shallowly. 

Until that night with the knife, the TV light, and the 
regal form upon the couch. He'd breathed deeply, 
hypnotically, had done it again, again, and yet again 
-- and finally, she'd inhaled, too. Hesitant, chest 
muscles jerking, abdomen tensed for impact, she'd 
breathed a lungful. It had choked her, left her dizzy. 
And she'd done it again, over and over, inhaling as he 
exhaled, exhaling has he inhaled, a transference of 
mutual need, drawing in his life as he received the 
last of her humanity. Then she'd risen quietly, off to 
leave her calling card upon the body on the bed. She 
saved the one on the table for last, taking special 
care with him since he was closest to the door. First 
impressions, you know. She wanted them to understand, 
you see, wanted them to realize that she needed no 
pity, no defense, no rehabilitation. This was who she 
was. This was what made her happy: the jerking of the 
knife through sinew and flesh. The give of raw tissue, 
the occasional grating shudder through her arm as the 
blade scraped bone. It was something solid and real, 
something beyond the various shades of numbness which 
defined her routine state of existence. The sensation 
of the blood, its warm, forbidden fragrance, the color 
of rubies mesmerizing with its gloss, catching light, 
dragging it down into itself and swallowing it whole. 
She had made a mark in someone's life. There was 
someone now who would attest to her presence in the 
world. Someone who could not fail to make mention of 
her reality.

And *this,* tonight, would be her final kill. What 
pleasure would there be after him? What joy could she 
hope for without him in the world? She would end it 
then, with the same gun that would take his life. The 
next bullet in the chamber. There was a kind of 
fitting tribute in it. *He* would understand. Of 
course, he would be dead by then, beyond 
understanding, but that couldn't be helped, could it? 
She nodded, comforted. He knew she was here, didn't 
he? Waiting for him. He couldn't help but know. 

And she was not alone.

There were two agents in the garage, waiting with her. 
They were in plainclothes: jeans, t-shirts, tennis 
shoes. She knew they were agents, however, and prided 
herself with her knowledge. They'd been here most of 
the evening, stepping from their car occasionally to 
sweep the area with their flashlights, not being too 
obtrusive, switching their lights off quickly, their 
pace becoming an ambling stroll whenever a car passed 
through. She would watch one approach her vehicle, 
wait, wait, then ease herself down across the car 
seat, no sudden movements to reveal her presence 
behind the dark glass -- and he would pass, rejoin his 
partner with a shrug or a jerk of his head. They would 
then return to their own vehicle, awaiting their next 
sweep of the garage, awaiting the arrival of one 
already there. 

She'd shared dinner with them. Well, not *with* them, 
actually, but she'd eaten when they had, enjoying her 
cheese sandwich, careful to keep the crumbs off the 
upholstery, watching as his defenders sorted through 
their bag of snacks. She was close enough to see the 
glint of light off their soda cans, too close, really, 
only a few parking spaces behind them. The proximity 
didn't overly concern her. The garage was fairly dim, 
dimmer still in her particular space, and the windows 
of the Monte Carlo were heavily tinted: she was a 
shadow within a shadow -- unsuspected within the 
shadow of these, her enemies. And in *his* car. She'd 
driven it from his apartment at nightfall, right out 
from under their noses, and parked it here, in the 
very belly of the beast. There was a luxurious thrill 
to it all that was somehow excruciatingly satisfying.  

The shift change had come a few minutes after nine. 
She'd watched the activity across the expanse of the 
garage: the arrival of a dark green Impala. Her two 
companions crawled from the depths of their 
nondescript Buick and converged on the new arrivals, 
comparing notes, giving reassuring nods. One man had 
laughed deeply, the sound resonating in the concrete 
cave of cars. His partner had yawned, stretching kinks 
from his back, and she'd caught a glimpse of the 
weapon on his belt, the holster a deep shadow against 
khaki slacks.

The changing of the guard. The prince, then, was still 
within, held hostage in his small kingdom just three 
floors above. A world away. Another forbidden thrill 
shuddered through her, and she closed her eyes to 
revel in it, breathing deeply, filling her head with 
the fragrance of new car leather and the lingering 
scent of aftershave, both equally dark and masculine. 
Her right hand snaked out to stroke the leather of the 
seat beside her, her left hand raising to caress her 
headrest. His head had rested here, and now hers 
shared the same pillow. The very seat that had 
received his body -- how many times? -- now cradled 
hers and the thought made her blood pound. The vehicle 
was more than simply his. It was him. Or at least as 
much of him as she'd allowed herself to enjoy. Until 
now. Outside, the conference continued. Only the sound 
of an engine starting brought her eyes open, her focus 
reluctantly returning to the task at hand. 

The Buick pulled away with one hand waving from a 
window. There was no answering hand from the Impala. 
It took the Buick's place, backing in deftly, engine 
cutting after a brief moment, lights off immediately 
after. Her two new companions wasted no time: the 
garage echoed with the click of a car door, the dome 
light bathing both men as they crawled free of the 
vehicle, dimming again as the doors shut 
simultaneously.

The driver was the older of the pair, the short-lived 
light had revealed some gray in his sideburns. The 
face he had turned briefly toward her was calm, long 
in the chin but handsome. He was dressed better, too, 
long dark trench coat, a turtleneck and dark slacks. 
Very distinguished. She liked him instantly. She would 
kill him first, she decided, coming up on his side of 
the vehicle and shooting him in the back of the head, 
or at least as far back as his headrest would allow. 
She'd take the other one out with a shot to the face 
before he could get his gun free. She didn't have 
anything against him personally, of course: he was 
shorter, huskier, the sweater type, apparently. He 
reminded her of her husband. Shooting him would be 
easy. She imagined the series of expressions he would 
regard her with -- surprise, dismay, horror -- just 
before she pulled the trigger. One clean shot would do 
it, she was certain. And she knew, even as excited as 
she was, she wouldn't miss. 

Practice makes perfect.

Mutt and Jeff fanned out through the garage, 
flashlights at the ready, Mutt heading to her right, 
Jeff to her left. Her eyes followed Jeff and his long, 
confident strides, coat flowing regally. She lost 
sight of him as he took a turn into the darkness. She 
waited patiently, noting his progress by the bobbing 
halo of his light as it swept along the walls, the 
beam narrowing, widening, winking this way and that. 

The flash of another beam caught suddenly in her 
rearview mirror, so intense she saw stars temporarily. 
Mutt was approaching from the rear, his own beam 
twisting, looming larger, closer -- much too close. 
She waited until the light had swept right before 
collapsing abruptly down onto the passenger seat, 
silently cursing the gearshift as she slammed a rib 
against it. The light swung again, closer now, mirrors 
reflecting its progress in stereo, right to center to 
left, the beam reflecting and illuminating the 
interior of the car, her face and hands glowing hot 
white -- she just knew it, hot white -- against the 
soft black leather of the Monte Carlo. She cringed, 
willing herself smaller, smaller, smaller still, hands 
clenched against her dark sweater, face buried into 
the upholstery, heedless of oxygen, heedless of all 
but that damned searching, omniscient, omnivorous 
bulb. Footsteps echoed. Nearer -- pausing suddenly, 
leaving the blood pounding against her forehead, 
slamming against her ears. 

Her eardrums would burst. They would burst and the 
blood would run to the seat, filling the little 
hollows stitched into the leather. Surely, they had 
burst already, she imagined-- 

The shoes outside scuffed concrete, shuffling 
uncertainly. 

And then suddenly, she was in the dark again. 

It took her an eternity to realize he'd switched his 
flashlight off. Of course he had: the better to draw 
his weapon -- he made no sound, however, no demands, 
there was no sudden slamming into the vehicle, no 
shout for compliance. The shoes rasped, pacing to the 
hood of the car, pausing again. 

Even expecting it, she jerked as a voice rang out:

"Got anything?"

The voice came from the area of the front right 
fender. Mutt, but--

Jeff, nearer than before, but still approaching: "Nah. 
You?"

"Nada."
 
She had to force herself to breathe, to render enough 
oxygen to her brain to process her rare and marvelous 
good fortune. 

Mutt was blind as a bat.

She blinked, uncertain whether to believe her luck, 
wondering at some trick, some SWAT procedure that 
might be playing out at her expense. The shoes at the 
fender, however, scuffled again, away, further, 
distancing. An answering pair of soles -- Jeff -- 
approached calmly, and she waited. A car door snapped 
open, closing a moment after, the sound echoing like a 
shot within the concrete cavern, another door closing 
immediately after it, softer, but no less final. In 
the silence: the far-off wail of a siren, it, too, 
growing increasingly distant.

She lifted her head. Her shoulders. Eyes just high 
enough for her vision to clear the dash. Mutt was 
digging in the back seat. She licked her lips, stopped 
breathing temporarily as he righted himself, a flash 
of metal in his fist. A soda can. Jeff laid his seat 
back slightly, his head bobbing as he sought a more 
comfortable position.

She wasted no time clambering for the back seat.


XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 23B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:24:38 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 23B of 27
Source: xfc

Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 23B of 27: 


22nd Street, N.W., Washington, DC. 11:32 PM.


Horn blaring, Purdue jerked hard to the right, 
engaging his brakes. The Mercedes continued its 
illegal left-hand turn in front of him, never slowing, 
headlights hazy as they swept his rain-drenched 
windshield. The ASAC blinked against the glare, 
peering after the vehicle as it passed. 

*Damned diplomatic plates --* 

High-beams flashed in his rearview mirror, reminding 
him that he was now stopped in an intersection with 
his side of the traffic light still green. He nudged 
his Chrysler forward, grateful that the hotel was 
already in sight. He really should have gotten some 
sleep before deciding to take over this shift. 

*Sleep. Yeah. I knew there was something I was 
forgetting this week.*  His cell phone buzzed to life 
and he pulled to the curb in front of the Embassy 
Suites. 

*God, please--* Please let it be Jack Heller, 
reporting that his boys at Dulles had Fuche in 
custody. Or maybe a similar report from Mills whose 
team was blanketing the Metro system.... Purdue had 
units at Union Station and National Airport as well -- 
some of the most highly-skilled investigators on the 
planet at his disposal, yet every hour on the hour 
they'd managed to call in with the same pertinent 
detail: nothing. Their primary suspect had vanished 
from the face of the earth. 

Purdue slammed the Chrysler into park and pounced on 
the phone, fumbling for the button, the lights of a 
delivery truck temporarily blinding him as it passed. 
As days go, this one had been forty-one flavors of 
hell and it wasn't over yet.

It wasn't Heller. Nathan Harris' voice, too tinny 
through the electronics of the phone, greeted him 
instead. 

Purdue slumped against his car seat. He had resorted 
to pestering Harris for long-distance updates, trying 
to assuage his increasing despair. So far, Harris 
hadn't bothered to rub his nose in his misfortunes; in 
fact, the detective had endured Purdue's harassment 
with unusual grace. Personally, Purdue would have 
preferred a good cussing, anything to distract from 
the fact that he had failed to locate their assiduous 
Sisyphus. 

Harris, of course, could afford to be magnanimous: the 
Columbus PD had extended him every courtesy, even 
inviting Harris to be guest of honor as their forensic 
unit processed Fuche's home. Purdue's gut had ached to 
join them on-site, but he'd endured the ulcer 
stoically.

"What you got?" Purdue barked the question, instantly 
regretting it. Harris was working his butt off. He at 
least deserved a "Hey."

Harris allowed the oversight to pass, however, 
brimming over with information and eager to deliver. 
He'd spent the evening at their suspect's home: a 
meticulously ordered little nest in one of Columbus' 
quieter south side suburban neighborhoods. Now, they 
not only had receipts placing Fuche in Wheeling at the 
time of each murder, they had mementos: Mr. 
Businessman's cigarette lighter, Officer Kress's 
missing class ring. There were other items, too, each 
one lovingly displayed in a china cabinet in the 
living room: a tie pin, coins, a bottle cap, a spoon 
matching the pattern of silverware from apartment 304 
-- 

"We've got more mementos than we have bodies, though, 
Reg. And I don't think it's just because she took more 
than one item from some of her victims. Tell Mr. G-man 
his theory was dead on: she's well-practiced. So far, 
we've got another five unsolved murders we might be 
able to close with this one. Columbus is checking 
their books--"

Purdue let him ramble unhindered, suddenly consumed 
with the image of more recent victims, those Sisyphus 
hadn't had time to commemorate on her brag shelf. 
Purdue chewed his lip with the thought: Mr. American 
Lit -- as Mulder insisted on calling him -- Seilman... 
What mementos had Fuche treasured from them? Or-- 
sweet Jeezus, what had she taken from Mitch, from 
Gregg? A key? A lapel pin? Purdue tried to picture the 
young agents. What had they worn that evening that the 
ERT wouldn't know to account for? Had Mitch been 
wearing his class ring? What might Gregg have had in 
his pockets--? 

Even Purdue's deepest concentration, however, rendered 
the two men as little more than a blur of nondescript 
jeans and pullovers. The realization hurt. Mitch had 
been with Purdue's team for the better part of a year, 
Gregg transferring into VC only a month later. Yet 
Purdue saw clearly only one image from that night: 
Mitch's earnest face in profile, head bowed as he took 
dictation from Sauceda, Gregg behind him -- Gregg 
forever standing behind, last, like it was his 
rightful place in life -- Gregg standing behind him, 
calmly blinking. Had their faces been any clearer to 
Sisyphus? Had she taken note before she planted her 
bullets? Had she even looked at their faces, even if 
only to relish the terror in their eyes as their lives 
had flashed before them, fleeting, fleeing, gone? 

Purdue repressed his grief, compelled by the extended 
silence on Harris' end of the connection. He rubbed at 
the tension behind his eyes.

"What is it, Nat? What else?"

The detective hesitated. Purdue hadn't bothered to 
conceal the anguish in his voice. Harris had other 
concerns, however.

"Reg, she... she had Mulder's badge. And a pack of 
cigarettes with his prints. She'd scarfed a page of a 
report he was working on, too, framed it, probably to 
preserve his handwriting." There was another pause on 
the line; Purdue waited it out, concentrating on 
keeping his breathing even. "Mulder was the central 
focus on the shelf," Harris said the words with some 
amazement. "The items from the other victims were laid 
out around his stuff like offerings at some kind of 
religious shrine."

"It fits, Nat. She rearranged her focus when she found 
Mulder." Purdue's explanation was quiet, the result of 
fatigue more than patience, his grief firmly checked. 
"She read that damned article in the 'Sun' and 
reordered her entire history. Now she's got someone to 
share with." Purdue wasn't trying to pin blame, just 
stating facts, and Harris didn't burden him with 
another apology about his choice in media hounds. 

The detective cleared his throat, a quick, quiet rasp 
through the line. "Kay's heart was in the freezer. In 
a Tupperware bowl."

Purdue leaned his head against the window, rain and 
the thump of his wipers drowning out the static of the 
cell phone. Kay's missing heart had been one reason 
he'd refused to let Mulder see the report. *One* 
reason. 

A van passed, driving too fast and in serious need of 
a dimmer switch. Purdue closed his eyes against the 
onslaught of headlights. His lids lit red, 
translucent, then quickly black as the vehicle sped 
on. He kept his eyes shut, wrapping himself in the 
darkness, bright dots of remembered light dancing 
hypnotically across his blindness. Water splashed the 
window; with his head resting against the glass, 
Purdue could feel the impact of each droplet, small 
explosions, microscopic worlds destroyed with every 
passing second.

"How's the kid holding up, Reg?" Harris' voice tickled 
in his ear. Purdue could feel the echo of the words 
invading his brain, living beings, savage electric 
marauders he had no defenses for. 

"Reg? You there?" 

Purdue didn't answer immediately, busy replaying life 
as he currently knew it. Earlier in the evening, cell 
phone in hand, he'd reached his limit. Without 
thought, without plan, Purdue had driven the thirty-
five miles to Quantico and cornered Bill Patterson in 
his lair, a cluttered basement office wallpapered with 
photos of some of VICAP's most notorious cases -- 
solved and unsolved. Patterson had been as 
insufferable as ever, of course. Feet on his desk, 
he'd cleaned his nails with a letter opener, making 
the ASAC wait while he completed a call to Frank 
Black. Black was in the field, apparently, profiling a 
case somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. Purdue was 
quick to note that Bill had called Black; he noted, 
too, that Patterson's call didn't appear to be much 
welcomed. 

Patterson didn't seem to discern the fact, however, 
and Purdue marveled, not for the first time, that a 
man so well-versed in abnormal human behavior could 
perceive so little in his less criminal associates. Or 
maybe he just didn't care. Purdue opted for the 
latter, especially as Patterson's steely gaze swept 
over him, intent as an entomologist with a new species 
of bug to pin on his display. Unfortunately for 
Patterson, disaster had Purdue fairly well numbed now; 
the ASAC's feigned nonchalance had come easy. 
Patterson, realizing he was irritating no one but 
Black, cut the conversation short. 

With the master profiler off the phone, Purdue didn't 
bother with all the niceties. He told him about 
Mulder: the mood swings, the dreams, the case. Kay. To 
his credit, Patterson had listened -- truly listened. 
Deep beneath the bluster and the bullshit, Patterson 
seemed to have a genuine, if grudging, concern for his 
former protege. It surprised the hell out of Purdue. 
And frightened him a little.

Not that the man wasn't cagey. Patterson was holding 
out, all right; his answers were cautious, his body 
language betraying nothing. Purdue, watching him, 
edited his list of symptoms carefully. Patterson's 
eyes slit almost shut -- he smelled the rat -- but 
Purdue didn't relent. 

*You show me yours, Bill, I'll show you mine.* 

Patterson licked his lips, hungry for what Purdue had 
not revealed. Purdue'd be damned before he'd speak the 
words, though. The monkey blood. Patterson knew about 
it, surely, Purdue had no doubt of it. Patterson, like 
God Almighty, knew everything, except perhaps the 
current addresses of the FBI's Most Wanted -- and he 
was working on those. Patterson wouldn't give Purdue 
the pleasure of admitting to the knowledge, however, 
which spoke volumes. Purdue was willing to wager that 
the man knew what Mulder had for breakfast this 
morning.

Patterson did ask, however, if Mulder had been looking 
through other cases, if he'd been exposed to any files 
that might be preoccupying him. He glowered as Purdue 
denied it.

"*Specifically*," he growled, "anything that would 
have excited a strong *visual* connection: 
photographs, physical evidence, as opposed to 
something he'd merely heard. *Maybe,*" his voice had a 
way of raising its eyebrows, "Mulder's actual 
*presence* at a crime scene?" 

Purdue felt himself flush hot under that all-knowing 
glare, and recalled Fredricksburg: a grave in an empty 
lot, Mulder's hand, long, sensitive fingers laid 
across the chest of skeletal remains-- and Patterson 
nodded sagely. Damn the son of a bitch, he'd known 
about that little incident, too. And why not? The 
entire Bureau was buzzing with it: Spooky Mulder had 
gone for a Sunday drive and delivered thirteen 
bodies... Thirteen corpses, the work of one serial 
killer. Yet somehow, Purdue had failed to consider the 
incident even remotely relevant. It was past history, 
wasn't it? Over and done with, the Fredricksburg PD 
refusing the Bureau's offers of assistance.

He should have known better. *You screwed up, Reg. 
Just when you thought you were paying attention...*

Admitting nothing, Patterson purred. "They haven't 
caught their killer yet. You realize that, don't you?" 
And he'd picked up his pen, shifting papers on his 
desk. The audience, apparently, was terminated. 

The pen hesitated as Purdue stood, however. Patterson 
spoke without lifting his head. 

"Mulder hasn't let it go." The words were spoken with 
resolute indifference but the tip of the pen wavered. 
"He doesn't know how." 

Purdue had shown himself out of the office, his steps 
pursued by the furious scratching of that pen.

"He knows more than he's saying, Reg." Harris' voice 
had finally eaten its way through to Purdue's spine. 
"I'm not implying he's irresponsible or anything, 
whatever it is he's not telling probably won't help 
the investigation. But five'll get you ten, that young 
man has more going on in his head than he's got words 
for. You -- you keep an eye on him, my friend."

Purdue offered some lie about being called away and 
disconnected the line abruptly. He didn't need 
Patterson, or Harris, three hundred miles away, 
reminding of what his own gut kept screaming. 

He rammed the vehicle into drive and fled the rain for 
the relative quiet of the parking garage. The 
Chrysler's tires squealed and Purdue backed off the 
engine and pulled onto the first level. His fists 
tightened on the wheel reflexively, suspicious as a 
figure strode out of the darkness toward him. His 
headlights focused on Agent Chris Lamott, flashlight 
in hand, staring at him just as suspiciously. Purdue 
rolled down his window, allowing the agent to identify 
him and Lamott waved him on with an apologetic shrug. 
Purdue chose a spot close to the elevator and headed 
for the hotel lobby without bothering for a report. 

How many versions of "nothing happening here" could he 
expect, anyway?

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Embassy Suites Hotel. Parking garage.  

She saw the Chrysler but almost failed to recognize 
it. In the muted fluorescents of the garage it was an 
unexpected smoky silver. When she'd seen it earlier 
today, though, the paint had been powder blue. She'd 
thought then that it looked like the type of car a man 
would buy for his wife: powder blue exterior, deep 
blue interior. Certainly, it was the antithesis of 
Mulder's cherry-red-with-black-interior sports sedan. 
She liked the silver better, she decided. Not that 
anyone was asking.

Jeff had noted the vehicle, as well. He and Mutt had 
been engaged in one of their prowls, circling the 
garage with their perpetual flashlights. After that 
first sweep, they had stuck mostly to the periphery of 
the garage, not bothering to do much more than cast a 
beam of light down the rows of vehicles. Sisyphus had 
taken to simply sliding down lower in the seat rather 
than tucking and diving every time a blast of light 
hit her rearview mirror. She was slumped down now as 
Jeff's radio sputtered to life. From where she sat, 
Mutt's voice was little more than static, like one of 
those drive-through burger joint clowns. Mutt might 
have been saying: "It's Purdue and he's pissed." What 
she heard sounded more like, "extra pickles, hold the 
cheese." Whatever the message, it had Jeff on the 
alert and moving to intercept the ASAC's car.

Purdue wasn't interested, however, and waved Jeff back 
with a flick of his hand. He found a spot well across 
the garage and parked with a squeal of brakes, the car 
jerking as he slammed the gear home. Jeff needed no 
further motivation to head back for his Buick, and 
Mutt wasn't long in joining him. Purdue, his dark face 
closed, proceeded to the elevator, shaking the 
wrinkles from his coat as he paced. He disappeared 
into the elevator, heading safely upstairs, and only 
then did Mutt's shoulders slump in relief. She watched 
from her vantage point as the two men debated the 
significance of the arrival. Sisyphus chewed her lip, 
engaged in her own thoughts. She had the two of them, 
now. Purdue *and* that woman. It could be done, 
though, no question. She'd simply have to bide her 
time and think it through a bit more carefully --

A piercing squeal brought her upright. In the silence 
of the garage, there was no disguising the rasp of 
metal on metal. It echoed through the cavernous 
structure, and the agents in the car in front of her 
were on instant alert, heads bobbing and twisting. 
Sisyphus slid across the back seat, squinting into the 
darkness, waiting. The squeal had ceased almost the 
second it had begun, and now it resumed, softer this 
time, slower, furtive. By the time it had stopped 
again, she'd located its source: with her forehead 
pressed quite hard against the passenger side window 
she could just make out the corner of a metal grate 
lying on the concrete several rows over. It was near 
the wall, suspiciously close to a bulky array of metal 
shafts anchored to the concrete. As she stared, a 
shadow fell across the grate, a great lumbering form 
that seemed to unfold itself endlessly.

Her heart skipped several beats. He had escaped to 
her. He'd grown tired of waiting and had taken matters 
into his own hands, fleeing to her just as she'd known 
he would, as he surely knew he must. 

She slipped the .22 from her sweater pocket, cursing 
herself. She should have killed the agents already, 
but she preferred working the hours just before dawn 
and had feared their being missed too soon.

Even now, she was too late. Mutt and Jeff were already 
on the move, slipping out of their vehicle 
soundlessly. With their guns at ready, she didn't have 
a prayer of intercepting them. She wasn't that good a 
shot at this range and knew it. She might hit one and 
be dead before he hit the ground, shot by his partner. 
Damn-- 

Perhaps *he* would provide the distraction necessary. 
She licked her lips, watching the shadow growing 
against the wall. It was a viable plan: she'd wait 
until Mutt and Jeff had subdued him for her, cuffed 
him, as surely they would: a violent man kept in 
control for his own safety and the safety of others. 
Suitably distracted, and at closer range, she could 
take them both out quickly while he watched. A final 
proof of her intentions, if he needed one. A further 
display of her competence and devotion.

She waited her cue, watching Jeff stalk silently, 
trench coat billowing like a cape as he moved into 
position, ready to intercept from the left. Mutt did 
the same, taking a more loping direction to the right. 
She checked the chamber of her revolver and snapped 
off the Monte Carlo's dome light before sliding to the 
far door. Jeff and Mutt were keeping their eyes 
trained on the great hulking shadow struggling free of 
the ventilation shaft. She could do this. She could 
slip out of the car and stay low behind it, then 
simply skip from car to car, carefully, of course, 
until she was upon them --

Sisyphus popped the door latch. The sound was lost in 
a sudden reverberating burst of thunder and she 
smiled. Fate, that marvelous woman, was being kind 
tonight after all. Across the garage, the shadow stood 
to shake itself and her smile broadened: a young man, 
thin and agile. Her intended, surely. The one they 
called Mulder. 

She could see Jeff's shoulders relax. He shifted his 
weapon to only one hand, holding it low and 
unthreatening. If it had been Sisyphus emerging from 
the vent, he'd have shot her as soon as look at her -- 
the certainty of that fact sent a thrill of pleasure 
through her, a gathering warmth low in her hips that 
grew increasingly more distracting as she eyed her 
prize: the tall, slim figure surprised in the shadows. 

She slipped out the door, and paused, crouched low, 
panting with exhilaration. Mutt was speaking, a deep 
and well-modulated baritone she hadn't expected 
somehow. She couldn't catch the words, there was still 
too much of an echo left from the thunder, but the 
intent of the tone was clear enough: firm, in control 
without being threatening. We're-all-just-family-here-
and-we're-taking-you-back-home-now. She chanced a 
glimpse over the fender.

Mulder was a figure of darkness, shades of gray, and 
she only barely made out the shape of his head, his 
face turning as he sought out Jeff to his right. 
Finding him, he shrugged a greeting. The echoes had 
silenced but he spoke softly, a barely distinguishable 
tenor: "...musta taken a wrong turn over the 
kitchen..." The rest was a vague mumble. 

Mutt laughed good-naturedly as the voice fell silent. 
He swung his gun hand lazily as he gestured, the 
muzzle pointed down and away. Jeff smiled, too, 
holstering his weapon as he stepped forward to take 
the profiler into custody, shaking his head --

And Mulder shot them. 

Both. 

A surprisingly quiet "pop-popping" noise left Sisyphus 
blinking, the blast of the bullet striking fire as it 
left the muzzle. The ignition of gunpowder lit the 
scene like a strobe light, shadows dancing in four 
dull flashes. Mutt jerked first, scrunching down 
slightly as the bullet hit his chest, then 
straightening up as the second bullet plowed a hole 
between his eyes. This was the instinctive, rapid-fire 
chest/head shot of a trained assassin. Sisyphus had 
read her share of Jack Higgins. She knew these things. 
Jeff took one to the chest before he could bring his 
weapon to bear; the second shot missed his chest, 
though, slamming into his shoulder. He spun as he 
fell, landing on his side, stunned, revolver 
skittering across the concrete. 

Through it all, Sisyphus remained quite still. It 
*wasn't* him after all, not her Mulder-- a most 
disappointing realization. The muzzle blasts had 
illuminated a young face, and a handsome one, 
certainly, but the nose was wrong, the hair color, the 
jaw-line. By the second shot she was certain of it. 
Not *him.* Not the man she'd come to collect. 

The stranger scanned the garage, seeking more takers, 
and she hunched low against the car. *Oh, my dear, you 
have no idea...* 

A soft shuffle had her chancing another glimpse. He 
was examining the bodies, kneeling briefly, glancing 
this way, that way, as practiced fingers probed along 
the sides of each victim's jaw. She watched, 
fascinated, straining to distinguish the shadows more 
clearly. A car approached, exiting one level for the 
next, following the twisting roadway through the 
garage, headlights raking the wall, never slowing. In 
the temporary floodlight, the stranger moved to Jeff's 
body and took the agent's head in his hands. It was a 
loving gesture, palms against Jeff's cheeks, long 
fingers trailing back into the lush head of hair. The 
stranger took one final glance across the garage, then 
jerked, delivering a sharp twist to Jeff's neck as the 
light failed, the vehicle passing on to its 
destination, oblivious. 

Sisyphus slipped back into the Monte Carlo as the 
young man stood. A final glance, this way, again, and 
then that way, as he zipped his leather jacket, and 
all was well once more. He was simply any young man, 
striding confidently, not too-hurriedly, across the 
garage, no doubt in search of his car. He approached 
the Monte Carlo, hands fisted in his pockets against 
the evening chill, but she didn't bother to hide this 
time. He strode within four feet of her, never seeing, 
and she allowed him to pass, unmolested, her weapon 
undisturbed on the seat beside her. She could 
recognize a kindred spirit when she saw one. That was 
why she was here, after all. 

Besides, he'd done her a favor, hadn't he? He'd shown 
her the way in.


XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX


"I'm quick to perceive a horror, and could still be 
social with it-- would they let me." Moby Dick.


Embassy Suites Hotel. 11:29 p.m.


Purdue's sigh rivaled the pneumatic wheeze of the door 
that admitted him into the lobby. Rows of open 
landings towered above him, tiers on a wedding cake, 
and he slapped self-consciously at his coat of many 
wrinkles, the under-dressed guest at the ceremony. His 
loafers flaked dried mud, a crumb trail marking his 
path across the carpet.

Agent Emil Sandidge nodded at him from across the 
room. Sandidge lounged on a corner couch that gave him 
full visual access to the doors above, and he made no 
move to rise. His legs were crossed, one foot bobbing 
absently. Purdue offered a half-hearted wave but 
continued on to the elevator. If Sandidge had anything 
interesting going on, he certainly wouldn't be sitting 
on his can shooting the breeze with the desk clerk. 

Christ, had they really only been on this case nine 
days? It felt like years, Purdue decided. Like he'd 
grayed and grown feeble in the span of a week. And 
Sisyphus -- *No,* he corrected himself, *Cecile 
Foster* -- still held all the cards. She was probably 
somewhere close this very minute, watching them sweat, 
laughing while she prepared to play her next hand. 
She'd probably already picked out her next victim.

Hell, odds were she'd already butchered him.

Purdue poked the elevator button, jabbing at it once 
more -- and again, -- just for the satisfaction. By 
the fourth jab, the machinery took the hint and 
obediently swallowed him up. Purdue counted down the 
floors through the elevator's glass walls, oblivious 
to the scenic view of the lobby as it fell away at his 
feet: rich burgundy carpet, the color of drying blood, 
a central fountain chattering pleasantly, the 
pervasive odor of flowering potted plants. It smelled 
like a funeral home.

Purdue's head throbbed relentlessly. He'd popped 
several aspirin on the way from the car, but didn't 
expect much from them even once they had a chance to 
dissolve. He patted his coat for a cigarette and had 
stuck it in his mouth before he remembered he'd left 
his lighter in Wheeling.

"Shit."

How long had he lived this way, he wondered: every day 
unveiling its own peculiar horror, week in, week out, 
an unending parade of tragedy? How had it managed to 
sneak up on him without his noticing? And when had he 
surrendered, finally allowing it to consume his life? 

Yeah. Sure. What life?

The elevator door chimed pleasantly. Purdue shoved the 
cigarette into his coat pocket and left his hand in 
there with it as he approached Room 328. Olivia had 
been on his mind entirely too much today, he decided. 
The drive back from Quantico had become a gauntlet, 
her memory merciless. He'd rolled the windows down and 
turned the volume up on the car radio, but her voice 
had continued its relentless whisper, an agonizing 
treasure still tightly wrapped around his auditory 
nerve: words, phrases, a disconnected jumble of 
memories that made his hands shake even now-- 

Jeezus, he hated this. Didn't need it. Not now. Hell, 
didn't Mulder have enough grief to deal with without 
Purdue hauling *his* dead through the door? 

Patterson's voice, begrudging and mournful, 
reverberated with the now constant pounding in his 
head. *Mulder hasn't let it go. He doesn't know how.* 

"Well, hell," Purdue hissed. "Welcome to the club, 
Agent Mulder."

He raised his fist to knock. Softly, he reminded 
himself. Mulder could be sleeping. He could hear the 
television droning, though: Letterman doing his Top 
Ten routine. Great. That was all he needed to top his 
evening. Letterman and his damned Stupid Pet 
Tricks....

Beyond the door, another voice was suddenly quite 
distinct. Fowley. Her tone, bitter and frightened, 
made Purdue forgo knocking and grab for his key.

"DammitgetupFox! *Please--*"

There was no answering reply, at least nothing Purdue 
could hear over the tumble of the lock. Fowley glanced 
up guiltily as Purdue swung the door open. He 
hesitated, his hand still on the door knob. 

Mulder was on the floor, half-naked and splayed out 
like a man on a torture rack. Fowley stood over him, 
twisting his arm, or maybe just tugging at it. Purdue 
would have had cause to be more upset about the 
situation if Fowley didn't look so desperate. She 
dropped Mulder's arm and took a step back.  

"Sir," she assured huskily, "I can explain--"

"Is he breathing?" Purdue requested the information 
and closed the door calmly. Fowley blinked; this 
wasn't quite the question she'd expected, apparently.

"Ye-- Yes, sir. I--"

"Are you hurt?"

There was considerable venom in the question and 
Fowley held her breath, mouth open in mid-sentence, 
taking a second inventory of her ASAC. Purdue didn't 
want to know what she saw: a man in need of a shave 
and an antidepressant, he imagined. He dropped his 
head on the pretense of shedding his overcoat, made a 
show of shaking it out and folding it vertically 
before finding a chair to lay it across. Fowley, ever 
the diplomat, allowed his little pretense. She slipped 
a strand of hair behind her ear before answering. 

"No, sir. Agent Mulder just wasn't feeling well when 
he woke up. I was trying to help him back to bed."

Purdue scanned the room, chewing the inside of his 
cheek. Three of the table chairs were overturned and 
plastic cups littered the floor. "Is he dreaming 
again?"

"Yes. I think so. At least, he *was.*" Fowley followed 
Purdue's focus and seemed to have difficulty 
swallowing. "He, uhm, he woke up a little 
disoriented." 

"So I gather. You didn't notify Sauceda?"

Fowley pursed her lips. Purdue sympathized. 
Maneuvering your way through the rock and the hard 
place could get a little tough sometimes. "I thought I 
could handle it, sir. And, if you'll excuse me for 
saying so, I believe I've done just that."

Purdue's brows crawled for his hairline. "Uh huh," he 
said.

Fowley flushed but didn't take the opportunity to 
debate the issue as he approached. Purdue loosened his 
tie, bending over to assess the agent on the floor. 
Mulder blinked up at him, eyes fully dilated despite 
the intensity of the overhead bulb. The rings of color 
around his pupils were thin and faint, the palest 
gold. Purdue leaned slightly to his left. Mulder's 
eyes did not track the movement. Purdue leaned to his 
right. Still no response. 

"If you're not hurt, Agent Fowley," Purdue glanced up 
from under dark brows, and Fowley took an involuntary 
step backward, "then perhaps you'd care to tell me who 
the hell he slugged to wind up with knuckles like 
that?"

Fowley stared down at Mulder's hands and licked her 
upper lip, considering. Both of Mulder's fists were 
bruised, the crusted remnants of old wounds now oozing 
pinkish liquid, the flesh various shades of yellow, 
blue and purple, none of them exactly a complimentary 
color. Purdue could see Fowley rolling over the 
possible explanations, categorizing each for potential 
damage control. She flushed under the ASAC's 
penetrating glare and Purdue found himself suffering 
from an acute case of deja vu. 

"As I said, sir, he was disoriented. Upset by his 
dream. He hit his fists against the door--" Fowley 
took a deep breath, weary of playing the defensive 
position. "To be frank, sir, I'm grateful this 
happened. I think it's allowed Agent Mulder and me to 
come to a kind of understanding--"

"What? He takes a swing and you duck?" 

Fowley's ruby-studded earrings flashed fire. "No, 
*sir.* He hit the door. He hit it because he *aimed* 
for it. It was a response to frustration, not anger, 
and I don't appreciate your insinuation that I can't 
handle my job. If--"

Her vehemence seemed to have roused Mulder, and she 
silenced as he moaned softly. He blinked in her 
general direction without actually seeking her out. 
Blinking again, he found Purdue. He stared at the 
ASAC, or maybe just through him. It was difficult to 
tell with his eyes alternating colors like that. 

Purdue glanced back at Fowley, but she offered nothing 
further, arms folded across her chest, holding her 
secrets tight. She was covering for someone, Purdue 
decided, -- for herself, for Mulder, maybe both. 
Whatever had happened here tonight, he'd be getting 
only the expurgated version, he was certain. He tried 
telling himself he didn't care one way or the other, 
but it was just one more lie he'd need to keep track 
of later. 

Mulder, meanwhile, finally seemed to register that 
something was expected of him. He moved like a drugged 
man struggling to consciousness: one knee up, a random 
motion of a hand across his chest, eyes grazing the 
ceiling. Something deep in Purdue's chest knotted up 
at the sight. He ran a hand across his eyes, grabbing 
at his headache, blocking the image. He was supposed 
to have made things better for Mulder. He'd promised 
it. Sworn it to Skinner. Purdue swallowed hard. He'd 
promised Mulder. *You lying son of a bitch.* 

Mulder's arm brushed the ASAC's shin, a random motion 
as the profiler struggled to find the floor and prop 
himself up. It surprised Purdue, however; accidental 
as the touch might have been, it felt too much like a 
request. Mulder seemed alarmed by the contact himself. 
Barely managing to prop himself on his elbows, he 
scooted over several inches, putting that much more 
space between himself and human kindness. 

Purdue dropped to his knees. "You can run, Mulder, but 
you can't hide." He tugged Mulder up into a sitting 
position and acknowledged that there was perverse 
thrill in blocking the escape. After some futile arm-
slinging, Mulder stopped struggling, and allowed 
Purdue to hold him steady while he regained his 
bearings. He kept his head down and turned away, 
however, eyes invisible, his breathing tense.

Purdue couldn't help himself. "I think you'll live, 
son." 

"Shit," Mulder commented roughly, and Purdue grinned, 
glancing up at Fowley. Purdue must have done something 
right; she was watching the proceedings with open 
disapproval.

"I think you've had enough for one evening," Purdue 
told her. "Go home and get some rest." 

"But, sir, I--"

"I'll call you in the *morning.* If we haven't found 
the suspect by then, you'll have the afternoon shift." 
He paused. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer a more 
*permanent* change of venue?"

Fowley didn't hesitate. "No, sir. I don't think that 
will be necessary."

"Neither do I." Purdue nodded at her obvious relief. 
His headache had taken a sabbatical, he realized, 
easing to a dull tension that he could *almost* ignore 
entirely. On the television, Stupid Pet Tricks was 
well under way: a chihuahua, and a cockatiel with a 
top hat. 

"Get out of here and get some sleep," Purdue ordered. 
"One of us needs to be relatively conscious tomorrow."

Fowley returned the nod, but hesitated as Mulder met 
her eyes. Purdue saw only in profile: Mulder's 
expression was intense, a question perhaps, a demand. 
Whatever it was, it remained unspoken between them. 
The politics of partnerships could run remarkably 
deep, Purdue knew. Most were a minefield of barely-
negotiated tolerance and fierce loyalties, a mutual 
concession of conceits that took on the intensity of a 
marriage. He hadn't expected Fowley and Mulder to have 
developed this kind of solidarity, however, not this 
quickly. Once more, he'd managed to underestimate 
someone. Mulder, probably.

Mulder dropped his head to stare at the carpet between 
his knees. The visualization approach to standing, no 
doubt, an attempt to recall the necessary motions. 

Purdue's legs were starting to go numb from lack of 
circulation. He shifted, propping his knee behind 
Mulder's back, something for the profiler to lean 
against until he re-oriented. Fowley busied herself 
collecting her things: purse from the locked cabinet, 
her coat from the couch. Purdue took advantage of 
Mulder's confusion to risk a slightly more thorough 
examination. He ran his hand through Mulder's hair, 
fingers probing the scalp for some indication of 
injury. Mulder shook his head, then butted his 
shoulder into Purdue's chest when the ASAC failed to 
take the hint. The motion was clumsy and painless, a 
feeble attempt at independence, but Purdue yielded 
with a grunt.

"I don't believe he hit his head, sir." Fowley 
regarded them from the door.

"Did you give him anything? Any drugs? Alcohol?"

"Food?" she minced. "No. He just... woke up. Sir, if I 
may suggest, Agent Mulder is obviously suffering from 
exhaustion. He should be in a hospital. This case is 
killing him. The *work* is killing him--" 

"I'm fine, dammit." Mulder's voice was brittle and raw 
-- his "f's" stuttering on their way out -- and he 
obviously resented the effort needed to make himself 
heard. It didn't help that he was speaking to the 
carpet. "Stop talkin' 'bout me like I'm not fuckin' 
here." 

"But, Fox--"

"I'm not going to a goddam hospital," Mulder hissed, 
unconcerned with slurring consonants this time. He 
jerked sideways to glare at Purdue, but the effort 
left him reeling, hand on his chest, dizzy even as he 
sat on the floor. It only seemed to increase his 
irritation, and he had no reservations about taking it 
out on his ASAC -- another good sign, Purdue decided. 
"I'm not going to a hospital," Mulder insisted. "You 
promised--"
 
Fowley shook her head. "I'll get Sauceda--" 

"The hell you will." The vehemence in Mulder's voice 
stopped her with her hand on the knob. Purdue kept a 
firm grip on Mulder's shoulder.

"Fox, you need --"

"Enough," Purdue barked. "I'm still the Assistant 
Special Agent *in Charge* here." 

Mulder glanced at him again, his dizziness abated. 
"Oh, really?" his face said, but he kept his mouth 
firmly shut. Purdue tightened his grip enough to make 
Mulder wince then released him with a little shove. He 
favored Fowley with slightly more patience. "Go home. 
The day I can't handle this pissant punk is the day 
I'll retire." His tone brooked no argument.

Fowley raised her brows cautiously, but excused 
herself without further comment. 

"Pissant. Is that what you think of me?"

Purdue slapped his knee against Mulder's back before 
even turning to look at him. It was a childish effort 
to release frustration, but done without thinking it 
over too closely and thus allowable. And it worked. 
Mulder looked like he'd kill if he had the energy. 

"Just what the *hell* do you think you're doing, 
Mulder? I don't know what went on here," Purdue spat, 
"and I don't really give a shit. But you try holding 
that promise over my head just one more time and I'll 
slap your butt into Electronic Surveillance and keep 
you there until you learn to kiss my ass and *like* 
it. Understood?"

Mulder didn't look like he believed it much, but kept 
his mouth shut just in case. Purdue took this as 
further evidence of the profiler's returning sobriety 
and stood. It required a bit more effort than he was 
accustomed to, but he couldn't afford the energy to 
think about that just now. He noted the two dirty 
smudges marring the white paint on the door. Each mark 
was about the size of a man's fist, set at roughly the 
same level, two, maybe two-and-a-half feet apart. 
There were dark scrapes across the wall next to the 
door as well. They looked like the tracks left by... 
someone's heels? Mulder was wearing socks--

"Did you hurt her?" Purdue demanded. "Dammit, Mulder, 
is she lying to me?" 

Mulder, legs sprawled, glanced up in surprise. He grew 
solemn almost immediately, however, and Purdue 
frowned. Purdue had expected a haughty "no" and a 
severe cussing. The fact that Mulder had to actually 
give the question some real thought did not set too 
well. 

Mulder chewed his bottom lip as he ran a mental replay 
of the evening's events. "No," he answered at last, a 
husky, almost vowel-less rasp, the barest hint of 
questioning lilt on the tail end.

Purdue sighed. He supposed he would get the truth out 
of Fowley eventually.  

Maybe.

"Can you walk?" This time Purdue didn't wait for 
Mulder to assess himself for an answer. He grabbed the 
profiler by the upper arms, tugging him up from the 
floor. Mulder struggled to assist in the process, his 
own limbs blearily protesting their involvement. 
Still, it took a few tries for Purdue to get him 
vertical. Mulder was more compact that he looked, 
heavier, solid muscle filling out his lithe frame, and 
Purdue was doing most of the grunting. Mulder did most 
of the swearing.

With both feet finally planted, Mulder pushed the ASAC 
aside and headed for the couch. He wasn't steady on 
his feet yet, though, and swayed like a drunkard. 
Purdue wrapped an arm around his chest, as much to 
tackle the man as to keep him upright.

"No, you don't, Mulder. You're going back to bed." 
Purdue wouldn't allow himself to be shrugged off this 
time, and Mulder took to swearing again.

"I'm not tired, godammit--" 

"Well, I *am.*" Purdue kept a firm grip on Mulder's 
arm as the young man shifted to free himself. "And I'm 
not putting up with your shit tonight, mister. You're 
going back to bed and that's an order."

Mulder twisted and blinked at him, perplexed. "You 
can't order me to bed like I'm some kid." The words 
were still slurred, but braced with a dignified 
defiance.

"Fine," Purdue nodded. "Then we'll just sit out here 
all nice and cozy, and you can tell me what the hell 
all *this* was about." He kicked one of the errant 
plastic cups across the floor. 

Mulder watched the cup spin over the carpet and lose 
itself beneath the sofa. He drew himself to his full 
height, a deposed monarch requesting the terms of his 
abdication. 

"So, if I go to bed, can I still watch TV?" 

Purdue grit his teeth to keep from swearing. "Just get 
your ass in gear."

Mulder grinned, obviously satisfied and Purdue's palm 
itched to slap the crap out of him. He didn't, but 
Mulder's knees buckled all the same. Purdue caught him 
as he staggered, tugged Mulder's left arm across his 
shoulder and wrapped his free arm around Mulder's 
back. To his surprise, Mulder allowed this assistance, 
accepting Purdue beside him like some suddenly 
attached limb, awkward but welcome. Purdue kicked 
another plastic cup aside and they headed for the 
bedroom. Mulder was solemn suddenly, contemplating the 
distance across the room. Purdue caught himself 
feeling guilty for wanting to slap him. Told himself 
to get over it.

"You wanna tell me about this dream of yours, Mulder? 
Is Sisyphus keeping herself busy somewhere? Is that 
why we haven't located her?" He glanced over at 
Mulder's bowed head. Mulder's jaw worked in 
concentration. 

"No." Another vowel-less rasp. Another uncertain 
disavowal. But of which question? 

"Look, Mulder, I know it's been tough--"

Mulder head came up and he jerked unexpectedly, 
stumbling to his left and pushing Purdue with him. It 
was an awkward but deliberate motion; they seemed to 
be circling something, skirting invisible furnishings. 
Purdue, caught off guard, allowed the course 
correction, trying to read Mulder's body language. 
Mulder looked surprised, oddly enough, turning his 
face away briefly as though to watch something pass. 

"What's wrong, Mulder? What's going on?"

"It'ssss... nothing." Mulder faced forward guiltily. 
"I... I'm just disoriented, that's all." He didn't 
sound entirely certain, though. He seemed drained, 
suddenly, his skin the color of spent ash. There was a 
fluttering in his cheek as well, a nervous tic Purdue 
hadn't noticed before. He'd get Mulder to bed, he 
decided, then, early morning flight or not, he'd have 
Sauceda in here to look the man over. 

They'd taken only three more steps before Mulder 
froze, tugging Purdue to a skittering halt beside him.

"Mulder, what in the hell--?" 

The remaining words refused to form. The hair had 
begun rising on Purdue's arm, a tickling against his 
shirtsleeve that refused to be ignored. The sensation 
passed from the wrist of his right hand, up his 
forearm, and Purdue searched the ceiling for an air 
vent, something to explain the sudden draft. There was 
nothing. One side of his sleeve was plastered to 
Mulder's back by sweat, Mulder's body heat radiating 
through Purdue's jacket and shirt; on the other side, 
this same arm endured the advance of an arctic storm. 
Frost tickled Purdue's bicep and shoulder, traced soft 
fingers across his spine and then fled down the other 
arm. 

All the while, Mulder's eyes tracked something unseen 
across their path, his vision following the direction 
of the chilling breeze--

Tales learned at his grandmother's knee returned to 
haunt Purdue. Tales of ghosts and malevolent spirits, 
of mediums cursed with visions of the dead--

*Bullshit.* 

Mulder grunted as Purdue's arm tightened around him, 
jerking him up straight. 

"Let's get a move on it, Mulder." 

Mulder pulled back a little, twisting to see him 
better. Purdue leveled a forbidding glare at him, 
daring him to argue. Instead, the ASAC's breath caught 
in his throat. Reflected in Mulder's ultra-dilated 
pupils, was an image: Purdue's face, stern and dark, 
and another floating beside him, just the briefest 
glimpse, a second face, there behind his shoulder. The 
image was captured in stereo as Mulder focused on him, 
an identical exposure perfectly reflected in each eye. 
There was no disavowing this as an aberration of 
light. It was a child, a boy no more than eight or 
nine, the reflection so clear Purdue could have picked 
him out in a lineup. 

Purdue felt his mouth go dry. He gripped Mulder's 
wrist, steadying himself as he turned. No one. 
Nothing. Perhaps the child had stepped around behind 
Mulder, but no. There was a glare across the 
television and it reflected the room very clearly: the 
couch, the chair, misshapen and concave at the edge of 
the screen, he and Mulder severely distorted -- but 
there was no other living being in the room.

Purdue turned back to his profiler. Mulder's brow 
furrowed under Purdue's scrutiny and he faced forward 
abruptly, tugging to disentangle himself. Purdue 
maintained his hold on Mulder's wrist, however. He 
didn't want to be left alone with the child standing 
behind him, didn't want Mulder left alone with him, 
either. That too-gray figure with its vapid eyes and 
painful smile... Mulder yielded after only a token 
resistance and Purdue resumed his plodding, dragging 
Mulder with him. They'd covered barely a yard before 
the hair started rising on Purdue's arm again -- the 
other side this time. 

It, whatever It was, was coming back. 

Like a time out of place, Purdue recalled an event 
some seven months old to him now: a nondescript Sunday 
morning, Purdue, the dutiful widower, home alone with 
too much time on his hands and too many memories. He'd 
been standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes in 
self-defense, when he'd heard a footstep, a single 
whisper of soft shoes stepping onto the kitchen tile. 
The door was to his right, less than a yard from his 
shoulder, and he'd glanced back. Nothing. No one. But 
he'd felt her presence. *Knew* she was there. 

The glass he'd been washing slid back into the soapy 
water. He'd needed both hands to steady himself 
against the cabinet. As he turned, though, she had 
continued on, a soft whisper, come only for a brief 
visit, come to see how her home was faring under his 
administration. She hadn't slighted him, he understood 
that in the space of seconds; she'd been here before 
when he hadn't known, watching after him, but this 
visit had a different purpose and she hadn't the time 
to linger. He felt her moving, a shifting of air 
molecules more subtle than a breeze and he struggled 
to call out. The cat did it for him, a bright, 
contented "me-ew" as it trotted into the kitchen. His 
wife's silver-point tabby, pale blue eyes serene and 
staring up as it trotted, following his mistress, tail 
held high with joy, dark tip twitching. 

Olivia had continued without pausing, through the 
kitchen and into the den. Unable to trust his legs, 
Purdue had tracked her progress beyond the bar that 
divided the two rooms. The cat circled the den -- the 
Sunday Washington Post was scattered on the couch, but 
the room had been fairly well-ordered otherwise -- 
tail up, steps bouncing, staring fixedly. It mewed 
twice, making the trek back up the length of the den, 
still following, stopping at the entrance to the sun 
room. The French doors were closed, a defense against 
the October morning chill. They were no barrier to 
Olivia, though. The cat mewled his disappointment, 
tail sagging, pink-padded paw against the lowest pane 
of glass. He'd mewled again, louder, and Purdue knew 
that Olivia had continued on, far beyond, the wailing 
cat left to overcome his own disappointments. She'd 
had other promises to keep. 

Purdue waited, though, breathless, but she hadn't 
returned for the tabby. Nor for him, either. He hadn't 
the heart to step out into the back yard to see what 
she might have disapproved of there. He and the cat 
had spent the rest of the day on the couch, mutual 
partners in grief.

This was no gentle, familiar presence, however, no 
faithful spirit stopping by on its way to tend the 
business of eternity, Purdue was certain of it. His 
gut was knotting so tight it hurt to breathe. Grief 
could do strange things, he reminded himself. You only 
wanted to believe it was her that day, now you've been 
thinking about her again. Maybe--

Purdue glanced at his profiler. Mulder's eyes were 
focused firmly forward, a single bead of sweat 
tracking down his cheek and staggering drunkenly over 
the stubble on his jaw. Purdue's rationalization died 
only half-formed as he finally made the connection: 
whatever it was Purdue merely sensed, Mulder *knew.* 
Mulder could *see.* Like that silver-point tabby. 
Mulder could see it. 

And it was Mulder tugging them forward now, putting 
one foot before the other, at least as best he could, 
his arm tense across Purdue's shoulder. The returning 
chill discovered Purdue's neck and lingered, and the 
ASAC shivered involuntarily.

*They want him--* Purdue had no clue why the thought 
should occur to him, no idea what it might mean. He 
recognized it as truth, however. He shook his head to 
rid himself of the thought. *Stress,* he insisted, 
almost a prayer. *It's just the damned stress--* 

They progressed like snails, fleeing for their lives. 
Despite his logic, Purdue's heart pounded with a 
wisdom his head did not possess. He cursed his fear, 
unwilling to capitulate, and pulled Mulder forward as 
the profiler paused to glance back again. Mulder, 
disoriented and distracted, did his best to keep pace. 

Two hard-won steps, and the frost invading the base of 
Purdue's skull slid down his spine suddenly. He felt 
three distinct pressures midway down his back, very 
solid -- the impress of fingertips? -- then, a 
definite shove. He stumbled, biting his tongue as he 
struggled to remain upright, to keep Mulder from going 
down with him.

Mulder grabbed for him, instinct overriding his 
trauma. The two men tumbled together against the 
coffee cabinet, plastic cups rattling in the sink from 
the impact. Purdue searched Mulder's face 
breathlessly. The chill was gone, and the ASAC 
realized he was drenched in sweat. The floor shuddered 
beneath his feet with the rumbling approach of 
thunder. Mulder stared at him, surprised, mouth 
working without sound. He wouldn't speak the words, 
couldn't. Couldn't trust so much-- 

He glanced away, focusing on some innocuous stain on 
the Formica. Purdue wiped blood from his mouth and 
swallowed. 

"Let's go, son."

Mulder didn't question the order, allowing the ASAC's 
arm across his back even though his steps were 
steadier now. Purdue preceded the agent through the 
bedroom door sideways. The room was bathed in 
twilight, the light behind them not strong enough here 
to even throw their shadows. Purdue's heart skipped as 
Mulder froze again, in mid-step, and swayed slightly. 

Purdue twisted his neck, seeking out Mulder's face. 
The young man refused to return the questioning look, 
blushing darkly before glancing down. Purdue searched 
the room: he saw was only the dresser and the drapes 
beyond, two hulking, rectangular voids against walls 
of deep gray. Purdue realized that he feared what 
*Mulder* had seen, however. He also realized that 
Mulder hadn't pulled away. Purdue had sensed the 
intention to do so as they'd paused, an ominous 
trembling in Mulder's arm across his shoulder. The 
profiler had found some kind of strength in the 
crossing, a renewed determination. It bled from him 
now. But Mulder hadn't released him. His arm remained 
around Purdue, almost a protective gesture. Purdue 
wasn't certain he liked the implication. 

Because if it frightened Spooky Mulder, Purdue didn't 
have a prayer. 

CONTINUED IN PART 24B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:24:54 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 24B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 24B of 27: 


No. This was ridiculous. The very idea--

Yet, Mulder waited for his decision, licking his lips, 
a thirsty gesture. Purdue tried, but he just couldn't 
find it in him to turn around and head for the couch. 
Hell, he couldn't even turn on the bedroom light. That 
would be an admission of weakness, something Purdue 
had never allowed himself to afford.

Mulder wouldn't fault his cowardice, though. The 
certainty of that surprised Purdue, but he didn't 
question it. Mulder would never mention this moment, 
not even with a knowing glance many years hence. 
Purdue wasn't ready to accept such largesse, however. 
Not even from Spooky himself. 

*Spooky? Shit.* Purdue snarled, lip curling with 
distaste. *I'm getting as bad as everyone else in this 
hare-brained outfit.*

"Come on, son." He hissed the words, and Mulder 
relented without comment. Mulder's face was calm, 
Purdue noted, but his eyes were shut: a man resigned 
to death but unwilling to watch it slither across the 
room for him. Purdue swore at no one in particular and 
tugged the young man across the short distance to the 
bed. 

Mulder stumbled, stocking feet catching on carpet as 
he shuffled. He didn't go down, however, and Purdue 
sighed gratefully, easing the profiler over to the 
near side of the bed. He turned Mulder around, and 
gave him a shove when Mulder didn't take the hint on 
his own. 

Mulder dropped onto the bed, dead weight, his feet 
still on the floor, torso falling back, arms out, his 
head bouncing gently from the impact with the 
mattress. Then, he simply stopped moving. 

"Oh, no, you don't." Purdue snapped on the bedside 
lamp, macho posturing be damned. The shade cast its 
glow only half-way across the room, a charmed circle 
against evil. Purdue slapped Mulder's knee with a bit 
more force than necessary, still unaccountably 
overcome by a pervading sense of urgency. "In the bed, 
son. You get some sleep and we'll sort all this out in 
the morning." The sound of his own voice was a 
comfort, so certain and calm. It was a lie.

*Damn, but it was cold in here.* 

"Mulder? Are you listening to me?"

Mulder didn't nod. He didn't even blink. He was 
conscious though, just very still, like a man 
listening to something distant and indistinct. Purdue 
opened his mouth to complain, but only a puff of 
frozen air escaped, the words forgotten on his tongue. 
The hair was rising on his arm again, tickling his 
sleeve. It was his left arm this time, the arm 
farthest from the light, and he jerked the limb back, 
cradling it against his chest as he squinted into the 
darkness at the foot of the bed. 

With no change of expression, Mulder turned his face 
away from that same darkness. He didn't pull his arm 
away as Purdue had, though, and Purdue watched as the 
flesh prickled on Mulder's forearm, the dark hair 
flattened against his skin. Mulder's fingers turned 
grayish-blue, trembling. The phenomenon traveled up 
Mulder's arm and Purdue stared, fascinated, as the 
short hairs on Mulder's neck and chest rippled, a 
response to a strengthening breeze. 

Only there was no breeze. The air was so still, in 
fact, that Purdue had to gasp to take in oxygen. 

There was a presence here, in the ambered circle with 
them, an impossible entity come to conduct business. 
Purdue was as certain of the fact as he was of his own 
name. He was equally certain that this was not the 
force that had pushed him moments before. It... *felt* 
different. There was nothing playful here, nothing 
impish or mischievous. This was sheer malevolence, 
hatred given breath, a soul of evil come to collect a 
debt. 

And it had come for Mulder. An exchange was taking 
place on the bed, a plea, a demand, heard by only one. 
Mulder shook his head, one slight jerk, a refusal. The 
response was immediate: Mulder's hair plastered 
tightly against his skull, the skin of his neck and 
shoulder goose-pimpling as he endured the entity's 
silent roar. The outer edge of a gale buffeted Purdue 
and he blinked convulsively, squinting as turbulence 
washed over and past him. Mulder shook against the 
onslaught, but he remained resolute, his own eyes 
carefully closed, waiting it out. 

Beyond Mulder, traveling from the foot of the bed, 
depressions were forming, elongated dimples in the 
bedspread, pushing into the mattress itself, one, two, 
appearing, disappearing as a third took its place a 
good half foot away. About like a man's knees and 
shins might make crawling across the bed--

No. Way. In. Hell.

*Stop!* Purdue screamed the word, but only in his 
mind. Watching Mulder shudder, he was beyond speech, 
beyond the confines and protocols of reason. He jerked 
with the effort to vocalize his resistance and lunged 
for Mulder, folding down over him, employing his body 
as a shield to block the assault. He hoped it was 
enough.

Mulder flinched beneath his weight, but didn't move 
otherwise. Purdue felt the young man's gasp, a sudden 
rise of Mulder's chest against his ear, his skin 
scorching Purdue's cheek despite the sub-zero 
temperature of the air that surrounded him. Purdue 
paid no heed, focused on the encroaching darkness at 
the end of the bed, Mulder's frozen fingers gripping 
the bedspread, fisting it up, searching for a 
lifeline, something solid and real in this hellish 
wonderland.

A final blast that left Purdue blinking -- and it was 
over. The presence exited so abruptly that Purdue 
could have sworn he'd heard a "pop" in the air, the 
explosion of atoms colliding as the air pressure 
sought to equalize. The bed shook -- no, the room 
shook, the lamplight wavering slightly as a deep, 
moaning roll of thunder gripped the building. Then 
stillness. Silence. 

Purdue jerked as a hand slapped him in the back of the 
head.

"So, get the hell off already."

Mulder's voice was ragged and haggard, heavy on 
bravado and short on conviction. Purdue rolled off him 
and sat up, wiping sweat off his face. Mulder rolled 
in the opposite direction but had a bit more 
difficulty getting himself into a sitting position. 
Purdue didn't offer assistance, taking time to get 
caught up on his own breathing, and re-evaluating the 
world as he knew it. 

Mulder slid off the bed using his hands against the 
mattress to help him stand. The lamplight washing over 
him was not kind. There were stark shadows developing 
beneath his ribs and he was shivering, tiny periodic 
tremors that shuddered through muscle and then fled. 
At least the goose bumps were disappearing. Mulder put 
his hands on his hips and moved his shoulders, 
shrugging back into his skin. He lolled his head 
forward, back, working too-taut tendons, trying to 
convince himself he was still in possession of his own 
body. 

Purdue chanced a deeper glimpse around the room: 
shadows which were *only* shadows were all that 
greeted him now. He glanced back at Mulder, who was 
still working his shoulders. Mulder lifted his chin, 
eyes closed in concentration. As his head tilted back, 
Purdue stood, staring. There were streaks across his 
windpipe, the skin mottled deep red, irregular stripes 
across flesh blue with evening stubble. Purdue, 
familiar with violent death and strangulation, 
recognized the pattern. It was the imprint of fingers. 

"It's Fredricksberg. Isn't it?" Purdue whispered the 
words before they'd even had the chance to form 
clearly in his mind. This was beyond reason. The more 
rational areas of Purdue's brain cautioned him to hold 
his tongue, tried to place the malignant entity within 
his developing theory. But it *was* Fredricksberg. The 
certainty came from a place beyond knowing, and he had 
too little pride left to argue with the insanity of 
the situation. "Patterson was right. That's what all 
this has been about. All those kids..." Mulder watched 
him warily. "Deny it, damn you! I dare you to deny 
it."

Mulder didn't deny anything. He paled suddenly, eyes 
widening, jaw clamped. His hand rising to his chest as 
he turned and fled back the way they came. Purdue 
swore and grabbed Mulder's upper arm. His grip 
tightened when Mulder tried shrugging him away. 

"You're not running, dammit. You're going to stand 
here for once in your life and give me an answer--"

Mulder, his throat working, doubled the fist of his 
restrained arm and back-handed Purdue in the face. 
Purdue released him, grabbing for the stars blinding 
his right eye. He felt his cheek swell beneath his 
hand, an answering echo in his sinuses that threatened 
to set his nose to bleeding. His left eye was still 
functioning, however, and he made another grab for 
Mulder, but missed, his fingers leaving dark, angry 
whelps along Mulder's upper arm as the young man fled.

Mulder didn't get very far. He was doubled over by the 
time he reached the door, wracked with pain. Purdue 
stumbled after, his vision returning in tentative 
flashes. He skittered to a halt, almost tripping over 
Mulder as the profiler collapsed against the door 
frame. Mulder slid to the floor with a moan, his head 
falling back, jaw clenched as he choked back bile. One 
side of his body was lit by the amber lamp of the 
bedroom, the skin rendered deceitfully warm. The 
bright-white glare of the bulb in the sitting room 
blasted across other side of his body and Mulder 
glowed ghost-white, ashen as a corpse. The mysterious 
whelps on his throat were even more prominent now. 
Almost as prominent as the blood trickling from his 
nose. Purdue knelt, bruised cheekbone forgotten. 
Mulder was holding a hand across his abdomen, the 
gesture of any nauseated man. Except that beads of 
blood were pooling from it, trickling, thread-thin, 
down into the waistband of his jeans--

"Jeezus Christ--" 

Purdue jerked at Mulder's hands. Mulder resisted, but 
Purdue slapped his arm back, fingers still stinging as 
he ran them over Mulder's stomach. His free hand felt 
along Mulder's neck for the artery, seeking any hint 
of arrhythmia in his pulse. He could find no 
irregularities, and Mulder's abdomen presented no 
injury, no break in the skin. The blood was fresh, 
though, and there were no smears to indicate that he'd 
obtained it from the nosebleed. Mulder, meanwhile, 
held his bloody hand before his face, staring at it 
like he'd never seen it before. 

Purdue searched his back pocket for a handkerchief. He 
didn't bother to unfold it, patting down Mulder's 
abdomen, seeking the source of his injury. The blood 
wiped up obediently, but there truly *was* no wound. 
The ASAC gasped as the blood frothed again: bubbles 
the size of pin heads, foaming from Mulder's pores, 
glistening in the two-tone light--

"God Almighty damn," he rasped, "God help--"

Purdue scrambled for his feet, ignoring the pain that 
now defined the right side of his face. Mulder grabbed 
for his wrist as he stood. The grip was desperate but 
his fingers were slicked with someone's death; Purdue 
tugged free easily and lurched for the bed. He tossed 
the bedspread aside and jerked up the blanket. The far 
corner was tucked too tightly and it took extra effort 
to loosen it. He tugged harder. Purdue had been 
trained to act, not to react, and procedure steadied 
him now. He needed to get Mulder warm before shock set 
in. Mulder's pulse had been strong, but his skin was 
clammy and too damned pale. He was breathing shallowly 
and far too rapidly-- 

*Maybe he's just scared, Reg. Scared? Hell, *I'm* 
scared--*

Purdue jerked the blanket free with one final, 
exasperated tug. A gleam of burnished metal caught the 
lamplight as he did so. He froze, blinking, not 
trusting his injured eye. A snub-nosed .38 slid from 
under the pillow and tumbled to the middle of the bed, 
harsh black against the thick, creamy expanse of the 
blanket. Bad eye or no bad eye, Purdue recognized it 
instantly. 

"Son of a BITCH--" 

He snatched up the weapon and spun, kicking past the 
bedspread. Mulder couldn't fail to note the fury in 
the man lumbering for him and tried to slide backwards 
into the sitting room, stocking feet propelling him 
across the carpet. He didn't get far. Purdue caught 
him before he could get past the coffee cabinet, 
grabbing his ankle and jerking it hard enough to make 
Mulder yelp. 

"Tell me you stole it from him, Mulder," Purdue 
insisted, shaking the weapon at him. "Tell me you 
stole it, or I'll shoot him myself, Godismywitness--"

Mulder didn't bother feigning ignorance. He didn't 
bother explaining, either, beyond a reluctant shake of 
his head that could have meant anything. He rested on 
his elbows, waiting to see which way the wind would 
blow next. His eyes were very quiet, watching Purdue. 

Purdue glanced down at the weapon in his hand and 
froze. He'd had his finger on the trigger. What the 
hell was wrong with him? He'd had his finger on the 
goddam trigger-- 

Purdue snapped the cylinder open and shook the bullets 
out onto his palm. 

*What the hell was Lenny thinking? What could have 
possessed him to pull something this stupid?* Purdue 
pocketed the bullets and shoved the revolver into the 
waistband of his slacks, snug against his back. 

"How often have you done this, Mulder?" His own voice 
was unsteady. "How many years have you bled like 
this?" 

"Just--" Mulder looked Purdue in the eye, an effort to 
prove his sincerity. He wasn't quite up to the strain, 
however, and his focus slid away to a spot just over 
the ASAC's left shoulder. He didn't seem to be 
tracking anyone this time, though. "Just the once," he 
whispered, vocal chords grinding. "In my apartment." 

Purdue pursed his lips. "The one Sauceda reported?"
 
Mulder nodded, glancing at Purdue's face briefly, 
gauging effect, then away again.  

It was everything Purdue could do to keep from kicking 
him. "You bastard. You expect me to believe that?"

Mulder fought a wave of shivering and let his head 
loll back, lifting it again with a grunt of pain. He 
recoiled when Purdue grabbed for him, sliding him 
around to prop his back against the coffee cabinet. 
Purdue was far from gentle about it, but Mulder 
blinked his thanks once it dawned on him that he 
wasn't being attacked outright. 

"Just the once, huh?" Purdue didn't believe it, but 
he'd play along for now. "Just when you dreamed about 
Kay, right?" Mulder didn't answer. He was still 
shivering, and hugged himself from the chill, head 
down so Purdue couldn't see his eyes. It wasn't like 
Mulder to incite pity to get himself out of mischief, 
and Purdue returned for the blanket he'd left on the 
bedroom floor. "Are you still dreaming about her, 
Mulder?" His voice bounced as he trotted the short 
distance. "Is that why you're bleeding again?"

Mulder shook his head, coughing, and pulled his knees 
up protectively. The bleeding, never much to begin 
with, had stopped. He flinched as Purdue dropped the 
blanket over him. It was an involuntary reflex, but it 
hurt Purdue to see it nonetheless. Purdue bit his lip 
to keep from swearing at the profiler, draping the 
thick fabric around Mulder's shoulders, tucking it in 
against the cabinet. 

"Look, I'm going to get Sauceda. Can I trust you on 
your own for about a minute and a half?"

"Probably not." Mulder grimaced, and seemed to have 
difficulty swallowing. He snaked one hand from under 
the blanket to probe his windpipe, wincing at the 
damage he found there. He glanced furtively at Purdue.

"Yeah, I noticed it." Purdue settled back on his 
haunches with mock aplomb. "Cut yourself shaving, 
huh?" He tugged his cell phone from his jacket pocket 
and started dialing with his thumb. There were no land 
phones in this suite. Purdue had had them removed 
before Mulder had arrived. The wall cords too. He'd 
seen too many suicides accomplished with electrical 
cords and had only left the lamps intact because they 
needed some type of light and the cords were unusually 
short.

Mulder frowned, watching him dial, and pulled the 
blanket up to his chin. "I'll be okay." The lie came 
too easily. "I just need to take a shower--"

"Don't start that crap, Mulder."

Mulder grunted and struggled restlessly, dropping his 
legs flat to the floor, then drawing his knees up 
again, blanket bobbing as he worked out his 
frustration. "I've just got to get this... *stuff* off 
me," he moaned. "Please. I'm not lying."

"No, not much you're not." *Christ, now it's "please" 
and everything.* Purdue's eyes narrowed. "You're going 
manic again, aren't you?"

Mulder, scandalized, dropped his legs flat and left 
them there this time. "No, I'm not *manic.*" He spat 
the word indignantly. "Does this look like a state of 
euphoria to you?" Purdue held up a hand of truce, but 
Mulder wasn't through with his diagnostic analysis. 
"My attention span is still relatively healthy, I have 
no special plans for world domination and I certainly 
feel no compulsion to *chat* excessively. And I'm only 
irritable because you insist on pissing me off."

"Jeezus, Mulder, it's not an insult, it's just a 
question."

"Well, it's a *pissant* question. And the answer is 
*no.* Fuck you." 

Purdue raised a brow but didn't argue. With Mulder 
calm, he finally finished dialing Sauceda's number. 
Another wave of shivering struck the profiler and 
Purdue chanced a second question.

"When was the first time you did this?" he demanded 
softly, cell at his ear. "This dream stuff. When did 
they start? Can you remember?"

Mulder glanced away, holding himself tightly, but the 
shivering was short-lived this time. Mulder shrugged 
when it released him, the gesture meaning nothing, 
just something to fill the space as he gathered enough 
control to speak.

"First time," he frowned, concentrating. "First time 
was Shreveport. I think."

"You think?" 

"Pretty sure." Mulder's brow furrowed. "I don't 
remember anything like it before then."

"You lying sack of--" Purdue could hear the ringing in 
the phone in his hand, the muffled echo of Sauceda's 
phone through the wall behind him. "You were doing 
this crap in the Academy when Patterson was slipping 
you cases against orders. You had to have been. I saw 
the files. There's no way you came up with those 
answers from the kind of evidence you were given. 
Hell, it's all VCU talked about for months. Spooky 
Mulder solved the Freeway Killings. Spooky Mulder 
glanced at a few photos and found a senator's niece--"

"All I found was a corpse--"

"In a field fifteen miles from nowhere with nothing 
but a class photo and a damned tire track. Don't tell 
me Shreveport was your first case like this."

"It *was!* Goddammit. What do you want from me? 
Christ!" Mulder jerked at the blanket, burrowing 
deeper. "I don't remember afterward." The confession 
was reluctant and seemed to surprise him. He didn't 
look up. "I just started noticing it after the Barnett 
case. The one *you* brought me in on." It sounded like 
an accusation, too harsh even for Mulder's anger, and 
he added, "After I got out of the hospital, anyway." 
He fell silent, chewing his lip. 

Purdue remembered the shooting. Last September VICAP 
had been working a rash of armored car heists. It was 
Purdue's first major case as ASAC and it had dragged 
for months with few leads. Patterson, happy to rub 
Purdue's nose in his misfortunes, had sent Mulder to 
profile the UNSUB for them. Mulder had pissed Purdue 
off just looking at him walk through the door, all 
fresh-faced and self-assured. Mulder had already built 
a formidable reputation as BSU's premiere profiler, 
though, and there was no arguing with his stats. By 
every indication, Mulder was a natural inductive. He 
wrote profiles using the principles of subatomic 
chaos, the physics of a world governed by the random 
collision of quarks and anti-electrons, where time 
could stop on a whim and double back over itself. That 
was Patterson's theory, anyway. Purdue knew only that 
Mulder could make the most impossible connections and 
develop a plan of attack while everyone else sat on 
their thumbs and bitched about not being able to track 
the logic. With no other options in the offing, Purdue 
had taken a chance and made the quantum leap with 
Mulder. His profile had been dead on target, and 
Mulder had even helped to set the trap for John 
Barnett, had fired the bullet that brought the man to 
his knees. 

They'd been loading Barnett into the back of the 
ambulance, a U.S. marshal at one corner of the gurney, 
when Barnett, in spite of two gunshot wounds, one in 
the shoulder and one in the hand, had grabbed the 
marshal's gun. There had been a wild struggle and 
Mulder had run to join in the fray. Barnett had aimed 
wildly, but there was no doubting his target. The 
bullet hit Mulder, throwing him backward off the 
bumper of the ambulance. The wound itself was nothing, 
a glancing shot to the left bicep, but Purdue could 
recall the first time *he'd* been shot: the sickening 
pressure of the bullet penetrating flesh, the 
disorientation as you spun and fell, body still too 
shocked to feel much, the nerves too busy jerking to 
register the pain. 

Then the realization of how close death had come. For 
some, it was psychologically devastating. But Mulder 
had held up well, even laughed when Reg, panicked, had 
dropped to his side to stanch the blood flow. 

Mulder wasn't laughing now, though, and all he was 
doing was recalling dreams. 

"You went back to BSU after the Barnett case. Covered 
the Baytown murders. Then straight on to Shreveport." 
Purdue's eyes narrowed, considering, the phone 
forgotten at his ear. "You were having these kinds of 
problems there, too? And no one reported it? Sons of 
bitches--" 

Mulder wasn't listening, coughing softly, unconcerned 
with this run-down of closed cases. 

"Sauceda knew, didn't he?" Purdue wanted to hear 
someone admit it. If not Mulder, then he'd shake it 
out of Sauceda himself. "How'd you convince him to 
keep his mouth shut? I swear to God I'll have his 
pension--"

Mulder shrugged away from Purdue's vehemence. "It's 
not like that. He didn't-- I-- I don't ever remember 
it being this bad." He scrubbed at his face, trying to 
untangle the filaments of memory, how things were, how 
things should have been. "It's like it all happened to 
someone else," he lisped. "Like looking at a film. 
Only I'm holding the camera..."

"You don't remember the cases?"

"I remember the damned cases," Mulder snarled -- what 
was it about genuine human concern that made him so 
nervous? But the extra effort to speak left Mulder 
wincing, his throat raw. "I just don't remember the 
dreams," he whispered hoarsely. "*If* I dreamed. Or 
what I knew when. What came first." He drew his knees 
up again and leaned his forehead against them, his 
admission mournful and tired, muffled by the blanket. 
"It's not so bad when I'm profiling from a desk. Or 
when there's not so many bodies." He shrugged again 
without glancing up. "Ollie North disease. 'Senator, I 
do not recall'." 

Purdue watched Mulder grit his teeth as another bout 
of shivering demanded his attention. The unanswered 
buzzing of the phone had finally grated through to 
Purdue's last nerve and he hit the power button, 
huffing as he stood. 

"All right, Mulder, here's the deal: I'm going next 
door just long enough to slap Sauceda out of bed. If I 
come back and find you in the shower, I'm crawling in 
it with you and hauling your butt out. And I'm not a 
very happy camper when I'm cold and wet. Understood?"

Mulder, head still down, nodded. Purdue frowned. He 
didn't trust this newly-compliant version of Fox 
Mulder, no matter how sick he appeared. He wouldn't 
call down for Sandidge to fetch Sauceda, however. 
Purdue had a few choice words to say to the 
pathologist, and he'd be damned if it would wait. He 
left Mulder huddled on the floor, tucked tight beneath 
his blanket. 

Sandidge glanced up as Purdue stepped to the railing 
outside the door. The lanky Midwesterner had been with 
Purdue since Purdue had made ASAC, and had served with 
him in the ranks for several years before that. A 
brief signal was all that was necessary between them 
now. Sandidge nodded and assumed a watchful stance 
midway between the elevator and the short hall to the 
service stairs. If Mulder made a dash for it and 
managed to get past Purdue just one door away, then 
Sandidge -- and his less obvious backup -- would be 
waiting to run interception. 

Purdue stopped at Sauceda's door, tapping softly. The 
hotel had been gracious enough about their more 
intrusive arrangements, but Purdue didn't see the 
point of waking fellow patrons just to get Sauceda to 
the door. He tapped just a little harder and waited 
another minute before fumbling for the key. 

*Dammit, Lenny, you could sleep through a freaking 
hurricane--* 

The thought brought back more ghosts. Purdue squelched 
the unbidden image of Kay, rain-soaked, her pale fist 
pounding at Sauceda's door in the dead of night. The 
key in Purdue's hand shook, scraping at the lock 
before he managed to jam it into the hole. He swore 
under his breath. He was doing an awful lot of 
swearing lately. Ever since he'd acquired Mulder, in 
fact.

The sitting room was dim, lit only by the amber glow 
of a lamp from the open bedroom door. The lamp light 
surprised him. Maybe he'd finally managed to wake the 
man... It was cold as hell in here, too. Someone must 
have been seriously messing with the thermostat. The 
hairs on the back of Purdue's neck were prickling. It 
was not the violent invasion he'd confronted in 
Mulder's room, however. This was the more familiar 
prickling of instinct, the awakening certainty that 
something here was very wrong.

"Len? You up?" Purdue pocketed his key as he crossed 
the floor, freeing his gun hand without thinking why, 
a habit honed to instinct by years of criminal 
investigation. He didn't reach for the weapon, 
however. Quick eyes scanned the sitting room, alert, 
finding nothing to justify the alarms ringing in his 
head. The room had the air of a converted tactical 
command post: crumpled and abandoned, awaiting yet 
further assault. Take-out boxes were stacked on the 
cabinet next to the coffee machine, the carafe still 
half-full although the machine's indicator light was 
off. The atmosphere was thick with cigarettes, 
pepperoni, and testosterone. The upholstery here 
didn't have a prayer.

"All right, Lenny! Get your pants on, Mister, you've 
got a patient." 

The empty .38 rubbed against Purdue's back as he 
walked. He'd deal with that later. Mulder may or may 
not be heading for shock right now, and he'd let the 
young man put off a good medical exam long enough. 

There was no answer from the bedroom, and Purdue 
tapped the door jamb before sticking his head in.

"Lenny?"

The room seemed in perfect order: a suitcase next to 
the chair, 'TV Guide' on the bed stand. The bed covers 
were pulled down, a tangled lump at the foot of the 
mattress. The light was dim, too golden to display 
colors properly or to distinguish shadows. Purdue 
needed no further illumination, however. There were 
splotches on the sheets, the carpet. They sparkled, 
coppery black in the lamp glow. The stench of blood 
was almost enough to knock him down. 

From the bed, Sauceda regarded him calmly, the barest 
hint of a smile upon his lips. He'd been gutted from 
sternum to groin, organs lying neatly on the bed 
beside him, slick and dark like great swollen bruises.

Purdue stumbled backward into the bathroom. And for 
the first time in his life, he vomited at a crime 
scene.

XXXXXXX

Sandidge needed no orders as Sauceda's door jerked 
open and Purdue burst out. The ASAC grabbed the rail 
to keep himself from flying over it, noting instantly 
that Sandidge was on the move, overriding the elevator 
control, radio at his ear as he barked for backup. 
Purdue scrambled for Mulder's room, aware he was 
mumbling to himself, unable to decipher his own 
convulsive language, aware of the acid aftertaste 
burning the back of his throat. His hand was shaking 
too hard to operate his key efficiently, and the 
elevator pinged as he finally got the room unlocked.

"Mulder!" Purdue slammed the door open, shouting the 
name. The profiler, huddled against the cabinet, 
should have been clearly visible from the door. 

Should have been. Wasn't. The blanket was simply a 
lump of fabric tossed on the floor. Purdue registered 
Sandidge behind him as he raced for the bedroom. A 
single dresser drawer was open, clothing spilling out 
of it. 

Behind the closed bathroom door, the shower was 
running. Purdue swore. How had he possibly failed to 
notice? He spun, Sandidge dancing backward to avoid a 
collision. 

"Frost and Lamott are on their way up, Reg. I'm still 
trying to get through to Fendley and Heller in the 
garage."

Purdue nodded, brain assimilating the information 
without consciously interpreting it. 

"Mulder!" he bellowed the word, pounding his fist 
against the bathroom door. "Muld--" 

The door, lockless, snapped open under the force of 
the blow and slammed open. The shower curtain was 
closed. 

Purdue lurched into the room, heart in his throat. He 
knew what he would find, something about the way the 
water ran, something about the screws rolling on the 
floor. He jerked the curtain back, plastic rings 
snapping loose and flying against the tile. He stood 
there with the curtain in his hand, heedless of the 
water splattering the arm of his jacket.

Sandidge followed his gaze. High on the wall was an 
air vent, grateless, a gaping, empty exit from a world 
gone truly mad. Sandidge hissed into his radio, 
"Dammit, someone pull the plans for the ventilation 
system! Heller, you son of a bitch, give me a status 
report--"

Purdue shook his head. "When we find Mulder," he 
whispered, "I get the first shot."

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:25:02 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 25A of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 25A of 27: Your Actual Mileage May Vary

Disclaimed in Part 1.


"It is a man, it was one all along. No it isn't. It is 
a man with the conscience of a woman, always coming 
out of something, turning to look at you, wondering 
about a possible reward. How sweet to my sorrow is 
this man's knowledge in his way of coming, the 
brotherhood that will surely result under now darkened 
skies. The pressing, pressing urgent whispers, pushing 
on, seeing directly--"   -- John Ashbery, "Haibun 4." 
*A Wave.* Penguin Books. New York. 1985.



Friday, May 20, 1988. 12:02 am. Embassy Suites Hotel. 
Ventilation system. 

She was claustrophobic. Hell of a time to realize this 
fact, she decided. Crawling on your hands and knees in 
a too-tight shaft in the belly of a -- what? -- ten 
story building--?

That thought, and the image it invoked -- the tons of 
masonry and steel towering above, a massive, 
mysterious architecture just beyond the thin sheaf of 
metal shaft -- only escalated the pounding in her 
chest and temples. Her vision swirled with the 
onslaught, and she believed, sincerely believed for 
the space of one heart-crushing moment, that she had 
felt the building sway. Tectonic plates, stationary 
for eons, were shifting. The earth, that violent, 
blood-thirsty goddess, was opening its jaws to swallow 
her whole, prepared to devour half a city just to have 
*her.* Her sister-in-blood. 

Sisyphus froze where she knelt, body convulsing, heart 
pounding fist-like against her ribcage, and waited for 
the squeal of metal, the flesh-destroying impact of 
concrete as they -- she and the Embassy Suites -- 
dropped into the heart of the earth. She huddled, 
panting, eagerly anticipating. There was a rumble. An 
echo. She wasn't imagining this--

The rumbling deepened, shuddered, sighed and then 
rolled on, high above, distant.

Thunder? Was it only thunder? Surely not--

She waited with the infinite patience of those 
resolved to the certainty of death: palms flat against 
the floor of the shaft, forehead pressed down between 
them. Her knees were beneath her now, her butt in the 
air, a pilgrim rendering homage to Mecca without 
benefit of compass.

Another deep-throated rumbling, more distant this 
time, faint. 

Thunder. 

She lifted her head and blew air out her cheeks. She 
might have felt ridiculous if her lungs were working 
properly; instead, she just felt nauseated. The shaft 
was narrow and she wasn't a tiny woman, nor was she 
accustomed to crawling about on all fours like some 
dissipated cat. The fabric of her black slacks 
provided far too little cushioning for her knees, her 
back hurt, her shoulders ached, her head throbbed--

Well, it was just her luck to have found the *exhaust* 
shaft, she supposed. The air here was plentiful and 
constantly regenerated, but it was hot, and too humid 
to breathe easily. Could one suffocate in an air 
shaft? She hadn't a clue, but decided that if anyone 
could pull it off, it would probably be her. 

The warning signs had come early; she couldn't fault 
her body for lying to her. There had been that 
fluttering in her chest from the get-go, when she'd 
first shoved herself into the vent. She'd been too 
excited to listen, too proud when she'd proven fit 
enough to leverage herself up the short vertical 
section of the shaft and into the infinite horizontal 
plane on which she now traveled.

That initial elation had carried her a surprising 
distance. The lighting in the shaft was dim, an oh-so-
faint glow from the parking garage that glimmered and 
reflected its way down the recess before her. She'd 
taken this bit of illumination for granted, had 
assumed, contrary to all logic, that it would remain 
with her, or that the shaft had come equipped with 
some kind of lighting system -- a necessary detail for 
maintenance, surely. 

The second corner had proven her folly. She'd entered 
darkness, a blackness so complete, it might have been 
a living entity. It certainly had mass, a density that 
suggested physical presence, and it enveloped her in 
impenetrable arms. It had hands, too, impossibly 
heavy. They stroked insistently: her hair, her face, 
her breasts. She'd tucked her thighs together tightly 
without thinking why, waited, gasping, the lazy 
fluttering in her chest bursting into spasmodic 
tremors, sharp throbs of panic that gripped her lungs 
and intestines. 

No. No, she couldn't stop. He was waiting--

The black beast heaved, a seething blast that tore the 
breath from her throat. Sympathetic stars flared 
before her eyes, phantom light registered by a brain 
frantic for visual stimulus. 

Was she even conscious? In the darkness, she couldn't 
honestly say. Wondered if it mattered. She continued 
moving -- into dreams, visions or reality -- 
determination carrying her forward, against all 
reason, into the tunnel of night. 

Because he waited.

Her progress was slow, made slower still by the fact 
that her hands were clenched like claws, nails 
scraping against the metal. 

He waited.

A screw, misfed or loosened from its hole, impaled her 
hand as she sought her way. She yelped, more in 
surprise than pain, sucked at the blood running slick 
against her palm, grateful for something real, some 
reassurance of life.  

He waited for her. 

She couldn't disappoint. 

Somewhere above her, metal creaked, a quiet threat 
that might have been a laugh. She took a deep 
steadying breath. He'd be worth it, she reminded 
herself. 

She'd make certain of it.


XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Excerpt: Criminal Investigative Analysis, UNSUB: 
Multiple Homicide. Wheeling, WV. May, 1988. Analyst: 
F. Mulder, VCU.

"...Despite compulsive anti-social behavior, the 
subject is not insane by accepted legal and 
psychiatric standards. She understands the rules of 
society and is aware of the potential consequences of 
her actions. The consequences simply do not concern 
her. Her behavior is a result of choice, freely 
exercised. She is rational, always aware of what she 
is doing and why. Her kills are casually executed, the 
aggression cold, lacking any form of intense emotional 
arousal. She is a psychopath: highly adaptive, 
socially functional, behaviorally upright, morally 
insane.

Uncharacteristic of most psychopaths, however, the 
subject is rarely glib or grandiose. She will flatly 
deny being deceitful, appalled at the suggestion. In 
her non-homicidal roles, she is rarely manipulative 
and displays a level of responsibility bordering on 
compulsion. She prides herself on being a "good girl." 
Neighbors will describe her as gracious, if not 
socially gregarious, a model citizen. She has no 
criminal record.

Subject's PRIMARY CHARACTERISTIC is a profound lack of 
empathy. She is indifferent to all that makes life 
joyful or interesting. Love, horror, humor are beyond 
her experience and have no ability to move her, and 
she cannot comprehend that others are moved by them. 
If she has ever known joy, love or compassion, she 
cannot recall them as sensations, and knows only that 
"something" is missing, without comprehending the 
intensity of the loss or lack. An above-average 
intelligence has allowed her to compensate socially, 
and she has learned the appropriate emotional 
responses required by others. These reactions are 
strictly paint-by-number, however. Her emotional life 
is non-existent, and she has no experiential knowledge 
of human feeling. Locked in this emotional void, she 
lacks even the capacity to feel sorrow for 
herself...." 


XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Fingers, slick with grit, reached down into nothing. 
She grunted, snatching blindly at the place where 
metal should have met her hand and didn't. The 
broiling air rushed faster here, slapping her hair 
into her face and blasting down over her fumbling 
hand. The current tumbled from high reaches, an 
invisible Niagara, eager to be gone, hungry for the 
heart of the earth. Disoriented as she was, it took an 
additional minute for her to register the 
significance.

A vertical shaft. 

Her stomach knotted. The moment of truth had finally 
arrived. Her breath caught in her throat. There has to 
be a service ladder, she reminded herself. The one 
she'd been anticipating since she'd entered the shaft. 
There had to be a service ladder to the next level, 
right? So that people could fix things. Ever so often, 
surely someone had to fix something-- 

*But there are no lights,* her eyes accused, throbbing 
in their sockets. Yes, the air was occasionally 
sprinkled with stars, but these were only the private 
inventions of her stubborn brain. The truth was 
simple: there were no lights. There were no lights 
because no one ever came here. Because there was 
nothing here to fix, just a tunnel full of air. 

She could die here, she realized without wonderment. 
She could fall clear to the subbasement and die and no 
one would ever know. They probably wouldn't even 
notice enough to complain about the smell while she 
rotted--

Sisyphus laid down and reached into the rioting wind, 
extending her body as far as she dared, one hand 
steadfast against the wall beside her, the other hand 
groping into darkness. 

Nothing. She reached further, blind eyes squeezed 
tight against the pounding of the gale. Her hair 
lashed her cheeks, sharp as slivered glass. She 
ignored the sensation, black leather pumps sliding in 
her struggle to reach farther into the emptiness that 
blocked her way. Just a few more inches, surely, just 
a little more-- 

Her fingertips brushed metal, hot, dry, and far too 
distant. A flat wall. She tapped it out, fingertips 
tracing, scraping, coaxing secrets from the dark. The 
wall of metal yielded nothing. 

Rage overwhelmed her and she flailed her arm at the 
wind like a wild thing, up, down, left, right, body 
balanced precariously. Air and smooth metal wall just 
beyond the full reach of her arm. More of the same to 
her left. She slapped her palm to the right and the 
shaft resonated with the impact and with her yelp. 
Hand still stinging, she rubbed it across the metal in 
the darkness. 

No hint of hardware. No rungs. No recesses. Nothing. 

No. This wasn't possible. She had *plans.* She hadn't 
been consulted--

Sisyphus resettled herself, panting, wordlessly 
cursing the darkness, too incensed to speak. No one, 
nothing, said "no" to her. She simply wouldn't have 
it. How dare--

She was moving again, struggling to hold her position 
in the shaft, wind-chafed hand searching the stretch 
of wall that dropped down below her. More seamless 
metal. She swung the arm like a pendulum. Left. Right. 
Left, growling-- 

Wait. Something brushed her fingertips, the barest 
change of air current that set her hand to tingling. 
She strained, wriggling her upper body forward. Just a 
few more inches-- and she flattened her palm against 
metal. The vertical shaft had a floor, then. Well, of 
course it did. She was just below the first floor and 
her tunnel was the exit. The sub-basement would have 
its own ventilation system. Some building code 
nonsense, probably.

Sisyphus folded herself carefully, trembling, not 
daring to hope. Discovering a floor in the darkness 
might be significant, but that was for later, when 
she'd be needing to locate her exit. Right now, *down* 
was not a direction she was particularly interested 
in. She slid into the shaft, careful as the metal 
creaked beneath her feet. Unhindered now, she explored 
the walls, confirming her earlier appraisal: no 
ladder, no access to the heights above. 

The darkness left her dizzy and the sudden space 
beneath her hand -- the entrance to her own tunnel -- 
was a welcome friend. She climbed back inside, then 
slapped one hand against the ceiling of the tunnel, 
left it there, sliding it slowly as she pushed herself 
back out into the vertical shaft. Her legs collected 
beneath her, muscles tightly bunched, bracing the 
weight of her body. She reached up, straining, a 
cursory exploration before collapsing back into her 
little crawl space. The results were no surprise. More 
metal walls, ascending. No hint of purchase, no 
indication of an entrance for the next level. Michael 
Jordan might have found it, she surmised. Cecile Fuche 
would not.

She was enraged. She could tell because her heart was 
pounding in time with her head, her blood pressure 
thundering in her ears. She was gritting her teeth, 
too, and her left hand was clenched so tightly the 
nails bit into her palm. All this physical turmoil, 
however, was quite distant and distinct from the 
silence within. Her mind calculated quietly. With her 
back against one wall and her feet braced against the 
wall opposite, she might be able to propel herself 
upward, a delicate counter-balance of push and shove 
and traction. She'd seen it in a film once. Some 
fabrication about the life of Harry Houdini. She could 
do it. But not in these shoes. Not in her flabby 
physical condition. Not at her height. She wouldn't be 
going up this shaft. Not in this lifetime.

She sat still for a moment, stunned by 
impossibilities. She hadn't cried since the early 
years of her marriage, when tears could still 
manipulate and incite guilty obligations. Tears were 
not possible for her now, even if there had been 
someone here to see and grant her desires. The air, 
boiling in at her, had dried her tear ducts. She could 
no longer tell when her eyes were opened or closed. 
What did it matter to one gone blind?

She laid down on her belly, and slid backward a few 
feet into her shaft to nowhere. She reached out one 
hand, fingertips intruding into the vertical column to 
be assaulted by the wind. The pounding in her chest 
steadied and she contemplated the whispering of the 
torrent and the gentle hum of air-conditioning. She 
didn't think, didn't need to. Deep inside, things -- 
impulses, unbidden decisions -- were shifting quietly. 
She waited for further clarity, squeezing her fist 
harder, harder, meanwhile, enjoying the sensation. 

The noise had gone undetected for some time before she 
noticed: a change in the background melee which, 
although distant, traveled down the network of metal 
tunnels as though through a badly connected amplifier.

*Thump-screech-pause, thumpthump.* Repeat.

She tilted her head, considering. The sound lacked any 
real rhythm, but it was rapid. And nearing, as best 
she could tell, coming down the shaft from some 
distance above. The squeaking bothered her most, 
however. It was vaguely familiar... Fingernails on a 
chalk board? But she'd never actually heard anyone run 
their fingernails across a chalk board. She was 
reminded of televised basketball games, though: Nikes 
sliding roughly across a polished court. 

Tennis shoes. On metal. 

Her hands flattened and she concentrated on her 
breathing. The rolling in her soul had stilled, 
awaiting further development. There was a distinct 
warmth growing low in her hips.

Above: a long screech, the protest of rubber against 
metal. A hastily muffled yelp -- human. Masculine. A 
heavy thud. A long quiet. 

Then the *thump-screech-pause* resumed. A bit more 
cautiously this time.

She smiled, content, the warmth spreading up her belly 
and down both thighs. She ignored the sensation, and 
gathered herself for retreat with honor. Still on her 
stomach, feet slightly elevated, she shoved backward 
with both hands, the effort sending her sliding 
several yards back down the way she'd came. And 
silently, too. The distance traveled surprised her, 
and her smile broadened. She should have thought of 
this earlier. She'd be back to the garage in no time-- 

"Mmmmmlllldrrrr!"

It was little more than a hiss reverberating down the 
maze of shafts above, consonants ricocheting on metal, 
vowels -- if there had been any vowels -- too mangled 
to have mattered much. 

Sisyphus held her breath. The *thump-screech* had 
paused, too, listening as intently as she was. 

"Mlldrr!" The profanity that followed after was 
surprisingly distinct, even filtered by distance. The 
squealing thump resumed, however, making its 
precarious descent down the shaft. 

*Thump-thump-ping-thump.*

She wriggled, insuring her own comfort, and pushed 
again. Harder. Oh, yes, indeed. This would do quite 
nicely. 

*Thump-screech-thumpa-thump--*

Good things do come to those who wait.


XXXXXXX

She slipped free of the shaft and staggered back, 
breathless. After the prolonged darkness, even the dim 
light of the garage was blinding, white-hot lancets 
piercing her optic nerve. 

She reveled in it. Giggled.

She tripped but kept her footing with difficulty. 
Mutt, damn him, had caught against her heel. She 
steadied herself, eyes gradually re-adjusting, and 
gave his lifeless body a kick for his insolence. He 
scarcely registered her anger, as immune to it, at 
last, as she was. 

Her eyes widened, Mutt forgotten almost immediately. 
There were two guns on the concrete beside him. A high 
caliber pistol of some sort, high tech, too, from all 
appearances, and no doubt complicated. It lay just 
beyond the reach of Mutt's out-flung hand. His fingers 
were still curled to grip it, unaware that such things 
were unnecessary now, untrained in the fine art of 
knowing when to say when.

The second weapon lay only inches from his chest. A 
.22 pistol very like her own. 

Sisyphus reached instinctively for the weapon 
holstered against her ribs -- no, it was still there. 
Curious. She picked up the duplicate weapon, examining 
it carefully. A semi-automatic Ruger, compact, light 
as guns go. And recently fired....

Ah. The young executioner. *He'd* left it behind. 
Well, it made a certain kind of sense. Professional 
killers, or so she'd read, didn't use the same weapon 
repeatedly. Such frugality would provide a trail of 
ballistic matches, allow law enforcement to combine 
clues from multiple crime scenes, and intensify the 
risk of exposure. Then there would be all those 
additional charges to deal with. The young man had 
left the weapon here, then, deciding, no doubt, that 
*here* was just as good a dumping place as any other. 

Sisyphus, of course, had no such desire for anonymity. 
She was proud of her accomplishments and worked hard 
to make certain her calling card was easily 
identifiable. One should always, she believed, take 
pride in one's craft.

She slapped the weapon against Mutt's knee. Again, he 
had no reaction and she giggled, giddy with 
anticipation. The mirth was hollow, and echoed back at 
her. The garage was as cavernous as the crawl space 
had been, and sounds here were distorted, writhing 
echoes. She could still hear that rhythmic *thump-
squeal* thundering in her head--

No -- her hand gripped the cast-off pistol and she 
stood. No, these were not thumps. They were footsteps. 
Footsteps echoing across the garage-- 

A black man, bulky, his trenchcoat flapping as he ran, 
rounded the cars several rows over. His hand fumbled 
at his hip.

"FBI!" he shouted, "Stay--"

She shot him without thinking, and was surprised when 
he grunted. She'd never trusted her aim on a moving 
target. Not at this distance-- 

But he spun, staggered. She fired again, and again as 
he went down, blood splattering from his temple and 
onto the white column beside him. She waited, 
unmoving, the .22 weighting her hands, her wrists 
tingling from the recoil. She fired again, the gun 
responding with only the empty click of a spent 
cartridge. He lay still, one arm visible beyond the 
rear wheels of a station wagon. The hand didn't seem 
to be moving, either. Not even a twitch.

*Whump.* She jerked at the hollowed lumbering in the 
wall beside her and brought the gun to bear on the 
opening to the vent. She winced at her own 
foolishness, leaned to drop the pistol soundlessly 
onto Mutt's chest, fumbling her own weapon free in the 
same motion. Her foot slipped on drying blood and she 
stumbled, one leather pump finding purchase to the 
left of Mutt's leg, the other to the right. She kept 
her eyes and her weapon firmly trained on the opening, 
her breath steadying.

*Thump. Ump.*

He materialized in sections and sound. A solid thud, 
the whispering of fabrics. His shoes were too dark to 
distinguish clearly from the gloom of the shaft. Even 
his jeans were a bare hint of dimension: slender 
columns of black against deeper black. His torso was 
yet to be revealed, still behind the wall above the 
vent. The Nikes shuffled as he got his bearings, 
decided his course.

Her stupidity reviled her suddenly, and she bit her 
lip to keep from swearing. She should have found a 
hiding place: out of sight around the wall, a few feet 
away behind a car, perhaps. Should have waited for him 
to get free of the shaft, and taken him unawares when 
he'd been certain of his freedom. As it was, he needed 
only to withdraw back up into the darkness whence he'd 
come. The walls were concrete, impenetrable to her 
.22. He could pull himself back up, kick her senseless 
if she attempted to pursue.

It was too late for plans, however. Her movement -- to 
hide, or to avail herself of Mutt's larger caliber 
firearm -- would only alert her prey and she would 
lose him altogether. 

She just wanted to see his face, she told herself. She 
could kill him where he stood -- regrettable, 
certainly-- but she had to see his face as he 
discovered her. Watch as the realization dawned. 

She remained where she stood, body bathed in shadows, 
gun trained on the shaft, hands steady despite her 
rising excitement. 

This was joy. Surely this was joy. 

Mulder's hands slid into view first, long tapered 
fingers so familiar to her from hours spent watching 
him sleep. The hands were animated now, tensing as he 
crouched, countering his body weight as he shifted in 
the confined space. His sweater was impenetrable 
black, his arms and torso invisible as he dropped to 
his knees, all disembodied hands, the face in profile, 
neck and a V-shaped glimpse of chest. 

This was like... eloping, she decided. She wondered if 
he would feel the same, just as she'd wondered how her 
husband had felt so long ago. Mulder's face, bathed in 
darkness, was too closed to tell her. Did he have the 
same burning in his gut, did he wonder at the 
wickedness and wrong of it all, sneaking away from all 
who loved and cherished you, away into the wholly 
unknown? Into the arms of one who did not cherish, 
into the arms of one who merely wanted you?

His dark head ducked down almost immediately, one hand 
fumbling to his face, fending off the glare as his 
eyes adjusted to unaccustomed fluorescence. His free 
hand, more reliable than his vision, probed the air 
before him, seeking the non-existent grate. He glanced 
up, bewildered, blinking spasmodically, his face in 
the shadows a series of deepening grays. Intent upon 
the opening and still half-blind, he didn't see her, 
but, after a moment's confusion, he focused further, 
to the carnage on the garage floor.

He saw Jeff first. Difficult not to, considering Jeff 
lay sprawled to his right, almost directly beneath 
him. Jeff's face was turned toward the shaft. Sisyphus 
watched Mulder's face, aching to see what he stared 
upon: the lax jaw, the flaccid features, the skin so 
smooth it seemed inorganic. The vacant eyes that 
somehow managed to make you feel that they saw so much 
more than you did. 

She waited his reaction, willing herself not to 
breathe, not to destroy this singular, perfect moment.

Mulder's breath had frozen in his lungs, but beyond 
the sudden cessation of his chest muscles, there was 
disappointingly little reaction. His hand clenched to 
a fist, skin pale against the darkness. His jaw 
tensed, too, but otherwise all expression had washed 
from his face. Or perhaps it was there, just hidden by 
shadow. Sisyphus clamped her jaw. *Not* squeezing the 
trigger was taking real effort now. She deserved 
better than this. Sure, Mutt and Jeff weren't truly 
her work, but *he* had no way of knowing--

Mulder leaned slowly forward, vision moving on, his 
face finally, fully, into the light as he located 
Mutt's out-flung arm, the hand, so pale there, glowing 
a fluorescent milky-white against the concrete. But 
Mulder's face, so intent, revealed nothing. Beyond a 
kind of resolved sadness and a convulsive swallowing, 
there was simply no expression. 

There would be, damn him. Before the night was out, 
she'd have her money's worth.

He looked at her then. His eyes startled her with the 
suddenness of their attention. There had been no 
lingering transition from Mutt's body to her own, no 
slow panning from Mutt's face, down his chest and 
hips, to her feet, then, disbelieving, moving upward 
to find her there. There was no dreadful recognition. 
He'd simply looked from Jeff's hand to her face, the 
shift so sudden she couldn't even say that he'd 
blinked. 

Her hand tightened on the gun, her mouth frozen in the 
process of forming words. But there was nothing to 
say. He simply stared at her, without remorse or fear. 
And completely without surprise. There was no 
evaluating appraisal in the glance. No sizing-up of an 
opponent. No judgment rendered. No plans being re-
evaluated. Just an electric meeting of the eyes, an 
acknowledgment of presence and person. 

He'd been expecting her.

She forced herself to breathe deeply. This was... 
wrong. He was making no attempt to flee, no effort to 
avail himself of Jeff's gun. He remained crouched in 
place, his fist loosening to rest on his thigh. The 
other hand remained forgotten against the wall of the 
shaft. His shoulders, too, had eased, a voiceless sigh 
of relief, as though he'd discovered an old friend at 
the end of his journey. She was struck suddenly by how 
young he was, how boyish, except for those too-steady, 
shadowed eyes. Perhaps he'd already seen far worse 
than she was capable of. 

Oh, no. He'd seen nothing yet.

"I'm going to climb out now." 

The gravely tenor surprised her: warm with no hint of 
tension or concern. He might have been asking her 
permission. She nodded, rendering consent without 
being entirely certain. He shifted again, working his 
long legs free of the shaft, but he did not take his 
eyes off her. His focus was unnerving, as much as she 
hated to admit it. Predators do not like being stared 
at, and he should have known better. He did know, but 
he stared all the same.

Leveraging himself free of the wall, he stood. Jeff's 
gun was to his left, closer to the grate than she felt 
comfortable with, a deep shadow within a shadow. 
Perhaps he wouldn't see it. Perhaps she wouldn't have 
to kill him here. Despite recent setbacks, she still 
had hopes for the evening. Still had plans. 


CONTINUED IN PART 25B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:25:09 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 25B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 25B of 27:

His foot brushed the weapon as he stepped forward to 
present himself and he glanced down, froze. Sisyphus 
raised the site on her .22, a warning, and he turned 
to her, his brows lifted bare millimeters, offended 
that she would be so distrusting. But that was the way 
of the world, was it not? He raised his foot 
carefully, never wavering his attention, and kicked 
the weapon away. It spun into the deepest shadows 
behind her, metal grinding across the concrete as it 
fled.

"Wise man." She smiled over the gun sight, finding it 
easier now to return the unblinking gaze. 

"Enough people have died, I think." He didn't so much 
speak the words as submit them for her consideration.

"One more to go." 

His brows tightened. "But *just* one." 

This was not a submission. The steel in the graveled 
voice caught her off guard and pushed all the wrong 
buttons at once. Her finger tightened on the trigger. 
She could do this here and now. Between Mutt and Jeff, 
she had an arsenal in this corner. She could fend off 
a swat team long enough to rip him open--

Those unblinking eyes closed suddenly. Mulder lifted 
his chin and his hands slid to his hips. She watched 
him stretch his torso and shoulder muscles, uncertain 
of this new tactic. He moved slowly, with measured 
pauses. The garage lights, distant, shone behind him, 
outlining his right shoulder in bright neon yellow. 
One side of his face and his hand was red, chafed by 
the shaft and his effort to descend. The other side of 
his body remained in shadows, a deep too-cold blue. 
There was a dark stain on his hand, drying blood, 
perhaps. But it was his neck that held her gaze: the 
sliver of yellow halo-ing from behind, bathing the 
first inch of skin before fading to red and, finally, 
deepening to a blue rough with evening stubble. 

He breathed then, slowly, very deeply, head still 
back. And she understood without knowing the proper 
terms to explain: the beta male was exposing his soft 
underbelly to the alpha, submitting without defense. 
His Adam's apple bobbed once, and the sight left her 
trembling with hunger. Her finger eased from the 
trigger, satisfied.

He lowered his head in a languid, fluid gesture, his 
hands returning to his sides, each movement carefully 
executed. He opened his eyes and focused on her again, 
but this time no higher than her belt buckle. He 
turned his head slightly, keeping even this gaze 
indirect.

*I have the gun.* She wondered why she felt it 
necessary to remind herself of such a fact, to 
remember that she was the one in control. He had 
surrendered, hadn't he?

"They'll be looking for me." It was not the grandiose 
statement of the braggart, merely a quiet observation. 
"Shouldn't we be going?" There was no resistance in 
his tone, no hidden dagger waiting to strike.

"To the car," she ordered. "Fourth row over. Try 
anything and I swear I'll kill you here and now. And 
then I'll shoot everything that moves in this garage 
for the next two hours. Understood? They'll all die--"

"I get it." More steel, and the eyes flickered to her 
face, but jerked away again after only the briefest 
glimpse, too quick to read clearly. He shrugged, hands 
raised, demonstrating submission. "I... get it."

"Then get in the car."

He complied, moving carefully, maintaining a 
respectful distance and keeping his hands in clear 
view. Stepping to the first row of vehicles, he 
paused. She followed his gaze: the fallen agent there 
beyond the station wagon. She watched, waiting: he 
squinted hard, his jaw clenching spasmodically. In 
profile, she thought he may have licked his lips 
briefly. He turned his head away from the spectacle, 
however, and moved forward before she could remind him 
to do so. 

She followed, black patent leather shoes stepping free 
of Mutt's dead body, deftly avoiding the slick of 
blood pooling on the garage floor. 

"Fifth row--"

"I see it." His tone was difficult to gauge. It might 
have been resentful. It might also have been simply 
weary. The tension across his shoulders was not a 
significant indicator, she decided. He'd been tense 
like this even in his sleep. 

As he moved, light flowed, opening like water around 
him. His sweater, jet black, soaked in the light and 
refused to surrender it in kind. He was a reverse 
negative, defined only by the halo of diffused 
florescence surrounding him. He was the darkness given 
form and animated.

He approached his own vehicle, shuffling a few steps 
uncertainly. He glanced back at her, and shrugged, 
mumbling. 

"I musta forgotten my keys in my other pants."

She smiled. She couldn't help herself. A gun to his 
head and the certainty of death, and he could still 
joke. It would indeed be an interesting evening. 

"In the ignition, love. Just keep your hands where I 
can see them."

He grunted, turning away as he muttered something 
else. The roar of the garage obliterated the words, 
but the tone was completely without inflection, yet 
oddly appreciative. It might have been, "I bet you 
like it on top, too." 

She didn't ask him to clarify.


XXXXXXX


Purdue burst from the stairwell in time to see 
Mulder's car pull past and on toward the exit ramp to 
the street.

The ASAC yelped and lunged, slamming his hip and both 
fists against the hood of the trunk as the vehicle 
rolled past. The garage echoed the impact, its 
futility, flesh against steel. Purdue clung to the 
hood, fingers scraping at the hinge, desperate and 
determined. A face loomed at him from the darkness of 
the rear window. The face of a woman, unnervingly 
omnipotent. It was the face from Purdue's fax machine, 
the face Harris had sent him from Columbus. 

And she was smiling.

Purdue slid free of the vehicle, stumbling to his 
feet, empty handed and panting. The Monte Carlo 
swerved, already moving too fast, heedless of the 
confines of the garage. The motion varied the light 
within the car, just so, and Purdue caught a second 
glimpse: the glint of metal, as bright and lifeless as 
her eyes. A revolver. The point of the barrel was 
pressed against Mulder's skull, just below his right 
ear and angling upward. Mulder's face in the rearview 
offered no plea, hooded by too many shadows. They were 
the eyes of Mr. American Lit, gutted on his couch, his 
pupils large and dark as any doll's. 

The eyes of a dead man.

These images, minute as flash photos, were impressions 
only. Purdue's brain supplied the details, burning 
them into his retina, processing in patterns of white 
on black, blurs of red and green. 

Sandidge materialized from nowhere, scarcely 
registering on Purdue's consciousness even as the man 
brushed past him, sending Purdue staggering. 

Sandidge's shouts -- "Federal agents! Stop!" -- went 
unheeded. He pursued the vehicle up the ramp on foot, 
weapon drawn, but not fired, unwilling to risk the 
return fire, exposed as he was.

Purdue's stagger became a full run in the opposite 
direction, back toward his own vehicle. He fumbled in 
his pants pocket as he ran, seeking keys, twisting 
past rows of cars. 

He faltered seconds, precious seconds, when he found 
the body: a black man, well-dressed, a former 
linebacker, surely, face down, coat flapped back 
revealing the unsnapped holster, the weapon still 
sheathed. Agent Warren Thomas. Blood pooled beneath 
the man, mingling with an old oil slick. 

Purdue leaped to clear the corpse, heart pounding in 
time with his legs. He slowed his momentum by slamming 
his body into driver's side of his Chrysler, jamming 
the key into the lock in the same violent motion. 
 
He followed Mulder's example, taking the ramp at 
frightening speed, tires squalling in protest. The 
Chrysler burst into the street, shocks bouncing with 
the variation of pavement and Purdue's sudden stop. It 
was close to one a.m. and traffic was minimal, 
virtually non-existent, but what had been rain earlier 
was a downpour now, and Purdue swore heatedly, 
engaging his wipers. 

There was no sign of Mulder. 

Purdue fought with the window gear, struggling to hear 
Sandidge's shout as the agent ran back up the street 
toward him. A sheet of water poured through the few 
inches of open glass, soaking him instantly. 

"M Street!" Sandidge screamed, one hand shielding his 
vision from the deluge, the other arm gesturing south. 
"He's heading west on M! M!" 

Purdue gunned the engine, leaving Sandidge flapping 
his arms on the sidewalk. M was the first corner, and 
Purdue took it on squealing tires, not bothering to 
note the color of the traffic light. He was not a 
praying man but he was praying now. "Clear the roads, 
just clear the roads--" a mantra to Whoever might be 
listening and otherwise concerned. 

M street was a four lane and the few cars traveling it 
were proceeding cautiously in deference to the 
weather. Purdue identified Mulder's tail lights almost 
immediately: they were the blood-red smears fleeing 
like that bat out of hell everyone talks about. Purdue 
fed his engine, passing an offended Nissan sedan just 
barely visible in the downpour. The rain was hitting 
the ground with enough force to splatter it back up 
again a good foot or more. It rose in a fine mist from 
the pavement.

"Where the hell are we going, Mulder?" Purdue growled. 
His voice was lost to his own ears, drowned by the 
combined roar of rain and engine. "Where the hell 
would this bitch be taking you?" 

*Some place quiet --* the Chrysler ate the road that 
separated them -- *some place rural. She's not been in 
town long enough to know the city well--*

A blur of yellow hanging in the near distance. Now 
red. Purdue swore again. A traffic light. Wisconsin 
Avenue. 

Mulder plowed through the red light without even 
tapping his brakes. Only a few car-lengths separated 
him from Purdue now and the light was still red when 
Purdue hit the intersection. Suddenly, Purdue had no 
time for swearing. A blue Ford materialized from 
behind a wall of water to his right, swerving in a 
surrealistic flash of red and white and blinking 
yellow. 

Purdue fought the wheel and his own dread, keeping his 
focus determinedly on Mulder's receding tail lights 
while the Chrysler floundered. He was completely into 
the far eastbound lane before he recovered, horns 
blaring angrily behind him. He didn't glance back. 

Mulder turned abruptly left and Purdue followed, 
making the turn himself seconds later, hydroplaning, 
but somehow maintaining his course. Only as the guard 
rails sped past did Purdue recognize the route: the 
Key Bridge, crossing the Potomac. 

They were heading south, then. Shit, what was south? 
Virginia, at the end of the bridge. Was Mulder heading 
for Alexandria and home? No way. Sisyphus wouldn't 
haul Mulder back to his apartment. She hadn't evaded 
them this long to suddenly be that stupid. 

What then? Purdue replayed possibilities. Harris had 
said that Cecile Fuche was a homebody, as best they 
could tell, rarely wavering from her accustomed trek 
between Columbus and Wheeling. What would she know of 
Virginia? Hell, what would any tourist know from a map 
and a half-decent guide book? The entire state was a 
spattering of national parks and Civil War 
battlefields, so many nice quiet places prized for 
their privacy....

Purdue poured on the gas, taking advantage of the 
clear shot of road to attempt to pull up alongside the 
Monte Carlo. But Mulder's driving was relentless, 
matching Purdue's pace mile for mile and bettering it. 
The ASAC backed down, unwilling to exacerbate the 
situation, particularly on a bridge.

"Goddammit!" Purdue rattled his steering wheel 
helplessly. "Goddamn General Motors products and 
goddam Chrysler!" His head was throbbing, his right 
eye still tender from Mulder's sucker punch, but his 
vision, thankfully, was unimpaired. He fished under 
the dash for the switch to his police radio, flipped 
it on. They were rapidly running out of bridge.

"Attention any available units--" Purdue gasped as his 
car bounced unexpectedly, his speed overemphasizing 
the slightest variation of pavement as the bridge 
became highway. "Attention any available units," he 
repeated. "Federal officer in need of assistance, 
southbound on Whitehurst."

"This is One-Charlie-twenty, Fairfax County Sheriff's 
Department." The voice, remote and unfamiliar, was the 
herald of angels. "What is your situation?"

"I have a 41-40, kidnapping in progress. In pursuit of 
a red Chevy Monte Carlo two-door, license number 
Robert-Union-Union Seven Four Seventy-five. Suspect 
wanted for multiple homicide, armed and dangerous. 
Hostage is a federal agent and is driving at 
gunpoint."

More static. "Sounds like a situation to me," the 
voice answered. "Dispatch, One-Charlie-twenty, code 
three...." 


XXXXXXX

She'd chosen the back seat as a kind of refuge/assault 
base. She enjoyed ease of movement here and the 
confidence of absolute control. He was readily 
accessible to her, yet she shared nothing with him but 
her air. 

Mulder sat hunched slightly forward over the wheel, 
peering into the rain-ravaged darkness. She checked 
his speedometer, slid to the far passenger side to 
check the side mirror.

A sign loomed out of the darkness and rain, legible 
only when they were almost half past it: "Interstate 
66" in great white, reflective letters. Suddenly they 
were rising, the gentle slope of an on-ramp. 

"Where are you going?" She grit her teeth on the 
words, gripping the weapon, keeping it level with his 
head. She hated admitting ignorance, hated the not 
knowing more. 

"You know," he answered carefully, testing the waters. 
"*I'm* not the one initiating a kidnapping with no 
pre-established get-away plan." 

"Oh, I have a plan, sir," she purred. "It's called six 
bullets in your skull in rapid succession if you don't 
get this thing parked in the very near future."

"That might take all the fun out of it, don't you 
think?" His face in the rearview was impossible to 
read. There was a dizzying sensation as the Monte 
Carlo slid left, easing smoothly past a tractor 
trailer.

"I'll make up for it when I get around to your friend 
back there," she tossed her head in the direction of 
the several sets of headlights following them. 

Mulder raised a critical eyebrow. "So, that's the 
thanks I get for saving myself for you," he muttered.

"Oh, did you now? Liar." 

His eyes flickered to the rearview but he thought 
better of it before he focused. She smiled. He was 
intelligent, sensitive. This was going to be 
marvelous.

"I thought you wanted someplace quiet." His voice was 
subdued, submissive once more. "Just you and me, 
right?" His sincerity didn't fool her.

"Stop the car."

"Stop the car." He repeated the statement with minimal 
inflection, squinting, examining the words for hidden 
meaning. "Stop the car?" 

Sisyphus slid to her favored position, dead-center of 
the back seat, braced at the edge of the upholstery. 
"Stop the car." She emphasized each syllable 
patiently. This close to her intended target, she 
could afford to be gracious. "I do believe I can 
handle one half-assed Fed, thank you."

He blinked at her in the rearview. "To which half-
assed Fed are you referring, may I ask?"

She leaned forward, enjoying the involuntary tension 
of his body as she invaded his personal space. "Oh, 
your ass is just fine, love." She lowered her pistol 
between the bucket seats and dragged the muzzle across 
the side of his hip. The front sight caught on his 
pocket and she tugged at the fabric, teasing, watching 
his face freeze, his entire body stiffening. "It's 
your shadow, darling," she whispered, nodding in the 
general direction of the back window, "that I take 
exception to." She returned the pistol to the level of 
his head. "Now quit stalling and pull over."

She watched him search the road ahead before glancing 
at her in the rearview again, his eyes shifting 
briefly to the headlights behind her. His focus 
returned to the road and he shook his head with enough 
genuine regret to make her pause.

"I can't do that, Cecile."

She blinked, jamming the gun into the hollow below his 
skull. He winced, but didn't try looking at her again. 

"Excuse me," she announced, "but compliance is not 
optional here. I'm *not* asking. Understand?"

He took a deep breath, biting his lip. "No--" he 
shifted his shoulder, pulling away from the rapidly 
increasing pressure of the barrel against his neck. 
"It's just-- It's just that it gets this whole Catch-
22 situation started. You know, I stop *my* car, he 
stops *his* car. You try to blow him away. I try to 
stop you. You shoot me, then you shoot *him.* Or 
maybe, he shoots you first, but then he feels bad 
about me getting whacked... It's just a vicious cycle-
-" 

"What do you care?" she hissed. "You'll be dead."

He shrugged his eyebrows, considering. "Yeah, well, 
there's *that,* at least," he said.

A siren wailed, nearing, to her left. The rain-smeared 
windows ran blood red suddenly, then electric blue, 
then red again, a cyclic revolution of emergency 
lights, their source impossible to distinguish for the 
glare, but somewhere behind them. Close. 

Mulder searched his mirrors. "Ahhh... shall I pull 
over now?" he requested mildly.

She jerked at his seat, slamming the butt of her 
pistol into his headrest. He winced, body tensed for 
the blow she scarcely managed to contain. 

"Just drive, you sonofabitch. You so much as slow 
down, and I start looking for people to shoot. How's 
that for your Catch-22?"

He didn't slow and didn't argue. His hand moved to the 
stick shift and she tightened her grip on the gun. 
There was a click and the car shot forward 
effortlessly, the tachometer dipping with a sigh. 
Overdrive. 

She shoved her body to the far passenger side, 
chancing a glance out the rear window: a haze of 
lights, red, blue, yellow, white, surrounded them. 
They lit the interior of the car like a strobe, 
tossing her shadow, here outlined in red, there 
redefined in hues of blue, color and darkness 
splattering in constantly shifting angles. She 
shimmied back to the center of the vehicle. The view 
of the front seat was only marginally better. The 
sensation was akin to being physically assaulted. 

Powerless. She would not be powerless--

"Idiots."

Mulder didn't answer, eyes flitting briefly to the 
rearview, back to the road, back to the mirror, in 
little spurts. She slapped his headrest again, this 
time with her open palm. He returned his focus to the 
road and kept it there. 

"Bunch of idiots," she hissed again. "Tell me what 
you're profiling off of." She tugged at his sweater 
through the space between the seats. "Tell me where 
you got your information, smart ass. This bunch sends 
you into prisons to do your little surveys and fill 
out your little charts, and make up profiles on people 
you don't even know. Think about it! All the 
information you have on file about killers is from the 
ones *stupid* enough to get caught." She sneered. 
"Yeah. Sure. Then you think you're going to waltz out 
here and profile me. You arrogant little shits." 

Mulder rubbed his right palm against the wheel, 
flexing his fingers before gripping it again. The 
sweat sparkled on the leather, reflecting an angry red 
that made her thirsty suddenly.

"Maybe," he hesitated. "Maybe you should just rethink 
this situation--"

"You expect me to surrender?" Her mouth twisted with 
the word, the impossibility of the concept. "Maybe I 
*did* pick the wrong half-assed Fed."

She didn't mean it, though, and he knew it. One glance 
in the rearview told him. He jerked his eyes back to 
the road, gripping the steering wheel that much 
harder. She smiled. He understood so much more than 
his graphs and his surveys, didn't he? More than he 
wanted to know. Especially now.

She sighed, resting her forehead against the side of 
the passenger headrest, and raked her eyes down the 
length of the lean body beside her. Just being near 
him had been enough to get her heart to racing. It was 
a good sign. A very good sign. 

She had been killing for years: animals, at first. Her 
mother. A particularly pathetic co-worker behind a bar 
one evening. Those had been quiet little affairs, 
listed simply as robbery-homicides, unsolved. 
Spectacular only in their savagery. 

The kills had been intensely satisfying, as only 
intimate betrayal could be. The problem was, Cecile 
didn't know enough people well enough to truly attain 
that level of pleasure routinely. There had been her 
mother. Her husband, that co-worker. And that was 
about it. She hadn't the patience to make friends. Too 
much effort, too much requisite self-restraint. 
Unfortunate. Otherwise she'd have had a bigger list 
from which to glean. 

Small matter. She was resourceful by nature and had 
discovered ways to compensate. Savagery had 
substituted for intimacy. In some ways, sometimes, it 
had proven even more enjoyable.

Lately, however, killing just... didn't seem to do it 
for her. It no longer revived her, made her feel 
alive. When she had been young, one kill would sustain 
her for months. Years, sometimes. This satisfaction, 
however, had waned recently, growing increasingly more 
short-lived. And more difficult to attain. Like a 
junkie, she needed more and more control, more and 
more gore, more... something. 

And the *something* had been eluding her for months. 

Until *this* man. She'd killed that young cop in 
Bridgeport for this man, a kind of tap at his door, if 
you will, an acknowledgment of intent. A salute. It 
had been intensely satisfying, but in so many unusual 
ways, a kind of sharing she had never expected: 
imagining his reaction, anticipating his 
comprehension. His appreciation.

The woman in the diner. That... that had been the 
best. She had touched something deep with that one. 
Something very personal to him. Shared whole new 
levels. It had been *his* blood on the floor that 
night in the diner: blood he had roused. Skin he had 
cherished. A body he had made his own. 

And Sisyphus had made it hers. Then graciously 
returned it. An invitation to share. As had been all 
the kills thereafter. He had understood this, 
naturally. Accepted it in spite of his companions' 
interference. As he would accept so much more....

Her hand touched his side, low on that long torso, 
below the ribs, the sweater as soft against her 
fingertips as it was against his skin. She let the 
weight of her hand drag her fingers slowly down: the 
smooth tension of his flesh beneath the fabric, the 
sweater bunching slightly at his waist, the thickness 
of his waistband. The slight curve of his hip, denim 
pulled tight as he sat behind the wheel, the solidity 
of his thigh as she rested her palm on his leg, 
fingertips angling inward toward his groin, nails 
pressed lightly against more denim....

She didn't need the rearview to see his profile at 
this angle. Erratic light flickered across his face. 
His lashes, long and lush, closed, a blink, only a 
blink, focus held carefully forward. A flash of fire 
at his cheekbone: a single bead of sweat reflecting 
the lights of sirens and dash dials. She watched the 
tiny ball of water descend, leaving its damp track 
trailing across his cheek, over the curve of his jaw, 
sliding slowly down his neck--

She caught it with her tongue at the curve of his 
shoulder and he gasped. She felt the car waver 
slightly, smiled against his skin as he recovered, 
vehicle moving steadily again beneath them. His 
shoulder rose and fell beneath her lips, short, 
shallow breaths that never reached his lungs. She 
kissed the damp, salty spot her tongue had claimed, 
kissed the skin beside it. He stopped breathing 
altogether, his heart thundering in the vein at her 
cheek.

"She died quickly," she lied, her whisper warm and 
humid in his ear. "You owe me for that, you know." 

There was no question who *she* was. He nodded, a 
delicious motion beneath her questing mouth.

"Yeah. I owe you for that."


XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Note: Mulder's profile is heavily based on comments 
from *Without Conscience: The Disturbing World of 
Psychopaths Among Us* by Robert D. Hare, Ph.D. Guilford 
Press, 1999. Thanks, DJ. Do my friends know how to 
pick out great Christmas gifts, or what? <g>

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX



"He who has waited long enough will wait for ever. And 
there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and 
nobody more can come and all is ended but the waiting 
that knows itself in vain. Perhaps he had come to 
that. And when (for example) you die, it is too late, 
you have been waiting too long, you are no longer 
sufficiently alive to be able to stop." -- Samuel 
Beckett, *Malone Dies*; New York: Grove Press, Inc. 
1956. 


Mulder did not take the expected detour onto the 
Beltway. Instead, he continued west on I-66, averaging 
speeds of 75 and 80 miles per. He maneuvered 
carefully, making no attempts to shake his escort. 

Purdue stubbornly remained the center vehicle of the 
chase, Virginia Highway Patrol and Fairfax County 
Sheriff's vehicles fanning out behind and before him, 
left and right as traffic allowed. No one wanted 
Cecile Fuche panicking, but the weather rendered 
helicopter tracking an impossibility, and dropping 
back to allow Mulder room to breathe was not an option 
Purdue was willing to take. The slick roads allowed 
few opportunities for forcing a safe stop. State 
troopers informed Purdue that they were preparing a 
roadblock just east of Centreville. Traffic, such as 
there was at this ungodly hour, was being diverted. 

Purdue's responses to the updates were short but 
grateful. He would take what hope he could. He'd 
chosen the Embassy Suites himself, worked the routine 
to a fine science, yet this woman had taken the place 
by storm, killing four agents in the process, 
butchering one while Purdue sat in the next room--

He gripped the wheel, hands numb but holding 
desperately. Sauceda's presence was heavy in the car, 
real as his own breath. If he glanced over he would 
find blood on the floorboard, Lenny in the passenger 
seat, holding his guts together, slamming his hand 
against the dash. *Faster, dammit! Drive!*

Purdue didn't glance over. Didn't want to see the 
seat, empty or not. Grief was not someone he wanted in 
control of the wheel right now. Not in a high speed 
chase with rain relentless against his wiper blades. 

He tried to imagine what was going on in the vehicle 
ahead. Water sheeted the rear window of the Monte 
Carlo, reflecting the emergency lights in a cycling 
kaleidoscope, and he could catch only the occasional 
glimpse of Mulder's dark head. He noted Sisyphus's 
position when the effect cleared sufficiently; she was 
a second head upon Mulder's shoulder, merging, her 
proximity a weapon as unnerving as any knife-- 

Then they were gone again in a wash of cold blue, red, 
and horrific yellow. 

What was it like, he wondered? What was it like to be 
Mulder, to know what he knew and to find such a 
creature breathing in his ear? What was it like to 
recall that endless parade of snapshots, crime scenes, 
victims discarded, splayed in all their horror... And 
to know that, despite all hope, you were next. You 
were *now.* 

Purdue's foot ached to accelerate. Suicide by cop, 
Mulder had warned him. She'd go out in a blaze of 
glory, taking as many as she could with her. And 
Purdue had no doubt: Mulder would be number one on the 
list.

Purdue had seen a great deal in his career. Some 
people, he'd learned, kill by wholesale slaughter. 
Some kill just a piece at a time, preferring the 
lingering afterburn of psychological butchery. This 
one had done both, destroying Mulder by degrees, 
whittling him away, bit by bit, with every victim, 
every cut of her blade. Murder on the installment 
plan. And now she would finish the job. Her 
persistence was a matter of record. Nothing would keep 
her from her appointed desire.

But Purdue would be damned if he'd just sit back and 
watched her.

The Monte Carlo changed lanes ahead, drifting slowly 
left. The trooper out Purdue's window and slightly 
ahead, drifted with him, maintaining as much of the 
distance as possible, a patient pace car. The deputy 
behind Purdue did not fill the space, allowing the 
ASAC to change lanes as well. 

The play of light across Mulder's window cleared 
briefly and Purdue caught another glimpse into the 
Monte Carlo: Mulder's head visible above his headrest, 
Fuche's head and shoulders an indistinct lump beside 
him, arm wrapped around Mulder's bucket seat. The 
sight, although expected, made Purdue's heart shudder 
against his ribs. Mulder's head moved, a quick check 
of his side mirror, then forward again, returning his 
focus to the windshield. 

Purdue recalled a similar movement suddenly: Mulder 
laying across the bed -- what? a half hour ago? -- 
under duress, under attack. And turning his head 
briefly. A refusal, not open to negotiation. 

And what of that refusal? What was it he had refused, 
and to whom? A ghost? A phantom of his own mind? 

No. A breakdown, he could understand, he'd seen the 
results, the razor cuts, the oozing wounds across 
Mulder's thighs, tokens of desperation. The 
hemorrhaging, too -- an extreme psychological 
manifestation of stress, right? 

But what psychological aberration was capable of 
changing air pressure or... 

Or forming knee prints in a mattress? 

*Sweet Jeezus...* 

What was he saying? That Mulder's behavior had simply 
been a sane response to insanely impossible 
phenomenon? Did Purdue dare believe... 

Believe... what, exactly?

The view into the Monte Carlo vanished, lost in mists 
of red and gold. Purdue concentrated on his breathing, 
alternately tensing and relaxing his hands on the 
wheel, trying to restore feeling. *You don't have time 
for this right now, dammit. Right now you've got a 
psychopath with a gun. A one-woman plague that 
functions without restraint of conscience.* 

The weapon pinching against his spine was an 
accusation: *Mulder has no weapon. You made certain he 
had no weapon--*

Purdue grit his teeth, willing the voice into silence. 

"I'm sorry, Lenny. I didn't know...." 

He spoke the words and they were sincere, but too 
hollow to persuade even himself. No redemption here. 
No such gifts deserved. 

They passed an aging Pontiac, the driver's rheumy eyes 
staring wildly as the convoy swirled by, a vast beast 
of lights and riotous sound. Mulder resumed the middle 
lane after a respectful distance and the escort 
followed suit, everyone nice and cordial.

Purdue's calf muscles clenched, spasming with the 
effort to keep his foot steady on the accelerator. A 
sign loomed out of the bombarding rain: "Centreville 6 
Miles."

"Play to it, Mulder," Purdue whispered. "Play to her 
fantasies. Make her let you live long enough for us to 
reach you." 


XXXXXXX

Her hand moved like one familiar with him, laying 
claim to a manifest destiny. He chanced a glance at 
his rearview: a haze of lights, merging, impossible to 
distinguish one from the other. Help so near. So 
distant. 

Her fingers brushed the edge of his collar, his neck, 
slid languidly across his collarbone, down a few 
inches, rubbing lightly at the soft hairs curling 
above the V-neck of his sweater. 

Her hands were cold as death. And why had that 
surprised him? Typically, psychopaths had inordinately 
low blood pressure; if he ran an EEG on her, the 
results of that would not be normal, either. At least 
that much of ViCap's research was not open to 
speculation. 

Such trivia should serve to keep him calm, he 
supposed. But it didn't. Sisyphus was too excited. It 
radiated off her like body heat, suffocating him. He 
pried his right hand from the wheel, leaden fingers 
seeking the air vent controls. He felt her watching 
him, her breathing, carefully controlled, growing 
increasingly rapid.

Her hand slid down under his sweater, probing. She 
found his left nipple and he forced himself not to 
flinch as she lingered there, teasing. Her breath was 
too warm against the right side of his neck. Oxygen, 
heavy with rain, blasted at him from the dash but he 
was unable to inhale. He could do little more than 
whisper.

"We need to be looking for a sign." 

"A what?" More hot breath against his neck, another 
languid kiss that made his skin crawl. 

He spoke louder, needing to be heard over the barrage 
of rain on steel, the wipers, and the hum of the 
engine. His voice was harsh, too highly pitched, alien 
in his own ear. 

"I said, we need to be looking for a sign. An exit 
sign." 

He felt her frown but steadfastly refused to glance at 
her in the rearview. The physical assault was enough; 
he didn't need to see, didn't need to watch this 
macabre seduction. 

Another kiss, wet this time, the barest tip of her 
tongue on the crease of flesh behind his earlobe. He 
bit his lip as she giggled. Coppery taste of blood in 
his mouth. She'd want to share that, too--

*Stop the car. Just stop the goddam car. Right here 
and let them finish it. Finish her. Four open lanes 
and -- what was it now -- five cars following? No way 
she walks away from this, no way she escapes--*

But he'd be dead before she crawled out of the car. 
She'd be certain of that shot. And she had the 
patience and presence of mind to be certain of a 
couple of more before she died, too. 

Funny how precious life turned out to be when death is 
breathing down your neck. And giggling.

A rise in the road. The Monte Carlo climbed the slight 
incline with no noticeable change in the engine; they 
might just as well been airborne. 

Mulder's eyes narrowed as the vehicle hit the crest of 
the rise. A flash -- a row of lights in the far 
distance -- gone as quickly as it was glimpsed.

Something wrong about the lights. Something odd. It 
hit him as soon as the words formed in his head. Red 
and white lights. Blue lights above, but red and white 
below. Police cars, trooper's cars, red rear lights, 
white *headlights,* scattered, a staggering pattern 
across the road. Mulder checked his rearview: the 
vehicles behind were falling back, not much, but 
noticeable.

"Roadblock."

That brought the lovemaking to a distinct halt. 
Sisyphus jerked her head up and pushed back, gun still 
tight against the back of his head -- he had a 
throbbing headache centralized just there -- and 
surveyed the view out the back window. The muzzle 
shifted a few millimeters and she was back at his 
shoulder again, peering out at the road ahead, wipers 
slinging water furiously.

"Where, dammit! Where is it?"

"Ahead a few miles, I think. It's hard to judge--"

"I'll kill you before you get this damned thing 
stopped. You understand? I'll--"

"I get it, Cecile--"

"You get it," she mimicked, mouth twisting as he 
glanced at her in the mirror. She had a face that was 
more interesting than pretty, petite enough to be 
deceptively fragile but her strength was belied by the 
way she moved. Her face, suddenly twisted with anger, 
was inhuman, washed with cycling reflections of blue 
and red and the occasional yellow. 

Jeezus. He'd wound up in someone's acid dream... 

"You *get* it," she hissed. "I don't *care* if you 
*get* it. Just *get* us out of here! I won't stand for 
any more of your tricks!"

"Tricks? Shit!" Mulder exploded with too much pent-up 
energy, too much fear. He slammed his open palm 
against the steering wheel and she jerked reflexively. 
"Tricks? I'm the one telling you we need to find a 
fucking exit, bitch. This is not a goddam trick." He 
couldn't resist. "*Get* it?"

She stared at him, and he risked another glance at her 
face. She was livid, mouth forming words that would 
not come, bottom lip trembling with rage.

"I have the gun," she managed finally.

"You've got the gun," Mulder nodded. His explosion had 
quieted him, energized him into a calm certainty. He 
had a plan. Somewhere under all this mess, he had a 
plan. The problem was staying alive long enough to 
figure out what it was. "Yeah, you've got the gun," he 
acknowledged, cut his eyes at her sharply. "And I've 
got the wheel." 

She stopped breathing for the space of three 
heartbeats. There was a sharp intake of breath as 
realization dawned.

"I'll kill you."

"And I'll take you with me. Use that gun and we both 
die. Your choice."

"Stop the car!"

Did he detect a hint of panic? "No." 

His seat shuddered as she slammed her body against it, 
the muzzle of the .22 shoving him sideways. The wheel 
shuddered in his hands. The slick pavement and their 
speed magnified the shift in steering and she tumbled 
back, weapon finally falling away from his skull as 
she lost her balance at the edge of the seat. Mulder 
tapped the brakes, righting the car, and the muzzle 
was back against his neck in the next heartbeat. He 
regained speed, restoring the rhythmic *pa-pump... pa-
pump... pa-pump* of the tires rolling across the 
concrete spacers of the road.

"Don't do that again." She was panting. Mulder 
considered: self-preservation was a powerful force. 
Quite possibly the only true emotion she understood.

A sign. At last a sign: "US 50," and a smaller sign 
attached above it: "Airport." Mulder changed lanes 
abruptly, sending the trooper's car at his right 
taillight scrambling to compensate. The trooper dove 
for the paved shoulder and then overcorrected, 
hydroplaning back across the highway, into the 
headlights of the remaining escort. Tires squealed 
behind him as vehicles scattered, trying to avoid the 
inevitable collision. 

Mulder cursed beneath his breath, tapping his brakes 
once more. One trooper's car passed him, overshooting 
him, a second close behind. Mulder jerked his wheel 
hard to the right, taking the exit, and suddenly it 
was all behind him, cycling lights abruptly gone. Even 
the direction of the rain had shifted, pounding his 
side of the vehicle harder now. His headlights sought 
the route: US 50, another four-lane, widening to six, 
heading northwest. The little town of Pender flew 
past, a blur. The spacers raced away under them now, 
*pa-pump, pa-pump, pa--*.

Headlights in his rearview. The familiar cycling of 
red and blue. The rising scream of a siren. 

Sisyphus dropped all pretense of holding the gun to 
his head. Perhaps she was just too busy trying to stay 
upright. Mulder didn't know what she was doing. Didn't 
care. He was doing eighty-five and finding it 
difficult to hold the wheel steady on the slick 
asphalt. 

The road dipped slightly, rose again. Two sets of 
headlights followed them now, washing the rear window 
with their combined glare: a trooper's car, and 
another vehicle without emergency lights. Both holding 
steady. 

*Shit.*

Sisyphus' head popped back up at his shoulder, 
blocking his view. 

"This isn't the plan!" she hissed, teeth clenched 
defiantly. "This isn't how it's supposed to go!"

"So adapt." 

His growl, only half-considered, was followed by a 
long, intense silence. He chanced a glimpse at the 
mirror. Sisyphus' face reflected back at him, staring 
through him, her eyes cold as glass. Without a word, 
she slid deliberately back against the seat behind 
her, and over, out of sight. 

So, Mulder marveled, this was how it ended. After all 
the struggling, all the dying, this was it. Finally. 

The certainty brought a surprising level of calm, even 
gratitude. He was sick of fighting the wheel, of 
anticipating, of holding so many other lives in his 
hands. 

He eased off the gas without realizing it, leveling 
the speedometer out at seventy-six. His shoulders 
ached, his eyes burned, and his right calf was 
cramping like a sonofabitch. He wondered if he could 
drive with his left foot just as well, but it was no 
longer something he'd need to worry about, was it?

He had a sudden ridiculous craving for a cigarette--

"She was a long time dying." 

Sisyphus, very quiet. He'd expected an explosion, the 
impact of a bullet slamming through his skull. Her 
voice, by contrast, was far too still, but its aim was 
every bit as accurate. The throbbing behind his left 
eye escalated abruptly and he slid his hand from the 
wheel to hold the eye within its socket. The pain was 
excruciating, throbbing violently against the heel of 
his hand, vital as he tried to avoid her voice.

"She begged me to kill her."

"Don't--"

"I held her heart in my hand while it was still 
beating. Then I chopped it out of her. She was in too 
much pain to scream. It's astounding what the human 
body can endure when the desire to live is strong 
enough." Another hiss: "And my, but she must have 
wanted to live."

Mulder was silent, the air in his lungs a fist that 
threatened to crush his heart. There were no words to 
speak. How do you hurt a creature who has no capacity 
for compassion? No concept of human dignity or shame? 
Thoughts echoed, unheard, memory focusing a single 
image before his vision: Kay's arm on his empty pillow 
as she slept, white skin in the darkness. The bend of 
her elbow. The taste of her flesh as he kissed her 
just there in the hollow of her forearm. Her sigh....

A pickup truck approached in the center left lane, 
headlights too high, horn blaring as it passed. It 
swerved to the far lane, giving the trooper's car 
ample room, then disappeared into the darkness behind 
them, miles away in moments. 

Mulder dropped his hand back to the wheel, still 
blinking from the onslaught of lights. He found 
himself still on the road, driving through the rain, 
the darkness. Sisyphus was back at his side, leaning 
forward to gauge the accuracy of her assault. She 
seemed to enjoy the results. 

Mulder no longer cared. His body was numb, the weight 
of his hands the only thing holding them to the wheel. 
He noted that he was blind in one eye, his left eye no 
longer willing to participate in the proceedings. 
Sisyphus' frozen fingers sought his shoulder, his 
collar. He didn't even flinch this time, his mind 
shutting down to bare essentials as she stroked his 
chest..

"You think I don't deserve to live." She whispered 
against his neck, so far away....

"No one does." He heard the words, heavy with 
fatalistic bravado, uncertain if he actually spoke 
aloud. "It just happens."

She nuzzled his ear, tongue leaving a slick track in 
the crevice behind his earlobe.

He blinked slowly, listening to something stirring in 
his chest.

*Pa-pumpa-pumpa-pumb--*

XXXXXXX

Dulles Airport cops offered their regrets, but they 
had an emergency of their own to deal with. They 
suggested Purdue obtain the services of the Fairfax 
County Sheriff's Department. Purdue dropped the radio 
mouthpiece into the passenger seat, not bothering to 
thank them for their time. 

The rain was easing; it wasn't light by any means, but 
at least it wasn't the deluge it had been. Mulder had 
dropped his speed slightly and Purdue settled in to 
simply keeping pace, grateful he'd taken the time to 
refuel on his trip back from Quantico. The trooper at 
Purdue's left flank matched him mile for mile. 

Good man, Purdue acknowledged. Pursuing another good 
man. 

Purdue could still see Mulder occasionally when the 
lights hit just right. Sisyphus was little more than a 
growth on Mulder's shoulder now: a shark on a feeding 
frenzy. She'd be looking for weak spots, detecting 
vulnerabilities and pushing all the right buttons. If 
Mulder survived this, it would only be because his 
buttons were intact. Purdue's heart was beating 
furiously.

There's a conversation there, surely, Purdue decided. 
Mulder's using his name, using it repetitively because 
names identified people, made them less easy to 
perceive as "things," as "targets." He would be 
telling her his personal history, inviting her to take 
the stroll down memory lane with him: childhood 
events, remembered joys, his favorite color, 
*anything* to make this personal. To make pulling the 
trigger harder for her. 

Or would he? Would that only feed her delusions that 
she was Mulder's intimate companion? That he belonged 
to her, his body, his every thought, even the ring 
upon his hand. Was she capable of hearing anything 
outside her own fantasies? Did Mulder know better than 
to waste his breath?

Probably.

Purdue's radio snapped to life and he recognized the 
voice of the trooper beside him. It shamed him to 
realize he didn't even know the man's name.

"We've got Loudoun County deputies waiting at the 
county line. We're going to try to force him off the 
road. Fishtail 'em. Then try to draw her fire. Maybe 
we can run her out of ammo before-- Well. Maybe we can 
run her out of ammo." 

Purdue acknowledged the message and dropped the radio 
again. 

Sometimes he wondered if there even was a God.

XXXXXXX

CONTINUED IN PART 26B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:25:23 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 26B of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 26B of 27: 


Another sign: "Welcome to Pleasant Valley."

Pleasant Valley. Sounded like a funeral home. It was 
gone before he knew to miss it, Sisyphus' fingers 
clutching his neck as she peered into the darkness, 
ice clinging to searing heat, devouring it whole. 

Forward and to their right was a dazzle of lights. A 
tower. 

Dulles Airport. 

Mulder blinked hard, clearing his vision. The little 
town of Chantilly spread away to his left. The road 
was deserted, cops parked at major intersections, 
their lights whirling, blurs of red, white and blue in 
the blowing rain. Not pursuing. 

Similar lights drew his attention back to his right. 
Beyond a high chain-link fence, a runway ran parallel 
to the highway, slick tarmac defined by the reflected 
lights of emergency vehicles. 

The Monte Carlo's left tires thumped over lane 
markers. Mulder corrected his course and chanced a 
second glance at the runway: a graceless mass in the 
far darkness, the hulking tail of a cargo plane 
highlighted by halogens and fire. The arching path of 
chemical foam competed with the storm. Mulder and his 
little situation were blissfully insignificant here 
tonight. 

There was a tremendous *whoomph,* a concussion that 
slapped at the Monte Carlo's right flank even at this 
distance. Flames burst from the rumpled aircraft, 
boiling into the sky. 

Sisyphus scrambled for a clearer view, watching the 
steam billow and hiss. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she 
lisped. "Death."

"Yeah." His windpipe constricted, mangling the words 
on their way out. "There's nothing I like better than 
a good slaughter."

She laughed, a soft sound in the back of her throat as 
she slid back toward him, dropping to her knees in the 
floorboard. She resettled the .22, her cheek brushing 
the stubble on his jaw. She felt him flinch 
involuntarily and chuckled as he tried to cover it. 
"You'll have to tell me if I got it right, you know." 

"Got what right?" Why did he bother playing to this, 
he wondered? Because anything was better than 
acknowledging the zeal of that mouth against his skin-
-

"Death." It seemed to be the catch word of the 
evening. "You've seen so much of it," she insisted, 
"you'll have to tell me if I got it right. Just-- I 
don't know, a little nod before you stop breathing. 
Maybe--"

The car erupted in static as he flipped the radio on. 

"Turn that off," she demanded. 

He twisted the dial savagely, fingers clumsy from lack 
of oxygen. She was off his neck, at least, the pistol 
shoved back into its familiar spot at the base of his 
skull. Between the two of them, he preferred the 
pistol. 

The radio sought human contact: Mel Tillis. James 
Taylor. The rapid-fire edict of an insurance ad. The 
thunderous roar of Guns 'N Roses. 

She shoved him aside, slapping the button impatiently. 

"I said, turn it *off.*" Her voice was petulant, 
strident. Careful, Mulder....

*Careful, hell. I'm dead already.*

Mulder slipped his free hand back to the wheel. "You 
don't want me falling asleep, do you, Cecile?" he 
complained. "You got a poem for me? No? How about a 
song? You know, some traveling music to set the mood." 
She didn't answer and he shrugged a levity that no 
longer existed in his world. "I've always been fond of 
the Stones, myself," he marveled where the words were 
coming from, who was speaking with his mouth. "How 
about 'Sympathy for the Devil?' You do the lyrics and 
I'll do the 'whoo hoo's' on the chorus." 

"The others didn't fear me, either," she whispered 
huskily. "Not at first glance." 

His jaw tightened. She felt the bone shift, the motion 
repositioning the muzzle of the gun by millimeters. It 
was his only concession to her voice. 

She inhaled deeply, like she could absorb him whole. 
One tremendous gulp and he would be gone--

"After a while," she breathed the "while," a 
tremendous sigh across his ear, sensuous, hungry. She 
repeated the words, enjoying the affect, watching his 
face in the mirror, tense next to her own. "After a 
while, you learn to prolong the fear. Just... 
incapacitating them enough to keep them still, but not 
dead, yet. No," another extended syllable, a 
corresponding shiver through the veins of his neck as 
her free hand slid across his shoulder to encounter 
exposed skin. "No, the victim should be alive, don't 
you think? There should be *someone* there to 
appreciate the pains you take with them. Who better to 
appreciate, but the one experiencing the deed 
firsthand. Hum?"

His response, aside from a narrowing of the eyes, was 
cut short. There was a sudden *whump* as the Monte 
Carlo encountered a change in pavement: asphalt 
abruptly replaced by tar and gravel. 

Mulder returned his focus to the road: the six-lane 
was rapidly dropping to two. "Loudoun County" was a 
small, unobtrusive sign to his right. Just past the 
sign, lights flooded the interior of the car: 
sheriff's cars to either side of the road, snapping on 
their headlights and joining in the chase, rubber 
squalling on gravel. Purdue and his escort dropped 
back, allowing room.

"Shit."

"What?" she demanded, squinting over her shoulder. 
"Lose them, dammit! Lose them now!"

The road here was remarkably slicker, oil from the tar 
mixing with rain. The Monte Carlo's tires squealed, 
finding traction with difficulty. The sheriff's car to 
his left was faring considerably better. His 
headlights filled Mulder's side mirror, blinding him. 

Mulder shifted in his seat, fleeing the glare, 
reacting on instinct. Half-blind, he searched his 
rearview mirror: the second deputy had pulled back, 
forcing Purdue and the Fairfax trooper's vehicle to 
fall in behind him on the narrow stretch of road, 
clearing the shot for the lead deputy. 

A fishtail maneuver. Mulder had been trained in the 
procedure at Quantico, a lifetime ago. It was designed 
to bring a high speed chase to a relatively quick 
halt, with as little injury to life and property as 
possible. The idea was simple: a pursuing unit 
delivered a quick, solid tap to one side of a 
vehicle's bumper. Executed properly, the concussion 
was enough to spin the suspect's vehicle around, 
causing the driver, startled and disoriented, to 
instinctively hit his brakes. Pursuing law enforcement 
could then move in for the arrest.

Mulder had barely enough time to brace himself for the 
impact. In a brief burst of speed, the deputy rendered 
the necessary blow: a tap on Mulder's left rear 
bumper-- just a tap. 

It exploded like a concussion in the vehicle. Cecile 
squealed, disappearing into the back seat, kicking 
frantically. 

Mulder didn't fight the wheel as expected. He tracked 
with the force of the blow, allowing the Monte Carlo 
to take its right-angle swing, controlling it rather 
than fighting. The car slid to the shoulder and 
threatened to disappear into the dirt field beyond, 
the deputies pursuing. Mud and gravel rumbled beneath 
the passenger-side floorboards and Cecile slammed into 
the back of Mulder's seat. Her arm fumbled across his 
shoulder, grabbing sweater and skin with equal 
determination. 

Mulder ignored her, wincing as her nails drew blood, 
but intent upon the wheel. He made his correction, 
finally, with the last of the gravel shoulder under 
his left rear tire.

He corrected carefully, but the shift and the 
resulting struggle for traction had Cecile screaming. 
Or had she always been screaming and he simply hadn't 
noticed? His head was throbbing, and for the life of 
him, he couldn't remember. 

"I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you--!" she squealed, 
drowning out sirens and the whine of the engine.

Mulder's left front tire hit gravel again after an 
eternity. Behind him and to his right, lights swirled, 
growing distant: two deputy's units well into the 
plowed field, wheel-well deep in mud. Mulder regained 
the road and Purdue and his escort fought to resume 
the chase, their headlights approaching rapidly.

Traction be damned, Mulder floored the muddy two-door, 
shooting forward into the darkness. Sisyphus, 
breathing hot against his neck, was finally 
speechless.


XXXXXXX

Gilbert's Corner, Virginia, is simply that: a corner 
in the middle of nowhere in particular, the merest 
mark on a map. Aside from a smattering of blurred 
lights, he would have missed it. He did notice the 
deputy's vehicle, however, parked to the left, just at 
the opening curve of the road. Its lights were out, 
but tell-tale reflectors danced as Mulder's headlights 
grazed the rise of a small hill beyond, no more than a 
mound, farm house and barn forming a skyline in the 
near distance.

Christ, but the men in this county were persistent, 
he'd give them that.

The rain had let up considerably, dissolving into a 
miserable drizzle that ate at the brain. Mulder 
squinted, conscious only of seconds fleeing. Precious 
seconds. 

Only one vehicle. For a roadblock it was blatantly 
undermanned. Mulder chewed his lip. This stretch of US 
50 was almost a straight shot, with no sharp turns and 
few curves. Excellent for driving, piss-poor if you 
were expected to lay a last minute road trap. 

Still... Mulder's mind raced, speeding past time and 
the rumble of wheels on pavement. He noted the motion 
of a solitary figure beside the darkened vehicle.

A one man, one vehicle roadblock. No one was that 
confident unless--

Spikes. The man had laid out a TPD, a tire puncturing 
device, Mulder would lay money on it. The chain of 
vicious metal claws was standard issue for highway 
patrol. 

Cecile noted the sudden change in tension and shoved 
forward, gun tight against Mulder's skull, a sensation 
as common to him now as his own breath. 

"What is it?"

"Hang on," he hissed.

He took the shoulder again, heading into the curve of 
the hill beyond the deputy's car. Beside him Cecile 
yelped, gripping both him and the passenger seat, 
knuckles white. Mulder clipped the rear bumper of the 
deputy's vehicle as he passed it, turning his wheel 
into the hill's incline, just missing the barbed wire 
fence at the summit, tires slinging mud, rock, and 
sod. 

It had been a calculated gamble, and he fought to 
complete the turn and regain the road. As he had 
hoped, the slope of the hill had allowed water to run 
off swiftly. The ground beneath him held. He gathered 
traction as he dove back to the pavement, hitting the 
road hard, shocks groaning with the impact. Sisyphus 
released him abruptly, protecting her head from the 
ceiling as she bounced. She scrambled to recover -- 
the gun apparently welded to her hand. Mulder ignored 
her, scarcely noticing the muzzle shoved against his 
ribs this time. He sped onward into darkness. 

In his rearview mirror, the deputy stood stunned a 
minute too long, then scrambled for the TPD. 

Too late. Purdue's escort hit the chain of spikes, 
tires exploding. Sisyphus took a moment to register 
the significance of the resulting havoc, then squealed 
her delight. The hapless trooper slammed into the 
field below the hill, taking out the fence before 
lumbering helplessly into the mud. 

Mulder searched the road behind him until darkness 
swallowed it whole. There was no sign of Purdue's 
Chrysler.

The interior of the Monte Carlo was silent for several 
minutes, Sisyphus' excited panting growing more steady 
in the brief space of a mile. Mulder didn't trust the 
silence but was grateful for it all the same. Off to 
the west, clouds were clearing, framing stars of great 
piercing heat. The moon was a slender shard, a sickle 
prepared for harvest but what little light filtered to 
the earth offered no wisdom. 

He shook his head. "I can't believe I don't even rate 
a damned poem."

XXXXXXX

His voice was that of a man speaking from far below 
the surface of things, from a small, hidden room in 
his gut, a place so far down in the depths of the 
human soul that the mind could speak only the echo, 
unaccustomed to giving voice to intimate confessions, 
making up nonsense, since true words did not exist 
there. 

Unaccustomed to such depths herself, Sisyphus ignored 
him, tuned to her own frequency, scanning the 
landscape fleeing past her window. 

The soft hand on his shoulder must have been expected, 
he didn't even flinch. Was he so tired? Or was he 
simply resolved to his fate?

She purred at his ear, "I like foreplay as much as the 
next girl, but this has gone on long enough, don't you 
think?" God, but he smelled marvelous. The climb down 
the shaft, the drive, nothing had robbed him of that 
essential essence, that rich warm scent that was 
uniquely his.

He licked his lips, considering. The image made her 
thirsty. "The evening was just getting interesting," 
he noted.

She smiled, knowing he could feel it without glancing 
in the mirror, a shift in the tension of her check 
where it grazed his neck. 

"That's right," she promised. "It *is* just getting 
interesting." She smiled pleasantly, leaning forward 
between the seats to insure his attention, his 
appreciation of her charity. "You've done so well, so 
far. Tell you what, you stop the car, and I'll let you 
live."

He glanced at her sidelong, eyes slitted, pupils lost 
beneath dark lashes. "Like you did Kay?" He faced 
forward abruptly, a dismissive tilt of the head that 
left her growling.

"There's no one to save now, my angel. One way or the 
other, this vehicle is going to stop." She jabbed the 
pistol against his rib cage, feeling muscle and bone 
give slightly. He winced, shifting, keeping his hands 
carefully on the wheel, his foot steady on the gas. He 
shook his head.

She grabbed a handful of hair and jerked, batting his 
head into the headrest with a satisfying thump. "No 
one tells me no," she hissed, emphasizing each 
syllable. "I said stop the damned car." 

The speedometer rose slightly, his only answer. She 
cuffed him with the side of the pistol, not too hard, 
she hoped, but enough to insure his attention. Mulder 
grunted, the wheel jerking in his left hand, his right 
hand grabbing at his temple. 

Rage, frustration, and the tantalizing scent of blood 
were finally too much for her. She jerked forward and 
took the wheel for herself, yanking it hard to the 
right. She would stop the car in spite of him, allow 
the mud of the field beside them to do it for her. 
Then she would begin in earnest, have what she had 
come for, enjoy the fruit of her patience--

She glanced up just in time to realize her folly. A 
narrow arch bridge glistened in the headlights, 
approaching rapidly. The bridge and its guard rail 
were stone, hand-quarried, hand-set, hand-mortared 
when the country was young. "Built to last," her 
father would have said. Strange how the mind can wrap 
itself in trivia at such a time. The highway sign 
beside the road announced "Little River." Mulder, 
right eye filling with blood, saw it just as she did. 
He tightened his grip on the wheel.

And pressed the accelerator to the floor.

They mounted the bridge with a tremendous jolt of 
shocks, then hit the guard rail, her terror consumed 
by the scream of twisting metal and the explosion of 
stone. 

Sisyphus slammed face-first into Mulder's headrest. 
Seconds later she could not recall the details, only 
note its results: her eyes aflame with stars, the 
sickening sweet smell of her own blood filing her 
sinuses. And the pain.

Then they were airborne, her body rising. The top of 
her head collided with the upholstered roof, slapping 
her back against the seat. The double impact knocked 
the wind from her chest, smothering her scream. She 
watched the .22 fall from her hand, tumble to the 
floorboard and disappear beneath Mulder's seat. She 
was vaguely aware of Mulder's body crumpling down but 
it was not the gun he was after. There were other 
things more deadly now. His seat belt held, but 
momentum flung him sideways, hurling him against the 
center console-- 

Why was it all in slow motion, she wondered? How 
strange. They were running in slow motion, like movies 
do to highlight pivotal scenes-- 

She marveled, watching Mulder's arms rise to protect 
his face from the impact. His body jerked, slowly... 
so slowly...

Sisyphus tumbled back to her seat, languid, like Alice 
leisurely tumbling down the rabbit hole. As she fell, 
she noted the scene beyond the windshield: water. 
Water without horizon, swirling, the river heavy with 
rain. 

The vehicle shuddered, concussed. The swollen river 
rose to meet the windshield, headlights burning 
through the murky depths: algae and debris, clay of 
the riverbed rising, deep red and pockmarked like the 
surface of Mars. The wheels and one front fender 
scraped the bottom before natural buoyancy lifted them 
again, rattling her teeth with its dance.

Mulder pushed himself back from the dash with a groan, 
and Sisyphus grabbed for him, too far gone to 
surrender him now. Her arm found his neck and she 
pinned him in a pseudo choke hold, tight against the 
passenger headrest. He made only a feeble effort at 
resistance, too stunned to react. 

The engine sputtered. Angled nose-down in water, they 
bobbed like a heavy cork, the current boiling around 
them, eager for the sea. The river pushed the vehicle 
before it, slammed the tail of the Monte Carlo into 
the bridge, bumper and left rear fender catching on 
the arch. 

Sisyphus was airborne again suddenly, flying. Mulder 
fell forward as well, instinctively sliding sideways 
and grabbing for the wheel to hold himself in the 
seat. Without his body to weight it, the passenger 
seat flipped forward and Sisyphus tumbled over it, her 
shoulder ramming the windshield. Tiny hairline cracks 
fractured the glass on her impact. She felt that her 
body must have shattered as well, unable to even draw 
in air.

She remained conscious somehow, adrenaline insisting 
that she live. She scrambled blearily, trying to 
regain a sense of time and place. Droplets beaded 
against her cheek, her blood diluted by river water 
oozing through the fractured glass.  

She rolled free of the dash, an awkward, 
excruciatingly painful motion, and managed to land 
almost upright in the front passenger seat. She didn't 
allow herself to think about the pain, incapable of 
that much clarity.

The arch of the bridge forced the car's nose deeper, 
ever deeper. Metal squalled above, panicked, 
desperate. Or was that his voice she heard? Was he 
speaking? Or only grunting? She forced her eyes to 
focus, her brain to concentrate, to locate him. She 
found him beside her, slipping free of his seat belt, 
twisting wildly. He was bloody and convulsing-- no, 
not convulsing. He was just struggling with the window 
control. 

Now, why would he want the window down, she wondered? 
Didn't he realize it was raining? Didn't he realize 
they'd get wet?

The window gave grudgingly, and water splashed her 
face as Mulder tried to force the glass. The icy spray 
brought a measure of clarity and she attacked him with 
the vengeance of the demented. He could not escape. 
She could not allow it. He was hers. Hers. Pain only 
lent her fight an enhanced desperation.

Mulder refused to release the window control. She 
reached past him, body screaming, clawing at his 
hands. He jerked one hand free, ratcheting the lever 
violently, using the other hand to drive the glass 
down into the door. Finding no traction for her 
fingers in the blood that soaked his skin, she grabbed 
a handful of his hair, tugging blindly. 

He refused to turn around. He jerked his body against 
hers, knocking her back into the passenger seat, 
knocking the breath from her lungs. The vehicle bobbed 
as she landed, and she tumbled to the dash, yelping as 
she hit the gearshift. More stars and pain she could 
not identify, new sensations she had no frame of 
reference for. There was something wrong with her 
lungs. Her sternum had transformed into a dagger of 
some kind--

She struggled up, her pistol regarding her from the 
floorboard, baleful in the murky water. The river 
splashed in from Mulder's slowly opening window, a 
waterfall, threatening to become a torrent as the 
water level rose. 

Sisyphus scrambled for the weapon, slapping at 
Mulder's leg, insisting on her property. The window 
gave at last, water pouring in, and they were suddenly 
sinking in earnest. He kicked, gathering his knee 
beneath him, kicked again, and she realized finally 
that he was not fighting her. He was trying to push 
his injured body through the window.

She grabbed him by the waist and clung for dear life, 
pulling him down despite the agony wracking every 
muscle in her body. Mulder clung to the opening, 
grunted, gasped as water rushed over him, rising 
higher, at his chin now. She clawed his eyes and he 
cried out, despair, agony, and desperation at war 
within that single animal syllable. He caught her with 
his elbow, jabbing it backwards at her ribs. Pain 
radiated everywhere at once, too intense for sound or 
thought. But she did not let go. 

Masonry crumbled in little *pings* against the rear 
window, penetrating her consciousness. She rolled her 
face against his back, glancing over, up, to see what 
could possibly be happening now. She saw only the 
black underbelly of the bridge, a dark beast bathed in 
the fiery red of the Chevy's tail lights.

And then the world rolled over.

Suspended between buoyant air pressure and rising 
water, the Monte Carlo lost its struggle with the 
swollen current. The fender came free of the bridge in 
a great high-pitched whine. The car bobbed bitterly 
once. 

Mulder lost his grip, gulping a mouthful of water that 
left him choking. He tumbled backward, on top of 
Sisyphus as she reached out a hand, seeking to correct 
her own balance. Her fingers found the windshield, 
water lapping hungrily just beyond the glass, the 
fingers of a tree branch scratching at her, begging 
for admittance. 

The vehicle twisted drunkenly, more metal crumpling 
high above. The arch caught them again, the other 
fender this time. The river raged, hammering 
relentlessly, forcing the front bumper to follow the 
current, bridge or no bridge. The Monte Carlo 
surrendered, flipping front to end, upside down into 
the dark water. 

Sisyphus screamed as she and Mulder tumbled together 
to the roof of the car. He landed first, softening her 
landing and she held him there beneath her, marveling 
as the water poured in from the open window and the 
dash, filling the vehicle with impossible speed. 
Mulder gasped, struggling as his head went under, the 
steering column holding his legs captive. Sisyphus 
felt his rib give beneath her hand, felt him convulse. 
She smiled, waiting for his body to still. He clawed 
at her, a savage, hungry for air, grabbing flesh and 
upholstery. She didn't care if he managed to tear her 
skin off but the water was rising without mercy. 
Sisyphus managed to gather one final mouthful of 
oxygen for herself before the river swallowed her 
whole. 

Mulder's hand slid away, still, and she kicked upward, 
arm flailing at the hapless passenger seat, driving it 
back as she sought *up* and the remaining air pocketed 
within the overturned vehicle. She opened her eyes as 
she surfaced, head slamming into the floorboard: less 
than half a foot of the Monte Carlo's interior 
remained above the water line. It spun around her like 
a thing possessed, dragging her with it. The world 
convulsed as both fenders caught the stone bridge in 
rapid succession. 

It took her only seconds to realize that Mulder had 
not surfaced with her. She growled, gulped air and 
kicked, pushing herself back below the water level. 
Silt and muck burned her open eyes but the headlights 
still burned, reflecting in the water's haze, dash and 
buckets seats casting deep shadows. 

Mulder was half-way out of the window already. She 
flailed at him, grabbing one leg and holding it fast, 
climbing up him, her lungs screaming for oxygen. He 
kicked at her, equally determined, eyes large in the 
roiling water, impossibly green... 

There was a sharp snap from the dash. Sisyphus glanced 
back. The tree branch that had pleaded with her 
earlier had found the weakness in the windshield. It 
was pushing through the glass, seeking her with 
surrealistic patience; a dark companion limb battered 
the passenger window with similar results. 

The world had turned to slow motion again, she noted, 
moving at some random speed. Caught up in the 
wonderment and the need for oxygen, she failed to see 
the tree attached to the limb. Failed to realize that 
it, too, was tumbling through the glass -- the 
windshield and the window -- ripping through the 
Chevrolet's roof--

Mulder's final image of her would be one of nightmare: 
her hair swimming wildly, eyes wide with surprise, 
mouth open in a little "O," a scream she could draw no 
air for. He kicked free just before the shattered oak 
drove through her chest.

Her final view of the world was lit by headlights: 
bubbles like bright moths flying away to the 
surface....

XXXXXXX

Another kick and Mulder's body floated without his 
efforts. He couldn't tell which way was up, whether he 
fell or rose, didn't truly care. There was a roaring 
somewhere, metal screeching... Stone... Something 
else. The sounds rolled over, though him, 
reverberating through the water, shaking his ribs and 
gripping his spine. 

He had breathed twice before he realized he was doing 
so, great gasping gulps that left his lungs screaming. 
He glanced up into a blood red sky, blinked.

No. Not sky. The underside of a bridge, lit by the 
taillights of a car-- 

His brain fought to make sense of it. Taillights of a 
car-- 

His car. 

And he remembered. 

Relived. 

The bridge slid away, presenting him with the sky, 
deep black, the moon and its stars, if they existed, 
invisible behind miles of clouds, oblivious. The water 
roiled around him, carrying him aloft. He floated with 
it, unaware that he should resist, incapable of it. 

A branch, too small to offer rescue, brushed his face. 
His feet encountered clay, slid away, his brain 
registering only the merest distress, his battered 
body unresponsive. His head fell forward, and he 
hadn't the strength to lift it, felt the current twist 
around his legs, pull. He blinked in resignation and 
numbed amazement as the river tugged him under.

Water flooded his nose and he tasted silt, thick and 
alkaline in the back of his throat. He struggled not 
to cough, fighting to lift his head. The current 
refused to yield, however. It jerked his out-flung arm 
and wrapped itself around his chest. His lungs 
throbbed with the relentless pressure and he kicked, 
back straightening against something solid. He yelped, 
water pouring from his mouth. His ribs, his shoulder, 
his brain shuddered, twitching spasmodically. 

It was not the current squeezing his chest, he 
realized. It was an arm. Pain and relief forced his 
feet into action, scrambling frantically for the soil 
that sloped beneath him suddenly. The arm shifted, 
releasing his wounded ribs, and became hands under his 
armpits, dragging him backward, free of the water. 

The hands lowered him to the ground, turning him to 
his side as he choked up river water and blood.

"Mulder. Mulder, can you hear me?"

The world settled, finally. Soft sounds, his body 
shivering. A large hand holding his shoulder, 
steadying him.

Cold, it was so gloriously cold, even more than the 
river had been. It was good to feel something again, 
even this. 

"Mulder!"

He nodded, struggling for clarity, recognizing the 
voice. Purdue. Purdue who had pursued him without 
headlights, waiting for his chance, waiting for Mulder 
to give him that chance.

And had he? He tried to think, memory twisting 
petulantly, second-guessing motive, obscuring detail. 
Hell, he was alive, so he must have, he supposed. God 
owed him no favors and Sisyphus... well--

"She's in the car," he gasped. He found Purdue's wrist 
beside him and grabbed it, grateful for something 
solid as the ground rolled beneath him, riotous as the 
Little River overrunning its banks. "She's still in 
the car. We've got to get her out. She's--"

"She's dead, Mulder." Purdue's hand squeezing his 
shoulder. "She's dead. It's over. Just let it go."

Mulder slapped the arm away. He flopped to his back, 
writhing to ease the pain. 

Over? What did he know of *over*? He blinked against 
the rain, a fine mist that penetrated the skin. 

Over.

Mud beneath him, dark sky above. Purdue's face, 
drenched in sweat and water, blocked the drizzle. His 
dark skin sparkled in the headlights of the Chrysler 
parked across the water, just beyond Mulder's field of 
vision. He had left the car door open; the Chrysler's 
warning bell pinged patiently, just distinguishable 
over the growling of the river.

Purdue lifted a hand to Mulder's face, hesitated, then 
turned Mulder's chin, checking his eyes. 

"I'm okay," Mulder promised, still blinking against 
the misting rain. He was *numb,* actually, he 
realized, and it was beyond a mere matter of 
semantics. He closed his eyes, unable to make his 
voice steady, unable to block the relived terror of 
hours, of days, the grief of endless weeks. "I'm 
okay," he insisted -- I *am,* I *am* --"I'm okay. I'm 
okay. I'm--"

He continued the words, failing to hear them any 
longer. His grip on Purdue's wrist was the central 
pivot upon which the galaxy spun, the only thing 
holding him to the world. He clung to it, nails 
digging deep, unable to let go.

"I'm okay. I'm okay--" 

Purdue's hand slipped over his, but the ASAC did not 
try to break free. 

"You're okay, Mulder," he promised and Mulder 
believed. "Everything's going to be okay."

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:25:31 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling"  Part 27 of 27
Source: xfc

"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com
http://www.softlight.8m.com/

Part 27 of 27: Epilogue: Regularly 
Scheduled Maintenance.

Disclaimed in Part 1.



"The dead remember." -- Vernon J. Geberth. 
*Practical Homicide Investigation*, Third 
Edition. Boca Raton: CRC Press LLC. 1996.


"Because you're a bungling fool!" 

The sharp British voice made him flinch. 
His physical reaction, however, was little 
more than a startled wince; the sedatives 
held him tightly under, refusing to yield. 
He licked his lips in a vain search for 
moisture. His throat was tight, stuffed 
with cotton batting, the same thick layers 
of fluff that blanketed his brain. The 
discomfort was distant though, and he did 
not resist the drugs, content within this 
spell of non-pain, non-thought. 

He moved, the trembling of one hand, 
fingers sliding aimlessly across fresh 
linen. Then stilled.

Quiet again. 

It was good to be here, he decided, 
wrapped in this cocoon of unconcern. He 
was dry. Warm. There was the random 
beeping of omniscient machines; even their 
alarms were a kind of indecipherable 
comfort. A slight pinching on the back of 
his left hand -- just beyond the edge of 
actual awareness: tape tugging skin -- was 
a reassurance that he was, indeed, still 
alive at some level; that there were as 
yet no dreadful realities waiting to 
scorch his impenitent soul. 

"I did what I thought was best for the 
project--" 

Soft tenor, plaintive, a casual whine. The 
acrid fragrance of smoke, old cigarettes. 
The voice and the accompanying scent left 
Mulder mildly unsettled, overcome with an 
impending sense of doom revisited, as 
though his cells recalled events his 
conscious mind could not. There was 
something familiar here. Something old and 
awful at the edge of memory....

"You did nothing but satisfy your own 
warped curiosity." The Briton again, 
scolding jealously. The voice was quieter 
this time, though, little more than a 
cultured hiss somewhere to Mulder's left. 
"The very idea that you would put the 
project at risk for some petty personal--"

"I would have allowed no harm to come to 
him--"

"No harm?" Frustrated, disgusted growl, a 
parent weary of pointless argument. "Get 
out. I'll deal with this myself. Out, I 
said!"

Footsteps shuffling. Another lungful of 
acrid smoke that burned with the oxygen 
being force-fed through Mulder's nostrils. 
His stomach rolled vainly, stilled as 
Sauceda's voice echoed in his head: "Need 
to give those things up, kid. They'll kill 
you." 

He heard the quiet "huff" of a heavy, 
well-cushioned door. The continual almost 
subliminal beep above his head and to the 
right. Another, different, beeping beside 
him, rhythmic, steady. Hypnotic. 

He could feel his own heartbeat. His 
lungs, inhaling. Exhaling. Deep sighs. The 
consolation of unyielding darkness.

The whisper of fabrics beside the bed....

This was all just a dream. Right? Another 
dream. Or maybe the doctors had returned, 
or the nurse. Hadn't she just been here? 
The nurse? Mulder could recall her 
clearly, though he had perceived, not 
actually seen her: the strong hands, cool 
on his wrist when she had been here 
moments ago -- or was it days? It was 
difficult to be certain. The deceptive 
nature of dreams and drugs... Time simply 
did not exist in this room of soft beeps 
and swirling voices. He'd learned her 
voice, though, always the same, hopeful, 
coaxing without condemnation: "Hello, Fox. 
It's Nurse Owens, again--" 

Owens? Or was it Olson? Owens. Olson. 
Owens-- 

Well, O-something. She had been 
inordinately kind to Mulder, and, 
defenseless, weary, he had allowed it. Her 
proddings were gentle and discrete, and 
she had patiently explained her every 
intent, as though he could comprehend or 
care. The bandaging, the protesting of 
alarms as she adjusted this and that... 

There was nothing for him to concern 
himself with, she'd promised. He shouldn't 
worry. When they were ready, they would 
wake him, and meanwhile, the important 
thing was rest. Just... rest. Solid advice 
any sensible man would take. And Mulder 
prided himself on being a sensible man.

But, no, this... this was not Nurse O-
something. It was the Briton again, 
reassuring, persistent, speaking softly. 
He was not fussing now-- not at Mulder, 
anyway. The odor of stale cigarettes 
dissipated slowly, fading from Mulder's 
consciousness, lost to memory in the space 
of a breath. The Briton's voice remained 
familiar, however. Familiar without that 
nameless dread....

No, everything was better, his visitor 
promised. Everything was well and would be 
well and there would be no more dreams and 
no more visions. All a terrible mistake. 
Talents awakened too early, yes, but there 
was no permanent harm, Mister Mulder, 
nothing to concern him. He would not even 
remember...

No permanent harm. How comforting-- 

Chilled hand against his neck, cold as 
death but kind, the sharp prick of a 
needle--

And the world of beeps and faceless voices 
disappeared into luxurious darkness.

XXXXXXX


Saturday, May 21, 1988. 11:48 p.m. 
Georgetown Medical Center Hospital. 


He shut the door behind him quietly, 
leaned against it, eyes closed, listening. 

No footsteps. No one searching for him. 
Not yet anyway. 

Mulder registered the fact with relief but 
did not move. The room was cold and the 
door, sheathed in metal, was ice against 
his temple. The cold radiated, piercing 
the throbbing pressure in his brain. Pain 
bled out his ears, oozing, an invisible 
fire down his neck, leaving him vaguely 
disoriented.

He'd woke with the headache, a slightly 
less intense version of the one he had 
suffered over the past several months. 
This one seemed to be centered 
differently, as well: a dull, general 
throbbing that crept up his spine and 
slammed fist-like into the base of his 
brain. His body offered little sympathy, 
having problems of its own, aches trapped 
deep inside muscle and bone. His ribcage 
was bandaged tightly, an excuse not to 
breath too deeply and set his lungs to 
screaming. There was an ominously thick 
padding around his right thigh, but his 
leg seemed to be in one piece, twinging 
only when he stepped too quickly right or 
left. 

By concentrating, he could avoid limping, 
and ignore the sharp pain below the 
bandages across his ribs. He'd staggered 
occasionally on the way down from his 
room, but the disorientation had been 
intermittent, there one step, gone the 
next. The halls had been all but deserted 
in this area of the hospital; the few 
personnel he had passed had not seemed to 
notice anything too unusual. Certainly no 
one had stopped to question him.

His knee shuddered menacingly now, ceased 
when he opened his eyes. The lights were 
dim here, blessedly so. His left eye had 
almost stopped throbbing, nerves relaxing 
hesitantly, loosening their sympathetic 
synchrony with his heart. Mulder twisted 
to face the room, rolling his head against 
the door as he did so, allowing the back 
of his skull to seek its share of cooling 
relief, grateful for this unexpected 
dispensation. He finally allowed his eyes 
to focus.

The room was large: chrome cabinets to his 
left and right, a wall of stainless steel 
facing him, awash in gloom and reflected 
colors. Light filtered in through an open 
door, distant and to his left. There was a 
hall beyond the door, more rooms. The name 
plates were invisible to him due to 
distance and angle, but he knew them. He'd 
visited here often enough. He could walk 
the layout in his sleep: labs running to 
the left of the hall, a break room, a 
vending machine just before the service 
elevator. The autopsy bays were to the 
right. Someone was busy tonight. The third 
door on the right was open, a gap where 
light bled across the linoleum. Aretha 
Franklin's "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" bounced on the 
com speakers.  

Lenny would have approved.

A deep, twisting ache shot through 
Mulder's abdomen. He refused to bend, 
however, to bow to the grief. He hadn't 
the luxury of yielding. Hadn't the right. 
He'd understood that before he had come 
here, as soon as the news report had 
penetrated the residue of drugs -- the 
television's volume low, a mumble across 
his room, then names, significant nouns: 
FBI, Fuche, spokesperson. 

Victims. 

Sauceda. 

He pushed away from the door, swayed, and 
planted his feet to recover his balance. 
The room waited, cool and inviting, 
patient as Fate. And why not? Everyone 
came here eventually, didn't they? Here, 
or at least to a room very like it: 
utilitarian white walls and stainless 
steel. Standard morgue. This one was 
better equipped than some he knew, but 
death seemed to demand the same provisions 
no matter where he found himself. Gurneys 
and vials, chemicals, pans and scales, 
measuring devices, pipettes, cutlery and 
spoons. Drawers and shelves stood ready, 
too, filled with more of the same, 
provisions sufficient for a holocaust. 

The Egyptians were right: the dead seemed 
to require so much more than the living 
somehow. But who could begrudge them their 
one final excess?

Mulder approached the wall of drawers, 
shuffling carefully, paper shoes 
whispering his progress. Stainless steel 
reflected his image back at him: stolen 
scrubs from the tiny lounge beside the 
nurse's station, physician's coat. The 
name tag flashed briefly at his collar, 
the name a smear within the washed chrome 
reflection, the photo bleary, a dark, East 
Indian man, smiling. 

The pale man in possession of the badge 
staggered, staring at his own reflected 
face. Deep blue and purple pooled into 
little wells below his eyes. A row of tiny 
surgical Band Aids ran across his right 
temple, glowing ghostly in the gloom. 
Stubble ran heavy on his jaw and down his 
throat. His skin was the color of 
cigarette ash.

Jeezus. When had he gotten so old? And why 
had no one told him? 

He laid his hand upon the reflection, on 
that face, steadying his legs, refocusing. 
The metal reflected blood on the bandage 
at his wrist. He didn't see.

*There's no time for this. Labels. Read 
the labels...*

Next to his hand was a white tab of tape, 
"A-15: Atkins, J." written across it in 
fine felt-tip marker. Chest-level and to 
his left: "B-14: McKenzie, P." Mulder 
stepped back, his hand-print a damp multi-
limbed shadow upon the metal, burning away 
as he read. 

"B-12: Doe, Jane." "B-10: Fuche, C."

He paused, swaying again. His tongue 
sought his lips and he reached out to 
touch the drawer, fingers barely brushing 
metal before he caught the hand back, 
pressing it to his abdomen, cradling it 
like a thing bitten. His fingertips left 
two fine rings just at the edge of the 
drawer. He watched them fade, debating.

No. 

No. He had not come for this. He wouldn't 
look on her face again--

He turned, allowing the walls of drawers 
to steady him, waiting for his brain to 
focus on each carefully printed tag. "A-9: 
Afonse, R." "B-8: Hoffman, C." 

"A-7: Sauceda, L."

Mulder's lungs refused to function, 
muscles frozen. He didn't notice for at 
least a full minute, insensible to the 
cool metal rising beneath his hand, the 
thump as his palm slid and his shoulder 
hit the wall of drawers, hard and real, 
chill penetrating the cotton jacket. 

The label radiated in the light of the 
open hall, the drawer itself reflecting 
blue, neon, a sparkling mirror of 
indicator lights from the centrifuge 
across the room. The felt-tip letters of 
the label stared at Mulder accusingly: 
"Jeezus, Marty. Just look at this shit. 
They can't even get the damned label stuck 
on straight--" 

Mulder's lungs drew breath. The resulting 
pain, the clarity it brought, was as 
welcome as the voice of an old friend.

"Hey, Lenny."

Silence. He deserved that, he supposed. 
But... Maybe it was another Sauceda, L. It 
was possible, right? It had to be 
possible. The reporter had been confused -
- or the drugs had reordered the words as 
Mulder had struggled to sit up. Lenny was 
in Memphis. Probably hauling his wife 
through Graceland--

Still, Mulder's hand refused to obey his 
brain, fingers fumbling metal, missing the 
latch on the drawer by several inches. He 
took as deep a breath as he could 
tolerate, biting his lip, but his shoulder 
still refused to reposition his hand. 

*Shit--*

His throat refused to voice the word, his 
tongue managing only a sickly click before 
clinging to the roof of his mouth.

*Please, God--*

The latch, at last. He paused, 
disbelieving, metal grainy beneath his 
fingers, slick at his thumb. A click and 
the drawer slid free several feet, rolling 
easily. 

Mulder took another struggling breath. 

Inside the drawer was a sheet lit in 
deepest blue, disappearing into the dark 
recesses of the wall. A folder, pale 
beige, lay across what was surely a man's 
chest--

Mulder stepped to the side of the drawer, 
careful to hold it still partially closed. 
His fingers sought a desperate hold on the 
crimped metal edge, but he avoided 
touching the sheet, eyes focused 
steadfastly upon the folder. The steel 
grew hot beneath his hand and he 
concentrated on simply breathing, ignoring 
the chemical tinge to the air, and 
other... things.

*Chart. Read the chart. That's all you 
need--* 

Mulder reached for the folder, paused, 
resuming the motion after a moment's care. 
He watched his hand, giving his brain time 
to process the position of the paper, to 
coordinate his aim. A great clarity washed 
over him, a certainty of time and place, 
of smell, the sensation of air across 
skin. A moment as memory penetrated soul, 
merging with his heart, a bitter treasure. 
Precious. Such are moments that remain in 
the consciousness of the race, that follow 
the soul to lives beyond. That create, and 
recreate the world--

He opened the folder where it lay, using 
his right hand, his left hand unable to 
release the drawer. 

Autopsy notes. Hastily scrawled, 
preparatory to transcription and official 
report. The handwriting sprawled across 
the paper, deeply slanted, foreign and 
unconcerned, alien, so unlike Lenny's 
patient, meticulous print. Mulder's eye 
ran down the sheet, seeking, not finding, 
finding too much-- 

"...single gunshot wound... massive 
hemorrhaging, multiple incisions 
postmortem, translateral incision to the 
spleen, colon and kidney...."

Toxicology followed: several sheets of 
print-outs, information too indistinct in 
this light, ink pale from overuse of the 
ribbon. Then a master sheet: doubled 
columns of chemical names, small boxes 
checked off to the left of the words, 
comments or numerals on tiny lines to the 
right. The list was only partially 
complete but the histamine results were 
there. 

Mulder stared at the number. Moisture 
formed on his lashes and he blinked it 
away, trying to hold the papers still, 
unable to believe, to hope. But there it 
was, the number quite clear. Proof. 
Certainty. Lenny had died quickly. She'd 
killed him before she'd begun her work, 
like the early victims. Inexplicably, she 
hadn't forced the old man suffer. 

She'd granted him this much, then, 
somehow. For some impossible reason, she 
had given Mulder this much. 

There was a breath across Mulder's neck. 
He blinked at the paper in his hand, 
waiting. Somewhere above the ceiling, 
there was a mechanical shudder, a hum: the 
air conditioner changing its cycle. The 
breath continued across his shoulders, 
cooler now. 

Simply air. 

Mulder returned the paperwork to the 
folder, careful to maintain order, closed 
the file. He waited several seconds -- how 
could he be sweating in a room this cold? 
-- and pulled the drawer slowly open.

It was Lenny all right. Odd, Mulder 
realized, how he could distinguish 
Sauceda's form even beneath the anonymity 
of a sheet: the lump of shoulders, the 
barrel of the chest and abdomen....

A corner of the sheet fluttered gently in 
the down draft. A pause, and Aretha 
resumed her warbling, forever vibrant and 
eager while Leonardo Sauceda lay quietly 
on a slab like those he had so often stood 
above in life. Lenny lingering among the 
dead with whom he'd had such a passing 
acquaintance--

*Hey, kid.*

A shiver jolted through Mulder's body, 
grabbing his shoulders before tumbling 
down, quickly down the height, 
disappearing into the floor, electric, 
alive, a bolt to wake the dead. Sauceda's 
voice, however, was only memory and 
longing, the goose bumps across Mulder's 
arms simply a response to the blowing of 
the air vent above. 

He rubbed a still trembling hand across 
his eyes, unable for a moment to accept 
the truth: there were no ghosts here. 
Amazingly enough, after so many months, no 
spirit stood at his elbow. There was no 
private communication, no request. None 
that Mulder could perceive, anyway. 
Nothing beyond the sense that something 
*should* be here, that someone watched. 
The tingling in his gut made it difficult 
to decide whether he was disappointed or 
grateful. Best not to think about it. What 
did it change?

Frantic feet ran past the closed door, 
shoes pounding. They didn't slow, fading 
past without breaking rhythm. They were 
looking for him, surely. What other 
emergency could there be in a morgue, save 
searching the halls for runaway patients?

*You shouldn't do Purdue like this, kid. 
He'll kick your ass.* 

More memory, but Mulder shrugged anyway. 
*Maybe I deserve it.*

*'Course you deserve it, kiddo. But that's 
beside the point.*

Mulder didn't have an argument for that, 
and this internal dialogue was just a 
little frightening. He focused 
deliberately on the wall beyond him, its 
detail lost in shadow, stainless-steel 
plumbing glinting here and there, 
reflecting more indicator lights. He did 
not notice, eyes unseeing although 
squinted, the mind focusing on interior 
landscapes. He waited, soul tense.

And still no one came. No familiar touch 
upon his shoulder, no desperate sigh upon 
his forearm. 

Mulder's mouth worked in concentration, 
wondering who could have negotiated this 
sudden truce, convincing the dead to leave 
him in peace-- 

*Lenny?*

There was no response. Sauceda's body 
waited patiently, admitting nothing, 
denying less. Mulder blinked down upon the 
sheet, awaiting permission, at least, a 
"no" that would not come. He released the 
gurney, placed one hand to either side of 
Sauceda's head and carefully, slowly, 
folded the sheet back, still waiting for 
that "no."

Sauceda's face was surprisingly calm, 
reassuring so. Except that the skin lay 
too loose across his cheeks, a harsh gray 
re-tinting the once rich brown complexion. 
The razor burn had cleared considerably, 
no longer its angry red, simple bumps 
across the line of the jaw. The brow was 
smooth, the lips parted only slightly as 
if in deep sleep--

Mulder let the sheet fall, fingers too 
numb to feel the cloth any longer. It 
folded gently down across the body mid-
torso. 

He willed himself to look down, to focus: 
Lenny's chest had been sewn shut, a great 
jagged V-shaped slit that began at the 
nipples and disappeared, bled white, under 
the sheet across the pathologist's 
abdomen. 

Sisyphus' calling card, her great "V" of 
victory and vengeance. 

Other incisions had been sealed as well, 
wounds of autopsy only slightly more 
professional than Sisyphus' blade, 
necessary to provide access to the chest. 
Such terrible damage... Still, the body is 
a crime scene unto itself, an expert 
witness, and Lenny would have been the 
first to insist on telling his tale. The 
stapling looked hastily done, though, so 
unlike Sauceda's own usual methodical 
work. Dark curling hair sought to hide the 
sacrilege, ashamed. Sauceda's shoulders 
were slumped, so vulnerable, but they 
shouldered nothing now.

Mulder felt the weight of thousands across 
his own neck and shoulders. He could not 
raise his head, he realized, although the 
sight of Lenny only made the pressure 
worse. He shifted beneath the load, 
widening the distance of his feet, locking 
his knees. He would not falter here, would 
not faint and shame himself in this man's 
presence. Sauceda deserved better. His 
partner, his sometimes-unwilling friend, 
deserved the dignity that life had seemed 
so reluctant to give him. The compassion 
that Mulder had been too selfish to 
afford....

Goddam.

Sauceda offered no rebuke, though. Eyes 
patiently closed. Mouth open in its sleepy 
half-smile. Mulder gripped the edge of the 
drawer, fingernails of one hand scraping 
metal, fingertips twisting cotton sheeting 
with the other. He felt the words before 
he spoke them. Felt them gather in his 
chest with a fury that frightened him. He 
tried to choke them back. What did words 
matter now? Too little. Far too late. 
Impossible that Lenny should hear him--

The plea would not obey, however, 
swelling, swirling, pushing its way into 
and through his throat, bursting forth in 
a painful gasp.

"I'm sorry, Len."
 
The sentence echoed back at him in the 
stillness. 

Just words, with no one to hear.  

But the constriction in his chest eased 
with their escape, the trembling of his 
body subsided. The pressure across his 
shoulders remained, steadying him, a harsh 
but welcome arm across his upper back. And 
he knew.

The apology-- beyond all reason-- had been 
accepted.

XXXXXXX


Purdue was waiting for him when he stepped 
into the hall. The ASAC did not move, his 
back against the wall, arms folded, legs 
crossed at the ankles. Silent. Staring 
down the hall.

Mulder allowed the door to close quietly 
and set his back against it, palms flat 
against the metal, waiting. He glanced 
down the corridor, following Purdue's 
gaze. 

Nothing but the closed doors of an 
elevator, and, next to it, an abandoned 
cart of towels.

Mulder kept very still, focused on the 
cart. He asked quietly, "So, who called 
Imelda?"

"Me." The response was only slightly more 
than a grunt.

Mulder frowned and glanced back at the 
ASAC. His palms were sweating, sticking to 
the door. He didn't move them. "Should 
have been me," he said. 

"It was me." Purdue turned his head to 
look at him, but he didn't change position 
otherwise. He had managed to shave and 
probably shower. The suit, at least, was 
relatively unwrinkled. There was a dark 
bruise rimming his right eye. Mulder 
vaguely recalled his fist connecting with 
bone just about there.... 

It felt like a lifetime ago. 

Mulder bounced his shoulders against the 
door once. Twice. Glanced back up the 
hall.

"How is she?"

Purdue's foot shuffled, stilled. "She 
asked about you. Wanted to know if you 
were okay."

How could mere words inflict so much 
physical pain...? Mulder lowered his head, 
eyes burning, focused tightly on the cart 
of towels. "Wasn't my question," he noted.

"Yeah, well. It's all the answer I've 
got." Purdue shifted away from the wall, 
one step closer to the profiler. But no 
closer. Mulder watched this movement as it 
was reflected in the polished surface of 
the elevator doors. Purdue stared down at 
his own shoes. "It's all the answer 
*she's* got right now," he admitted, 
regretful, respectful. "She's quite a 
lady, isn't she?" 

Mulder shook his head. It wasn't a 
comment. He simply knew no suitable 
response.

"I, ahm," Purdue sighed, glanced up, 
gulping air, and tried again. "I heard 
from Fredricksburg this morning." 

Mulder blinked steadily at the elevator. 
Purdue had found Mulder's reflection 
there, too, and was watching carefully.

"They found their killer," he continued. 
"Shot him as he fled." 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Purdue squinted across the 
distance. "Happened about the time you got 
to bed last night." 

*About the time someone tried crawling 
across the bed looking for you--* 

Purdue didn't speak the words but they 
hung thick in the air along with the faxed 
photograph he didn't mention: the latest 
victim. The earnest face of the child 
Purdue had seen reflected in Mulder's 
eyes. 

"Anything you wanna tell me, Agent 
Mulder?"

Mulder bit his lip, released it. Shrugged. 
"You look like shit?"

Purdue's mouth opened and he dropped his 
arms to his sides, both movements very 
deliberate and controlled. 

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut. He was too 
tired for this argument. He'd surrendered 
too much already, dammit, and the room had 
started up a kind of slow, hazy rolling 
motion--

He opened his eyes just as Purdue grabbed 
him by both arms. His head bounced back 
against the door and Purdue held him 
there, pain and surprise preventing any 
real resistance.

"Hey!"

"Hey?" Purdue's grip was vice-like, his 
face pinched and unyielding. "Hey?" he 
repeated viciously. "Hey, you know what 
I've finally decided, Mulder? I've decided 
that I'd have to be crazy to put up with 
your crap for the rest of my life." He 
shoved Mulder tighter against the door, 
and Mulder gasped with pain, bowing his 
head against the nausea welling up from 
his thighs and digging through his gut. 
His moan escaped through clenched teeth, 
involuntary. 

Only then did Purdue seem to realize what 
he had done. He released Mulder abruptly, 
eyes widened with horror at his own 
violence. He breathed through his mouth, 
watching Mulder recover, lips working 
silently, trying to place the exact moment 
when he'd lost his mind. 

Mulder managed not to double over, rubbing 
his left arm unconsciously, working at the 
fingerprints Purdue had left beneath his 
sleeve. He managed to control his gasps, 
keeping Purdue in focus peripherally, 
wary, offering nothing. 

He had nothing left. 

Purdue stepped back, the fingertips of his 
right hand pressing lightly against 
Mulder's chest as he distanced himself. 
Mulder allowed it. His ribs were 
screaming, his right leg spasming 
ominously. The pain allowed him to focus, 
though, and he searched the ASAC's face.

Purdue removed his hand after a moment's 
hesitation, and stepped back another yard, 
like he didn't trust himself anymore.

"There." Purdue's tone was very quiet. 
"See what I mean? I'm certifiable 
already." His voice wavered. "You're 
conscious less than an hour and I'm ready 
for a stint the nut ward." He flapped his 
arms helplessly. It might have been an 
apology, but he didn't seem to be able to 
find the words for it. He frowned as 
Mulder shook his head. "What?" Purdue 
asked bitterly, shamed. "You don't think 
I'm nuts? You don't--"

"I don't know, Reg," Mulder admitted. He 
held Purdue's gaze lightly, sighed around 
the rib scraping his left lung. "I don't 
profile my friends."

Purdue froze. It seemed to take him a long 
moment to resume breathing himself. "Uh 
huh," he said. He tilted his head warily, 
blinking. "Scared to, huh?"

Mulder grinned despite the pain. A chuckle 
started somewhere low and converted 
instantly into a fit of coughing that 
finally doubled him over. He moaned, 
gasping air. Lacerating pain gripped him 
from head to ankles, radiating from his 
ribs, down his legs, and up his spine into 
his brain. He felt the world going black, 
darker than his tightly clenched eyelids. 
He fought it, gripping his knees. The 
darkness retreated and the coughing 
subsided with effort. He finally became 
aware that Purdue was bent over beside 
him, rubbing his back in great arching 
motions. Mulder's first impulse was to 
push him away, but he remained as he was, 
unwilling to antagonize his body further. 
Purdue's hand stilled finally, and moved 
to his arm, a steadying pressure only, 
unwilling to intrude.

"You okay?" Purdue asked, and Mulder 
nodded carefully. Purdue didn't argue, but 
he didn't sound convinced, either. "Let's 
get you back to your room, son. I think I 
saw a wheelchair up--"

"No!" Mulder wrapped his arm across his 
chest and forced himself to straighten. 
"No, I can walk. I'll... I can do it." He 
didn't look Purdue in the eye but Purdue 
respected the effort.

"Okay, so you walk. But when I get you 
back to your room, I'm going to get that 
half-wit doctor of yours to order up 
something to knock you on your ass. You 
need to get some rest. The nurse said you 
had some more tests in the morning, 
Doctor--" he tapped Mulder's stolen ID 
badge and squinted at the text-- "Doctor 
Devananda. Good likeness, by the way. Does 
you justice."

Mulder made a bitter face. "What tests?"

"I dunno what tests. Hell, Mulder, it's a 
hospital. They do that sort of thing, you 
know?"

Mulder nodded without actually agreement. 
He kept his shoulder against the door and 
took a cautious step, pausing to adjust to 
new sources of pain. Purdue slipped an arm 
across his back and waited with him. 
Mulder hesitated and raised his arm to lay 
over the ASAC's shoulder. Purdue flinched 
at the movement, recalling past assaults, 
but he didn't release Mulder. Mulder 
settled his arm, biting his lip to keep 
from blushing.

"Don't get fresh," he advised. His focus 
was on the floor, though, gauging distance 
and fortitude.

Purdue grunted. "Don't flatter yourself. 
You couldn't handle it."

"Really?" Mulder tried to sound intrigued. 
Five safe steps down the hall bolstered 
his confidence, and he asked with feigned 
maliciousness. "So, what happened to your 
eye?" 

Purdue bent his head to judge the 
expression on his face. "I cut myself 
shaving," he assured. He grinned. "Hell, 
you should see the other guy."

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

END