WARNING! This header file contains significant spoilers for Season 7. The story, itself, contains even *more* S7 spoilers. Lacrimae Mundi by Brandon D. Ray BEGUN: February 10, 2000 FINISHED: April 19, 2000 ========== DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere is fine, as long as these headers remain intact. But please let me know where, so I can visit. If you want a nice clean copy all in one piece, email me and I'll send it to you. You are more than welcome to link to the copy at my site -- although, again, please let me know that you're doing it. FEEDBACK: I live for it. But you already knew that, right?? ========== SUMMARY: After losing his mother and finally learning Samantha's fate, Mulder has been set adrift, and is unsure of how to proceed with his life. Will investigating a series of brutal murders help him find a new focus? And will Scully's caring and concern be enough to hold him together while he tries? CATEGORIES: X-File (MOTW), Romance, Angst KEYWORDS: MSR. MulderAngst. ScullyAngst. Mulder/other (past) SPOILER STATEMENT: Anything through "Closure" is fair game, but NONE of the subsequent episodes have occurred. There are also some non-specific but important spoilers for "all things" -- although, again, the events in that episode have not yet occurred. TIMELINE: This story takes place in the second half of Season 7, two or three weeks after SUZ/Closure. RATING: NC-17 CONTENT STATEMENT: Contains both explicit sex and explicit violence, sometimes occurring simultaneously. Sexual content includes both hetsex and m/m slash. Some people might consider some of the sexual content to be non-consensual. ========== THANKS AND CREDITS: To Brynna, Narida, Paulette, Sharon, Shawne and Trixie, for brainstorming and beta and all that good stuff. Thanks to McKab and Thomas Hong, for research on New York City morgue facilities, and to Blackwood, for helping me find my way around the seamier parts of NYC. And of course ... any shortcomings in this story are my own responsibility, and not those of the wonderful folks who devoted so much time and effort to helping me put it together. ========== DISCLAIMER: If I owned them, I would no longer be making monthly mortgage payments. It's as simple as that. ========== AUTHOR'S NOTE: Don't you hate shooting at a moving target? I started this story right after SUZ aired in the United States, and subsequently incorporated the events in "Closure", as well. I knew there was more to come, and I even had an inkling as to some of it, since I'm a spoiler whore. And so I took a guess at how Mulder's reaction to the events of Closure might play out, and I turned out to be wrong. Oh, well. So as I said in the SPOILER section, this story is set post-Closure, AND BEFORE ANY OF THE SUBSEQUENT EPISODES HAVE OCCURRED. Developments on the show have in some ways passed me by, but I still like this story, and I hope that you enjoy the ride. ==========END HEADERS AND NOTES========== "It is a lonely life, the way of the necromancer... oh, yes. Lacrimae Mundi - the tears of the world." -- Merlin, "Excaliber" =========== Prologue =========== The music isn't loud enough, but for tonight it will have to do. The volume is already cranked as high as it will go. He resists the temptation to stop what he's doing and study the canvas. To study it would be to overintellectualize it; it would mean sucking the life from his work. The urge to do so is almost overwhelming, but he fights it down. That's just what *they* want him to do, and he refuses to succumb. This will be *his* work. His art. It will belong to no one else. He must not study the work; he must not think about it. He must *feel* it. He must immerse himself in it, and make himself manifest; he present *himself* on the canvas -- and thus, to the world. As always, when the work is going well, his body is bathed in sweat. It drips from his face and runs in rivulets down his neck and lower body. He wears no clothes tonight; he never wears clothes when he works. Clothes are an obstacle; an artificiality. They only get in the way of true art. He continues to move about the studio, dancing now, swaying in time to the pounding and throbbing of the music. In his mind, he begins to see it, as it slowly appears out of the darkness, red and glowing and angry. It has no form and no substance, but he knows that it will have. Soon, very soon, it will live. He's whirling and spinning, attacking the canvas with paint, red and yellow and blue, an assault done in oil. The music pours across him and through him, driving his rage before it, pushing him, forcing him to move faster and harder and deeper into the darkness. He can see the thing more clearly now, he can see it begin to take on shape and form. He can see it begin to look human -- harsh and ugly and human. He can see it. And now there are tears on his face, mingling with the sweat that still pours from his brow. A part of him wants to stop, wants desperately to pull back and away from the chasm that's rapidly opening up before him. But he knows he will not; he knows he cannot. His anger has only one outlet, and this is it. If he does not allow himself this release, if he attempts to bottle it all up inside, it will destroy *him*, rather than *them*. And they so richly deserve this fate. They deserve nothing but pain and horror and contempt, and as he remembers this, as he remembers all the suffering and humiliation they've earned, his doubts quickly fall away, leaving nothing behind but the rage. The rage. The rage. The thing in his mind is now fully formed, huge and hard and solid, glowing with a dull, red heat. He moves closer to the canvas, holding the creature in his mind as tightly as he holds the brush in his hand. He can see it all, now; he can see it as if it were happening before his eyes. His brush flies frantically across the canvas, trying to capture the moment, his heart swelling with emotion, growing larger with each stroke, and he sees it all, he feels himself sinking down, down, down, until he becomes -- The man in the tavern, abruptly consumed by lust. His gaze moves restlessly around the smoky room, searching, searching, sliding past one patron after another, until finally it falls upon the woman. Until this moment, until this instant, he did not know why he was here. He did not realize that he was sent to find this woman, and unite with her, but now he knows. He can feel it .... She knows, too, and he can also feel that. He feels it as a stirring deep in his groin, a needy, demanding surge that will not be denied. And even as he's rising from the barstool, he sees her also coming to her feet, a feral smile appearing on her face as she walks slowly towards him .... Without quite knowing how it has happened, they're in the alley behind the bar. The woman is backed up against the wall, her skirt around her waist, her panties lying torn and discarded on the ground. He's thrusting into her, driving into her, harder, harder, harder. Her legs are wrapped around his waist; her arms tight about his shoulders. Her breath against the side of his neck is hot and moist and harsh .... A small, distant part of him, deep down inside, is screaming for him to stop. He doesn't understand why he's doing this; he doesn't want to be doing this. That small, distant part of him already knows how this will end, and its cries of protest are awash with fear and horror. But those cries can barely be heard; they're so lost and far away. And his hips keep driving into the woman, moving in time to the beat of some unheard melody, driving, driving, driving, seeking the ultimate release .... And then suddenly its there; the climax is upon them, pounding from his body to hers and back again, seeming almost like a living thing. Her hands are clutching convulsively at him, clawing at him, frantically digging into his back and shoulders, and she's crying out, her voice raw and hoarse, and then the knife appears as if from nowhere, filling his hand, and in another instant her screams turn from pleasure to pain .... The artist returns to himself, at last. He is alone again, in the studio, standing before the easel. It was so simple, so necessary, so right, but as before, it has left him drained and empty. Strangely unfulfilled. And he weeps, his tears falling from his cheeks, spattering across the canvas, mixing with the still-wet paint .... The music continues to play. ==========END PROLOGUE========== =========== Chapter One =========== Washington, D.C. Tuesday, March 7, 2000 8:05 a.m. Scully was going to be late for work, and she had no one but herself to blame. That was not entirely true, she thought grimly, as she steered her car through the morning rush hour traffic. But it was true enough. Her alarm had not gone off, and in the end she was responsible for that, because she'd apparently forgotten to set it the night before. Again. She'd been having difficulty with her alarm clock for nearly two months now; ever since she killed Donnie Pfaster. She knew perfectly well, on an intellectual level, that Pfaster was the source of her problem. The memory of her clock reading "666" the morning he escaped from prison had burned itself into her memory, and that was making it hard for her to deal with the damned thing. It wasn't that she had to force herself to set it, though. That would be too easy; she could have worked her way past that. No, what was happening was that she was having trouble remembering to take care of it at all. Not every night, but about one night a week, she found herself drifting off to sleep, and then suddenly remembering that she hadn't switched on her alarm. And very occasionally -- like last night, apparently -- she forgot about it entirely. Scully swore as a battered station wagon abruptly changed lanes, cutting her off. Morning rush hour traffic in Washington could be infuriating; sometimes she almost wished she were an ordinary cop, so she could pull people like that over and write them up. But for an FBI agent, of course, that would be serious overkill .... A few seconds of sharp maneuvering brought Scully into the clear once again, and she pressed down on the accelerator a little harder, trying to make up for lost time. And, inevitably, her thoughts returned to the alarm clock. There was another element to the problem, of course: Mulder. Or rather, his absence. She didn't have this difficulty on the nights they slept together, and not only because he understood about her problem, and took care of the alarm himself on those occasions. No, the whole thing was just easier to deal with when he was there. Scully would never admit it to anyone, least of all to Mulder, but she felt more secure and content when he slept next to her. Safer. Unfortunately, those times had been few and far between since Mulder's mother had died, and after they finally found out about Samantha's fate. At first he'd seemed very calm and accepting; he even told her that he felt as if he'd finally been set free, and Scully had thought he just needed a little space, a chance to regain his center. She'd wanted to help him, of course; she'd wanted to offer him the comfort of her love. But their personal relationship had only begun on New Year's Eve, and everything was so new and uncertain that she'd been afraid of making things worse. And in the end that fear, reinforced by her own resistance to emotional intimacy, had won out. Lately she'd come to realize that she'd made a mistake. Mulder was very dependent on the people around him for emotional support; she'd known that for a long time. His tendency to withdraw into himself was the result of a quarter of a century of mistreatment by those he loved and trusted. His mother's suicide had simply added fuel to the fire, and Scully was now berating herself for allowing him to push her away. Samantha was also an issue, of course. Although Mulder had seemed genuinely relieved at having the matter of his sister's disappearance finally settled, Scully had not been surprised when a secondary reaction of depression set in. Her partner had focused his entire adult life on finding Samantha; it was completely predictable that when that focus was suddenly and finally taken away, he would feel lost and without purpose. She was going to have to change that, and it wasn't going to be easy. It had been nearly a decade since she'd been seriously involved with a man, and even then, she hadn't been very good at taking the lead or showing her feelings. But she was just going to have to do it, she told herself firmly. Mulder needed her, and that was the only thing that mattered. At last she found herself pulling into the Hoover Building's underground garage. Not too bad, she thought, glancing at her watch as she grabbed her briefcase and laptop and headed for the elevator. It was only 8:20. It could have been much, much worse. Scully decided to swing through the cafeteria before going to the basement. Mulder had almost certainly not had anything for breakfast; he was probably already on his third cup of coffee, but that would was most likely *all* he'd had. He hadn't been eating well the past few weeks, and she decided that trying to do something about that would be the first step in her campaign to show him that she cared. Little things could mean a lot, after all. And so it was that she walked into the X-Files office a few minutes later, bearing a tray laden with bagels and orange juice. As she'd expected, Mulder was already there. As she'd also expected, he was staring at his computer screen, his finger clicking the mouse button every few seconds. Random surfing, she thought. He'd been spending a lot of time on the web since they got back from California, not doing anything in particular as far as she could tell. Another sign of his withdrawal. Another thing that she was determined to change. "Hey, Partner," she said softly, after it became evident that he wasn't going to acknowledge her presence. "Sorry I'm late. But I did bring you breakfast." For a moment she thought he was going to continue to ignore her, and she glanced at the computer screen to see what was holding his interest. He was to be looking the web page for something called the New York Sanctuary for Contemporary Art -- an art museum, apparently. He was currently scrolling past a series of thumbnail images, but they were too small and the screen was moving too quickly for her to get a really good look at them. Just as she was about to speak again, he stopped, bookmarked and closed the page, and turned in his chair to face her. "Scully," he said faintly, as if he were mildly surprised to see her standing there. His features were drawn and sad, as they had been since that horrible night. As long as she'd known him, there'd been shadows hovering around Fox Mulder, but now it seemed as if they had finally settled down to stay, and were gradually soaking into his skin. And that was unacceptable. Scully put the tray down on Mulder's desk, pushing aside a file to make room. She then stepped across the small room and grabbed a chair, pulled it over next to him and sat down, deliberately positioning herself so that her knee brushed against his. Mulder flinched slightly at the touch, but Scully did her best not to appear to notice. Contact, Partner, she thought. You and I are going to have some of that this morning. "Food, huh?" Mulder's voice pulled Scully back out of her own thoughts, and now she studied his face, briefly but thoroughly. To anyone else, she knew that he would appear unchanged from when she'd entered the office. But she was so familiar with him, so accustomed to looking at him and interpreting his expession, that she had no difficulty detecting the slight wariness that now crept across his features. "That's right," she said calmly, looking him steadily in the eye. "Food. As in breakfast." She picked up one of the bottles of orange juice, shook it slightly, and twisted off the cap and handed the bottle to him. "I was just reading a monograph about it the other day. It's the latest thing in preventive medicine." Mulder actually smiled slightly at her weak attempt at humor, and Scully felt her heart lighten a little. He was still there, and she could still reach him. Everything could still work out okay. "I hear all the cool kids are doing it," he replied levelly, and then he took a sip of juice. Scully rewarded him with a smile. "There," she said. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" Mulder hesitated, then shrugged. "No, I guess not." He took another sip, a little larger than the last. "I'm ...." His voice trailed off and he shook his head helplessly. "I'm sorry, Scully." He waved at the bagels sitting on his desk. "You shouldn't have to do this." "I don't have to do this, Mulder," she responded, refusing to allow him to break eye contact. "I *want* to do it. Because I care about you." She held his gaze for one more moment, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, before finally turning towards the desk, picking up one of the bagels and smearing cream cheese on it. "What'd you get?" Scully thought she detected reluctant interest in her partner's voice, and she smiled once more. "You're the profiler, Mulder," she said, finally turning to face him again and handing him the bagel. "What do *you* think I got for you?" This time his smile seemed a little less cautious and insecure, and he said, "My favorite?" He held it up to his noise and sniffed at it. "But Scully, you hate garlic." "That's right," she agreed, once again catching and holding his gaze with her own as she carefully maintained the serene deadpan expression that she knew he loved. "And that alone should tell you how serious I am about this. That I freely and without coercion brought you a garlic bagel." "That is pretty remarkable," he said solemnly. "Worthy of a lengthy entry in my diary, I'm sure." "Mulder, I don't even want to think about what might be in your diary," Scully replied, continuing to maintain her cool, professional demeanor. "Now why don't you start on that bagel, and while you're eating you can tell me about the new case we just got." The last was a shot in the dark, based on the file folder on his desk and the unusual interest he'd been showing in the art museum's web page. But when he raised his eyebrows at her statement, she knew she was right. "And you say *I'm* the profiler," he murmured. He paused and took a small bite of the bagel, then as he chewed he pulled the folder over in front of him and opened it, briefly skimming the cover page before beginning his presentation. "Kimberly brought this to me a few minutes after I got here this morning," he explained. "Apparently Skinner's in budget meetings over at Justice all morning, and he felt the file was self-explanatory." "What does it concern?" she asked, pulling her chair a little closer to the desk as she automatically dropped into her full professional persona. "A series of murders in the Manhattan area," her partner replied, pausing for another sip of juice. His voice was halting and uncertain at first, but as he continued his explanation, he gradually seemed to pick up strength and energy. "There have been three so far," Mulder went on. "All of them were extremely brutal." He turned over several pages in the folder, revealing photographs of the victims: a man lying in a shower stall, his head beaten to an almost unrecognizable pulp; another man, sprawled on a king-sized, four-poster bed, looking as if he'd been partially eaten by some sort of animal; a woman, her eye sockets nothing but bloody wounds and her upper body one massive bruise, lying sprawled across the counter in what appeared to be a fast food restaurant. All of the victims were nude. Scully shook her head, but forced herself not to look away. She'd seen worse, of course, but she'd never gotten used to it. God willing, she never would. Nevertheless, she studied each picture with slow deliberation, trying to absorb all the details she could, before going on to the next. Finally she looked back up at her partner. "Serial killer?" she asked. He shook his head, and in the distant place where she had pushed the part of her that was Fox Mulder's lover, Scully felt a small surge of joy as she realized that her *partner* was gradually reemerging, at least a little. They'd been needing an assignment, she realized. They hadn't been out in the field since the conclusion of the LaPierre case. This would be good for both of them. "It doesn't look like it," Mulder was saying, picking up the pace of conversation even further. "For one thing, as you can see, the method used varied from one incident to the next. Also, there's no apparent pattern in the selection of victims. Both of these factors are uncharacteristic of the serial killer." His lips quirked slightly, and he added, "And then, of course, there's the biggest objection. In each instance, the alleged killer was immediately taken into custody. All three of them have already confessed." Scully felt her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "I don't get it," she commented. "If the locals have already made arrests, and there's no apparent connection between these murders, why are we being asked to investigate?" "That's an excellent question, Agent Scully," her partner replied with a small smile. "And the answer is that someone on the NYPD is learning to think outside the box." He flipped through the folder and extracted what appeared to be the cover sheet. "A Detective Burks has requested that the Bureau take a look. As I'm sure you can imagine, the New York field office was less than enthralled by the prospect, and bucked it on down to Headquarters. Eventually, it wound up on Skinner's desk." "I still don't see the point," Scully objected. "What is there to investigate?" "I wasn't sure of that, myself," Mulder responded. "Until I read Burks' report, that is. He noticed that there *does* seem to be a link connecting these cases. Not between the victims, though; between the killers. Each of them is a respected member of the New York art community. One is a museum curator; the second is on the faculty at NYU; the third seems to be something of a dilettante, but apparently has enough money to have bought himself a seat at the table, so to speak." "Do they know each other?" "Yes, but that doesn't prove much," her partner said. "The art world in New York City is very tightly knit and insular, almost like a small town. These people all know each other, and the three suspects have all served on various boards and foundations together at one time or another -- although not all three of them at the same time, so far as anyone's been able to find out. And, of course, none of them were acquainted with their respective victims prior to killing them." Scully shook her head. "So what you're saying is ... what? That these three men conspired to commit brutal murders against a series of randomly selected strangers?" "No," Mulder replied, shaking his own head. "In the first place, one of the suspects is a woman." He held up the photograph of the man whose body had been chewed. "Victim number two, Marvin Draper, was murdered by one Sylvia Denson, that NYU faculty member I mentioned. Married, and by all accounts -- including her own -- happily so. Three children. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. "But also by her own account," he went on, "she picked Draper up on a subway platform, went with him back to his hotel room, engaged in sexual intercourse, and then deliberately bit through his carotid artery at the moment of climax." He dropped the picture back on the pile. "The rest of the bite marks were apparently inflicted while she was waiting for the police." Scully felt her eyes widening. "You mean she just sat around afterwards until the authorities came?" "Better than that," Mulder said laconically. "She was the one who called 911." "You're kidding." "Nope." Her partner paused for another bite of his bagel. "And that brings me to the other thing that ties these cases together. The confessions are eerily similar. Each suspect can describe the event in vivid detail, and has made no attempt to deny his or her guilt. Each of them also remained at the crime scene until the cops came -- in two of the three cases, the killer actually called the police. Finally, each of them characterized the incident as something that seemed to be happening to someone else; they said it was almost as if they were standing outside their own bodies, watching it all go down. 'My body did it.' That phrase occurs repeatedly in all three confessions." "So is that the X-File?" Scully asked, consciously suppressing the urge to be openly incredulous. They needed this case, she reminded herself. They needed to get out in the field again. Even if this turned out to be a dead end, as she suspected it would, it would still be good for them. But she couldn't resist tweaking Mulder, just a little. "You suspect some sort of out-of-body experience, or something?" "Perhaps," he replied. From the glint of amusement and appreciation in his eyes it was apparent that he knew exactly what she was doing. "Or possibly possession." A slow smile spread across his face. "Or it could even be a coincidence, Agent Scully. But we won't know unless we go and look, now will we?" ==========END CHAPTER ONE========== =========== Chapter Two =========== U.S. Airways Flight 6362 Somewhere over New Jersey Tuesday, March 7, 2000 1:48 p.m. Scully stared out the window at the sunlight glinting off the Atlantic Ocean, and thought about how much of her life these past seven years had been spent on airplanes. It was really quite a remarkable total. Early in her partnership with Mulder she'd kept a log, and assuming that their travel had continued at the rate she recorded those first few months, she must now have well over five hundred hours in the air, just since starting to work on the X-Files. And that didn't even count time spent driving to and from airports, waiting for delayed or connecting flights, waiting at baggage claim .... She looked away from the window and snuck a glance at Mulder, snoozing in the seat next to her. How typical that one of them should fall asleep on the plane, even on such a short flight. But how atypical that it should be him. Usually she was the one who fell asleep, as a defense mechanism against the fear of flying she had never managed to completely shake. She'd long since lost track of how many times she'd awakened during the final approach to some airport, her head resting comfortably on her partner's shoulder. And yet, today it was Mulder who dozed, and she, Scully, who was having no difficulty staying awake. Another defense mechanism, she supposed, on both their parts. Sleep was Mulder's way of avoiding the tedium that would inevitably lead him to thinking about his mother and his sister, while this unusual wakefulness was Scully's way of maintaining a vigil, and keeping him safe. She had done the same thing the night his mother died, and again the night they finally proved beyond any doubt that Samantha was dead. In the first instance, Mulder had broken down completely, and the tears hadn't stopped until he finally fell into an exhausted sleep. In the second, he'd remained dry-eyed, but very, very still, so still that Scully was never quite sure when he finally drifted off. But in each instance, she cuddled with him in bed, holding him through the night, staying awake in fulfillment of an unspoken commitment to guard him while he slept. Offering as much comfort as she could. Offering as much comfort as he would accept. Even now, though, even as he slept, he didn't seem as if he was really resting. His body was still -- there was none of the tossing and turning that characterized some of his nightmares. But even so, he was not calm; his brow was furrowed, as if he were deep in thought, and his lips twitched intermittently. Hesitantly, remembering her resolve to reach out and try to help, Scully gently stroked her partner's forehead. She didn't want to wake him; the flight crew's announcement of their final approach to LaGuardia would do that, soon enough. But she did want to soothe him, and perhaps remind his sleeping self that he was not, after all, alone. And to her immense gratification, it worked. Under her gentle touch, she saw the wrinkles disappear and the frown lines ease. Mulder's eyelids flickered slightly, and he mumbled something that she couldn't quite make out. Then he spoke again, a little louder, and this time she *could* hear him. He was speaking her name. For an instant, Scully's hand froze in place, and she felt tears filling her eyes. He recognized her; he recognized her touch, and it was calming him and helping him relax. She didn't understand why she was so surprised and moved by the discovery, but she was. It was just the reaction she'd hoped for, of course -- but she had not, deep down in her heart, expected Mulder's response to be so immediate, or so quietly dramatic. She gave his forehead one more soft caress, and then withdrew her hand and settled back in her seat. For another moment she sat quietly, watching him, wanting to make sure the change would be a lasting one. Finally, she turned her attention back to the casefile sitting on her lap. # # # Manhattan Detention Complex Manhattan, NY 4:01 p.m. "Agent Mulder? I'm Paul Burks, NYPD. We spoke on the phone." Mulder nodded as he took the detective's hand. The man's grip was brisk but firm, and Mulder found himself taking an instant liking to him. He was tall and bulky, with dark, almost olive-colored skin, and light blond hair done in a buzzcut. He appeared to be in his late 30s, and wore an open, friendly expression on his moon-shaped face. His clothes were conservative, and looked expensive. "And this must be Agent Scully," Burks said, offering his hand to Mulder's partner with the same economy of movement he'd used in shaking Mulder's hand. As he continued speaking, the hint of a southern drawl that Mulder had heard on the phone became apparent. "I'm very pleased to meet you both," the detective went on, allowing his hand to drop back to his side. "And I must say I'm impressed by the response to my report. I thought perhaps your New York office might send someone over to ask a few questions. I never imagined that two agents would be sent all the way from Washington." "We're from a special unit," Mulder replied, giving his standard explanation for the existence of the X-Files. "We focus on investigating unexplained and paranormal phenomena. The way your report was written it got routed to our A.D., and he passed it on to us." "Paranormal phenomena?" Burks repeated, his eyebrows rapidly climbing towards his hairline. "You mean U.F.O.s and ghosts and stuff like that? And my tax dollars are paying for this?" Mulder felt his hackles starting to rise at what he assumed was the derision behind the man's words, but before he could respond, the detective went on, "That's great! As I'm sure you know, cops see a lot of strange things that tend to get swept under the rug. It's good to know that *somebody's* paying attention." Mulder blinked in surprise, but before he could think of a reply the detective had turned away and was leading them through the crowded reception area of the detention center. As they made their way further into the building, Mulder speculated on the source of Burks' comment. It was certainly true enough that police sometimes saw things that they didn't report, because they wouldn't be believed. That was how the X-Files got started after all, half a century earlier -- as a dumping ground for those unexplained incidents that *did* get reported. But was that really all Burks had on his mind? Despite the stories that circulated in locker rooms and squad cars, most cops were pretty hard-nosed, and didn't take such things very seriously. So why was this one so much more open to the idea? Just the luck of the draw? For that matter, Mulder wasn't entirely sure how *he* felt about the paranormal anymore. Originally, the X-Files had just been an entree, a way of diverting official Bureau resources to help him in his search for Samantha. Over the years, they had grown to be much more than that, but now that his quest was finally at an end, and he had his answer, he wasn't sure if there was enough there to hold his interest. More than anything else, this was why he'd become so withdrawn from Scully the past few weeks. He knew he'd been doing it; he'd seen it happening. But he'd been so self-absorbed he couldn't seem to stop himself, even though it was clearly worrying her -- and perhaps hurting her, as well. The problem was that he didn't know how to raise the issue. He couldn't just walk up to her and say it, could he? He couldn't just say, "Well, Scully, now that we've found out what happened to my sister, what say we close up shop and go back to the real world?" Could he? Because that was exactly what he wanted to do, some days. "Agent Mulder?" Mulder realized that they'd come to a halt in front of a door guarded by two uniformed correction officers, and that Burks was now looking at him inquiringly. The detective had apparently said something, but Mulder didn't have a clue as to what it might have been. Dammit, he had to pay better attention than that -- "Yes, Detective Burks, we've both read the file," Scully was saying. Glancing down at his partner, Mulder saw that her expression was as smooth and professional as her voice. "Has there been any change since your report was faxed to Washington?" Burks shook his head. "No. McSparran is standing by his confession, and he's still refusing legal counsel. He's made no effort to hire a lawyer, although he could probably afford one. The public defenders have been over here a couple of times, too, but he wouldn't talk to them, either." "Will he talk to us?" Scully asked. "I think so," the detective responded, now focusing all of his attention on Scully. That was okay, Mulder thought, feeling a slight sense of relief. Scully could handle this; he'd let her take the lead. She *had* seemed to be interested in this case, after all; that was the main reason he hadn't offered any resistance to it. When she arrived at work that morning, Mulder had been seriously considering waiting until Skinner got back from his meetings, and then trying to persuade the A.D. that there was nothing here of interest. But Scully really seemed to want this case, for some reason, and so he'd acquiesced. "He hasn't had any problem with talking to the cops or the D.A.," Burks went on, still speaking to Scully. "At least, not so far. He even cooperated with the shrinks -- and we've been told informally that their report will state that he's able to stand trial, by the way. Anyway, I told him you were coming, and he seemed fine with it." Scully nodded. She seemed to be giving all of her attention to the detective, but Mulder knew better. There was nothing specific he could point to, nothing in her body language or facial expression or tone of voice. But it was clear that she was very aware of his own presence, and was in some way responding to whatever it was that she perceived coming from him. Unfortunately, he didn't have a clue as to what she thought she was responding to, which made it impossible for him to understand what she was trying to say or do. "Is there anything else we should know before we go in?" Scully asked. Burks hesitated, and gnawed his lip. His gaze flicked briefly to Mulder, and then back to Scully, before he replied, in a low tone of voice, "This guy's weird." The detective shook his head in exasperation, and went on, "I don't mean he's a flake; he's as sane as you and me. But ... he's weird. All three of them are. You'll understand when you've talked to them, but I wanted you to be aware that there's something funny going on. That's why I asked the Bureau for help." Mulder continued to watch as his partner nodded slowly. She glanced up at him briefly, seeming to peer down inside of him with those inquisitive blue eyes of hers. Finally, she turned back to Burks and nodded once more, and the detective led the way into the room. ==========END CHAPTER TWO========== =========== Chapter Three =========== Manhattan Detention Complex Manhattan, NY Tuesday, March 7, 2000 4:28 p.m. Scully stood for a moment just inside the doorway to the interrogation room and looked at the man in the orange jumpsuit. His name, she remembered, was Devon McSparran, and he looked completely ordinary. About six feet tall, still in surprisingly good shape for a man of 52 -- but of course, his habit of jogging each morning helped explain that. His hair was sparse, but what there was of it was iron gray, and still carefully styled, even after three weeks in custody. In short, he looked like what he was: a respectable, middle-aged man in a prison jumpsuit. "Devon, these are the people I told you about," Burks said, moving further into the room. "The FBI agents." McSparran nodded, but remained silent, and for a moment no one in the room spoke. Finally, Scully shrugged slightly, and stepped forward and took a seat at the table across from the suspect. A few seconds later, Mulder joined her, while Burks continued to stand behind them. "Mr. McSparran," she said, opening her badge and displaying it to him, "I'm Special Agent Scully, and this is Special Agent Mulder. We'd like to talk to you about George Ventner." McSparran nodded, and she continued, "First, I want to make sure that you understand that this conversation is being recorded, and that by talking to us you are waiving your Constitutional right to remain silent. Anything you say here today can and will be used against you in a court of law." "Yes," McSparran said, speaking for the first time. "I understand." His voice sounded dry and scratchy, and was without inflection. He added, "I have nothing to hide. Not anymore." Scully cocked her head slightly and looked at the man for a moment. He hadn't even spoken a dozen words, and already she was starting to understand why Burks had said he was a little weird. There was an odd lifelessness to his tone and delivery; a sense of listless finality. Scully shook her head, and pushed the thought away. There would be time to consider that later. She continued, "Second, do I understand correctly that you have also waived your right to be represented by counsel during this interview?" The prisoner shrugged. "A lawyer's not going to do me any good." Scully hesitated again, then repeated, "Do you waive your right to be represented by counsel?" For the first time, the man met her gaze, and there was a brief spark of annoyance in his eyes, gone so quickly that Scully wasn't even sure she'd really seen it. Small as it was, it was the first sign of true emotion that he'd exhibited so far. Finally, he gave another shrug, and said, "Yes." Scully nodded, and glanced briefly at Mulder, but he was still sitting next to her, quietly and impassively. Apparently he was content to have her carry the ball, at least for now. She looked back at the prisoner. "Mr. McSparran," she said, "why don't you tell us what happened on the morning of February 14." The man shrugged yet again. "You know what happened," he responded. "I killed a man. Or, to be more precise, my body killed a man." "George Ventner," she said after a moment, when it became apparent that he didn't intend to speak any further. "That's what his name was," McSparran acknowledged. "At least, that's what the police say it was, and I have no reason to doubt them." "You didn't know Mr. Ventner?" Scully asked. "No," the prisoner replied, shaking his head. His voice continued in the same dull, inflectionless monotone, and Scully found that she had to strain to make out his words. "Until that morning, I'd never met him; I'd never even laid eyes on him." "So why did you do it?" she asked. In her mind, she continued, Why did you have sex with a total stranger, and then batter his head against the wall of the shower until he was dead? And then why did you *keep* battering his head against the wall, over and over and over .... "I don't know," the man said calmly. "I have absolutely no idea. I just ... did. My body did," he amended, his choice of words reminding Scully that this was one of the major points of similarity in the three crimes they were investigating. "Why don't you tell us how it happened," Scully suggested. She wasn't sure what they were going to learn from this exercise; she and Mulder had both read the man's statement. But at least it was a place to start. "I went running," McSparran said, his voice still flat and emotionless. "I go running every morning, 5:30 sharp, rain or shine." He leaned forward slightly, and went on, "You have to make yourself do it, you see. You have to discipline yourself. I'm sure you understand how hard it is to find time for such things; you just have to *make* the time. So I run. Every morning." "Okay," Scully said. "So you went running. Then what happened?" "I went running," the prisoner repeated. "It was still dark, and I didn't see very many people. But after a few minutes, I noticed another man also running, a short distance ahead of me." "Ventner?" Scully realized that she'd almost snapped the victim's name, and she forced herself calm down. The man's tone and affect were definitely bothering her; he was so calm and serene, even as he was discussing the horrible things he'd done. "That's right." McSparran nodded. "As I said, I'd never seen him before. They tell me that he'd just moved into our neighborhood a few days earlier. Anyway, I saw him running a little ways in front of me, and so I naturally picked it up a bit until I was running alongside him." "Competing?" Scully asked. The man shook his head. "No, not at all." He looked at her speculatively for a moment. "You don't run, do you? Or you wouldn't ask that question." He glanced briefly at Mulder. "But he does. He runs. I can tell. He understands." Scully felt her eyebrows rising slightly, and she had to force herself not to look at Mulder to check his reaction. She was about to respond, and attempt to steer McSparran back to the real subject, when her partner suddenly spoke. "Runners don't compete," he said. Scully glanced at Mulder in surprise, to see that he was looking intently at the prisoner. "So you weren't competing; you weren't trying to beat him. Why did you kill him?" For an instant anger flared in the other man's eyes, but it was quickly extinguished. After a moment's hesitation, he said, quietly, "I told you -- I don't know. My body did it." "Okay," Mulder replied smoothly, "Tell us how your body did it. You saw Ventner running ahead of you, and you caught up with him. Then what?" McSparran frowned, and for a few seconds he chewed on his upper lip. His hands were clasped tightly together on the table in front of him, and he stared down at them, as if he expected them to somehow unlock some great mystery for him. Finally, he looked back up at Mulder. "That's when I started to feel ... outside," he said. "Outside?" Scully asked. The prisoner looked at her and nodded. "Yes. Outside. I felt as if I were outside of my own body; as if I were a spectator, watching someone else. At the same time, I was still fully aware of being myself; I could hear my thoughts, and I could feel everything that was going on." Scully nodded. "Go on." The man shrugged. "There isn't a lot more to tell," he replied. "We ran together for a while. Fifteen, twenty minutes. We didn't say anything, and I sort of assumed that at some point he would break off and take a different route, and that would be the last I'd see of him." "But he didn't." That was Mulder again, and Scully saw that her partner still wore that expression of intense curiosity on his face. "No. He didn't." "Did you still feel as if you were 'outside'?" Mulder asked. "Yes." The prisoner hesitated, then went on, "It was the strangest feeling I've ever had in my life. I almost felt as if I was in two places at once." He touched his forehead, and said, "I was up here." Waving his hand vaguely to encompass the room. "But I was also *out there* somewhere." The conversation was abruptly interrupted by the shrilling of a cell phone. Automatically, Scully reached for her jacket pocket, and was aware of Mulder doing the same. "It's me." Scully had almost forgotten about the presence of Paul Burks; now she turned in her seat in time to see the detective punch the CONNECT button on his phone. She watched for a moment as he spoke to whoever was on the other end; then she turned back to face McSparran once again. "So what happened after you stopped running?" Mulder asked. McSparran shrugged again. "We stood for a few minutes in front of his building, cooling down and doing some stretches. Then he invited me upstairs." "To have sex?" No hesitation. "Yes. He didn't say so in as many words, but it was understood." "And you went with him." "Yes." A brief pause. Then: "I don't quite understand why, though. I'm not ... interested in men. I'd never had sex with a man before. I'm also happily married, and even when I was single I was never into one night stands." A shadow crossed his face. "At least, I *was* happily married." "But you did go with him?" Scully persisted. The state of McSparran's marriage was something they were going to have to look into, but not yet. First they needed to establish the facts of the case. "Yes, I did," the prisoner answered. "And it was ... different." Scully realized that the man was now staring at Mulder, and she was suddenly aware of an odd tension radiating from her partner. "You might understand," McSparran continued, speaking directly to Mulder. "You might understand how amazing it was. We took a shower together, and after we'd soaped and rinsed each other he went down on me. And it just felt so *incredible*, you know? I mean, the worst blowjob I ever had was still pretty good, but this was ... fantastic. I think it was because he was a guy, so he knew instinctively what would feel good." He paused, still staring at Mulder. "You *do* understand, don't you?" Almost against her will, Scully found herself looking at her partner, but he was giving nothing away. His face was bland and expressionless; his body language unreadable. There was something going on behind his eyes, but she didn't have a clue what it might be. Finally, she forced herself to look back at McSparran. "So the victim performed oral sex on you," she stated, drawing the prisoner's attention away from Mulder and back to herself. "Yes," the man responded, nodding. "He did, and as soon as he'd finished, I killed him." "Why?" The prisoner sighed. "I keep telling you -- I don't know. I wish I did. But he sucked me off, and before I'd even finished coming, I was overcome with rage." McSparran's voice was calm and matter-of-fact, as if he were giving a weather report. "It was completely overpowering, and it just seemed to come from nowhere. I was holding onto his head and he was still sucking, and before I had time to realize what I was going to do I was slamming his head against the wall, over and over and over. After a while, I knew he was dead, but my body just kept doing it. I couldn't seem to stop." "But you did stop," Scully noted. "Yes, I did," the man acknowledged. "Eventually." "And then you called the police." "That's right." "Were you still 'outside' when you made the call?" Mulder asked. McSparran looked at him and shook his head. "No," he replied. "No, that was me." He frowned. "I'm not entirely sure when the outsideness stopped; it just sort of faded away once he was dead. It was definitely gone by the time I called the police." "This rage you felt," Mulder said. "Was it because you were uncomfortable with having participated in a homosexual act?" It seemed to Scully that there was a tinge of ... something ... in her partner's voice, but as with his expression a few moments before, she couldn't put her finger on what it might be. The prisoner shook his head again, firmly. "No," he said. "That wasn't it. As I said, I'd never had sex with a man before, but it seemed completely right and natural." He drew himself up slightly. "I'm not a homophobe, Mr. Mulder." "What about your wife?" Mulder persisted. "Is it possible that you were angry with yourself for committing adultery, and displaced that anger onto the other man?" "I don't think so," McSparran replied. "I've thought about it, of course -- and the police psychiatrist suggested that, as well. But I don't think that was what was going on. I was just ... angry. Suddenly, uncontrollably enraged. I don't know where it came from, or why." He seemed to be struggling to find the words. "I almost felt as if ... as if that man, George Ventner, had insulted me in some way." Scully felt her eyebrows rising. "Insulted you?" she asked. "You mean, by suggesting that the two of you have sex?" "No," the prisoner responded, shaking his head again. "It wasn't about the sex. I don't know what it was about. I just felt as if he had ... humiliated me. As if he had abused and belittled me." "But you'd never met him before that morning?" Scully asked. "No. I'm sure of that." "Then your interaction that morning was the only opportunity he had to humiliate you." "That's right," McSparran agreed. "And he didn't. We ran together, he propositioned me, I took him up on it, and I killed him. And I have no explanation for any of it." For a moment or two silence descended on the room. Scully knew there would be more questions to be asked, but they would have to talk to McSparran's wife, among other things, before they could pursue the matter further. At last, she turned to Burks and asked him to summon the guards, and a few moments later, she, Mulder and the detective were alone in the room. "So that was the first one," Mulder commented. "And number two was the woman, Sylvia Denson, right?" "Yeah," Burks replied. "But you'll have to go out to Rikers to see her, and it's already getting late. I've arranged for you to interview her tomorrow morning, if that's okay." "That's fine," Scully said with a nod. "What about the other male suspect?" She searched her memory, and added, "Bradley Hamilton." Burks hesitated, then shook his head. "I'm afraid that won't be possible. That phone call I had a few minutes ago -- they were calling to tell me that Hamilton just committed suicide. He hanged himself in his cell." ==========END CHAPTER THREE========== =========== Chapter Four =========== Residence of Devon McSparran and Kendra Prentice Manhattan, NY Tuesday, March 7, 2000 6:55 p.m. "They sent a man this time. Thank God." Mulder felt his eyebrows rising at the greeting, but before he had a chance to respond, the woman standing in the doorway continued, "You *are* the FBI agent, right?" He nodded, and she concluded, "Thought so. You've got the G-man look. Come on in." Upon hearing of Bradley Hamilton's suicide, Mulder and Scully had decided to split up for the evening. Scully had gone with Detective Burks, in hopes of being allowed to participate in the autopsy, while Mulder got them checked in at their hotel, and now was keeping the appointment Burks had made for them to interview Devon McSparran's wife. So here he was, standing in the doorway of the couple's condominium on the Upper West Side, trying to figure out what he could ask this woman that the NYPD hadn't already covered. Ms. Prentice, Mulder reminded himself. She was married to Devon McSparran, but she hadn't taken his name, and according to Burks she could be a little belligerent about it. She was Kendra Prentice, not Kendra McSparran. "I really am glad they sent a man this time," the woman was repeating, as she led him down a short entryway to the living room. She appeared to be in her late 40s or early 50s, with short blonde hair and a good figure. Her clothes were casual, but looked very expensive. She held a cigarette in her right hand, and a trail of sweet-smelling smoke followed her as she walked. "I mean, that woman they've been sending to talk to me," Ms. Prentice continued. "Detective Ross. She means well, I'm sure, and she's very correct and professional. But she's also so cloyingly sympathetic that it makes me want to throw up." She had walked over to peer out the window at the street below; now she turned to face Mulder. "I have a feeling you're not like that." And she took a long drag on her cigarette. Mulder took a couple of steps further into the room, towards Ms. Prentice. "You don't want sympathy?" he asked. The woman rolled her eyes. "Of course I want sympathy," she snapped. "*Meaningful* sympathy, from people who know me and Dev, and actually understand. But I don't need a bunch of strangers offering a few empty words, out of the hope that it will make it easier for them to do their jobs." "Do you think that's all people mean when they express sympathy?" "Isn't it?" Ms. Prentice lips quirked, and she took another puff on her cigarette. "Would *you* be here, right now, if someone wasn't paying you?" Mulder blinked in surprise, then shook his head. "Probably not," he admitted. "But that doesn't mean I'm not interested, or that I don't care about what's happening to you and your husband." The words were true, but even as he spoke them, Mulder felt a niggling in the back of his mind; the woman's question as to why he was here seemed to be finding fertile soil. Not now, he admonished himself. Not here. We can think about all that later; right now, we need to stay on task. "Well, at least you're honest," Ms. Prentice said flatly. "That's something." She gestured at the sofa with the hand holding the cigarette. "Why don't you have a seat, and I'll get you something to drink. Cops like beer, right?" "Not when we're on duty," Mulder replied. He was starting to get an edgy feeling about this woman, and he just wanted to get the interview over with so he could get out of there. "And it's really not necessary --" "That's fine," she said, interrupting him with a wave of the hand that held the cigarette, as she moved briskly across the room. "My mother would have another coronary if I didn't offer you something. I'll be right back." And she was gone. Mulder sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets, as he waited impatiently for Ms. Prentice to return. He briefly considered taking the seat she'd offered him, but he didn't expect to be here that long. For that matter, he didn't expect to be in New York for very long. Bradley Hamilton's suicide was no doubt going to slow things down a bit, but so far, Mulder had not seen or heard anything that really interested him. The only real link between these cases was the similarity in language found in the suspects' confessions, and that could very well just be a coincidence. God. He was starting to sound like Scully. He shook his head, and paced across the room and back. Nothing seemed to be working for him; nothing seemed to be right. Things hadn't been on track since the end of the LaPierre case, and Mulder couldn't find a reason for that -- at least, he couldn't find a reason that he *liked*. Because the fact of the matter was that he was bored. Bored and detached. The work that he had found so compelling and important only a few weeks ago now seemed to be more irrelevant with each passing day. He just couldn't keep his mind on it. Mulder found himself standing in front of the sofa, looking up at a painting hanging on the wall. At first glance, he thought it was just an abstract, but now as he looked at it more closely, he realized there was some sort of pattern there ... something he felt he should recognize, but couldn't. There was a strange tingling sensation in the back of his head -- "I found some root beer." Mulder started at the sound of Ms. Prentice's voice, then turned around, to see her steadily approaching, two highball glasses in her hands. "Root beer?" he asked, eyeing the dark brown liquid and ice in the glass she handed him. "Yeah," she replied, and her right eyelid flickered in something very close to a wink. "It's Dev's; it's his secret vice. I can't stand the stuff, myself." Her own glass, Mulder noted, was half full of what appeared to be whiskey, straight up. "So what does the FBI want to know?" the woman asked. She gestured again at the sofa, this time with the hand holding her glass, and the liquid and ice sloshed slightly. "No, wait," she went on as Mulder reluctantly sat down. She paced over and sat primly on the hassock positioned directly in front of him. "You want to know if my husband is gay or bisexual, and you want to know if he's cheated on me in the past, right?" Mulder nodded. "That'll do for a start," he replied. He was definitely becoming irritated with Ms. Prentice, but he couldn't seem to find a handle with which to take control of the interview. "Well, the answer to the first question is no," she said, taking another drag on her cigarette, followed quickly by a healthy hit from her glass. "I've been married to Dev for twenty-two years, and we lived together for two years before that, and if he had any interest in other men, I'd know about it." She smiled slightly. "Not that I would have minded. I've always thought it might be fun to watch a couple of guys going at it." "Okay," Mulder answered, fighting down his own sense of discomfort at addressing this issue so directly. That was in the past, he reminded himself; it was a long time ago. He forced himself to focus on the interview. "And as for the other question?" The woman shrugged. "Has Dev cheated on me? Of course he has, although he thinks I don't know about it. But it was never serious; just a quick screw at a party sort of thing." She took another drink. "And we've swapped a few times over the years; who hasn't? But that doesn't count as cheating, does it?" Mulder couldn't keep himself from blinking, and responded, "That wouldn't be for me to judge, Ms. Prentice." "Well, it doesn't," she asserted. She stuck her cigarette in her mouth and left it there for a moment. Mulder nodded, and tried to turn the conversation in a more useful direction. "Are you or your husband acquainted with Bradley Hamilton or Sylvia Denson?" Ms. Prentice frowned. "Yeah, we know Brad and Sylvia. Not well, but we know them. Dev works with them from time to time, and of course we bump into them at parties and the like." She swirled the ice in her glass, and seemed to have a sudden fascination for watching the ice cubes go round and round. "Was there any bad blood between you or your husband and either of them?" She looked up at him curiously. "No. Not especially. I think Sylvia was one of Dev's conquests, but that was years ago, and it's not a big deal. Of course, the art crowd can be pretty cutthroat, but there wasn't any serious trouble with either of them." Her frown deepened. "Are you trying to suggest there's some sort of connection between what Dev did and what Sylvia and Brad did?" Mulder hesitated, then shook his head. "I really can't go into the details of what I'm investigating, Ms. Prentice." He maintained eye contact until she nodded, and then he went on, "What about George Ventner? Did you or your husband know him --" "No." She shook her head firmly. "Never met the man. I did call his wife, the week after -- after he died. But she didn't want to talk to me." Her lips quirked slightly. "I can't say that I blame her." "What about the other two victims? Marvin Draper and Louisa Antonelli?" Ms. Prentice shook her head again. "Strangers," she said. "I couldn't even have told you their names." She leaned over to the coffee table to stub out her cigarette, then straightened up and cupped her nearly-empty glass in both hands. Mulder nodded again. "Ms. Prentice," he said, "I know this is a difficult question for you, but based on your knowledge of your husband, can you think of any reason for him to have murdered George Ventner? A total stranger?" For a long minute the woman didn't say anything, and as Mulder studied her face he saw the facade of self-possession finally start to crumble. At last, she seemed to force herself to meet his gaze, and Mulder saw that there were unshed tears in her eyes. "No," she said quietly. "I can't. It's almost as if he must have been possessed or something." She gave a bitter smile. "But the cops aren't going to believe anything like that, are they?" Mulder wanted to reassure the woman; he wanted to tell her that he, at least, might be willing to believe her. But once again he found that he lacked the energy; his heart just wasn't in this case, and he seemed to be powerless to change that. So he didn't comment, but simply moved on with a few more perfunctory questions to wrap up the interview. Fifteen minutes later, he was on his way back to the hotel. # # # Bellevue Hospital Center Manhattan, NY 10:12 p.m. "Agent Scully?" Scully turned, to see Paul Burks approaching from across the hallway outside Bellevue's Department of Pathology. She'd just finished assisting with Bradley Hamilton's autopsy. She was tired and irritable, and wanted nothing more than to get back to the hotel, check and see how Mulder was doing and, hopefully, get some sleep. But here was Burks bearing down on her, a friendly smile on his face. Apparently she was going to have to play nice for a few more minutes. "Detective Burks," she said. "I didn't expect to see you again this evening." "I know this is going to sound like a line," he replied, the friendly smile still in evidence. "But I was just in the neighborhood, and thought I'd drop in." Scully raised an eyebrow, and he went on, more seriously, "Actually, that's even true. I've been over at the office trying to get caught up on some paperwork, and it occurred to me that you'd probably be finishing up about now. So I thought I'd stop by and see what you'd found. If anything." Scully shook her head. "Nothing out of the ordinary," she told him. "Ligature marks consistent with strangulation, and everything else matches up, as well. We'll have to wait until tomorrow for the tox screen and the other blood work, but I'd say it's just what it looks like: a man overcome with remorse who couldn't live with what he'd done." Burks nodded soberly. "I can't say that I'm surprised." A lopsided grin. "But I am a little disappointed. I'd been hoping there'd be something there that would provide the missing link." Scully allowed herself a small smile. "Sorry." She started walking down the hall, in the direction of the elevators. Burks followed. "What's your interest in all this, anyway?" she asked. She didn't really want to get involved in a long, drawn-out discussion, but she'd found it was generally good politics to be friendly to the locals -- and since Mulder got along with people only when it suited him, she usually had do the lion's share of their liaison work. "It's my job," the detective said simply. He got to the elevators a step ahead of her and punched the up button, then turned to face her. "I have a sort of roving assignment. Technically, I'm attached to Internal Affairs, but what I actually do is look for connections." "Connections?" Scully asked. "Yeah," Burks replied. "Oddball stuff. Things that don't quite match up, or make sense. Sort of like what you and Agent Mulder do, I think." "Really?" Scully felt her eyebrows rising in spite of herself. Still, if the FBI had an X-Files unit, why couldn't the NYPD have something similar? Although she would have thought they would have heard about it by now -- "It's low profile," the detective said seriously, almost as if he'd read her mind. "*Very* low profile. And a lot of it isn't really paranormal -- that's not even a formal part of my brief. I spend a lot of time on political work." The elevator arrived, and they got on board. "What do you mean 'political'?" she inquired. The man shrugged. "You know. Cases that are spread over several precincts, and for one reason or another nobody can see the connection. In some cases, nobody *wants* to see the connection. Like this one." "Why are you so convinced there's a link in this instance?" They stepped off onto the main floor and Scully allowed Burks to lead her towards the main entrance. The detective hesitated, then shrugged. "There's not a lot I can point to," he admitted. "Just the items you already know about -- the similarities in the confessions, and so forth. I guess after a while it just gets to be an instinct." "I see." The conversation was starting to sound eerily familiar to Scully -- and she realized with a stab of heartache that this was one of the things she'd been missing these past few weeks. Mulder's tenacity, and his willingness to jump to outrageous conclusions, often on little or no evidence, had sometimes infuriated her, but those were also two of the qualities she found most endearing about her partner. God, she missed him. "Agent Scully?" Burks again, of course. "There's a cop hangout a few blocks from here. I was thinking we could stop by and have a beer, and talk things over. I'd like to get your views on this -- and I'd also like to hear more about the work you and Agent Mulder do. It sounds fascinating." Scully stood for a moment, looking at the man and trying to gauge his intentions. What he'd just said sounded suspiciously like a pick-up line, and she just wasn't interested. She was also tired, and her feet hurt, which meant she wasn't in the mood to deal with him as gently as she otherwise might have. She shook her head, and replied, "I'm sorry, but I'm already seeing someone." Her gaze flicked briefly to the heavy gold band on the ring finger of Burks' left hand, and then back up to his face. "And even if I weren't, I wouldn't go out with a married man." She suppressed a shudder at the thought. Not again, she thought. Once was more than enough. For a moment the detective simply stared at her, a look of confusion on his face. Then his eyes widened, and he burst out laughing. "I'm sorry, Agent Scully," he said, in his soft, southern drawl. "I really am. I guess that did sound like a bit of a come on." He raised his left hand so as to display his wedding ring more clearly. "I didn't mean it that way at all. Not that you aren't a lovely lady, but I *am* married -- happily married. And I really am interested in talking about the case and your work -- but *only* about the case and your work. So how about it?" Still grinning broadly, he added, "I'll even let you buy." Scully felt herself blushing furiously. She should know better by now than to make snap judgments about people when she was this tired. Thank God the detective hadn't taken offense. But now she was going to *have* to go with him, at least for a little while, which meant it would be that much longer before she would have a chance to check in with Mulder, and then get some sleep. She forced a smile, and replied, "Okay. But just one drink, okay? I need to get some rest tonight." And she allowed Burks to lead her on out of the hospital to his car. ==========END CHAPTER FOUR========== =========== Chapter Five =========== The Best Western President Hotel Manhattan, NY Wednesday, March 8, 2000 12:29 a.m. Mulder lay in bed staring at the ceiling of the darkened hotel room. He'd been lying there for over an hour, but sleep just wouldn't come. He'd tried his usual remedy: the television. He had, in fact, spent nearly forty-five minutes flipping through the channels, looking for something to watch, but nothing had attracted his interest -- not even on the adult channels on pay-per-view. He'd finally turned the TV off in disgust, its annoying babble not providing the distraction it had given him in the past. This was yet another of the things that had changed for him in the past few weeks. For so very many years, he had suffered from insomnia, but he'd developed a set of coping mechanisms to compensate. He would study the current file, or he would surf the net, or he would watch television, or he would run, and eventually some combination of these elements would lull him, if not to sleep, then at least into a state of restfulness. But now everything was different. Mulder still had problems sleeping, but it wasn't because of nightmares, or chronic anxiety over his sister. No, these days it was about himself. It was about his life, and the lack of meaning or direction in it. It was because of this wakefulness that he'd started pushing Scully away -- or at least, he'd *tried* to push her away, he amended in his mind. The trouble was, she was steadfastly refusing to be pushed -- and to be perfectly honest, at least with himself, his heart wasn't in it. He didn't *want* her to go; he wanted her to stay. He wanted her right next to him, as close as possible. He was almost certain that having her around would in the long run help to solve his problems; the catch was that he was unwilling to reach out to her, because he feared what that solution might cost her. Whatever the hell *that* meant. God, he was a mess. Mulder grumbled softly and turned over in bed, so that he was lying on his stomach. That was the real difficulty, of course. He didn't clearly understand what he wanted, and he wasn't sure what the stakes were, for him or for Scully, if he tried to find out. It seemed that dispite having at last found release from the uncertainty over Samantha's fate, he had somehow acquired a new state of not-knowing. Or perhaps it was simply that now he finally had enough spare emotional energy that he was actually capable of caring about his own life and future. Shit. He was drawn from his introspection by a light rapping on the connecting door to Scully's room. For a moment he considered feigning sleep; part of him didn't want her to know he was having trouble sleeping, because he wasn't completely ready to try to explain himself. But he knew that even if he did pretend to be asleep, she would probably come in anyway -- and if she didn't, it would just be one more instance where he had pushed her away. If he did that enough times, eventually she really *would* leave him, and if he was honest enough to admit to himself that he didn't want that, then he should try to be strong enough to modify his own behavior, so that he would no longer be shoving her in that direction. "It's open," he said, very softly. "Come on in." Almost immediately, the door swung open and then shut again, briefly admitting a narrow shaft of light from the other room before darkness descended once again. He was momentarily blinded by the brief flash of illumination, but he could still hear her. He could almost *sense* her presence, as she moved carefully across the room. He knew when she stood by the bedside, looking down at him, perhaps wondering if she should sit on the bed, or even lie down next to him. And just as his eyes finally adjusted, and he was about to invite her to join him, he made out her shadowy form as she turned away and found the chair next to the small round table next to the door, and sat down. "You were out late," he said, trying to cover his disappointment, all the while wondering why he didn't just speak up and ask for what he wanted. "Was it a complicated case?" "Not that complicated." It was still dark in the room, of course, but now he could see well enough to make out the shadow of her head, shaking back and forth. "We found nothing out of the ordinary. It's going to be reported as a simple, straightforward suicide." "He just hanged himself, huh?" "Were you expecting something different?" Her words could have sounded combative, but somehow they did not. "No, not really," he replied, after a short pause. "Hoping?" Mulder sighed, and shook his head. "No, not that either." There was a brief silence. Then: "So what do you think? Should we pack it in and go back to D.C.?" "Well, I don't think there's an X-File here," she said, seeming to choose her words carefully. Mulder waited in silence for her to continue. After a moment, she went on, "But I don't think we should go home. Not just yet. We accepted this assignment, and I think we owe it to ourselves to do a thorough job." "To ourselves?" "Yes." He could see her shadowy form nodding, and she leaned forward a little in her chair. "Mulder, we haven't been out in the field since the LaPierre case. We've been sitting in Washington, spinning our wheels, not doing anything much of importance, and it's been making us both a little crazy. I think we need to put some direction back into our professional lives, and I think this case can help us do that." "But what are we doing *here* that's of importance?" he objected. "All that I can see going on is a small group of unconnected murders, and the police already have them all solved. So what's the point?" This time the silence was long and heavy, and when Scully finally spoke, she sounded as if she was having trouble keeping her throat from constricting. "Mulder," she said, "I don't like to hear you talk like that." She rose from the chair and stepped forward, then dropped to her knees next to the bed and reached out and felt along the covers until she found one of his hands. "I want to be out in the field with you," she went on -- and now he could see her eyes, blue and luminous, seeming to cut through the darkness. "I like going places and seeing things. I like the problem solving. I even like the arguments. It's part of who we are." "I thought you were the one who wanted to stop the car." Mulder felt a sense of helplessness closing in on him. This was exactly the reaction he'd been afraid of, and he didn't know how to deal with it. "I never said that," she replied, shaking her head. "I'll admit that I thought about it some, back when we were under Kersh. And I'll also admit that I raised the subject. But it was never what I really wanted. I was just ... frustrated with the way things were going that fall, and I was playing with ideas. The fact of the matter is that I want to stay in the car. But only if you're there, too." "Why?" The word was out of his mouth before he realized he was going to say it. There was another pause; then Scully replied, "Why do I want to stay in the car? Or why do I want to be with you?" "Either. Both." Mulder realized he was clenching his free hand into a fist, and he made a conscious effort to relax it. And he wondered just how he had so completely lost control of this conversation. She seemed to consider his question for a moment, her head cocked thoughtfully to one side. Finally, as if she were dictating an autopsy report, she said, "I want to be with you because I love you. I realize that begs the question, but it's really the only answer that I have." "You love me," Mulder repeated. It wasn't the first time she'd said those words, but he still had trouble accepting them, and he couldn't keep himself from saying them aloud, as if they were some sort of magic incantation. "You love me." Scully shrugged in the darkness. "I never planned for it to happen, and if someone had suggested it to me, way back when we were first working together, I would have laughed. Nevertheless, it happened. And before you ask, I wouldn't have it any other way, even if I could." "What about the car?" he asked softly. His partner shrugged again. "How far do you want me to carry that metaphor? I like it in the car. The car is moving; it's going places. Looking back at my life before the X-Files, it seems very static and uninteresting." She hesitated, then added, "Mulder? What's wrong?" And there it was, Mulder thought. She'd finally come out and asked him directly, and he wasn't going to be able to evade the issue any longer. Even so, he couldn't keep himself from trying to hedge a little. "I'm ... not quite sure what's wrong," he said, his voice very low. "Do you want to stop the car?" she asked. "I don't know," Mulder replied. "Sometimes ... sometimes I think maybe I do. God, that seems so selfish." There was another moment of silence, as Scully apparently waited for him to go on. Finally, she said, "It's okay to tell me how you feel, Mulder. Even if it's not entirely positive, I want to know. I *need* to know. Why do you feel it's selfish that you've been thinking about stopping the car?" God. She wasn't going to cut him any slack; she was going to make him face this. He wanted to run away and hide, but he couldn't. This was Scully, he reminded himself. She was his partner, and she deserved the truth. "I'm not sure I really do," he replied. "But sometimes I think I do. And as for why ...." His voice trailed off and he shook his head angrily. Try again. "I've given up so much to this fucking quest, Scully. I've lost so many things that I'll never be able to get back, and all the time I was searching she was already dead ...." "And you want to try to reclaim some of those things?" Her voice was soft and understanding, and her hand was warm and comforting in his. "I think ... sometimes I think I would, yes." The admission came with surprising ease, and Mulder was encouraged to continue. "But I don't see how I can. It's too late for most of it." "Why is it too late? What do you want that you think you can't have?" "I want ... I want you." The words sounded foolish, even to Mulder, and he tensed as he waited for her reply. "You've already got me," Scully said quietly. Hesitantly, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. "And you'll never, ever lose me." "I know. But that's not what I meant." God, this was going to sound stupid -- but he was too far in to back out now. And so he continued, "I want to be twenty, and meet you for the first time. I want to bump into you on the Quad, and ... and be taken with you. Immediately. I want to go on dates with you and have the experience of falling in love with you without having to worry about government conspiracies and alien invasions. I want my biggest worry to be whether you'll agree to go with me to see The Police in concert." "I didn't like The Police when I was twenty," she commented -- but there was no mistaking the amusement in her voice. "Then I want to convert you," he insisted, feeling a little more confident at hearing the tone of her response. "I want to invite you over to my apartment and feed you spaghetti, because that's what bachelors know how to cook, and then I want to make you sit on the sofa and listen to my albums." "We'd just listen to records?" she asked. "Nothing else?" "Well, this *is* our first date I'm talking about here, Scully." "I dunno, Mulder," she replied. "I have a feeling you were a pretty sharp operator when you were twenty." Suddenly things were serious again, although he didn't think she'd intended that. "I would never do that to you, Scully," he said quietly. "I did do some things when I was younger. Stupid things. Things I'm not proud of." He felt a shudder race through his body, as the memories that were stirred up by his interview with Kendra Prentice threatened to surface once again, but he hurriedly thrust them away. "But I would never do anything like that to you." "I know that, Mulder." Scully fell silent again, and Mulder tried to think of something else to say; anything to move the conversation along. Things were going pretty well, so far -- much better than he'd expected. But now he wasn't sure how to proceed. There was so much more he wanted to say -- Abruptly his partner was rising to her feet and letting go of his hand. For a moment Mulder was confused, and didn't know what he could have done to upset her -- but then she began unbuttoning her blouse, with quick, efficient motions. A minute or two later she was lifting the covers and sliding into bed next to him, her naked body warm and comforting against his own. Automatically, he slipped his arms around her waist, drawing her closer, even as she was bringing her hands to rest on his shoulders and pressing her forehead against his. But before he had a chance to say or do anything further, Scully spoke. "Hi," she said, with surprising shyness. "Do you mind sharing your table? All the other seats appear to be taken." Mulder blinked in confusion, but before he could think of something to say in response, Scully went on, "My name's Dana, by the way. Dana Scully. I've just arrived from America; I'm a transfer student from the University of Maryland." "Oh." Mulder blinked again, but now he felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Sure. Have a seat. I'd enjoy the company." He hesitated, then added, "My name is Fox." "Fox." She seemed to think about the name for a moment. Then: "That's a lovely name. Very unusual." She tilted her head slightly. "But I have the sense you don't like it very much?" "No, I don't," he admitted. Immediately he regretted the words, as he saw a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. "But I like the way it sounds when you say it. Say it again." "Fox." Her breath puffed against his lips, warm and moist. "Fox. It really is a lovely name; it's so unique." She pressed her lips against his again, gently and briefly. "Dana's a nice name, too," he replied, once his mouth was free. "But doesn't a pretty girl like you already have a boyfriend?" Scully shook her head, smiling, and somehow she managed to look much younger than she was. "No," she said. "No, there's no one. No one but you. And there never will be." Then she kissed him again. This time the kiss went on for quite a while. Mulder moaned slightly as he felt Scully's tongue trace the outline of his lips -- and then he willingly opened his mouth, allowing her inside. God, this was good; this was so good. Suddenly, Mulder couldn't remember why he'd been keeping this woman at arm's length recently. She was, quite simply, the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he was an idiot not to accept everything she wanted to give him. Scully pushed on his chest, very gently, and Mulder allowed her to roll him onto his back and crawl on top of him. They were still kissing, alternately exploring each other's mouths, and now Scully's fingers were tangled in his hair, clutching and very gently scratching at his scalp. Nor were his own hands idle; they were stroking and caressing her back, and tracing the length of her spine. Mulder was so absorbed in tasting her and feeling her and just basking in the warmth of her body that he barely noticed as she lifted her pelvis, and reached down to push his boxers down off his hips. His erection sprang free, and in another instant she'd grasped him with one hand, gently touching and caressing him for a moment, before she finally lowered herself again and guided him to her entrance. "Ahhhh!" The cry of pleasure had come from Scully; Mulder was almost sure of it. She was poised above him, now, her expression taut with ecstasy as she slowly moved her hips downward until she had sheathed him completely. Mulder felt his own body quivering in response, and as his hands came to rest on her hips, it was all he could do not to slam himself up into her. Not yet, he told himself firmly. Not yet. For a moment or two they both held perfectly still, trying to adjust to the sensation. This was not new, Mulder reminded himself; this was something they had done before. Yet, somehow, it *did* seem very much like the first time. And not just the first time with each other, but the first time with anyone, ever. It was almost as if they *were* both twenty, and everything was new and fresh and exciting. Scully's hips began to move, then, banishing coherent thought. Mulder had to struggle to keep his eyes open, but he didn't want to miss this; he wanted to watch her face as she made love to him. He wanted to lose himself in her, and drown in her expression of joy. Jesus, she was beautiful. Her face was flushed, eyes closed, head thrown back, mouth slightly open. The tip of her tongue protruded slightly between her teeth, and she wore a look of intense concentration on her face. She's still thinking, he thought, feeling a sense of wonder spreading through him. She's *always* thinking, always aware of who she is and what she's doing. Even now, when she's obviously in the throes of intense physical pleasure .... Almost as if she had read his thoughts, her eyes came partway open, and she looked down at him and gave him a smile that took his breath away. "Scully," he whispered -- but that was the only word he had time to utter before her mouth descended on his again. This time, as they kissed, it was electrifying. Mulder felt a tremendous surge of energy coursing through him, seeming to pass directly through his mouth and groin to Scully, and then come streaming back at him, added to and multiplied by her own unique flavor of passion .... They were both moaning, now, writhing in each other's arms, their bodies slick with their mingled sweat. The scent of their mutual arousal filled his nostrils, and seemed to pervade his very being, sending him higher and drawing him closer to Scully with each breath he took .... They moved in perfect unison, hips pumping desperately, arms clutching fiercely. Mulder found himself no longer able to concentrate on her face; he was no longer able to do anything but feel the desperate need that now pulsed frantically in his groin. He might have felt selfish about his drive to satisfy that need, were it not for the fact that he could feel Scully's desire, as well, simmering just below the boiling point .... And then, suddenly, he was there -- *they* were there. The bright, white pinpoint of his arousal abruptly blossomed in a silent explosion of emotional release. He was still thrusting up into her, just as she was slamming down onto him, and he was spending himself, emptying himself into her, giving her everything that he had, even as he felt her entire body quaking and convulsing in orgasm .... And she was lying on top of him, her body apparently as limp with exhaustion as his was. Somehow, Mulder managed to find the energy to reach for the covers, and draw them up to cover both of their cooling bodies. Scully sighed, and snuggled down on top of him, and he could feel her gentle breathing tickling slightly against the side of his neck. And after a while, he slept. # # # He is unable to sleep. He came home hours ago, after a long, tedious day of dealing with the world. A day of putting up with the stupid and the scoffers and the detractors. Those who make the destruction of others into a sport. Those who have made a mockery of his life. This would not be enough, in and of itself, to keep him awake. Not yet, at any rate. It has not been long enough since the last time, and the pressure has not yet pushed him to the breaking point, forcing him to descend once more into the darkness. Still, he cannot sleep. He stands before a blank canvas, now. As always, he is nude. The music pounds in the background, blasting from the speakers, assaulting his mind and soul. But unlike the other times -- unlike the four previous occasions when he was overtaken by his rage and hate -- he stands perfectly still. Motionless. Unmoving. He has been standing here for more than an hour, now. It's been that long since he gave up tossing and turning in his bed, and entered the studio. It has been that long since he finally admitted that what he felt, earlier this evening, was real. It *was* real, he thinks. It was no more than a twinge, a faint echo of the pressure he usually experiences, but it was no less authentic for that. There was a familiarity to the feeling, but he can't quite put his finger on why. It was almost as if someone was walking on his grave. He even had a brief flash of an image. It was a vision of a man, tall and dark-haired, with infinite sadness in his eyes. A sorrow that said, somehow, that this man, whoever he may be, is also familiar with the darkness, and may even be a resident of that awful place. There was a kinship there; a sense of fellowship. And it is this feeling that the artist is now seeking to capture in oil. Without success. At last he flings his brush aside in disgust and storms from the studio, leaving the blank canvas behind. Waiting. ==========END CHAPTER FIVE========== =========== Chapter Six =========== Northbound on Interstate 278 Approaching Rikers Island, NY Wednesday, March 8, 2000 9:18 a.m. "So how long have you and Agent Mulder worked together?" Scully glanced at Paul Burks, sitting in the driver's seat of the car. Once again, she and Mulder had chosen to split up, at least for the morning. Mulder had taken their rental car and gone to interview Bradley Hamilton's widow, while she and Burks planned to visit the prison facilities on Rikers Island, and talk to the other surviving suspect, Sylvia Denson. "Seven years," Scully replied. She and the detective had chatted a bit the night before over a couple of beers, after the autopsy, but neither of them had said much of substance; it had been a get-acquainted session, for the most part. Now, Burks apparently wanted to continue the process. Liaison, she reminded herself firmly. Liaison. "Seven years," the man repeated. "That's quite a stretch. I thought the Bureau moved people around more often than that." "It does," Scully replied reluctantly. "But the X-Files is a special assignment, outside the Bureau mainstream, so not all of the regular rules apply. Also, we've got an assistant director who believes in continuity." "The X-Files?" Burks asked. "Is that the unit the two of you work for?" Scully smiled slightly. "Actually, we *are* the X-Files Division," she admitted. "Mulder's technically the senior agent, but as a practical matter we work as equals." She glanced at Burks again, and saw that he appeared to be genuinely interested. "We each bring our own strengths to the partnership," she added. "We complement each other." And it was true, she thought, as Burks broke off the conversation for a moment in order to negotiate through some particularly heavy traffic. It hadn't always been so, especially in the early years, but now it was. The events of the past few months had finally forced Scully to acknowledge something that she'd only paid lip service to in the beginning: that Mulder's wild leaps of logic and his almost childlike willingness to believe were just as necessary to their success as partners as was her own devotion to science and reason. It had been a bitter pill for Scully to swallow, and it hadn't been until well after her return from Africa that she had finally reconciled herself to it. For all that she trusted and respected Mulder, there had always lurked in her soul a series of quiet reservations about his worldview. That, more than any other single factor, had been the reason she had resisted his hesitant overtures concerning a personal relationship. But last fall, all of that had changed. Last fall, on the west coast of Africa, she had been confronted by an artifact and associated phenomena that she could explain in no other way but by resorting to Mulder's theories. Nor could she turn away from them, as she sometimes had in the past, and pretend they didn't exist, or hadn't happened. Not with her partner's life hanging in the balance. When she returned to Washington, Scully found that the walls that she had hastily and thoroughly torn down in her moment of desperate need could not be casually and easily rebuilt -- nor did she really want them to be. And, for the first time in her long, odd friendship with Fox Mulder, she found herself reaching out to him at precisely the same moment that he was reaching out to her. And the rest, she thought sardonically, was history. "That's a nice situation to be in." For a moment, Scully was confused by Burks' remark; her thoughts had drifted so far from their conversation that she'd lost track of the thread. But then she replayed her own previous comments in her head, and realized what he was talking about: her partnership with Mulder. "It is," she agreed with a nod, after a slight pause. Something about the detective was encouraging her to speak, and she added, "It's the most meaningful relationship I've ever had in my life." The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and Scully tensed slightly as she waited for the man's reply. Burks hesitated, and glanced briefly at her before looking back at the road. "Agent Scully," he said, seeming to pick his words very carefully, "again, I'm so sorry about last night. I never intended for my invitation to sound as if --" "It's okay, Detective," Scully said, more sharply than she'd intended. She deliberately softened her tone, and added, "If anything, I should be apologizing to you. For jumping to conclusions, I mean." Burks shook his head. "No," he said. "No, you were fine. Believe me, I've been around, and I know how hard it is for a woman to make it in law enforcement." Scully considered the man's words for a moment. There was certainly some truth in what he said; it *was* difficult. But Scully had never been one to rely on excuses, even when they were valid, and it went against her grain to acknowledge such a handicap. It almost felt like a weakness -- "I'm sorry too, Dmitri," the detective murmured. Scully felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and then her lips twitched slightly as she recognized the words Burks had just spoken. Dr. Strangelove. The detective's eyes were glued to the road, but Scully could see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. And suddenly it did all seem terribly funny. Burks was a perfectly ordinary man; very pleasant, good-humored and unassuming. They'd had a brief misunderstanding the day before, but that was all it was. And so, struggling to keep a straight face, she replied, "Don't say that you're more sorry than I am, because I'm capable of being just as sorry as you are. So we're both sorry, all right?" The gate guard at Rikers Island would be telling people for weeks about the FBI agent and the cop who passed through his checkpoint with tears of laughter streaming down their faces. # # # Rose M. Singer Center Rikers Island, NY 9:59 a.m. "My attorney says I don't have to talk to you." Scully nodded, glanced briefly at Detective Burks, and then looked back at the prisoner sitting on the other side of the table. Sylvia Denson was an attractive woman in her early 40s; even the prison jumpsuit couldn't conceal that. She had short, dark hair, framing an elfin face, and her eyes were even darker than her hair. She was short, almost as short as Scully, and had the sort of tight, compact figure that spoke of regular exercise and religious adherence to a diet. There was a callus on the third finger of her left hand, presumably where her wedding band had been. Scully knew it would have been confiscated when Denson was processed in by the police; she wondered, though, if the prisoner would be wearing it now, even if she could. Because this woman, of course, had seduced a man other than her husband -- committed adultery with him -- and then brutally murdered him and mutilated his body. With her teeth. "That's very true, Ms. Denson," Burks was saying, in cool, professional tones. "But it's our understanding that you've signed a waiver of your Miranda rights. Is that correct?" She sighed, and nodded. "Yes." "Have you changed your mind?" Burks pressed. Scully nodded to herself. Best to nail it down; they didn't want any doubts about the status of this interview. "Do you wish to invoke your right to remain silent?" His eyes flicked to the empty chair next to the prisoner. "Your attorney does not appear to be present," he added. "No, he's not," Denson agreed. "I don't need him. And no, I haven't changed my mind. I just ... I'm not used to this. That's all." "Not used to what?" Scully asked. The other woman glanced at Scully, and shrugged. "Not being in control," she replied. "Having other people decide where you sleep, when and what you eat, when you take your exercise ...." Her voice trailed off and she waved a hand. "Everything." Scully nodded, carefully keeping her features professional as she suppressed the slight feeling of discomfort Denson's words had evoked. She could certainly relate to what the woman was saying -- but this interview wasn't about her. It was about the prisoner. And her victim. "Ms. Denson," Scully said, beginning as she had with Devon McSparran, the day before, "why don't you tell us about Marvin Draper." Denson shrugged again. "There's not a lot to tell," she answered. "I was on my way home. It was a Monday, and my day to fix dinner. While I was waiting on the subway platform, I noticed this man looking at me." She looked Scully in the eye. "You know how it is, I'm sure." Scully did know, and she couldn't keep herself from nodding. "Go on." The prisoner took a breath, and continued, "So I saw this man looking at me. And at first, I did what I usually do in that situation. I ignored him. But I found I couldn't make it stick." "What do you mean?" That was Burks chiming in, and Scully glanced at him and nodded approval of the question. "I mean," Denson said carefully, "that I couldn't just ignore him." She went on quickly, "He wasn't bothering me; he wasn't getting in my face or anything like that. But I couldn't keep myself from looking back at him." "Why do you think that is?" Burks asked. "I don't know." She paused for a moment, then added, "He was attractive, of course. I'm sure you've seen pictures of how he looked ... before." Scully and Burks both nodded. "But that wasn't it. You see attractive men on the street all the time. But this was ... different, somehow." There was a moment of silence; after it became clear Denson wasn't going to go on, Scully asked, "How was it different?" "I'm not sure if I can explain it," the woman said. "I felt ... I felt as if I wasn't in control of my own body." She shuddered. "As if someone else had taken over, and I was just along for the ride." "So what happened?" Burks prodded, after another moment of silence. "I don't quite know," Denson replied. "Not the early part of it. I kept looking at him, he kept looking at me. The train came, people got on, and the train left. And he and I were standing on the platform together. Alone." "You didn't get on the train?" Scully asked. "No, I didn't." The woman frowned. "Look, could just one of you ask the questions? I'm starting to feel whipsawed here." Scully glanced at Burks; he nodded for her to go on, and she looked back at the prisoner. "So the two of you were on the platform," she said. "Then what?" "Then ... then I don't remember very clearly. The next thing I remember is riding up in the elevator to his hotel room," Denson said, her face reddening. "He was from out of town -- at least, that's what they tell me. We never really talked." The prisoner shook her head, as if she couldn't quite believe the things she was saying. "So we got to his room, and ... and we had sex. He didn't offer me a drink and we didn't make small talk. We just took off our clothes and did it." Still shaking her head: "God, I can't remember when I've been that ... that aroused. And the things he did to me felt so damned good ...." Her voice trailed off. "And then you killed him," Scully finished. "Yes," the woman agreed flatly. "Then I killed him." She closed her eyes for a moment, then reopened them. "And no, I don't know why. He was on top, and he was ... fucking me. I was really into it, we both were, and ... and I felt my orgasm starting. And then, suddenly, I felt this terrible, horrible rage. I was so angry and hurt and frustrated and humiliated that I couldn't think. And his neck was right there, and there were a few marks on it -- we'd been a little rough, earlier. So I bit him. Hard." "You severed his carotid artery," Scully commented. "I know. That's what I intended." The prisoner's voice was flat and expressionless. "You meant to kill him." "Yes," Denson said. "I meant to kill him." "Why?" The woman shook her head. "I already told you. I don't know. It wasn't me doing it." She waved her hands helplessly. "I mean, it *was* me. I remember everything, after we got to his room, and obviously, it was me. But at the same time, it wasn't. It was as if my body did it." //As if my body did it.// Scully shook her head. The same words the other two suspects had used. The same dead end. She sighed, and looked back at Denson again. Well, there was still one more line of questions to pursue. "Ms. Denson, are you familiar with Devon McSparran or Bradley Hamilton?" Her eyes clouded, and she nodded. "Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I know Dev and Brad. I've known them for years. I also know that Brad killed himself yesterday." Scully felt her eyebrows shooting up in surprise, and the other woman added, "That sort of news travels fast when you're inside, Agent Scully." Scully nodded in acceptance of the point, and asked, "How would you describe your relationships with Mr. Hamilton and Mr. McSparran?" "I know them," the prisoner repeated. "I've worked with each of them on projects from time to time. We get along, but we aren't great friends." "Kendra Prentice -- Mr. McSparran's wife -- she thinks you slept with him," Scully commented. "Yeah, I know," Denson replied. "I know she thinks that; she confronted me about it once. But she's wrong -- although I think I may be the only woman in the past twenty years who turned Dev down. But I've been faithful to my husband, Agent Scully." Her eyes dropped, and she seemed to be studying her bare ring finger. "Until now." Scully couldn't think of anything to say to that, so she didn't try. ==========END CHAPTER SIX========== =========== Chapter Seven =========== Residence of Bradley and Helen Hamilton Saddlebrook, NJ Wednesday, March 8, 2000 11:09 a.m. For the second time in as many days, Mulder found himself in an upscale home, waiting for the owner to appear. Actually, in this case "upscale" was a major understatement. Mulder had driven for the better part of an hour to reach this place, and found it to be more of a mansion than a house. A long, pebbled drive wound through leafy greenery, finally terminating in a loop in front of a three story brick house -- a house that had obviously been there, virtually unchanged, for a century or two. He'd been greeted at the door not by Mrs. Hamilton, but by a butler -- an honest to god butler, complete with the dark suit and the high, starched collar. The man led Mulder into the house and down a long, wood-paneled hallway, finally leaving him in a moderate-sized room lined with bookshelves -- self-evidently the library. And now here he stood, looking idly at the books on one of those shelves, for lack of anything better to do. It held an odd jumble of titles, that seemed to be arranged in no particular order. He noted books by Poe, Hawthorne, Dickinson ... a couple by Melville, although not //Moby Dick//. He smiled slightly and made a mental note to mention that to Scully. Many of the books were older editions, and most of them looked as if they hadn't been taken off the shelf in years. "Sir? Mrs. Hamilton will see you now." Mulder turned and followed the butler out into the hallway again, and further back into the house. A moment later he was stepping into a large, formal-looking room, and being introduced to his hostess and the young man -- Bradley Hamilton III, apparently -- he found waiting for him there. The woman looked much like her house: elegant and refined. Her clothes were flawless and conservative, and her hair was perfectly coifed. Her bearing was proper, almost regal, as she stood waiting for Mulder to approach her. The agent knew she was nearly 60, but if not for the streaks of gray in her hair, she could easily have passed for 40. "Agent Mulder," Mrs. Hamilton said -- and Mulder started slightly at the Brooklyn accent issuing from her mouth. "I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting, but things are difficult this morning. I hope you understand." "Of course," he replied, briefly taking her hand and then releasing it. "I'm terribly sorry to have to intrude like this. I'll try not to take too much of your time." "What exactly is the FBI's interest in this case, Agent Mulder?" That was the son speaking, Bradley III. Mulder turned to face him. He looked very much like a younger, male version of his mother. He seemed to be in his early 30s, and was immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit that Mulder suspected had been hand-tailored. His face was lean and tan, and his manner practically radiated "Wall Street". Mulder extended his hand, and after a moment's hesitation, the younger man took it. "I regret intruding on your grief," the agent said. "As Detective Burks explained on the phone, there are some unresolved issues surrounding your father's case, and I'd like to ask your mother a few questions." Something told him he was going to have to go through young Hamilton to get to the dead man's widow. "What sort of issues?" Hamilton asked sharply, coldly. "My father's death should have closed the matter." Mulder nodded. "I agree," he replied. "And for the most part, it has. However, there are some ... oddities that I'd like to resolve before --" "'Oddities'?" the young man repeated, even more sharply than before. "Agent Mulder, I don't pretend to understand why my father did what he did, but I don't propose to have the incident turned into a ... a circus for the idly curious. I ask again: what is the FBI's interest in this matter? To the best of my knowledge, there is no federal jurisdiction involved. Am I mistaken in that?" Mulder shook his head. "No, you're not mistaken," he said. "However, the local police have asked us to take a look at the case, as well as two others, and try to determine if there was some linkage between the three." "He's talking about Dev and Sylvia," Mrs. Hamilton said suddenly. Mulder turned to look at her, and she nodded bleakly. "I've wondered about that, myself. The similarities were rather striking." "Mother," the young man said crisply. "As I've already pointed out, you are under no obligation to speak to this man. There is no legal case anymore, and --" "Yes," Mrs. Hamilton interrupted. "Yes, you mentioned that. Repeatedly. And I told you that I intend to answer his questions." She glanced briefly at Mulder, then back to her son. "Within reason, of course." "Mother, none of this is reasonable! My father is dead, and --" "That's enough!" The woman paused and took a breath, then continued in a shaky voice. "Bradley, I thought we'd settled this. Your father was a good man, and no one is going to miss him more than I am." Another deep breath. Then: "But he also killed a woman, and the authorities and *her* family and friends have a legitimate interest in having the matter settled." "It *is* settled," her son insisted -- and now Mulder thought he detected a tremor in the young man's voice, as well. "It's over." For a moment, Mrs. Hamilton stood quietly, looking at her son. Finally, she sighed, and said, "Bradley, why don't we step out in the hall for a minute." To Mulder, she added, "Mr. Mulder? Will you excuse us?" "Of course." Mulder waited in silence as mother and son left the room. He'd had reservations about conducting this interview at all, let alone so soon after the elder Hamilton's death. He'd known that the family would be in an emotional turmoil over the events of the past few weeks. But Burks had assured him that Mrs. Hamilton seemed very calm and reasonable over the phone, and he *did* want to close this case and get back to D.C., so he'd agreed to do it, and now here he was. He'd been a little surprised when Burks offered to take Scully out to Rikers Island. The partners had already agreed, before the detective arrived, to split up for the morning. It would speed things along, and there was no real risk involved, so there was no reason not to do it that way. But Mulder had assumed that Burks would come with him. It hadn't worked out that way. In retrospect, it made sense that the detective, with his familiarity with the city's correctional and detention facilities, should choose to accompany Scully. Still, Mulder couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't some other reason for the man's offer. A personal reason. He shook his head angrily, and began to pace around the room. That was absolutely ridiculous. Burks was just trying to be helpful on a professional level. The man had invited the two agents up here, after all, and he no doubt wanted to facilitate their investigation. That was *all* that was going on. And even if the detective *did* have something else in mind, Scully was quite able to handle the situation, Mulder reminded himself. He'd certainly seen her do so plenty of times in the past. He smiled slightly as he remembered how she'd shut down John Kresge, when they bumped into him during their most recent trip to California. The look on the man's face as she turned and walked coolly away had been priceless. Mulder's smile faded as he found himself standing in front of a pair of paintings at one end of the room. He didn't recognize either of them; they appeared to be abstracts, and not in a style he cared for. Nevertheless, there was something about the one on the right that was catching his eye. He looked at the painting thoughtfully for a minute. There was something familiar about it, he decided. He didn't think he'd actually seen it before, but there was something about the way the bright, primary colors swirled and interacted, not *quite* coalescing into something concrete and real. He felt an unpleasant tingling in the back of his mind, and that seemed familiar, too -- Abruptly, the room he was standing in seemed to disappear. The tingling feeling swelled quickly from a minor annoyance until it dominated his entire consciousness. Mulder felt lost and disoriented; there was no up or down, no sense of direction at all. He felt as if he were being lifted up, thrown down, pulled apart and crushed all at the same time. He was hot and cold, sleepy and wakeful, exhausted and energized. In the space of a few seconds, he felt sorrow and anger, remorse and terror, panic and horror. And mixed with it all was a strange, terrible arousal that he couldn't seem to resist. That he didn't *want* to resist. The anger was dominant, now, burning inside him and mixing with sexual desire. All he knew was his hunger and his need for release. He needed to assert himself, he needed to stake his claim and shout his fury and defiance to the world, to the universe. His entire body throbbing, now, swelling and growing until he thought he would explode -- "Mr. Mulder?" He was standing in front of the painting again, in Helen Hamilton's home. He blinked several times as the strange, frightening feelings slowly faded from his mind. At last, he turned to face Mrs. Hamilton. "I'm sorry," he murmured, still trying to shake off the effects of the rapidly fading vision, or whatever it had been. "I guess I was ... preoccupied." "That's okay," the woman replied. She stepped forward to stand next to him, and for a moment she looked at the painting he'd been staring at. Mulder couldn't bring himself to follow her gaze; instead, he focused his attention on her face as she studied the piece of art. "I must admit I don't know what Brad saw in this one," she continued after a few seconds. "He usually had much better taste than that." "Your husband purchased this painting?" Mulder inquired, his gaze still on the woman standing next to him, rather than the artwork. He didn't know why his question was important, but something inside him was insisting that it was. "Oh yes," Mrs. Hamilton answered, looking briefly at Mulder and then back at the painting. "Brad purchased *all* of the works of art in this house. He didn't have much confidence in my judgment when it came to aesthetics." "I see." Again, what she'd just said seemed to Mulder to be significant, but he didn't have the faintest idea why. She glanced at him again, and smiled briefly. "I grew up in Brooklyn, Mr. Mulder, as I'm sure you've already deduced. I went to Princeton on a scholarship, and that's where I met Brad. His family has never quite forgiven me for my birthplace, and even Brad never quite shook *all* of his prejudices." Mulder couldn't think of anything else to say, so he simply repeated, "I see." Mrs. Hamilton shook her head slightly, and said, "I'm sorry. That's not what you're here to talk about it, is it? Why don't we sit down, and you can ask your questions." She led him back across the room, to a spot where three chairs were situated around a low table. A carafe sat on the table, as well as three cut glass goblets. Mrs. Hamilton motioned for the agent to sit, then said, "Mineral water?" "Yes, thank you." The woman nodded. As she poured, she said, "I must apologize for my son, Mr. Mulder. I hope you understand; it's been very difficult for all of us, and Bradley ... well, he's taking it particularly hard. He and his father were very close." "I do understand, Mrs. Hamilton," Mulder replied. "And I don't want to disturb your family any more than necessary. I appreciate your willingness to see me today, under the circumstances. Especially on such short notice." She nodded, and he continued, "I won't go over the details of the crime with you; I understand that you don't know anything about it, other than what was in published reports." "That's correct," she said soberly. Again, there was a slight shakiness to her voice. "Brad refused to see or talk to anyone from the family. So all I know is what I read in the papers." "I do need to ask you a few questions, though, ma'am," Mulder persisted reluctantly. In contrast to Kendra Prentice, he was quickly coming to like this woman, and he wished he didn't have to risk upsetting her. Choosing his words carefully, he went on, "As you've guessed, the FBI's part of the investigation is focused on the similarity between what happened to your husband, and what happened to Devon McSparran and Sylvia Denson." The interview proceeded in much the same fashion as had the one with Kendra Prentice, the evening before -- although it did seem to Mulder that Helen Hamilton was more thoughtful and far less abrasive than the other woman had been. Mrs. Hamilton confirmed that she and her husband were acquainted with the other two suspects, but stated that they were not really close. She recalled encountering both of them at parties and meetings, and said that her husband had worked with each of them from time to time on projects of mutual interest. She also verified the police report's characterization of Bradley Hamilton's role in the art world as being more financial in nature. "Brad had no artistic talent of his own, Mr. Mulder," she explained. "None. And he was the first to acknowledge that. But he did have an appreciation for good art, and I think he tried to compensate for his own lack of ability by helping others in the only ways he could: with encouragement, and money." Mulder nodded; after a brief pause, he said, "Mrs. Hamilton, I appreciate your candor in these matters, and we're almost finished. I do have one more subject I need to address, and I hope you'll forgive me for bringing it up at this time --" "Mr. Mulder." She stopped, and seemed to be waiting until she was sure she had his attention. "I'm not a delicate little flower, and I do understand that sometimes in your profession you must pursue matters that are not normally discussed in polite company. I presume you're about to ask about my husband's fidelity?" "Yes, ma'am." Mulder was surprised to realize that he was blushing. Mrs. Hamilton sighed, and answered, "To the best of my knowledge, Brad has not slept with any woman other than myself since well before we were married, which was more than thirty years ago. Of course, it's in the nature of such things that I might well be the last to know, but if he *did* stray at some point, I'm sure I would forgive him. I loved my husband, Mr. Mulder, and he loved me. People in love do make mistakes sometimes, but if the relationship is strong, they're able to overcome those errors and move on." "That's commendable," the agent murmured. For a moment he couldn't keep himself from reflecting on all the times he and Scully had hurt each other down through the years. Yet, as this woman had just said, their relationship was strong, and somehow, in each instance, they had weathered the storm. He shook himself, and returned his attention to Mrs. Hamilton. "I think that's everything I needed to cover today, ma'am." As they both rose to their feet, he added, "Again, I want to thank you for seeing me. I know it's a difficult time for you." The woman nodded silently, and turned to lead him to the door. But for some reason, Mulder found himself unable to follow her. For a moment he stood in place, wondering what it was that he still wanted to say. All in a rush, he had a sudden sense of hollowness, incompleteness, as if he had been left unsatisfied on some very fundamental level. Abruptly he found himself walking over to stand in front of the painting again, the one he'd been studying earlier. Once again, he felt a stirring of those disturbing, inexplicable feelings that he'd experienced a few minutes before. The anger he'd felt then was still present in his mind, he realized, pulsing deep inside him in savage counterpoint to his heartbeat. It was small, now, and easy to control -- but it was still there. Mulder wasn't sure what to make of what had happened to him. He knew what Scully would say, of course. She would attribute it all to stress, and advise him to disregard it. And she might be right to do so. But there was something else about the experience, something that still bothered him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it ... and then he had it. It was the tingling sensation he'd had in the back of his head, just before things got out of control. That tingling had seemed familiar at the time, and now he remembered why. He'd had the same odd, disquieting feeling last night, when he stood in Kendra Prentice's living room, looking at another painting. A painting very much like this one. Mulder stood perfectly still for another moment or two. Could *that* be the connection? Again, he knew what Scully would say, but he also knew that his own investigator's instincts were clamoring for attention. Could the paintings be the link between these three cases? Was it possible that there *was* an X-File here, after all? "You seem to be really enamored of that one." Mrs. Hamilton's words took him by surprise; he'd become so absorbed in his own thoughts that he'd almost forgotten she was there. He turned to face her, and shook his head with a slight smile. "I guess it just caught my eye," he replied. "I'm sorry; I know you have things to do." "That's quite all right, Mr. Mulder," she said. With slight humor: "You may have it, if you wish. I really don't like it very much. I don't know what possessed Brad to buy it in the first place." The agent shook his head again. "No," he said. "That won't be necessary. I just wanted to look at it for another minute." He hesitated, and added, "Although ... you wouldn't happen to know who the artist is, would you?" Automatically, he glanced at the painting again, and after a few seconds of looking he found a pair of initials in the lower left-hand corner. "L.M.?" he added. "Yes," Mrs. Hamilton replied. "That stands for 'Lacrimae Mundi', which is supposed to be the artist's name. His work has become quite popular in the last few months. I suspect it's actually a pseudonym, however." "'Lacrimae Mundi?" Mulder repeated. "That's Latin, isn't it?" He concentrated for a moment, trying to bring back what he could of his lessons at Oxford. "Yes," she said. "It is. It means 'Tears of the World'." ==========END CHAPTER SEVEN==========