From: MystPhile@aol.com Date: Sun, 11 Jul 1999 21:25:58 EDT Subject: xfc NEW: Injuries to the Spirit (1 of 13) NC-17 Source: xfc TITLE: Injuries to the Spirit (1 of 13) AUTHOR: MystPhile@aol.com DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer, Ephemeral, XFC, yes; elsewhere, please ask CLASSIFICATION: T, SA, MA, UST SPOILERS: Anything up to season six SUMMARY: Scully is captured by a psychopath; Mulder investigates. The story explores the effects of being held captive by a madman. RATING: NC-17. Under 17, stay away. This is about a vicious, violent man who commits atrocities. Every effort has been made to convey the actions without gratuitous gore. I have no wish to revolt the reader. But he is nasty, and so is much of the language. Disclaimer: Most characters property of 1013. Thanks: Complete thanks are at the end of the story. Cyberbouquets in abundance to Marie, Alelou, and entreamis for their encouragement, advice, criticism, and some really effective words, used with their permission in the story. Thanks, ladies! Feedback welcome! Injuries to the Spirit by Mystphile@aol.com "A...being such as he lives for the discomfort of others. He feeds off any degree of pain....one might even call him a connoisseur of pain--both physical and, through the body, the spiritual agony of guilt and shame. Certainly he understands that injuries to the spirit tend to be longer lasting than those of the body." ---------Description from "O Jerusalem" by Laurie R. King, a Mary Russell/Sherlock Holmes novel DAY ONE She did not know how it had happened. She was not even sure what *it* was. One minute she'd been knocking on a motel door to meet her e-mail friend Beth, suddenly present in the DC area on business. The next, well, there was no "next"--until now. Now. Her vision was clouded and her head ached. Why? Knocked over the head? Drugged? Squinting, she could discern the dim furnishings of a generic room. It contained a double bed, a kitchen off to the side, separated from the main part of the room by a counter, and some ugly, tattered chairs. No decor to speak of. Not even the usual paint-by-number beach scenes. Nothing except empty cork boards covering almost all of the wall area. No windows. Why no windows? It occurred to her that she didn't even know if it was day or night. Maybe one of the corkboards was covering a window. She shook her head in confusion, then quickly halted the motion as her head throbbed. She had: A. Knocked on a door. B. Wound up in a seedy room. What had transpired between point A and point B? As her head cleared slightly, she tried to shift her body. For some reason, she could barely move. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked down. Her world rocked and swirled at the sight of her naked body, bound to the arms and legs of a wooden chair. Dazed, Scully stared at her pubic hair. Christ, she thought, and her stomach plunged. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> FIVE DAYS EARLIER "Scully, you ready?" Mulder, like a little boy desperate to go to the bathroom, was practically dancing on his toes in his eagerness to get out of the office and on the road. "Almost." Scully was absorbed in her e-mail correspondence with a member of her mystery-readers' list, the Agatha. She and Beth had been discussing what Scully saw as an interesting phenomenon--the many couples in mysteries who choose to address one another by their surnames. "One more minute," she murmured, glancing at the message on her screen: Scully had written: <>an attachment, but not whether it was romantic. <. And an excellent mind it is, with all >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> THAT NIGHT Inside Scully's apartment, Mulder was pulling his files together. Scully, worn out from a day of fruitless silkie patrol, was yawning and stretching. Each held down a corner of her couch, the coffee table crowded with papers, a laptop, and five or six cardboard cartons of Chinese food and discarded chopsticks. Neither looked like a special agent at the moment. Mulder had jettisoned his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, and unbuttoned his shirt. His hair stood on end. Scully had changed into jeans and a tee- shirt and washed her face, rinsing off about five years in the process. "Tired?" Now *here's* a great detective, Scully thought. She nodded and curled into her corner of the couch, tucking her bare feet beneath her. Mulder looked up. "Okay, okay," he said. "So you were right. It was tiring, and it was a waste of time. No silkie, just an excess of imagination." He leaned back and glanced at Scully. "Silkies," he said, in the contemplative tone he'd used when seeking out Big Blue. "They're said to kidnap women. That reminded me of what Joe--you know him? Joe Greenfield, a guy I used to work with in Violent Crimes? He showed me some stuff the other day, just to get my take on it. They've discovered a possible serial killer, one who kidnaps women. He preys on mystery readers. That's why I was asking all those questions when we were in the car." Scully squinted. "How the hell did they discover he preys on mystery readers? Did they examine the victims' bookshelves? That isn't the kind of stuff that gets entered into the database." Mulder shoved some of the boxes on the coffee table aside to make room to prop up his legs. He leaned his head against the back of the couch and turned his eyes to meet Scully's. "Well, that's why it took them so long to pick it up. He's been doing this for four years, one victim a year. At least as far as they can tell from the data they have now. Someone finally entered the victims' computer contents. And each victim was killed in a different way. Nutty, bizarre, but different. So there was no clue there, no hint of an MO. But their computers all showed they engaged in discussion groups, mystery lists, chat rooms for mystery readers, that sort of thing. That was the common denominator." "Hence your interest in my list," Scully remarked. Mulder nodded and raised his hand to fend off the objection she was drawing breath to make. "No, I'm not going to lecture you about the potential serial killer on your list. I want to tell you how these women were killed." Scully quirked a brow. "A consultation?" "Yeah. Always consult an expert," he smiled. He sobered abruptly. "The murders were about a year apart. Each woman was an avid mystery reader. Unmarried. Mid-thirties to mid-forties. Professional woman, usually something high-powered and responsible. A Dean of Women at a university. A senior vice-president at a bank. A restaurant owner. A public relations consultant, a very successful one. All forceful, intelligent women." "So there *are* commonalties?" "Well, yeah, once you know enough to look. Also, each woman just...disappeared off the face of the earth. Since they were in highly visible professions, the search was...thorough. Then, three or four weeks after the disappearance, each was discovered. Recently murdered, under bizarre circumstances." Scully moved her feet to the floor and sat forward. "Bizarre, how?" "Let me check my notes." He fished into his pocket and read from a small notebook. "Victim number one. Lived in a small town outside of Boston. Found in a belfry, knifed in the heart. The knife was also skewering a pink rose." "I've read that scenario in a book!" "That's why I brought this up," Mulder reminded her. "Where?" "I think the title is 'The Body in the Belfry.' All the author's titles are 'the body in the'--whatever. Page. That's the author's last name. I think. When you read a lot of mysteries, they all start to blend together. You know?" Mulder nodded and scribbled in his little book. "Okay. You're batting a thousand. So far. Victim two. Outside of Phoenix, found dead of a rattlesnake bite in a sleeping bag. She *didn't* go camping. She'd never camped in her life. Read one like that?" Scully sat forward, propped her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands. "I did. I know I did. The first book in a series about a woman and her son. This is at the beginning of the book when she becomes widowed. That's her husband's death you've described. Someone concealed a rattler in his sleeping bag. Knight. I think the author's last name is Knight. Can't remember the title, but I'm sure you can get a list of her books and figure out which one it was." Mulder moved closer to her and squeezed her shoulder. "You're doing great! Okay, for the prize behind door number two, identify this scenario." He squinted at his notes. "Now this is where we get really weird. I'm surprised we weren't called in on this one. Sounds like an X-File." "Move it along, Mulder. Forget the buildup." Her smile took the sting from her words. "Right. The victim, who lived in Detroit and had no connection with horses or the collection of medieval instruments of torture, was found in a scold's bridle. This was to--" "Keep scolding women quiet!" Scully finished. "It's the title of a book. 'The Scold's Bridle' by Minette Walters." "Jesus, you're good. And these mysteries you read sound pretty kinky. Maybe I should look into them." Scully sat back and hugged her knees. "Maybe you should. You might learn something." He turned a burning gaze on her. "You coming on to me?" Her brow arched, they exchanged smiles, and Mulder reluctantly tore his gaze away to return to his notebook, his voice huskier. "For the grand prize, an all-expenses-paid trip to the Balkans, give me the book for victim number four. She was in Atlanta, found in a motel room that she had certainly not been in for the previous three and a half weeks. She was found hanging from the light fixture, nude, with porn pics at her feet. Apparently a victim," he paused, "of auto-erotic asphyxiation." Remembering Clyde Bruckman's prediction, Scully glanced at Mulder, who remained expressionless. Mr. Triple-X, she thought. Someday I will make you blush, she vowed, the envious wish of a redhead who blushed too easily. But, back to business. "I suppose forensics showed she was already dead before she was hung up, probably killed at another scene, right?" He nodded. "One of my favorite books," Scully said. "'Unsuitable Job for a Woman' by P.D. James. The detective, an inexperienced young woman, is hired to investigate a young man who died in that circumstance. It's a terrific book." Mulder was silent, lips pursed. "In the books that, uh, served as this guy's inspiration, the victims weren't necessarily women, right?" She nodded. "The hanging guy, yeah, obviously not a woman. And the man bit by a rattlesnake. I don't recall who wound up in the scold's bridle. It was a woman who was found in the belfry though." "Were all the books written by women?" "Yes. So what do you think that means?" He shrugged. "I don't really know. I'm just glad I mentioned this to you. Now I can go back to Joe and tell him his perp models his murders on mystery novels." He touched her shoulder. "I'll give you full credit." "It doesn't matter. The important thing is catching the guy. That's creepy, having someone going around emulating fictional murders. I *hate* predators." Mulder got up to leave. He gathered his tie, jacket, and briefcase, then absorbed himself in piling up boxes and stuffing dirty napkins inside. "Maybe you should un-subscribe from your list," he said tentatively, not looking at Scully. "You're a professional woman in the proper age bracket on a mystery list." "Wouldn't hurt, I suppose," she said, getting up to see him to the door. "But I hate to have one of my harmless pleasures destroyed by some wacko, you know?" "Uh-huh. I use the Internet to discuss the fields I'm interested in, too. So, I know how you feel." He bent down to her level to meet her eyes. "But think about un- subscribing, will you? Just to humor your paranoid partner." He lowered his voice, remaining so close that she could feel his breath warm her lips. "Please?" She patted his shoulder and smiled. "I'll think about it. Let me know if I can do anything else to help with that case." "Yeah." His fingers brushed her hair and he was gone. Scully leaned against the closed door, thinking. He really *was* concerned. He'd actually said 'please.' With his breath warming her lips, a substantial aid to persuasion. And he knew it, of course. All those considerations aside, though, why *not* be sensible and cautious about this? The way those women died was no joke. Torture had most likely preceded their deaths, given the time lapse between their disappearance and the discovery of the corpses. Why hadn't she thought to ask Mulder about signs of rape and physical abuse? Because these were sensitive subjects to her, she answered herself, given her own "lost time," which had resulted in missing ova and, at the very least, medical rape. Ever since her mysterious return, she had a tendency to bury her head in the sand where abuse of women was concerned. It always hit her hard emotionally. Always had, always would. And also, right now, when she longed for a good night's sleep, she just didn't want to know the sordid details. This was not their case. Maybe it should be an X-File; certainly kidnapping and murdering women *should* qualify as unexplainable behavior. Monsters were often human beings, she'd found. They could be worse than flukemen and other mutants. But it'd been a long day and she was beat. Why invite nightmares or risk insomnia pondering the victims' ordeals? She could ask him for details later. She went to her computer and un-subscribed from the Agatha list. Then she wrote a message to Beth: Hey, Beth--On my way to bed. Just wanted to tell you. I've heard of some murders of women who subscribe to mystery lists, visit the chat rooms, newsgroups, etc. So, I'm off Agatha for a while. You might want to consider taking a break as well, just to be safe. More tomorrow. D. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Injuries to the Spirit (2 of 13) by MystPhile@aol.com DAY ONE Tied up, nude. How could this be? Scully studied her chest, expecting to see her galloping heart pound at her flesh, trying to break out. She tested the ropes and found them taut. Any pressure brought only pain. She bit her lip, trying to control her panic. A prisoner. Not again. Had she not served her time-- and more? She closed her eyes, wrestling with a kaleidoscope of emotions--panic, despair, terror, bewilderment. Even though she knew it was foolish, she kept hoping to wake up and get dressed for work. She might even mention this ridiculous dream to Mulder. Maybe he could tell her what it meant. He'd probably warn her about ordering anchovies on her pizza. A noise. Her fantasies dropped away with a dull thud, the sound of sinking hopes. Fighting against the conflicting poles of blind panic and drugged passivity, she forced herself to concentrate. God, it was such an effort. She focused on the door knob, which was turning. Slowly. She bit harder at her lip, trying to control the waves of fear that were threatening to pull her under. She caught a flash of outdoor light, a quick glimpse of trees; then a man entered the room. Tall, late thirties maybe, a bit bulky. Muscular arms emphasized by a tee-shirt that fit like a tattoo. Sparse blonde hair. He reminded her of the villain in the James Bond movie, "From Russia with Love." Short hair, bulky body, hard, cold eyes. Glacial blue. Cruel smile. One who would inflict injury for the pleasure of it. Her mind, apparently drugged, conjured images. She could see him in his youth, torturing frogs. Curious, he would cut off one leg to see if the hop would be lopsided. Curiosity plus sadism. This did not auger well for her, she thought hazily. She was in deep shit. *Deep* shit. She felt sweat break out everywhere on her body. He continued to stare at her, gleaming eyes raking her body, pausing to study her breasts and pubic area. The cruel smile widened, revealing gleaming white teeth. Wolf-like, she thought. A predator who would tear his victim to shreds, licking up the blood afterwards. She tried to meet his cold stare with her own icy gaze. Unfortunately, she was still having trouble focusing. And she also suspected that her eyes held more terror than the cool curiosity she wished so desperately to present. Then she felt sweat trickling down the side of her neck. No, not cool. Her body was ablaze with fear, primitive and paralyzing. "Dana," he said. His voice was bright and melodious. He sounded positively delighted, maniacal in his joy. His smile broadened. "I'm Beth," he said in tones of social parody. "So glad we could finally meet." Scully closed her eyes. So she was number five. As thoughts of what she'd learned about the other victims crowded into her mind, she was almost grateful to be tied up. Otherwise, she might have toppled from the chair. Unlike the previous victims, she knew what to expect. The prospect robbed her of oxygen, her breathing becoming shallow and rapid. She wondered if she was going to pass out. A humiliating prospect, but minor when compared to what she expected--dreaded-- from this monster. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< TWO DAYS EARLIER Scully and Mulder were driving to northern Virginia. Ghosts of the Confederacy had been reported on the battlefields. The old man who'd filed the report had been most spooked by the fact that the outcomes of the battles had been changed: the North was winning. Revisionist ghosts were truly scary. "I wanted to ask you about the victims of the mystery reader serial killer," she told Mulder. She was driving. "Do we take a left here?" "Yeah, I think so. What about them? I passed on what you told me, but I'm really not following the case. Just talked a bit with some guys from the BSU." "Were they tortured? What kind of treatment did they suffer while he held them? How long before he killed them?" She frowned, not really wanting to know the answers. This wasn't her case, she would never have heard about it if Mulder hadn't run into a former colleague, and her interest wouldn't be helpful to anyone, she thought. But still, something in her wanted to *know,* to waft a bit of fellow feeling toward her battered sisters, women who sounded...like her. It was like the MUFON women; she felt an identification mixed with a repulsion. If I close my eyes, it won't happen to me. Right, she told herself. But still, as a law enforcement officer....Stop trying to justify it, she ordered herself. Shut up and listen. "From what I've been told," Mulder began, "he's escalating. The first victim had a broken wrist, a few cuts, some bruises and abrasions. The last, if I'm remembering this correctly, had...I think at least a dozen broken bones, deep gashes and stab wounds, and a lot of scabbed-over, infected burns." "Cigarette burns?" "Yeah. And there was more beating too. I think the last victim had a broken jaw, broken nose, and some missing teeth." Scully felt sick. People who used and abused women in any way always brought a visceral response. Even when the women in question were lying on her autopsy table, she was sometimes overcome with feeling for the victim. "Sexual assault?" she asked. He nodded. "More aggressive every time, with the last two pretty damaged. Not by any objects, if I'm remembering this right. You know, no penetration by stuff like baseball bats or broken bottles. But damage, yeah." "How long between the disappearance and the death?" "Well, sometimes they weren't found immediately, so the time-of- death estimates came from doctors like you. I think he tends to kill the victim around three weeks after the snatch. The times ranged from about 21 to 25 days." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY ONE Behind her closed eyelids, Scully was giving herself a heated pep talk. He's escalating, she reminded her stubborn self, who wanted nothing more than to curl up into a fetal ball. No matter how paralyzed you are, you have to come out of this alive, with as little damage as possible. Do what you have to do. Get to know him. Understand why he does what he does. Do what you've been trained to do, damn it. Profile him! But, of course, he was the one who had profiled her. Hooked her like a wide-mouthed bass. Baited the hook with a tempting fly the color of friendship, spent months letting the hook sink firmly into her lips, tightening its hold daily, reeled her in inch by inch, so subtly that she had no idea she was hooked until she felt the mesh of the net. And now he was preparing to fillet her. She shuddered as he spoke. "It was great corresponding with you, Dana," he was chortling. "It's a pleasure to exchange ideas with a really intelligent woman, like you. I *only* like intelligent women." He chuckled and stepped closer. "Aren't you flattered?" he whispered, bending down so that his face was level with hers. She forced herself to meet his eyes, reading the madness glinting in his bright gaze. Desperately, she longed to figure him out, spare herself pain, make her escape. But of course, that's what *all* of them had wanted, and they were all competent, intelligent women. And look where they had wound up. He would expect her to do exactly what she was going to do--get him talking, seek to prevent injury to herself. But she didn't see any other alternative. So, she played. "You know the answer to that," she said in a level voice. "I have no doubt you know exactly how I feel. If you're smart enough to get me here, you're smart enough to know what I'm thinking." She managed a faint smile. "And what do I call you, now that you're not Beth?" His smile broadened. His teeth gleamed like the wolf's in Little Red Riding Hood, to Scully's fevered imagination. "Death," he said. "Beth rhymes with Death." He laughed and straightened up and turned away. "Ah, Dana, we have weeks to get to know each other," he said. "This will be so much fun. You have no idea." He swiveled. "Oh, I forgot for a moment. You *do* have some idea, don't you." He chuckled again. She sensed that this was a sound that would soon affect her like a root canal from hell. "It'll lend a certain piquancy to the situation, don't you think?" he smiled. She imagined fangs, drool. "You're the first who *knows* what to expect. It'll be interesting to see how that affects your behavior." Christ, she thought. He *does* study his victims like a kid torturing a frog. And he knows I'm going to be forced to study him. He wants the attention. Remember that, she told herself. It's important. She cleared her throat and began her task. "Do you take notes? Videos?" she asked. "How exactly do you study your victim's response?" He glided back to lift her chin, moving very lightly for a large man. It was as if he wore castors. He squeezed. Hard enough for her to realize that she was acquiring her first bruise. "I study pain. And its effect." He dropped her chin and opened a suitcase. "You'll see," he promised. She cleared her head, tamped down the encroaching terror, prepared to pay attention to every nuance, every movement, every gesture, every word, every tone, every----everything and anything that could help her figure out how to outsmart this maniac. It was clear that he prided himself on his intelligence. It was also possible that he was some sort of super intellect who was indeed much more brilliant than she. And he was experienced. Any errors he'd made with his earlier victims, he would have learned from. Well, me too, she thought. I'm not a novice at being a captive either. I'm a trained agent, and unfortunately, I've got experience at being on this end. She would have to walk a very fine line, she decided: to respect his intelligence, never underestimate him, realize that many of her ploys would be predictable to him. On the other hand, she couldn't fall into the trap of thinking that he knew it all and she had no hope of escaping. She must not let herself fall into a victim's mindframe, of fearing her captor to the point that she *respected* him, was cowed by him, thought it hopeless to fight him. Yes, it was a fine line. Scully prepared to take up tightrope walking. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TWO When Scully didn't show up at the office by ten o'clock the next morning, Mulder's neck hairs stood on end. The previous day, Scully told him that Beth had unexpectedly flown into DC to help a company in Arlington with its webpage design. Scully had gone to meet her for lunch at her motel in Arlington. She'd said she was excited to meet her friend at last and hoped Beth would have some free time for sightseeing. When Scully didn't return to the office after lunch, Mulder assumed that she'd spent the afternoon with Beth and hadn't bothered to call. With the hours they worked, they had no need to punch a timeclock. Frowning, Mulder yanked the phone toward him. No answer at her apartment, no response from the cell. He broke a few traffic laws getting to Scully's apartment. Finding no sign of her there, he checked the answering machine. There were two messages from the night before that had gone unheard. He knew that Scully's routine, no matter what time she came home, included punching the answering machine as she walked by. Therefore, he concluded, she hadn't come home last night. He took a deep breath. Okay. Before panicking and bringing down the wrath of Scully, who could have simply gone out for a few drinks with her friend and decided to stay for a longer visit, he searched his memory for the name of the motel. Got it. The Cross Keys. Okay. Now, what was Beth's last name? Shit. No, that wasn't it, he thought with a grim smile. Famous woman. Famous witty woman. Dorothy Parker. Okay. Beth Parker. He moved to the phone. Yes, they had a B. Parker registered. Yes, they would ring the room. A dozen rings later, Mulder called the front desk again and launched into his special agent routine. After a wait that had Mulder wearing tracks in Scully's carpet, the manager returned to the line. No sign of anyone in the room, sir. The key was sitting on the bureau. Mulder considered. Scully would kill him for interfering if she was safe and enjoying some activity with her cyberfriend. She might make his life miserable for the next month if his instinct was wrong. He no longer trusted his instincts when her well-being was concerned, for she'd accused him so often of being over- protective. But, over-protective or not, he was going with his instincts on this one. Rapidly, he ordered the manager to seal the room and let no one enter. Feeling that wasn't sufficiently forceful, he told him the room was now a Federal crime scene and therefore anyone who crossed the threshold would be subject to arrest and criminal prosecution. The manager properly cowed, Mulder got on the line to Forensics and ordered a team to check the room for trace evidence. He then called Joe in the Behavior Science Unit to inform him that his partner might--possibly--be the fifth victim of the Mystery Lover serial killer. After that, the wheels turned swiftly. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY TWO The corkboards were full. Indeed, photographs overlapped as Death continued to hang his handiwork using colorful little tacks. He had gotten remarkably close to Scully; she saw herself entering the Bureau, leaving it, entering and leaving her apartment, looking out the window of her apartment, watering plants on the window sill, entering and leaving both Mulder's apartment and her mother's house, having dinner with Janet and Tom, shopping in about a dozen different stores and shops, sitting in the library reading a magazine. Christ, she thought. What kind of agent are you? This guy was practically perched on your shoulder for God knows how long--and you didn't notice? Was he using a flash for all these? Asking you to smile? She shuddered. How creepy. Just goddamned creepy to think that this slimeball had oozed around her, day after day, invading her life, stealing her image without her permission, the way he had finally taken her body and stripped it and tied it down. He'd captured her image everywhere: sitting in a parked car with Mulder, walking down the street eating a doughnut, standing by the fountain on a sunny day, sitting in the park watching children play, accompanying her godson to a sci-fi movie, strolling by the Reflecting Pool with Mulder, entering a concert hall, jogging at twilight, swimming at the Y. In short, he had seen her everywhere but in her bathroom. She wondered if he'd give her privacy to go to the bathroom here. She was becoming desperate to go, unable to remember the last time. She wondered if he'd feed her. Had the other women lost weight? She squirmed a bit in her chair, pressing her legs together, reluctant to ask anything of him. It was obvious that he really got off on control. Knowing things that others didn't. Watching women who were oblivious to his presence. Forcing from her mind the image of her teeth afloat from the need to urinate, she studied the other corkboards. Four victims. All very handsome, competent-looking women. They too had been on his private Candid Camera. Captured (exactly the right word, she thought) everywhere, like her, enjoying their lives and going about their business, never dreaming that they were prey to a vulture floating overhead, just biding his time until the proper moment arrived for the fatal swoop. Then, up in the air with him, lifted from the face of the earth. Never to be seen alive again. She, now, had been lifted from the face of the earth. Where was she? She had no idea how many hours she'd been unconscious, how he had transported her, how long the journey had been. She listened carefully. The room, with no visible windows and only one door, didn't let in a whole lot of sound. She assumed it was in some isolated place anyway, since he tortured his victims. She thought she might, just might, hear some birdsong outdoors. It was hard to concentrate. Terror, she found, could be a huge distraction. Mulder, she thought. Are you out there? Do you know I'm gone? Have you put the pieces together? Does the team working on this have a fucking *clue*? Do you hear me, Mulder? She noticed the harshness of the overhead light and wondered if being deprived of daylight would be a major problem. One reason for her captor to block windows would be to deprive her of one of life's "normal" measures: Time. He would control the tempo of her life, depriving her of daylight, routine, anything that offered security and order. He wanted her adrift, helpless. He would be her only compass. He, all-knowing, all-powerful; she, nothing. She must maintain a sense of herself. She must have a loose plan but be ready to take advantage of any crack in his very tough armor. She must stay alert, whatever he chose to do to her, she lectured herself. But she was already worried--worried sick-- about her capacity to bear this ordeal, her ability to escape. Her rational side might be standing at a podium handing down advice for survival, but her traitorous heart was pounding, her mouth was dry with terror, and her senses were crying out so desperately for freedom that she feared they might get all worn out and refuse to function. How hard could one try to hear, before the ears gave out? How long could one study the captor, searching urgently for weakness, before the eyes grew too tired to function? Here it was, the first day--she guessed--and she was hanging on to her brain power by a hair. What would she be like in---she knew the timeframe, unfortunately--three weeks? Dread clutched her heart--and squeezed. He turned and bared his teeth in what he seemed to consider a dazzling smile. His manic glow bathed her naked body. She found that she didn't especially care if she was naked. That was one area where his plan was not effective, for her. Maybe it was her medical training; maybe it was because her profession required her to examine naked bodies and their interiors as a matter of routine. Maybe it was because she had no wish to be attractive to this man, dreaded any sexual connection. Much self-consciousness about the naked body arises from fears of its inadequacy--heavy thighs, drooping breasts, sagging ass, swollen abdomen. With a lover, she might throw back her shoulders and suck in her gut to appear more sexually alluring. Since she hoped to turn off this unspeakable piece of slime, she was without shame in her nakedness. His smile grew warmer, if possible. It gave off the heat of a furnace. Or hell. "My gallery, Dana," he said. "Aren't they beautiful? Aren't *you* beautiful?" The chuckle rang out again and Scully managed to keep herself from wincing. "I'm very proud of my collection." "How do you do it?" she asked, hoping that his reply to an open-ended question would reveal something significant, something she could use to understand him and defeat him. His smile did not falter. "How?" His voice echoed in the room despite all the corkboard. "I'm a fuckin' genius!" His chuckle grew into ripples of laughter. "I have no doubt of your intelligence," Scully told him. She was sincere, mentally kicking herself for knowing there was an Internet Mystery Reader maniac and still dashing out to Arlington to meet a stranger. "You want smart women, right? What would be the fun, otherwise?" His smile, which she began to think was painted on his face, remained. "They're all smart, Dana. Or, like you, they think so. But look where they are now." He glided toward her and pulled the rope that bound her right wrist, causing her to gasp as it cut into her flesh. "And look at you. You can't move. Without me, you have no food, no water, no light, no nothing." The grating chuckle again. "You're mine. I'll take care of you." He shrugged. "Or not." "Why?" she asked softly. "Why do this to people who've never hurt you, people you've never even met?" He paused. He actually did not look maniacal, for the moment. "It's my greatest joy in life. It's why I was put on this earth. For a while, I thought I could be content to...merely manipulate, to pull strings, hold power that people didn't even realize I had. Knowing that I controlled them. It had its rewards. But it wasn't enough." He sighed, looked melancholy. "Without this, life means nothing to me." He drew closer. "I'll watch you, Dana. Day by day. You'll get rattier and more scared. You'll be desperate. You'll try to draw me out, the way you are now. You'll think you can analyze me." He turned away, then swiveled his head and spat at her. He glared at her as if she were an annoying insect. "And you'll be wrong. Every time." He headed for the door. "You think you can get out of this. Where there's life, there's hope. Isn't that the expression?" He chuckled as he grabbed the knob. "There's no hope, Dana. Get used to it." His radiant smile broke out. "But you're welcome to try. I always enjoy that part." He exited quickly, letting Scully glimpse greenery for only a second. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Injuries to the Spirit (3 of 13) by MystPhile@aol.com DAY TWO Forensics worked quickly when one of their own was involved. Mulder, showing some foresight, had grabbed Scully's hairbrush before leaving her apartment. A hair found in the Cross Keys Motel room rented by B. Parker matched Scully's. A trace of her blood was found, near the door. The experts hypothesized that she had been knocked to the floor when she entered the room. Mulder had a niggling thought in the back of his mind. He tried to subdue his panic, relax enough to let it through. Yes. Here it came. Scully was to have lunch with Beth. She had said she was meeting her in the restaurant of the motel at 1 p.m. The obvious assumption was that the serial killer was a man. Statistics suggested this was virtually always the case. The crimes had also required a certain degree of strength. So, Mulder concluded, if "Beth" was a man--and how the hell can you tell on the Internet, he asked himself, resolving to lay off his own chat groups--it was unlikely that he'd dressed like a woman, managed to fool Scully, and eaten lunch with her. So, how did Scully get from meeting a woman in a public restaurant to going to the motel room instead? An investigation at the restaurant was in order. He turned to the BSU team leader, Joe, and explained his reasoning. "Fine. What else? You know her. What should we be looking for?" Mulder tried to force his frantic mind to slow down. "Her computers, both at work and home," he told Joe. "All the correspondence with Beth, all the postings to the mystery group, Agatha. Check into the group and see if we can identify this so- called Beth." Joe nodded. "We'll also draw up all the on-line correspondence of the other victims. It's unlikely we'll find an identity through the accounts, Mulder. If this guy's good at computers, he'll have fake ID's and credit card accounts. But we may spot some patterns if we compare all the correspondence." "Then there's the matter of how he got her out of here. And into what vehicle." "Right. We're on it. We're calling in more personnel and going full bore on this one. Trust me, Mulder. We want him bad. And fast." Mulder turned away, staring out the window to compose himself. He knew that despite all the rah rah nonsense going on here, the swarming teams of eager interrogators, Scully had been missing for twenty-three hours. She could be in Arkansas by now. He also knew that kind of thinking would get him nowhere. How many times can a man lose his partner and still believe she'll return safely, he wondered. He straightened his shoulders and headed downstairs. DAY TWO Left alone in the room, Scully strained to hear sounds from the outside world. Birds chirped nearby. Was that a highway noise in the distance? Did the bastard have the nerve to keep her *that* close to civilization? She thought he would enjoy the irony of placing her near a major highway. Hell, if he could, he'd probably keep her on the Mall in the center of DC. Bathroom, her entire being shouted. She really needed to go. She'd learned to hold it in on stakeouts, but this level of bladder strain was in a whole new league. When was the last time she wet herself? When she was two or three? More of his games, she thought. Make her dependent on him for everything. Bastard. Think of something else, she told herself. Okay. She visualized her mother's sad face. How could she hold up under this, the disappearance--yet again--of her daughter? I'm driving her to her grave, Scully thought. How many times can she stand to hear that I'm gone? And this time, she'll know the kinds of things that are happening to me. No, no, no, she told herself. Do *not* spend your time pitying your mother. That's a luxury you can't afford. Concentrate on getting out of here, not feeling sorry for the people who're worried about you. Do something! Ordering herself to act like a professional, she surveyed the room, studying every object, memorizing the layout and the contents. She tested her bonds once more, tried to see if hopping in her chair could make it move at all. The balance was so precarious that movement threatened to make it topple backwards, adding a concussion to her other worries. She saw knives in the kitchen segment of the room. Maybe if he left her alone long enough, she could slowly wobble her chair that far and sever her bonds. Besides, he'd have to untie her sometimes. Wouldn't he? Scully estimated she had been in his presence about a day. Since he tortured his victims, she knew she couldn't wait: She had to get out of here as soon as possible. Outsmart the bastard. She might be naked and bound to a chair, but her mind was free. Any drugs he had given her had worn off; she had psychological training. Medical training. Unarmed combat training. Experience at dealing with the criminal mind. Use your assets, she urged herself. Screw this prick. Knock him to the floor and stuff his balls down his throat. Although that prospect didn't seem likely in her immediate future, the words gave her hope. Don't get ladylike, she told herself. Cut off his dick with a carving knife, if necessary. Just do it. Don't let him make you feel helpless. She jiggled the chair, ever so gently, toward the kitchen area. Throwing her weight as far forward as she could, so her feet rested firmly on the floor, she tried to use her toes to get a purchase on the cheap carpeting while at the same time she bounced her body weight in the same direction. After five minutes of hard labor, she saw that she'd gained maybe two inches. Sweat poured down her face, and she found herself winded. Taking a deep breath, she renewed her efforts, huffing, puffing, sweating, groaning as unused muscles were forced to make unfamiliar moves. Checking her progress, she saw she'd moved a couple more inches. Great. If the bastard stayed away for a day or so, she might make it. She pushed, trying for faster progress. Mistake. She and her chair crashed to the floor. She assessed the damage. A thump of the side of the head, probable bruises all along her left side, nothing too serious. But she felt like a turtle lying on a highway, trying to right itself before a car came along and crushed it. And here she'd thought it impossible to feel more vulnerable! If he found her like this, what would he do? It seemed like hours of heaving, straining, and sweating, this attempt to do the impossible, righting a chair while tied to it. Her bonds chafed, one wrist bled, and her bladder was on the verge of overflow. She squeezed her legs together, to no avail. A trickle began, then a gush, and soon she and the carpet were soaked. She groaned, humiliated at her lack of control. And scared. For some reason, she felt like a toddler with chocolate smeared all over her, guilt writ large for the grownups to see. God, she hated him for making her feel like this. Pissed, that's what she was. In every sense of the word. Jesus, she thought grimly, I think I'm channeling Mulder. In her position, she could do worse. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TWO The motel's registration card showed that B. Parker had checked in at 2 a.m. on the day of the kidnapping. An absent- minded elderly man had been on duty, dozing off when not absorbed in an adult movie channel. He had ambled out to the desk in response to the bell, thrust the registration card at the customer, and taken care of the credit card transaction while at the same time trying not to miss the hottest part of his movie. The credit card was in the name of Ben Parker, whose account did not exist, according to Visa. Still, the elderly clerk had seen Ben Parker register. Yes? Not exactly, Mulder learned, stifling his urge to throttle the old man. "Well, yeah, it was a man," he allowed. "How old?" The old man shrugged. "Can't really remember. Didn't pay much attention. Hardly looked at him. I looked at his credit card. I made sure he filled out the whole reservation card. That's about it." Mulder sighed and said through gritted teeth, "How tall was he? Did his waist hit the top of the counter? His chest? Think, will you?" The old man gave a passable imitation. "Around waist high, I'd say." Mulder noted that the counter reached him just below the waist. "Okay, he was at least six feet tall. Hair? Facial hair?" The clerk shook his head. "I think he had a cap, you know, some kind of baseball cap. It was kind of pulled down, I think. Didn't really notice his face." "Was he heavy? Skinny?" The clerk shrugged. "Well, I suppose I'd have noticed if he was downright obese..." Mulder doubted it, but he nodded and urged him to continue. "So I suppose he was...normal weight." "Can you remember *anything* else? Anything at all? His eyes? His clothes? His voice?" There was a pause. "His voice. It sounded...happy. It's strange for someone to sound that happy at two in the morning." He shook his head. "That's it, son. I'd dredge it up if I could. But it's just not there." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TWO The door flew open. "Dana, I'm back," Death caroled, entering with bags of groceries. He set the bags on the counter and stood over her, noting the stained carpet and giving a fastidious sniff. "Bad girl," he said. "I go out for an hour, to buy food for *you*, and what do you do? Aren't you ashamed?" He actually shook his finger under her nose. "You're just going to have to lie there and learn your lesson." Scully lay on the fetid, damp carpet for what seemed like an hour. She was amazed that he was able to make her feel like an ill-behaved child. She spent the time trying not to feel and smell the carpet and firmly telling herself whose fault this really was. His paternal but disappointed air was so damned plausible. *He* is the maniac here; *you* are the well-trained agent who is going to outsmart him. Right. Just keep telling yourself that, she admonished. Finally, he pulled the chair roughly to its feet and loosened her bonds. "It's for your own good, Dana," he said in his exuberant voice. If she ever had the chance, she thought, she would gladly cut out his voicebox. Once he propped her on her feet, he sat in the chair, grabbed her roughly, and turned her, face down, over his knees. He spanked her, hard and thoroughly. It seemed to go on for years. The sting was painful enough to bring tears to her eyes. Although his blows were openhanded, he was strong, and she knew she would have a battered, bruised bottom. She closed her eyes, but she couldn't close her ears. "You're old enough to know better. You have to learn to behave properly." Yadda, yadda, she thought. Fucking bastard. Being spanked by a holier-than-thou psychopath had to qualify as one of the low points of her existence. At last he finished and dumped her to the floor. "Ten minutes in the bathroom," he said. "Then dinner. You're lucky I'm letting you eat, Dana. I'm not sure you deserve it." "I'm not either," she said. "I think I'll skip dinner." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TWO Mulder took a deep breath as he pressed Maggie Scully's doorbell. There were a million things he'd rather do, among them walking barefoot on a bed of nails. She opened the door, read his face, and asked, "What happened this time?" She managed to sound simultaneously unfriendly and anxious. "She's been kidnapped. By someone she corresponded with on the Internet." He sighed. "Can I come in?" She stood back, grudgingly. He noticed that she offered him no coffee. Shit, he thought. Why not shoot the messenger? He launched into his story, softening the details as much as possible. But Maggie was not a soft person. She drew out of him, bit by horrible bit, the information about the women who'd died. Soon, she knew as much as he did. Like her daughter, she was a sharp interrogator. Mulder sat slumped on the couch. "I'll call you as soon as I hear something." She nodded, not really paying any more attention to him. She seemed to be lost within herself. Mulder wondered if she was praying, planning the construction of a voodoo doll, or in a state of delayed shock. "Are you okay?" She looked up. "She really should find a safer line of work." "Work had nothing to do with this. It was someone on her mystery list." He headed for the door, wondering why he still felt inexplicably guilty. He wasn't responsible this time. So why did he feel like such a piece of shit? Simple, he answered himself. Because your right arm is missing. And you don't know what's being done to it. Amputees always feel the pain of loss. And the phantom pain--imagining you feel the limb, even though it's gone. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY FOUR It turned out that Death loved to cook. He had been sincere in his extensive e-mail ravings about the Italian cooking of the forensic pathologist Kay Scarpetta. He filled the room with delicious smells--sauces, sauts, the rich scents of portobello, sausage, veal. He loved fresh pasta, linguini being his favorite. He chattered constantly as he cooked, lecturing, teaching, constantly holding forth. He hated Kay, of course, filthy bitch, always bossing everyone around. But he loved to read about her cooking. It was, in his eyes, her one redeeming characteristic. He *would* think that, Scully told herself. He needed to keep women in their "place." It was no accident, she knew, that he chose strong professional women as his victims. And then tried to break them down into helpless children. Scully tried to resist the tempting dishes that he set in front of her. The reason was simple: The more she ate, the more often she would need to visit the bathroom. And to earn this privilege, she had to beg, an act that brought her captor orgasmic pleasure. Scully, noticing the enlarged bulge in his jeans at such moments, tried to limit her food and liquid intake, accepting only enough to prevent dehydration and weakness. Damned pervert, she thought. On the other hand, the bathroom was where she went to count her days in captivity. Shaking off feelings of being caught in a modern version of "The Count of Monte Christo," she devised a method: On every visit to the bathroom, she tore off the tiniest fragment of toilet tissue and wet it. Fragment clenched between her teeth, she clambered to the edge of the tub and stuck the tiny piece to the top of the shower rod, down at the far end where the plastic rings were unlikely to be pulled over the top of the rod. She figured two little fragments of toilet paper equaled one day. It wasn't very scientific, but it was the best "system" she could come up with. Also, the bathroom visits were the only way to get out of that damned chair. Her ass--despite being sore and covered with welts from the spanking-- was getting so numb that sometimes she doubted its existence. Death had arranged it so the *only* way for her to get out of the chair was to go to the bathroom. Bastard, she thought, visualizing her tiny hands wringing the life out of his oversized neck. She noticed that her fantasies were turning dark and violent, crowded with vivid death (or Death) scenes. She must have invented a hundred ways of killing him by now. She hoped that one would come true. Just one. That's all she needed. But it would be....not impossible. Very, very difficult. She wondered what Mulder would do in this situation, what means he would use to try to free himself. There was only one thing she knew: that he was on the job every waking minute, and that he was awake most of the time. She had faith in him. She *did*, she insisted to herself. She trusted him not to give up, knowing that his will would not fail. But minute by minute, hour by hour, she observed the intellectual quality of the adversary. It was...formidable. She believed he murdered one woman a year not just because it gave him a satisfyingly long period of anticipation, but also because he gleefully planned every move, every detail, to make himself impossible to track. But she could not afford to lose faith in Mulder, nor in herself. Yet, despite all her resolution and her stern lectures to herself, Scully was dismayed to see herself fall into a hostage-like docility in so short a time. She was depriving herself of food and drink. She was pleading with a madman to go to the bathroom when she could hold out no longer. Once granted permission, she slavishly followed his silly rules. However, they were not truly silly: They were meant to make her obedient in small matters so that she would be obedient in large ones as well. She was being "trained." She was living on his terms, and she hated herself for it. At the same time, she realized that self-hatred would lead to her downfall faster than anything else she could do. She was in the unhappy position of hating herself for hating herself. And that pissed her off, which she realized *was* a good thing. The bathroom routine, after the requisite entreaties, was this: First, Death would approach her chair and look into her eyes. "Dana," he would say, "you are being allowed a tremendous privilege. You realize that, don't you?" Unless she said, "I realize that," she could sit there in a pile of shit for all he cared. So, she learned to say, "I realize that." Next, he would say, "So, Dana, aren't you going to thank me for being so kind to you?" Her only acceptable response was, "Thank you, Death." "How do you plan to thank me, Dana?" Again, her only response was pre-determined. She felt like a Pavlovian dog. "How do you *want* me to thank you, Death?" Then, some variety occurred. He might say, "Kiss my hand." Or he might say, "Eat some of the eggplant I'm going to cook." Or he might say, "Drink this tea." This was innocuous but troubling. She realized that whatever he said, she was going to have to do it. Suppose his response, as she suspected it would be, ultimately, was, "Suck my dick." Was she going to do that? She didn't know how far she would go, how the power game would play out. She just knew who was winning. After the necessary ritual, which involved her agreeing to do what Death asked, he would ceremoniously loosen her bonds. First, the right foot. Then the left. Next, the left hand. Finally, the right hand. Her chances of doing him damage at these times were slim to none, for not only was he nearly twice her weight with the build of a power lifter, but she, having sat bound up for as long as twelve hours, had no circulation--or even feeling--left in her limbs. It took precious minutes of her freedom even to get herself on to her feet. Her hobble across the room was very slow and painful. And, after all that, she was allowed only ten minutes in the bathroom. Death used a timer. She could shower, use the toilet, do jumping jacks. But whatever she chose to do, she had only ten minutes to do it in. She'd considered asking him for more time out of her chair. But she was afraid of the price he would extract. He was training her; now she knew that she gained nothing without payment. He had carefully set no terms--yet--that she found unacceptable. But she knew that the payments would become increasingly expensive. Eventually, she would have to refuse to pay. Then the punishment would begin. He knew she realized this. Her dread of the pain and torment to come was already a form of punishment. She knew about the other victims, knew what she was in for. This phase was simply the mental war. The physical phase could start at any moment. Whatever moment *he* chose. She was the underdog here, daily deprived of control of the simplest things, like her own bodily functions. The ability to walk. Or shift positions. Or eat. Or speak freely. And so little time had passed. It could only grow worse. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Injuries to the Spirit (4 of 13) by MystPhile@aol.com DAY FOUR At the Bureau, in the four days since Scully had been taken, frenetic activity had brought few results. Mulder was gaunt and unshaven with the temperament of a bear. His eyes burned as he slumped in Skinner's office, and his voice cracked with exhaustion. Skinner tapped the papers on his desk. "Just summarize." "We know how she was taken from the Cross Keys. When she got to the restaurant, an envelope was waiting for her. The hostess handed it to her, she read it, said thanks, and left." "And?" "One of the guys found out that earlier that morning the envelope had been left at the main desk. By a tall guy with long hair, a big, bushy beard, wearing shades." Mulder flashed a grim smile. "He wasn't quite wearing a sign that said, 'I am disguised.' Anyway, he said the envelope was for a customer who'd be at the restaurant at lunch time, pointed out the name, and left." "So nobody knows what it said." "Probably something like, 'I'm running late. Come to my room and talk to me while I change.' That's our best guess, anyway. And that's really all we know. The hostess at the restaurant is the last person to see her. No one saw her go to the room; no one saw her leave it." "Forensic evidence places her in the room," Skinner pointed out. Mulder nodded. "The room was at the back of the motel. In the middle of the day, it's rare for any customers to be around, and cars can park four feet from each room's door. A big guy could easily move Scully that far in a couple seconds." "Nothing from the plates, either, I see." Skinner frowned. "Shit." "Yeah, shit. The killer knows that motel workers don't bother to check on vehicles and license plate numbers listed on the registration cards. Nobody noticed the gray Maxima he said he drove. It could have been anything--a van's more likely. Even his fucking name was blurred. It could have been Ben Parker, Beth Parker, or Bert Parker. The address, in Michigan, was non- existent. This Parker person is non-existent, except as a name on a motel register, an Internet account, and a credit card. And, of course, there were no fingerprints on the registration card. He probably left the card in the clipboard and filled it out with his own pen." "Smart guy." Mulder frowned. "Smarter than our crack investigators, it turns out. You know, Scully knew--shit, *I* knew--about this maniac before she got taken." Skinner narrowed his eyes. "So what happened?" "All the BSU guys noticed is that the victims were chosen from mystery lists. They didn't retrieve their full e-mail accounts until after Scully was taken. And only *then* did they discover that the killer corresponded at length--we're talking many, many months--with each victim before taking her. Long enough to make friends, win her trust. Christ, the guy's a fucking charmer. From what I've seen, he's totally convincing as a female mystery lover." Mulder shot out of his chair. "Assholes. I asked Scully about Beth, but when she said they'd been writing to each other for about a year, I dropped it. I had no idea how patient, slow and patient, the guy is." He moved to the door. "I *should* have known. I should have asked them more questions. Instead, I was content when Scully got off the list. I thought that'd make her safe. I was wrong." "None of this is your fault, Mulder." Skinner started to rise from his chair. Mulder ignored him. "Fault--who gives a fuck. We need to get her back." He slammed out the door. As Mulder stormed down the hallway, his cell phone rang. "Mulder." "We've found her car." It was Joe. "It's behind the Metro station parking lot. On a pretty obscure street, but we should have spotted it before now. Maybe it was just placed here. We're looking for witnesses." "The station nearest the Cross Keysl?" "Yep." "On my way." He didn't think the car would yield up any information. He knew it was a job for the techs. To see if they could find a trace. A fiber, a hair, a--eureka--fingerprint. But it was the last tangible...piece...he had of Scully. He was compelled to go to the car, useless as he knew it would be. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY FIVE "This is one of my favorites," Death laughed. "The one you wrote warning me to un-subscribe from the Agatha to keep safe. You're one terrific friend, Dana." "It *is* ironic, isn't it?" she said, thinking what an asshole the guy was. "Guess you got a good laugh from that one." "Not just a laugh," he told her with a wide grin. "I said to myself, 'At last! Those fuckers have finally noticed I'm out here.' I thought I might have to put an ad in the New York Times to get their recognition." "You wanted everyone to notice you. I see. Is that why you decided to take a Fed this time? Higher profile?" "Nah, not entirely." He considered. "Well, that *was* part of the attraction. Yeah. But being in pathology was also a big selling point for you, Dana." He flashed his smile again. "Why?" she asked, not really expecting an answer. "Because you'd been reading about Scarpetta?" "You have...something I want. You can do something I'd like...never mind," he broke off. "You'll find out. Nothing like a little suspense to give a girl an interest in life. Right, Dana?" He shuffled through some more of their correspondence. "I was always amused by your, uh, contempt for Marino's language," he said, referring to a policeman friend of Kay Scarpetta, the pathologist. "Here's one where you even list the terms he uses that drive you crazy. That he calls people 'drones' and 'squirrels.' That he calls a car a 'ride.' That he calls someone's house their 'crib.' You really weren't too fond of that slob, were you. Too messy? Don't like messy stuff, Dana?" He laughed. "Strange. And a pity." Reading their old e-mails to Scully, Death was having one hell of a good time. What wit, he obviously thought, thrilled with himself and his charm. Scully's assessment was a bit different: What a dumbass name, she thought wearily. Death, where is thy sting? Right here. And it goes on and on and on. Who would have ever thought Death would be so boring. She considered other instances of personified Death: Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me. Kindness, she knew, wasn't in this monster's vocabulary. But it was true that he and she were the only passengers in this particular carriage. Death, be not proud, she remembered. Someone should have told this blowhard that one. She marveled that after a week (in her estimation) with a serial killer, she found him so boring. True, he was terrifying as well. But boredom and terror made strange bedfellows. Speaking of bed, wasn't he ever going to go to sleep, she wondered. Maybe he was trying to lull her into complacency, then spring something brutal and destructive. She thought he would be displeased if she dozed off amidst his chortles. Sleep. Keeping his victim tied to a chair while he slept in a bed was probably intended to be another weapon in Death's arsenal. But Scully, because of her med student years followed by instances of long stakeouts and twenty-hour days, was able to sleep anywhere. This included sitting up, tied to a chair. In the presence of a psychopath. Like the lack of clothes, the sleeping conditions had relatively little meaning for Scully. But those were her only advantages. Other than that, he was succeeding in pulling her down, making her feel weak and helpless. She felt weaker every time she got up to go to the bathroom. Her decision to eat and drink little, combined with her sedentary position, was eroding her strength. She needed to change her tactics before it was too late. Abruptly, she pulled herself erect. Again, she'd nearly drifted off. It wasn't merely that Death was boring. She was becoming weak and woozy. She had lost her sense of urgency. Damn it. She had fallen under his spell, turned into a quiet, obedient little girl. She was a doctor, an agent, a woman. Wake up, she told herself urgently. She forced herself to focus on what he was reading. "Remember our discussions about Kay," he was saying, again referring to the forensic pathologist. "That's where it all began. With your comment to the list about her tox screen." He smiled fondly. "That was our beginning, Dana." Christ, she thought. It's as if they're playing our song. This guy is so far out. Where's Mulder when I need him? Here I am, locked up with a perfect case study, just crying out for someone with his talents. Come here, Mulder. We're waiting. With this guy, she told her absent partner, I'd believe your theory. I would cling to your every word. And to you. How's that for an incentive? Not good enough, apparently. The door was not being blasted open by Kevlar- clad Feds. She turned her attention back to Laughing Boy. "The odd thing is that you're so much more taken with her than I am," Scully said. "You expect me to identify with her because of my profession, but if you'll look at the stuff you're reading, you'll see that *you* are the Scarpetta fan." He shook his head. "Nah. She's a bitch. I'd like to have her here, sitting right there where you're sitting. I'd cut out her cunt." Scully's mind sat up, brushed away some cobwebs, and paid attention. Death was usually a happy, if potentially brutal, fella. He seldom used obscenities, and he preferred to suggest violence, letting the victim's imagination fill in the blanks. He had so far terrorized by suggestion. Now his wish for violence was explicit and sexual. Why? Well, he was a psychopath who preyed on women. Powerful professional women who read mysteries. But why the emotional response to Scarpetta? Because she was an exceptional professional woman, with both law and medical degrees, powerful supervisor of a large staff, consultant to the FBI? Or something more? Somehow, her cooking seemed to figure in the equation too. Cooking. Motherly? File it away, she told herself. "So, everything you said about Kay was just to lure me in?" "Everything I said, period." He chuckled again and Scully just prevented her eyes from rolling back. She gritted her teeth instead. "So you'd join these mystery lists and post opinions you thought would attract the kind of woman you're...interested in." He nodded. "That's why I spouted all that feminist shit." "Did you try different approaches to different women? For example, did you correspond with others before choosing me as your, uh, latest?" "A couple," he said. "But they didn't work out. You know, Dana, not to be insulting. I wouldn't want to hurt your feelings, dear, but women with full lives tend not to get caught up in these on- line conversations the way some, uh, others do." "So now, on top of everything else, you're telling me I'm a loser?" Jeez, where did that come from, she wondered. She thought she might be channeling Mulder. Well, why not. Scully certainly wasn't doing too well here. "You think I don't have a full life?" Christ, she thought, this from someone whose idea of a full life consists of kidnapping and murdering women. This is like Charles Manson criticizing me for my unsympathetic nature. "I don't deny busy. But probably not satisfied." Fuck that. I'm not discussing my personal life with this nutcase, she thought. "Well, have you ever, uh, taken a woman who had a full life? Did you ever take a housewife, for example? A mother with children? Or a happily retired woman?" She knew he hadn't but was curious to hear his rationale. "No, sweetie," he said with a smile. "You're my type." "Why?" He shrugged. "The challenge. Your jobs, Fed and pathologist. The opportunity to assume a way-out persona and dish out a lot of feminist shit. Amazing how intelligent women eat that up. Guess they're not that intelligent after all. Right, Dana?" He bared his teeth in what he obviously considered a knock-'em-dead smile. "I don't know," she said. "If you put so much time and effort into building a persona for the list, it makes sense for people to trust you. The e-mail you've been reading me just now--it's friendly, intimate conversation. Isn't it...sensible to think that you are in fact what you purport to be on the list? Isn't that much more likely to be true than...that it's someone like you? How many people want to do...the kinds of things you do? Or have the time? What? Nine or ten months of correspondence, daily contact over the Net, before making your move. I don't think the women you've caught are stupid or overly trusting. I think you're an...anomaly." Although there are certainly some better terms for what you are, she thought. A dozen presented themselves. He sneered. "Well, you would, wouldn't you? Sitting there trussed like a turkey. One whose feathers are gone. A bald, trussed turkey. That isn't stupid?" She sighed. "What were you just reading about Kay?" He shuffled some papers. "Okay, dear, smart Dana. Here's how I took you in and turned you into a turkey. Notice my feminine tone." He snickered. "My confiding air." ..Does that ring true, Dana, or is it pure >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> DAY EIGHT Yesterday, the battleground had shifted. It was no longer a strictly mental war. Physical assault had begun. A slap, a vicious twist of the nipple, a painful, bruising shoulder squeeze, the quick sting of a cigarette burn on the tender skin of the inner wrist. A sudden yanking of a handful of hair. Being knocked to the floor while hobbling toward the bathroom. Escalation. What made it especially frightening and almost surreal, Scully thought, is that the monster was his usual jovial self. Slicing vegetables with elaborate instructions on how to handle knives efficiently. Spending hours boiling down sauces while lecturing on the advantages of cast iron pans. Giving equally lengthy talks on different types of peppers. How could someone ebulliently describing the various uses for obscure mushrooms interrupt his domestic chatter, wipe his hands, and stomp over to grasp your neck, squeeze until you gasped for breath, then laugh and return to his fungi? Unreal. When he wasn't cooking, he continued to relive their correspondence. The more Scully heard of his remarks as Beth, the totally believable character he had created, the more amazed she was that a monster as cruel and loathsome as he--well, why mince words? He was plain old, flat out crazy--could pass not merely as normal, but as a charming, friendly woman? Was he schizoid? Mulder, she thought. This is your area of expertise. I'm waiting. But, no pressure, ya hear? I'm even naked, she added. She knew that would get his attention. She wondered if she was losing it as her inner voice became ever more flippant. It was developing quite a taste for graveyard humor. Even now, it grinned at her thought and suggested that maybe it was willing to face what she wasn't. Where was she before the internal argument began? Oh, yes. Mulder. I know you're trying, she told him. You're breaking your ass, offending every authority within a radius of two hundred miles, and I really appreciate everything you're doing. But I've got to do more on my end. I can't just sit here waiting for you to outsmart this guy. *I've* got to get smarter--fast. God helps those that help themselves. Now if only I could get some Divine inspiration, I might be able to think my way out of this. Christ, she felt weak. Her pep talks to herself weren't doing much good. No wonder the graveyard voice was taking over. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY NINE "So, this is what we've got. Needless to say, *no one* is to find out you guys are in on this." "Hey, who ya gonna call?" Frohike said, already studying the computer records Mulder had handed him. "Even more to the point, who are we gonna tell?" Langly added, crowding into Frohike's space to get a glimpse of the materials. "So you Feds have already done a lot of the work, right? You got the information from the ISPs without having to hack in." "Yeah, but it didn't do a helluva lot of good," Mulder said with a frown. He looked like shit: pouches large enough to house a baby kangaroo sagged beneath his eyes, his hair stood in spikes, and his odor was a bit rank even to the Gunmen, by no means the most fastidious guys around. His eyes were haunted. "The bastard's some kind of computer freak," Mulder continued in a voice broken by exhaustion. "He's covered his tracks every step of the way, establishing accounts, providing bogus credit card numbers. Not just for the email accounts either. For his travel, his car rentals, his acquiring sites to, uh, house his victims. He's got to have dozens of identities. Nobody's discovered where any of the victims were kept. All we know is where the bodies turned up." He collapsed on a flea-ridden couch and buried his face in his hands. Byers dropped down beside Mulder. "How long's she been gone?" Mulder rubbed his face, then removed his hands. Red-veined eyes suggested he'd been on a bender. "Nine days. The first four victims were discovered between twenty-three and twenty-seven days after the kidnapping with time of death estimated at twenty-one to twenty-six days after the disappearance was reported. Almost half the time is gone." "What do you know about the guy? You've been reading all these e- mails. What's he like?" "Smart. He's developed a totally convincing feminine sensibility. He sounds so much like a woman---" He broke off. "Scully'd kill me for that remark." "I wish she were here to try it," Langly said. Mulder nodded. "It's not that women sound like the stereotypes we associate with them. It's...kind of in the details they notice, the tone that comes across in the writing. It's...closer, more intimate, uh, than a guy is apt to write. Friendlier, gives more away." He sighed. "Did I sound so un-PC that those words can't leave this room?" "We're not the ones to ask," Byers pointed out. "And words don't leave this room anyway." "Anyway, he's smart, convincing, patient enough to string a woman along for nearly a year before making his move. I'd say he enjoys the process. Drawing it out is a large part of how he gets his kicks. He gets off on the whole scenario." "None of that suggests who he is or how to catch him," Frohike remarked, sitting in an armchair with a thick stack of papers on his lap. "Are you even sure he's a guy? If he convinced you he's a woman, maybe he *is* a woman. Ever think of that?" "Yeah, sure. But statistics say he's male, and the victims were sexually assaulted. And this type of scum bag usually acts out of a pathological hatred for women. So I'm betting he's a guy." "And?" Frohike seemed annoyed at Mulder's lack of information. Mulder slumped into the nearly flat cushions of the couch. "The team hasn't come up with anything that'd lead us to the guy. Let's say he's between thirty and forty, white male, well-educated, highly intelligent, tall, unremarkable in that nobody has ever noticed him. Some kind of conflict with his mother but also possibly an unusual closeness for him to be able to ape the female sensibility to perfection. Sounds like the kind of sicko whose mother pretended he was a little girl when he was young. He did what mommy wanted and hated her guts. We're looking into matricides." He shook his head in frustration. "But this guy's smart. He probably didn't get caught. Since this all started five years ago, as far as we know, we need to find some precipitating incident. We're looking into crime records back then, but our parameters are so fucking wide, who knows if we'll come up with anything. And the database wasn't nearly as good six or seven years ago. We're also checking into men who fit the profile who were released from prisons or other institutions within that time frame." He pulled himself out of the depths of the couch. "There you have it." He stood up. "Anything you can come up with, anything. You have my number." Byers followed him to the door. "It goes without saying--" Mulder cut him off. "Yeah. So don't say it." <<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TEN Scully stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom. She had just counted her tiny fragments of toilet tissue on the shower rod. By her calculations, it was Day 12. Time was running out. So was she. Her appearance frightened her. It wasn't just that she looked scrawny, de-conditioned, and as pale as a candidate for embalming fluid. It was the look in her eyes, one she had seen before at hostage rescues. And one she'd seen on the photographs of her fellow victims. Agony? Despair? Abject fear? All mingled on her face, framed by a wild tangle of hair. She looked and felt less than human. She was stunned that the loathsome creep had led her to this stage so quickly and with so little force. He was a master of psychological torment. She so feared the moments when he would cruelly twist her nipple, give her an unexpected slap across the face when she was waiting for him to undo her bonds, wake her with a shallow slash across the top of her thigh. None of these things hurt much; she'd experienced more pain at the dentist's. It was the suddenness, the dread, the fact that he could hurt her--and hurt her a hell of a lot more--any time he pleased. Every time he lit a cigarette, she had to force herself not to tremble. This was because once, just once, about two days ago, he had briefly thrust a burning cigarette against her skin. It had hurt, yes. But it was the threat of harm that was taking the toll. Correction: had taken a toll. She was a wreck. She could see it in the mirror. She could feel it in her soul. So many times she had lectured herself, told herself that she was a strong, smart person who needed to stay on the alert and figure out how to defeat this nut case. But it wasn't working. She was weak from hunger, on the verge of developing open sores from the many hours in the chair, and atrophying in both mind and body. Yesterday, he'd been gone for hours. Lately, he'd been spending more and more time away. She wondered what he was cooking up. One thing she knew: He had a plan that would end only with her death and the careful covering of his tracks. Stop, she told herself. Don't assume he'll be successful. You've got to stop him. You are the agent on the scene. Mulder may figure him out. God knows the son of a bitch is sick in very distinctive ways. He should be a profiler's wet dream. But you're here. You're responsible. It's up to *you*, Special Agent Scully. She sighed. It was one thing to tell herself that she must defeat this beast, another to do it. Or do anything. Her will was sapped. She had little choice about any aspect of her existence. She was dominated, controlled. She was becoming nothing. When he finally disposed of her, as he had the prior victims, what would be the loss? *She* would no longer exist, just this hollow, shrinking vessel, her body. Tears rolled down her cheeks, blurring the unfamiliar image in the mirror. No, she thought. I'm worth saving. I just need to dig deeper, have more faith. Her thoughts turned to God, as they did more frequently as time dragged by. She had tiptoed around the greatest stumbling block in her relationship with God--the eternal question of why bad things happen to good people. From Job to Dana Scully, she could never figure out why the good, the innocent, should suffer while evil incarnate was permitted to flourish. This grievance was not confined to the current villain, but encompassed the many villains she'd encountered in the course of her career. She knew that if she lived to be a hundred, an increasingly doubtful proposition, she would never understand why a virtuous god would let children be experimented on, like poor Emily, or let good women be gunned down, like Melissa, or let women be used as lab rats, like the MUFON women and herself. Or let little girls be stolen from their homes, never to be seen again. Since that question could result in--at best--dtente, she had moved beyond it and into fresher territories. She tried to put herself into God's hands, call on Him for strength. But it was hard. She *wanted* to believe that He would not let her die in vain, that even if this were to end badly, there would be some larger meaning to her existence in the scheme of things. But, as defeated as she felt, she was just not ready to go gently into that good night. There was still some rage there; she needed to harness it, use it to bring the monster down, *put* him down like the animal he was. No more recriminations for the past; she and God were starting anew. Maybe she should look to the Old Testament God, the wrathful Jehovah who could make mincemeat of His enemies. Next to that kind of power, what was a loathsome presence like that silly asshole who persisted in calling himself Death? He was no god, much as he tried to pretend. He was barely human, just a creepy little snake, spreading his venom as best he could until the moment he would be crushed beneath a stone. She hoped to do the crushing. I can *do* this, she thought. She looked around the bathroom for potential weapons, but the creep knocked on the door to tell her her time was up. She resolved to see what weapon she could fashion from the materials in the bathroom. Maybe something from the inside of the toilet. She opened the door and gasped when she saw what had been added to the room during her visit to the bathroom, which, she belatedly realized, had been far longer than the usual allotted time. An autopsy table stood in the middle of the room, centered on an island of thick tarp which was elevated at the perimeter to form a bowl-like edge. Autopsy implements stood nearby: a Stryker saw, scalpels, pliers, forceps, scales, scrubs, gloves, glasses. A bright light hung over the table, and a tape recorder dangled from the light. Unless he planned to cut her up, Scully thought, she might get a chance to hold a scalpel in her hand. And if she did, she would try to apply it to Death's throat. She knew *exactly* where to slice. Maybe she could deliver a polished little lecture on the proper way to slice through a carotid artery as she finished him off. Her excitement at the prospect of gaining a weapon seeped away, however, when she noticed the body on the bed. It was a little boy, about five or six years old. He was breathing the slow, shallow breaths of the drugged. Her heart shriveled and sank. Transfixed by dread, she looked at the grinning monster. What *did* the madman have in mind? "One reason I was so eager to..." he paused coyly, "...entertain...you, Dana, is that I've always wanted to witness an autopsy. You know, I've had a lot of experiences. I live for the new ones, though. I've read so much about the process, but for some reason, I've never been witness to it. It's...something to tempt the jaded palate." Scully pulled the bathroom door closed behind her and crossed her arms over her chest. Without thinking, she had slipped back into her own character, abandoning the frightened, scarcely human woman in the bathroom. Her voice was ice. "What are you talking about?" The fang-like teeth flashed. "You're going to cut him up," he said, as if speaking to a very dense child. "That is a live child," Scully said. "Autopsies are not performed on the living." She stepped away from the door and spoke with the authority of her professionally-clothed and armed self. "You'll do anything I say," he snarled. "You're hardly in a position to have a say in this. You Do What I Say." He separated the words for emphasis. "You know that by now. I give orders. You obey." He threw her a confident smile. "So, time to obey. Put on the scrubs and go get the kid. Put him on the table." "No." His face flushed. "*What* did you say?" he roared. "You *dare* to disobey?" She nodded. "Yes. Nothing in the world would make me harm a child. Nothing. Kill me if you like; do whatever you want. Be my guest. But you can't make me do that." She spoke in a firm, calm voice, looking him in the eye. Dana Scully was back. He flew across the room and backhanded her across the face. As she dropped to the floor, he kicked her in the ribs. She thought she felt a crack. But she was so angry, so revolted by the brute, that she didn't care at this point. Just as she was about to reach out and pull his leg from beneath him, he stepped back. He stood a few feet away, breathing heavily, not from exertion but from rage. "I could cut your hands off. No more autopsies for you," he sneered. Scully pulled herself to a sitting position and stared into his eyes. "You can do anything you like," she said quietly. "I'm in no position to stop you. But you can't make me...perform an act...that's...simply impossible. You see, no matter what you do to me, I'm not hurting that kid. It's just not going to happen." Death stared at her, hands on hips. The silence stretched. She thought he probably *was* contemplating some grisly punishment for her, like chopping off her hand. He was vicious, and he was pissed. The good thing was, she didn't give a damn about what he planned to do. She had drawn a line. Her life would *not* be worth living if she did what he asked, so the threat to her life was simply not effective. She tucked the idea away for future thought. Maybe she was nearing the mindset that would permit her to escape. If she could get away with thwarting him *this* time...... Of course, she might be dead or dismembered within sixty seconds. There was that possibility too. So what? She thought. If he kills me...well, that's a chance I have to take. The ball's in his court. She met his glare without fear; she was curious to see what he'd do next. Now that she'd stared Death in the face, she wanted to see if he'd blink. Suddenly, as though the Pause button had been lifted, motion resumed in the room. Death stomped over to the bed, picked up the little boy, and carried him to the autopsy table, dumping his limp body. Scully scrambled to her feet to see what he was going to do. By the time her eyes were above the level of the table, he had done it: seized the scalpel and sliced the little boy's throat. Blood gushed. Scully saw red in the metaphorical sense as well. "You bastard," she hissed. She would have gladly ripped out his heart and danced in his blood. Her hatred choked her. "You fucking prick." "One more word and your blood will mingle with his," Death said. His grin returned, as though he had donned a mask. "Okay, he's dead. Not too much problem with the cause of death in this case, huh? Okay, let's see the autopsy. Come on, Dana. We don't have all day. You can use the recorder above. I need to have a record of this." The dreaded chuckle rang out. "My first autopsy. New experience." He rubbed his hands together. "Let's move it along." Injuries to the Spirit (6 of 13) by MystPhile@aol.com DAY TEN Dazed, Scully hobbled over to the body. The little boy's clothes were soaked, and he was gone. She felt dizzy, watching the blood of the innocent trail across the table. In the silence, its dripping onto the tarp sounded like light rain. Just as she'd been contemplating the strange ways of God, who would permit His innocent to suffer, here was one of the most stark and horrifying examples she could imagine. Would not a just God have hurled a lightning bolt at the evil creature who had callously taken this precious life? She had seen people express more concern about stepping on a spider. His face was a bleached white with long eyelashes resting against pale cheeks. His jeans were worn at the knees, his high tops scuffed. A beautiful little child. Alive, now dead. Within Scully, horror and rage battled the most abject sorrow. Was this a world she *wanted* to live in? Or would she, like the boy, be better off elsewhere? Perhaps it was time to call the creature's bluff. What did she have to lose? Depression curled around her like a shroud. The maniac was talking, as usual. When wasn't he? He urged her to move it along. The show must go on. Fuck you, she thought. Pulling herself together, she considered her options. Refuse to move and let him kill her and get this whole miserable business over with. There were attractions there, yet there also remained the pull of life, the growing feeling that she *must* wipe out this horrendous specimen before he could harm another. Exterminating him could be her mission. One that was truly worthwhile. To gain that opportunity, she would need to stay alive. That would mean performing this autopsy, the very thought of which caused all her instincts to clamor in protest. The only mercy, a pitifully small one, was that the child would not have felt his deathblow. At least he had experienced no pain. What to do? The voice of the murderer continued to babble. Scully remained in place, watching over the boy. She could do him no further harm by autopsying his body. But giving in on this would feed the soul of a madman, fattening his ego. Building his appetite for more? Would her doing this make him feel even more invincible? Well, that might not be a bad thing. How about changing tactics? Certainly nothing she had tried so far had been at all effective. Maybe it was time for a new approach, a careful, *thought out* plan. Turn the tables. Give him what he wanted where possible to deny him the joy of forcing her to do things. Hmmm. Cease resisting; begin acquiescing. But here? On this boy's body? It was a hell of a place to start. Yet, if she did not start here, she might never have an opportunity to take revenge. She would be lying there like the boy, without the benefit of a quick death. The monster would make her pay for her defiance; she could be sliced to ribbons. Would this autopsy be desecrating the boy's body, she wondered. No, she could not help it if the boy were dead. It was the act of the madman. Despite a hatred which choked her, making it difficult to breathe, she would do it. It would do no further harm to the child, and it might give her the tools she needed to escape. And put the animal *down*. She would gain the opportunity to hold some powerful, lethal instruments. Maybe Death would draw too near. An image of the monster laid out on the tarp with a spurting carotid brightened her dark mood for a second. She reached for the scrubs and checked the tape recorder. "The subject is male, approximately five years of age," she said. She glanced over at Death, standing about six feet away, well out of range of her instruments. He looked sexually aroused, flushed and breathing rapidly. He was about to get off on viewing the interior of a boy's body. "Death?" She was garbed now and holding a scalpel. Why not ask a provocative question. If provoked sufficiently, he might approach her weapon. "Is there some significance in your bringing a five-year-old boy? Is that when things went wrong for you, made you into what you are now?" Something glimmered in his eyes. Hatred? A sudden flash of self-awareness? She couldn't tell. Then it was gone, and she wasn't sure it had been there. "What I am today, Dana," he said with his smug smile, "is your master. I'm in charge here; you're doing what I say. Let's have a very specific description, every step along the way. I want to know everything." He took a step closer as she removed the boy's clothes. "Oh, and Dana. Don't get your hopes up. Don't think I'm stupid enough to come close to you when you're holding one of those sharpies. And trust me--I'll notice if you try to tuck one of the scalpels into your scrubs. So forget your silly thoughts about trying to escape and concentrate on giving me a good show. Let's remember who the stupid one is here. You, babe. If you're a good girl, I'll...not hurt you as much as I planned to." Whoop-dee-doo, Scully thought. Maybe he'll just chop off one of my hands. Fuck him. I can't control what he does, at least right now. Maybe I can figure him out though. I can handle him a lot better than I have been. Okay. Shut up in there. Let's give him a happy autopsy, the fucking creep. Standing over the tiny naked body, Scully began by describing its condition and appearance. Death watched, entranced and excited. Scully saw his condition and prayed. She was angry with God, but she was livid about what the pervert had done. At the moment, his sexual arousal was worrisome. She prayed for something that she thought few had ever requested of the Almighty--that the monster would climax in his pants before she was finished. She couldn't bear to dwell on the possibility of being the recipient of that much excitement. God, did the man have a hard-on. Scully was sure he couldn't possibly last another ten minutes. She got on with the job. DAY TEN Rushing through the hallway, Mulder bounced off a hard object. The impact pushed his mind back to the present. The object was Skinner, who looked both pissed and concerned. Pushing back his unkempt hair, Mulder wondered when he'd become such a lightweight. He'd flown backwards with all the heft of a helium balloon. Was his body as well as his mind losing contact with the earth, with gravity? Would the contents of his useless brain and body drain out of him, sending him shooting into space? His inability to rest, to regroup, was ruining him. "You're not doing anyone any good," Skinner told him. "Look at you. You look like a bum. And smell like one. Go home, Mulder. Rest. Bathe. For Christ's sake, take a shower and shave. For all our sakes." "Oh, sure. If I *smell* good, I'll find her. My cosmetic improvement is bound to solve the case." "It'll enable me to put off my decision to suspend you for the duration." The sympathy was gone from Skinner's eyes. Mulder's words had turned him into a stern supervisor, not a concerned friend. "Fuck you, Skinner. Nothing you say can stop me from trying to find her." Well, *that* tears it, Mulder thought. Now I'm history. Way to go, asshole. Just keep talking. Maybe he'll shoot you and put you out of your misery. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Special Agent Mulder. Obviously, you're overwrought. Go home. That's an order." His voice softened. "And it's my advice as well. I'm doing everything I can. You're doing more than you can. Ease up. You need a clear head to catch this bastard. Get some food and sleep; maybe it'll help you think of somewhere we haven't thought to look." Mulder ran his hand along his stubbly face and nodded. "Okay. For now. But I'll be back." He reeled down the corridor, headed for the elevator. Skinner watched his back, eyes now overtly sympathetic. He headed back into his office to get the latest reports on the search. Time for a break, he thought. This guy's gotta fuck up *somewhere* along the way. <<<<<<<<<<<<< DAY TEN The autopsy went slowly because of Scully's weakness. She found it hard to stand for so long, especially since Death had provided scrubs but no supportive shoes. Even worse, she felt ill, prostituting her profession in this way. She was actually performing an autopsy at the behest of a madman. Then there was the fact that she was working on a small child. Too many young children had been used by *others* for their evil purposes over the last few years. Emily, for one, who should never have existed and who remained one of the largest stumbling blocks to her full reconciliation with God. Gibson Praise, whose bandaged head was evidence that other evil men had played God. Now Death had placed her in that ugly position, and she...*hated* him. This new feeling, this pure blazing hatred, hazed and colored her vision. She vibrated with loathing to the point that it was hard to steady her hands and clear her vision. She took a deep breath. She must respect this body, not let any tremors interfere with proper procedure. Scully made her Y-incision and removed the breastplate of ribs. She could hear Death's eager breathing over the noise of her actions and her voice. She lifted a block of organs from the chest cavity and described the condition of each, beginning the process of weighing, measuring, and assessing. Since they belonged to such a young child, the organs were unsullied by ill health and poor living habits. They looked as if they could have supported the growing body for the next seventy years, but that chance had been stolen by this heavily breathing monster. She took tissue slices, knowing they would never be sent away for lab analysis. If they were, she would discover what drug had been used to make the boy nearly comatose. Over the drone of her voice, she heard a gasp and groan. Death must have come. She refused to look up and view the satisfaction Death had gained from this... this creep show. She bent over the body and absorbed herself in the examination, keeping up a steady patter of medical commentary. Knowing Death was ignorant about what he was witnessing, she made no attempt to be accurate. She just kept talking. God help me, she prayed. The horror of the situation struck her-- she, like a ghoul, taking a body apart for no good reason; he, like a monster in a horror film, watching, leering, getting a sexual charge out of bodily invasion. The scene was so sick she felt like vomiting. Right, she thought, trying to recover her tough pathologist's attitude, and then we'll have even more bodily fluids. Her feeble attempt at black humor didn't work. Nausea gripped her stomach and squeezed. Good thing she hadn't been eating much, she thought, swallowing bile. For the first time, she was glad Mulder was not on the scene to see her at arguably the lowest point of her life. She could have used his support though; she knew he wouldn't condemn her for this. He'd urge her on, tell her to do whatever she needed to do to defeat the beast. He'd also tell her to take advantage of the creep's absorption. Find out something about him that'll help you later on, she could hear him suggesting. Right. Yes, sir, she thought. Examination of the body's stomach contents distracted her attention from her own churning stomach. "Last meal was ingested approximately twenty-four hours ago," she said. "The subject ate hamburgers and french fries, quite thoroughly digested. Little trace left." She looked up at Death, who had calmed down and was watching with total rapture. He looked as if his entire being was wrapped up in her actions. Was it? What did this represent to him? "You took him yesterday, didn't you?" He nodded. "From a schoolyard. Over an hour from here. Don't think they're going to be able to trace him here." Scully noted the weight of the stomach and its contents. She glanced at Death. "I didn't think you'd let anyone see you. Did you befriend him in advance?" He nodded. For some reason, watching the autopsy seemed to have opened him up. His guard was lower than it had been at any time since she had first laid eyes on his smiling, triumphant face. Here at last was an opportunity to probe him, find out what made him the monster he was. If she could only do it without fucking up. Keep moving, she told herself. Describe everything you do. It mesmerizes him, the fucking lunatic. She described in copious detail the liver section she was performing. "Was he a nice little boy?" she slid in at the end. "Yeah, very friendly. So trusting though. Everyone trusts too much. Well, I guess I don't have to tell *you* that." Trust no one, she thought. Where was the mantra when she needed it? She described the lungs, their pink, healthy condition. "I wonder how his mother feels," she said, carefully casual. "The search has got to be in full swing. She must be a wreck." Death seemed entranced by her actions. "The kid's probably better off this way," he murmured. He was not smiling or chuckling. This was a different man from the one who'd been tormenting her all this time. "You think you're *saving* him?" He nodded solemnly. She described the gall bladder and the pancreas, feeling like Sheherazade, trying to draw out her tale, embellish it enough to discover something that could save her life. With trepidation, she took the step. "But you were very close to your own mother. Weren't you?" That brought his attention back to her. Oops. "What makes you say that?" he snarled. "That you could write on all those lists and convince everyone you were a woman. To do that, I think you had to be very close to a woman, or women. You understand how we think." Lay it on, she told herself. And throw in some stuff about the spleen. She did, then veered back to the track she was trying to edge on to. "Since your mother would be the first woman you knew, I assumed you were close to her." "You don't know how close." His eyes were focused on the organ section. She wasn't sure he realized what he said. Incest? she wondered. If his mother did something sexual to him, say at age five, he would be severely conflicted. On the one hand, he'd be receiving total--and special--attention from his mother. Little kids are ecstatic to receive mommy's love, and, even to a small child, sexual caresses could feel good. So her approaches could make him feel very, very good, give them a special relationship. Careful to keep describing organs, she continued her train of thought. There was also the dark side to a mother/child sexual relationship. Obviously. The child, even a young child, senses that it's wrong, that he shouldn't be put in this position. No matter how attractive the parent makes the process, no matter how seductive, *something* tells the child he is being violated. Invaded. As he was now watching her do literally to a five-year- old boy. Mama killed him, symbolically, many times--a few times?--when he was a helpless little boy. He was in her power. She told him it was fun. He wanted to believe. He did believe; she was mommy. She could have her way with him and tell him how great he felt. Inside, he would be torn, some little voice *knowing* that this was violation in the guise of love. And here he was, a large, muscular man, watching a little boy be taken apart. The way he was once "taken apart"? Too much pop psychology? Scully wondered. She wished more than ever that she could discuss this with Mulder, get his views, argue all sides. One side wasn't enough. A dialogue was necessary to reach valid conclusions. Not possible here, she thought. But look at this situation, she told herself. He takes women, strips them, withholds food and bathroom privileges. Putting us in a *childlike* position. He's the benevolent parent, most of the time. Because he loved mommy. And mommy told him she was acting out of love for him. But he knows, on a different level, that she was really hurting him. She did irreparable damage. So he hurts us, re-enacting the way momma treated him. From his childish point of view. Dote. And damage. And sex, she added, a combination of the two as viewed from his sick mind. Forced sex, the way it *really* was for him, if he could face that ugly truth. Maybe he hadn't'; maybe that's why he kept re-enacting the scene, hurting others as he had been hurt. Scully maneuvered her Stryker saw, cutting into the skull. She stood back to let the dust of small bones drift past her through the pungent air. She began her work on the brain. She looked over at her captor. He was staring at the exposed brain as if it were the Answer. "Where's your mother now?" She tried to keep her tone conversational. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the brain. "Gone," he said absently. "All gone." "You kill her?" "Uh-huh. But I got away with it. No problem. She never knew what hit her." Scully made some more remarks about the brain tissue, labeled some jars, then resumed her questioning. "How'd you kill her?" "Who?" "Your mother." "Digitalis. There were always these mysteries around the house, the old ones, like the Blakes, the Christies, the Sayers. People were always getting offed by the foxglove leaves from the garden. I thought I'd give it a shot." He smiled. It looked, unfortunately, as if his usual over-cheerful persona was returning. "We always cooked a lot. I really am a terrific cook, Dana. You'd know that if you'd eat more. Why the diet? You're never walking out of here." The chuckle returned. Shit, she thought. He got up and walked a little nearer, but still well out of range of her saw or scalpels. "I added digitalis leaves to a pesto recipe, actually," he said with a bright smile. "Basil leaves, foxglove leaves, hey, it's all green. She died after a delicious angelhair with pesto. I gave her a happy sendoff." He laughed. "Turned *her* into an angel. Maybe." "Why kill her?" "None of your business. You're here to do what I tell you, not to cross-examine me." His absorption had faded; it looked as if it was time to wrap things up. Scully was tired of standing anyway. The unconditioned muscles in her legs were starting to tremble. On the other hand, she was still on her feet, untied, surrounded by deadly implements. If not now, when? "Yeah," she said. "But since I'm not exactly gonna walk out of here and tell the world, what's the harm in telling me? It goes no further." It cost her to say that. She was trying like hell to think positively. "She was an uppity bitch. Like you, filthy cunt. She deserved to die. Fucking around. Building a big fat successful pie business. She used me. For years and years. Then she had better things to do. Better *guys* to do. No time for me. She *laughed.* Said we'd outgrown that stage. Fuck her." He chuckled. "Well, actually, no. Kill her. Fuckin' bitch. She got what was coming to her." "It passed as a heart attack?" "Sure. And I inherited the loot." He smiled. "I'm a smart guy. That's why I'm in charge here, and you're taking the orders." His usual cruel manner had returned. "Now I have some orders to give you. Don't put the kid back together. I want some of those bones. I have plans for them." He chuckled. Scully's stomach heaved. "Remember Scarpetta, boiling the bones in the last novel? Well, we got some bone boiling to do." Scully had been on her feet for hours, using muscles that no longer worked properly, extracting both body parts from the child and a case history of sorts from her captor. She was on the verge of collapse, especially as the idea of using the boy's bones to emulate some stupid mystery novel loomed on the horizon. She might have passed out on her own, given a few more minutes, but Death wasn't taking any chances. He yanked her away from the table and jammed a needle into her arm. He didn't bother to catch her as she hit the floor with a dull thud. The boy's blood, puddled on the tarp, splattered. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Day Eleven Mulder tossed on his couch, impatient for the sunrise. He had obeyed orders for a change. He was clean, shaven, fed, and abjectly miserable. Where was it, the piece that was going to metamorphose into a key, the key that would bring the pattern into focus? He had read every transcript. He knew the captor well at this point. Like the other members of the team, he understood the man's thought processes, to some extent, but not as much as he would have liked. What he did know made him panicky. The guy was without mercy. He loved to make the women suffer. The more they resisted, the more likely he was to torment them. He chose strong women because he wanted to crush a worthy opponent. Scully, he knew, was as strong as they come. His only consolation was that she was also smart. If she had time and strength enough to think about the man's pathology, she might see that resistance is what fed him, what he wanted most, so he could feel justified in his punishments. Mulder hoped that she'd figured this out and adjusted her behavior. It would save her some pain. He winced, visualizing the pictures of the prior victims. They were tattooed into his brain cells at this point, battered, bruised, and broken. Poor Scully. There was no way she could emerge unscathed from this. That was the most difficult fact he faced. He'd been running away from it, but this morning, it stood over him in the breaking dawn, rubbing itself in his face. He *had* to accept that for Scully, just getting out would be a triumph. Hell, a fucking miracle. If she could get out alive, then they would deal with the damage. He closed his eyes and bit down on his lip, hard. Mulder was too miserable to try to sleep any longer. Time to return to the materials, the transcripts, the interviews, the e-mails, the crime scene photos. Maybe this time, something would strike him. Time was running out. >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>