From: MystPhile@aol.com
Date: Sun, 11 Jul 1999 21:28:30 EDT
Subject: xfc NEW: Injuries to the Spirit(7 of 13) NC-17
Source: xfc

Injuries to the Spirit (7 of 13) 
by MystPhile@aol.com

Disclaimed in part 1
 
Day Eleven 
 
Still groggy from the drugs, Scully felt a creeping lethargy which  
she could ill afford.  The beast was not around; she thought he was  
out disposing of equipment or body parts or some such thing.  That  
she could contemplate so matter-of-factly his strewing around the  
body parts of a dead child distressed her, but she had no time to  
indulge her finer feelings.  All of her energy must go to figuring  
out a plan to deal with him.  By her reckoning, she'd been here  
about two weeks.  She could be dead within the week.  And from the  
look of the previous victims, now was the time he ratcheted up the  
torture.  She needed to prepare as best she could.  It would help if
she could understand him and his motivations.. 
 
He'd murdered his mother, or so he said.  The way she read him, he  
played "mother" in a sick sense to his victims.  All right.  Then  
how about *not* playing the role of the rebellious child he could  
punish with that chortling air of self-righteousness.  How about  
being cooperative, cringing, doing whatever it took to stop him from  
punishing her for her own good, as he had when she wet herself. 
 
Where, after all, had her efforts thus far gotten her?  She'd  
starved herself into such a state of weakness that even if she had  
an opportunity to attack him, she lacked the strength.  Performing  
the autopsy had been an incredible strain.  Why do his job for him?   
She was half-dead already, even though he was eager to feed her.   
So, she should *eat*, for Christ's sake.   And stop withholding the  
begging and groveling he seemed to need.  If she could act like a  
"good" child, perhaps he would not be driven to inflict as much  
physical damage.  On the other hand, she thought it wise to put up  
*some* resistance, sometimes.  She didn't want to bore him to the  
point where the game was no longer fun.  If she no longer interested  
him, he might simply kill her. 
 
So, let's go for it, she thought.  Convince him that my spirit is  
breaking.  I'll beg, I'll grovel, I'll be respectful--anything he  
seems to want.   
 
Anything?  an inner voice questioned her.  She thought about it.  He  
was a rapist. How did that fit with her ideas about mama?  She  
shrugged.  Presumably, mama didn't force him.  She most likely  
touched him under the guise of love.  But his essential self would  
have been unwilling, so to his subconscious, it was rape.  Maybe.   
God, she muttered.  Mulder's much better equipped to handle this,  
nail the guy's motivations.  Who was she to figure out this sicko?   
She faced the grim truth:  someone whose life depended on it. 
 
How to avoid rape.  She gritted her teeth as a phrase she had always  
detested entered her mind:  You can't rape the willing.  Okay.  She  
would be willing.  If necessary, she would come on to him.  The  
thought turned her stomach, but the prospect of rape, torture, and  
death was even worse.  A woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do,  
she thought, rolling her eyeballs at the empty room.  God, she was  
lonely!  Muttering, making faces in solitude.  What she wouldn't  
give for a conversation with a sane person.  Or even Mulder, she  
smiled.  I know you're out there, she thought.  I'll bet you're crazed,
ready to hop into the loony bin yourself by now.  If I-- *when* I
get out of here, we'll both be basket cases. 
 
Okay, she coached herself.  You cooperate in every way.  Eat up a  
storm.  Gain back your strength.  Beg for more bathroom time.  Use  
it to exercise.  Do pushups, kneebends, chin ups, whatever it takes.   
Be in shape to move on him when the time comes.  And if he's  
convinced that you're feeling down and defeated, he's more likely to  
drop his guard.  That's when you'll move. 
 
In the meantime?  Anaerobic exercises while tied to the chair.   
Visualize various ways to attack him.   Go through every step, 
over and over and over.  Just the way you did in med 
school when you learned to put in a line, she reminded 
herself.  Or the hours you put in on the shooting range.   
Make sure, when the time comes, it will be second nature.  Kill the  
bastard.  You're not going to have more than one shot.  Make it  
count. 
 
The door flew open.  "Look what I've got," Death crowed.   
"Restaurant-quality cooking pots.  Just like Kay's, remember?" 
 
He reeled under the bulk of three huge pots as he kicked the door  
closed.  Christ, Scully thought, praying that pieces of her weren't  
going to be included in his recipe.  Just when she'd gotten all  
pumped up to resist....She chased the negative thought away.   
"'Point of Origin,' wasn't it?" she asked, naming the title of the  
novel in which Scarpetta had visited a restaurant supply house to  
buy morgue materials. 
 
"Yep," Death said, running water into the biggest.  "And I've got  
some bones to boil."  He cackled.  "Little ones."  
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 
 
Day Twelve 
 
"Mulder." 
 
"We got something," Frohike murmured. 
 
"On my way." 
 
Mulder sat forward this time on the moth-eaten couch, concentrating  
on the excited babble. Despite being tired to the bone, something in  
the Gunmen's attitude grabbed his attention.  He listened, hard. 
 
"We ran through every password for every e-mail account you showed  
us." 
 
"We checked into the PIN numbers for every credit and bank card." 
 
"We found some common elements.  They could mean everything or  
nothing." 
 
Mulder, growing testier by the day, growled.  "Don't pull some  
Inspector Clouseau routine on me.  Just tell me what you found." 
 
"Every card," Byers said, "no matter how long or how short the  
password or PIN, contains two common elements:  a number 2 and a  
number 4, or a letter B and a letter D.  Coincidental?  Could be." 
 
"But we're betting it's some kind of in-your-face move that he  
thinks he's gonna slip by," Frohike broke in. 
 
"Yeah," Langly agreed.  "We've been reading his mail.  He's a cocky  
son of a bitch.  He'd like to put a clue out there, just so the Feds  
will miss it.  And that'll make him feel like the smartest bastard  
in the world." 
 
Mulder rubbed the tiredness out of his eyes and tried to jump-start  
his brain.  "So his initials could be BD or DB?  Or something else  
in his life.  His address or phone number could contain a 2 and a 4.   
Or it could be part of his area code or zip code." 
 
The Gunmen nodded.  "Go with the obvious first," Byers suggested.   
"This guy's got nerve." 
 
"He probably wants to be caught," Mulder said, rising and hurrying  
to the door.  "Kidnapping a Federal agent is either a major  
challenge, or such a bold step over the line that he's begging to be  
brought down.  He's invited the hounds of hell to pursue him.  He's  
saying, 'Come get me.'"  Mulder slammed the door behind him. 
 
"You're welcome," Frohike said. 
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 
 
Day Thirteen 
 
"Smile, Sweetie!" 
 
The camera was out again.  Time to make another record of her  
deterioration.  For the corkboards, for posterity, for who knew   
the hell what.  This time, Scully was pissed.  She was getting mad  
as hell at the bastard's petty mind games and didn't want to take it  
any more. 
 
She did her best to look cowed.  She needed him to think  
that she was a basket case by now.  And fail to see that for the  
last two days (by her toilet tissue calculations), she had been  
observing every aspect of her captor, studying him for the most  
important final exam of her life.  He had spent a year getting to  
know her; now, she would study him. 
 
At first, he took in stride her new attitude following the autopsy.  He
was excited that she wanted to eat and promptly cooked them each  
a massive veal chop with sauted peppers, onions, and mushrooms on  
the side.  Throughout this process, he lectured her about every  
aspect of his cooking techniques.  She felt like she was watching the  
cooking channel.  When Scully complimented him on the meal, he  
seemed to be  genuinely flattered.  He'd acted like a nice, normal  
person who had taken pleasure in cooking a delicious meal for an  
appreciative friend.   
 
It was surreal, she thought.  When you considered that the "friend"  
was a naked prisoner tied to a chair in some unknown, isolated  
place. And that after the cleanup, he picked up one of his super- 
sharp knives, gave an extensive lecture on acquiring the proper  
sharpening stone, and sliced her left forearm, chuckling  
while the blood dripped down her thigh and into the carpet.  And  
followed this demonstration with another:  the preparation of the  
little boy's bones for boiling, apparently because he wanted to  
emulate Kay Scarpetta.   
 
Jesus, he's nut, Scully had thought, realizing that she needed to  
discover what *kind* of nut if she hoped to defeat him.  *Anybody*  
could tell he's a nut, she sneered to herself. She'd concentrated on  
quieting her full stomach, under assault on two fronts:  the nausea  
brought on by the pain in her arm and by the sight of her dripping  
blood, the deep red contrasting starkly with her pale flesh.   
Looking down, she felt like she was watching an old black-and-white  
horror film.  And then there was the stomach-churning smell from the  
boiling pot.   
 
She was not normally sensitive to odors--or bones, or flesh, or  
blood; pathologists aren't.  But, having seen the child, she  
considered this a desecration of his body. There was no forensic  
purpose to this procedure, just pure ghoulishness. The revulsion hit   
her mind, then her stomach, and she was forced to give it several  
stern lectures.  She gagged, bringing up bile.  Sweat broke out, and  
she watched her hands, tied to the arms of the chair, tremble.   
Trust that lunatic to keep her off balance. And to keep talking,  
explaining his techniques in his pompous, know-it-all voice, the  
whole damned time.  Could it be, she wondered sardonically, that he  
kidnapped women so he'd have an *audience*? 
 
Equally gratifying to Death were her heartrending pleas to visit the  
bathroom.  Throwing herself into her new role, she even squeezed out  
some tears.  But by late yesterday--at least, she thought it was the  
previous day--the novelty wore thin.  He didn't release her in time  
and, to his delight, she had another "accident."  The spanking was  
harder this time.  His hard-on pressed into her upper thigh as by  
whipping *her*, he whipped himself into a frenzy.  His hand was a  
blur of movement, his words an incoherent babble.  She thought he  
was drooling, as drops of liquid hit her back and ass from time to  
time. 
 
Undeterred, Scully had wept and wailed throughout the spanking,  
begging him to stop.  "You're killing me," she'd cried.  "I can't  
stand it.  Oh, please."  She'd made up her mind to be a weak,  
whining creature, to transport herself--in his mind--the greatest  
possible distance from his powerful mother, who'd apparently made a  
fortune as a businesswoman and turned her personal attentions to  
grown men.  His pattern was to kidnap and murder successful women,  
the kind that mama had turned into.  Therefore, she would be a  
sniveling little girl.  At least most of the time.  She planned to  
be assertive often enough to keep him off balance. 
 
Of course, she thought, returning her mind to the present as the 
flashbulb blinded her, the beast seemed capable of playing a dual role.   
Besides being mama's killer, he also liked to *be* mama, alternately  
caring for and punishing his captive child.  Why do I have to get  
such a complicated, inconsistent nut case, she asked herself.  The  
ones in the textbooks, they're so straightforward.   
 
It occurred to her she could be wrong about everything.  Indeed,  
Death, who prided himself on his acting, could have fed her  
information to mislead her in precisely this direction.  For all she  
knew, Mama was barhopping on the Riviera.  Can't trust a psychopath,  
she thought, increasingly giving in to morbid humor.  Finally, she  
was coming to understand the source of Mulder's humor, as her inner  
voice became ever more cynical and flip.  Despair, she thought.   
That'll do the trick.  If I get out of here--*when* I get out of  
here, I'll be an expert in Mulderspeak. 
 
"Please, don't take my picture," she sniffled, as he circled her in a  
crouch.  "I look so awful.  Please, Death, let me go to the  
bathroom.  Please?"  Take that, she thought.  You want sniveling;  
that's what you'll get, asshole.  Her inner language too had  
deteriorated, she noticed.  She was now fit for the Navy. 
 
Flash. 
 
He bent to untie her.  "Now we're going to get some shots of you on  
your feet," he said, smiling.  He straightened from untying her  
legs.  Suddenly, she bounced to the floor as his open hand struck  
her jaw with enough force to knock the chair over.  He stood over  
her with the camera.  "But first, we need you on the floor, looking  
like shit.  And you *do* look like shit, Dana.  You're getting  
pretty revolting.  You know?"  Flash.  "Well, you'll see." 
 
He bent over her.  "What would make this look more, uh, serious?  
Hmm."  As he lit a cigarette, she closed her eyes. 
 
What the fuck had the woman done to him, she thought.  Had she  
really hurt him in this way?  Was he one of those kids that was  
abused and locked in the closet?  Is that why he liked it so much  
when she wet herself?  Had Mommy Dearest put out a few cigarettes on  
the kid?  She doubted she'd ever know.  Eyes scrunched up, dreading  
the pain, she was sorry to understand him so little.  Her life  depended
on it, damn it. 
 
"Ouch," she screeched, as the cigarette grazed the top of her right  
breast, then pressed into the flesh, hard.  "Stop, please.  Please.   
Oh, God, that hurts so much.  Oh, please."   
 
It did in fact hurt--like hell--but she was deliberately over- 
reacting.  The real Scully would have gritted her teeth, as she did  
the first time he burned her, refusing to give him the satisfaction  
of crying out.  She hoped that this didn't mean he would harm her  
more frequently so he could listen to her moans.  Should she rethink  
this new plan?  Hell, no.  The old one wasn't working anyway.  And  
it was time for him to escalate his torments.  Her task was to  
minimize the pain until she got her one precious opportunity.  God,  
that moment *had* to come, she thought.  It had to. 
 
"Not again," she moaned.  "Please.  Have some mercy." 
 
The chair was set on its feet again, the cigarette no longer in  
evidence.  Flash.  He took several shots of her tear-streaked face  
and her singed flesh.  "Okay," he said.  "Now let's get you on your  
feet." 
 
This time he untied her hands and stood back to photograph her slow  
movements.  She played to the camera a bit, staring with horror at  
the burn mark on her breast.  She rubbed her face where he had  
slapped her, moving the jaw from side to side as if to see if it was  
broken or dislocated.  He snapped constantly, catching every angle  
as she made her way to the bathroom with an exaggerated limp. 
 
Once inside, she used the toilet and sink, then tried to convince  
herself the burn didn't hurt *that* much.  Her capacity for denial  
was helpful.  Next, she gathered up her new resolution, bit her lip  
to distract her attention from the pain that *was* still making her  
chest feel as if a tooth had been extracted there, and loosened up  
with a series of jumping jacks.  Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, she  
muttered rhythmically.  She was *not* going to stop because of a  
little discomfort.  Ha, she thought.  How about agony?  

Soldiering  on, she did some squats, some pushups, and some
chin-ups on the shower rod, a very sturdy one.  The burn continued
to sting like hell.  Bastard, fucking creep, she muttered.   Suspecting
that the asshole was preparing a new exhibition in his gallery, she used  
every second to work on re-acquiring strength.  By the time he told  
her to come out, she'd worked up a sweat.  She threw water on her  
face, which bore the imprint of his large hand,  and emerged dabbing  
at herself with a towel. 
 
"My face aches," she whimpered.  "I need to keep this cold towel on  
it." 
 
He shrugged as if he had nothing to do with her sore face.  He  
obviously had bigger things on his mind.  "Behold," he said,  
gesturing at the crowded corkboards.  There were now three stages on  
display for each of the five women:  the free stage, when he'd  
stalked them in their normal lives; the first set in captivity,  
where each looked shell-shocked and despairing.  And the new set.   
 
Scully toured the gallery.  Bad as each had looked last time he'd  
hung his photos, they now looked ten times worse.  Injuries were  
highlighted, not a huge surprise since he had struck and burned her  
during the photo session.  But it was not the physical injuries that  
were appalling:  again, it was the expression on each formerly  
attractive, confident face. Whatever he did to cause physical pain,  
the psychological damage was lethal.  
 
All were nude, injured, hair askew.  But that counted for nothing.   
Their eyes, that's what struck Scully about the portraits.  Those  
eyes had looked on evil, maybe for the first time.  True evil.  That  
which hurts for the sheer pleasure of it, to fill a sick need.  Their 
eyes had been opened.   
 
Even if these women were still alive,  the damage to their psyches  
would always remain.  They were Eve, leaving Paradise, never to  
return.  They knew that Paradise could not exist.  It had been a  
lie.  God Himself seemed to be a lie, not a source to turn to for  
help or comfort.  No one was helping these victims.  Each was alone  
in her pain, violated, isolated, bereft.  Waiting--alone--for the  
next punishment.  My God (friends, parents, relatives, loved ones,  
colleagues, any manner of connection), why hast thou forsaken me?   
None of them knew that answer, and all had lost hope by this point.   
Their opened eyes held a slight trace of shock, but were mainly  
empty.  Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.  They had done so, by  
this stage. 
 
I *can* come back, Scully thought, determined to be the one to  
escape, to maintain hope. And she knew that Mulder hadn't abandoned  
or forsaken her.  She *knew* he was out there, looking under every  
rock for evidence of this serpentine, demonic creature.  She had  
faith in him.  She had faith in herself and her strength. And she  
still believed that God could come through.  
 
I have met evil and dealt with it before.  I've already lost my  
innocence.  If I can survive this, I will overcome the injuries--and  
the memories.  This is a *small* man who has power only because he  
takes women, drugs them, and keeps them tied up and hurting.  He is  
evil on a small scale.   
 
Approaching her corkboard, she studied her face, her expression.   
She looked ghastly, of course.  But she didn't wear the look of  
surprise, the abject shock and despair, shared by the others.  She  
hoped he wouldn't read in her face that she had met evil before and  
escaped or defeated it.  That she had a painfully acquired partial  
immunity to his powers.  She wanted him to believe that she too was  
shell-shocked, helpless, paralyzed.  She drooped and wiped at her  
eyes. 
 
"Why?" she murmured.  "Why do you want to do this?" 
 
Death chuckled.  "You know that by now, Dana.  It's fun." 
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 


Injuries to the Spirit (8 of 13)
by MystPhile@aol.com

DAY THIRTEEN 
 
Mulder paced around the Behavioral Science Unit, annoying everyone.  
Since he had pointed out the recurrence of the same letters or 
numbers in all the passwords, computers had whirred, printing out the 
name of every candidate who fit the profile and had been released 
from a prison or other institution within a reasonable timeframe to 
commit the crimes.  Lists were scattered over every surface in the 
room, and personnel from field offices all over the country had been 
dispatched to locate the potential suspects.  The operation was being 
coordinated from the room in which he paced, and even Mulder couldn't 
find anything to complain about.  For once, the FBI was working as it 
was supposed to. 
 
Any suspect who could account for his whereabouts for a fair amount 
of time during the month that even one of the victims was in 
captivity was eliminated. The suspects were being located, and 
they were providing alibis:  landlords, families, neighbors, fellow 
employees, workplaces, parole officers, even institutions, since a 
goodly number had been locked up during at least one of the months in 
question. 
 
However, the computer had generated a very long list.  Two's and 
four's and B's and D's appear in a hell of a lot of PINs and 
passwords.  Tracking down that many men took time, which was 
precisely what they did not have.  Hence, Mulder's pacing and 
smoldering. 
 
Over and over, he had read reports of the previous victims' 
condition.  Although he'd long ago memorized every detail, some 
compulsion kept him reading.  It was as if he felt that he had to 
suffer as long as Scully suffered.  What a sick bastard I am, he 
thought.  The most severe injuries, he well knew, had occurred in the 
week or ten days preceding death.  With Scully entering her last 
week--most likely--of captivity, time meant *everything*.  What was 
happening to her as computers spat out data and well-dressed men in 
wingtips made their orderly way to interview the suspects?  Images 
flashed through his mind, turning his stomach.  Her delicate bones, 
broken.  Her beautiful, unblemished skin.  What would mar it--burns?  
Cuts?  Bruises?  Would the predicted escalation take the form of 
carving?  Could Scully wind up with the initials B D carved in her 
flesh? 
 
No wonder he didn't eat much anymore.  He could barely keep anything 
down.  In his glory days as a profiler, he'd had the unique ability 
to get inside the criminal's mind, place himself within the framework 
of evil, the better to understand its motivation and thus to anticipate 
its next move.  But now, in the most important case he would ever 
attempt to profile, his abilities had disappeared:  He was blind.  

Something inside him kept the evil eye, the one that could make 
contact, however briefly, with the monster's mind and vision, closed.  
It was beyond his capacity to identify for an instant with the feelings
of a man who could rape or mutilate Scully.  He was useless.  He was
reduced to pacing, driving everyone around him mad,  and sending
little mind messages to Scully, urging her to watch the man carefully,
plan her escape.  Who the fuck did he think he was, he wondered. 
Kreskin?  They could use a little magic at this point. 
 
"We've got something here," Joe told him. 
 
Mulder turned so fast he got dizzy.  "What?" 
 
"Here's the history," he said, handing a thick sheaf to Mulder.  
"Name's Bruno Danelli.  Chicago.  Wife killer, right history, 
institutionalized for over ten years.  Brilliant guy.  Nobody can 
find him now.  He's popped up occasionally,  but he's pretty much of 
a mystery man." 
 
Mulder was skimming the file.  "Let me go to Chicago, Joe.  I can 
interview the doctors at this Crestview institution, put my 
psychological training to work." 
 
Joe nodded.  "Sure, Mulder.  You and Perkins.  Get the first plane 
out of here.  Time counts." 
 
Mulder gathered the materials, looked for a briefcase, and blew out 
of the room, Perkins puffing in his wake.
 
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 
 
DAY THIRTEEN 
 
Scully sat in her chair, as usual.  Hands untied, she was eating a 
delicious vegetarian lasagne.  Increasingly on her guard, she'd 
kept a wary eye on the monster during the preparations, fearing that 
he might slip something revolting into her food and tell her about it 
later, to sicken her. Her studies were paying off.  Or would eventually, 
she hoped.
 
Knowing that more injuries were forthcoming, she once again assumed 
the role of Sheherazade, with the twin objects of distracting him 
and extracting useful bits of information.  "So," she said, "have you 
always been a big mystery fan?  You always came across as a true 
enthusiast when you wrote as Beth." 
 
"Mysteries were always around the house when I was growing up.  My 
mother always had a few different ones going at the same time.   I 
suppose I read them so we'd have something to discuss." 
 
Scully digested his calm tone along with her lasagne.  This was the 
mother he'd called a filthy bitch, a cunt, and spoke with some pride 
of murdering?  Zee muthaire, she thought in that sardonic inner 
voice, vee must alvays loooook to zee muthaire.  Mentally, she 
stroked a Freud-like beard, then wondered about her own mental 
health.  Better get out of this fast, she told herself, while you 
have two remaining marbles. 
 
"She was a housewife before she made a fortune in pies?" 
 
"Yeah.  Cooked, baked, read, spent a lot of time with me." 
 
"Those women up there," Scully gestured to her sisters immortalized 
in the corkboard gallery.  "How did you select the mystery for each 
woman?" 
 
Death set his plate aside.  He shrugged and lit a cigarette, striking 
dread in Scully's heart.  Not another fucking burn, she thought.  And 
my inner voice needs a fucking censor.  I wonder if I'll ever think 
like *me* again. 
 
"It was a combination of things, really," he said.  He looked pleased 
to explain himself. 
 
Praise, Scully thought.  He needs praise.  Did mama praise him?  Carp 
at him?  Both?  Does either one make a goddamned bit of difference?  
God, I wish Mulder were here at Psychos R Us.  He could probably 
diagnose this asshole and tell me how to deflect the violence.
 
"I can remember the plots of hundreds of mysteries, of course," he 
said in his snippy, superior voice.  Scully envisioned herself 
throttling him until that voice hit a high A.  Maybe it'd go high 
enough to crack glass.  If she squeezed him really tight.  "Then, 
too, I try to fit the mystery to some aspect of my, uh, subject.  For 
instance, Connie, the one who wound up in the belfry with a knife in 
her heart and a pretty little pink rose on her pretty little pink 
chest.  Well, red, definitely red, by the time I finished with her," 
he chuckled.  "I thought she was pretty batty at times.  Definitely 
some unsound opinions." 
 
And yours are so sound, you psychopathic asshole, thought Sailor 
Scully.  Speaking of batty.  Hah!  She wondered what mystery novel 
he'd decided offered an appropriate method for her own, uh, 
disposition.  Probably something to do with Scarpetta, since he's 
boiling bones and cooking up a storm, she figured.  She certainly 
wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of asking.  He might even 
tell her, just for the pleasure of seeing the dread build until it 
was time to finish her off.

Stop that, she snapped at herself.  He's not going to finish you off.  
You're going to kill the bastard.  And don't you forget it.  

Knives, she thought, her mind gliding back to his plans for her.  He 
lectures me on which ones to buy, what kind of handle is best, which 
sharpening stone works for which knife, the proper techniques for 
sharpening and cutting.  He's planning to murder me with a knife.  
Shit.  Not that I can think of a way I'd actually *like* to be murdered 
by a psychopath.

Swiftly, she returned to the conversation about Connie, the first and 
least-tortured victim.  "And I suppose using a church was feasible 
logistically, too." 
 
"Yeah. No problem finding a deserted belfry.  No chance of getting 
caught.  A nice beginning--perfectly safe, not overly ambitious.  She 
wasn't the brightest bulb in the universe either." 
 
"But what was it about her that made you pick her?  You told me what 
your parameters are, but the lists are packed with women who suit 
your, uh, needs.  It seems to me that the Agatha list is largely composed
of intelligent, mystery-loving women with successful careers.  So you
have a big field to choose from.  How do you narrow it down to one?" 
 
"E-mail," he said.  "I converse with a few people, then choose the 
one.  I just know." 
 
Oh, great, Scully thought.  What was it about me?  Too friendly?  No, 
it would be my caution that attracted him.  He'd want a careful 
person since he's always on the lookout for a challenge.  Maybe it's 
as he said.  Once he found out I shared Scarpetta's profession, I was 
a shoo-in.  Lost in thought, she glanced up.  He had silently 
approached and was standing over her, regarding her as an ashtray. 
"Please don't," she begged him.  "It really, really hurts." 
 
He raised his hand, holding the cigarette like a spear.  "I know," he 
smiled.  "A little pain--" He pressed the flaming end into her 
shoulder blade, ground it deeper, listened to her scream.  "--Makes 
you know you're alive."  He chuckled and dropped the butt into an 
ashtray.  "For now," he added. 
 
Scully wept.  It felt like a knife had pierced her shoulder; the whole
right side of her body ached.  Hands still free, she brought up 
her left hand to cautiously grope around the burn, trying to soothe 
her skin with her touch.  It wasn't effective; this burn was agonizing.  
The little sailor in her mind went into overdrive as she unearthed 
some expressions she hadn't used since adolescent wars with 
her brothers.  If thoughts could kill, this smug monster would have 
daisies growing out of his black heart by now. 
 
Still moaning, she segued into her bathroom begging ritual.  On 
automatic pilot by now, she nursed her pain and talked to God.  Tell 
me what to do, she asked Him.  It gets worse every day.  You don't 
want this monster going around tormenting good people.  Killing 
innocents like that little kid.  Do You?  I'm getting hurt here.  You 
can see that.  He's such a monster, so heartless.  I don't think I 
can stop him without Your help.  Is that what You've been waiting for 
me to admit?  Is it?  Okay.  I'm doing it.  Won't You help me?  Please? 
 
Feet untied, she made her way to the bathroom grasping her shoulder 
and groaning.  Once the door closed, she soothed her agonizing pain 
as best she could and launched into her exercises.  It hurt like 
hell, every bounce, every motion that affected the newly burned 
shoulder. But she gritted her teeth, a low moan escaping despite 
herself, and redoubled her efforts.  

She was going to make herself strong enough to cut off his balls and 
have them for lunch.  Maybe he'll still be sentient at the time, she 
thought.  She could explain her slicing techniques and offer him 
seasoning tips.  Maybe she could make him eat them as well.  Jesus, 
she thought.  I'm becoming as bad as him.  Maybe I need to.  No room 
for softness now.  This is war. 
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 
 
DAY FOURTEEN 
 
Mulder and Perkins, a bright, competent agent, sat across the wide 
desk from Dr. Locke, who had been in charge of Bruno Danelli's 
treatment.  Dr. Locke was not forthcoming, taking the position that 
his patient had paid his debt to society, been released by a medical 
board that had found him sane, and had not been proven to have 
committed a new crime.  He was merely a suspect at this time. 
 
Mulder, who had not yet taken the position of placing his hands 
around Dr. Locke's neck and squeezing out the information like 
toothpaste, was putting up a display of patience.  A false display. 
 
"Okay," Mulder said with a flash of teeth that did not quite make it 
as a smile, "Bruno's sister died when he was two.  Drowned in the 
bath.  Mother walked away for a minute.  Accident, they said." 
 
"Of course, they weren't so tuned in to child abuse in those days," 
Perkins added.  "No telling what the circumstances were.  She could 
have lost one through abuse and continued to abuse the one remaining 
child." 
 
Mulder nodded.  "In fact, it's suggestive that she lost her daughter, 
then her husband decamped soon afterwards, never to be heard from 
again.  We're left with a mother and a son.  She might have used him 
as a replacement for the lost daughter, had him serving double duty, 
as it were."  He stared at Locke.  "Or triple duty, if he also served 
as stand-in for the runaway husband." 
 
Locke raised an eyebrow and kept silent.  Mulder studied the quirked 
brow for a few seconds, nostalgic for Scully and her mobile, 
expressive brows. 
 
Perkins took up the tale.  "We've unearthed Bruno's school records.  
Wiz kid from the word go.  Brilliant from kindergarten on, but not 
very friendly.  No social activities, wet himself in the early 
grades, other kids poked fun at him." 
 
"Wouldn't be surprised to hear of some dead cats in his wake," Mulder 
suggested.  "Any reported instances of animal torture in his 
neighborhood?  We can check the old reports.  Too bad they weren't 
computerized then."  He nailed Locke with a searching look.  "He tell 
you about being abused, abusing anyone or anything?" 
 
Locke shook his head.  It was as if he'd taken a vow of silence. 
 
Mulder excused himself and went into the hallway to make a quick cell 
phone request of the Gunmen:  Hack into the institution's database.  
See if they had anything on record about Bruno Danelli.  He hoped the 
computer went back far enough in this case, but since Bruno had been 
placed there so many years ago, he doubted they'd find much.  He 
kicked himself for not having made this request hours ago.  Fucking 
doctors, he thought.  Wait till we hit him with the crime scene 
photos.  Then he might dredge up some interest in what his pet 
lunatic is doing. 
 
Perkins was continuing.  "Brilliant school career.  Academic prizes 
out the wazoo.  Mathematical whiz.  Social outcast.  Only extra-
curricular thing he liked was drama--liked to act.  Think he fooled 
you, Doctor?" 
 
"Came in handy--the acting, I mean--when his mother died," Mulder 
said.  "There he was, tender age of seventeen, orphaned by his 
mother's sudden heart attack.  What luck that five years before, 
she'd taken up baking and her company had gone national within three 
years.  The kid lost a mother and gained a fortune.  The field office 
has gotten the mother's death records.  What can you tell us, Locke?"  

Dr. Locke, sweat beading on his forehead, folded his hands atop his 
well-polished desk.  "He expressed sorrow at the loss of his mother," 
he said.  "Said she was the only person in his life.  He thinks 
that's what drove him into an unwise marriage; he was still missing 
his mother." 
 
"Yeah," Perkins said.  "He enters the University of Chicago on a full 
scholarship despite the fortune he inherited.  Walks away with all 
the prizes again.  Gets interested in the fledgling field of computers.  
Everyone, everywhere, agrees the kid was brilliant.  Some say he 
was the smartest person they've ever met.  And this is at U of C,
home of Nobel prizewinners." 
 
"Probably smart enough to fool you and any other shrink, wouldn't you 
say, Doc?" Mulder asked.  "He's brilliant and likes to act.  Do you 
really trust what he told you?  Can you really believe that he was 
'cured' when you released him from this place?" 
 
"I understand what you're saying, of course," Locke said calmly.  
"But I--and the others on staff--have years of experience at dealing 
with the criminally insane.  We don't release killers lightly or 
thoughtlessly.  The very thought is abhorrent." 
 
"We're not suggesting negligance," Perkins soothed.  "We're 
suggesting a genius who stayed here, how long, eleven years.  He was 
a quick learner.  Eleven years--he probably could have passed as a 
doctor by then.  Surely, he could convince you he was a sane, 
reformed man." 
 
Locke gave a grudging nod.  "It's possible, of course." 
 
"What was he like?  How did he come across to you?" Mulder asked.  
Let's pull back a bit, he thought.  Reduce hostilities.  Let this bozo 
show off his expertise. 
 
"You've read the trial transcripts?"  Locke asked, leaning back in 
his chair. 
 
The agents nodded. 
 
"Then you know the story.  He married Andrea Collins at the end of 
his senior year.  They had plenty of money, so he went on to graduate 
studies.  She worked at a local ad agency.  She was creative, 
attractive, successful." 
 
"Then why'd she marry him?" Mulder interjected.  "He seemed like an 
anti-social loser, someone who never had a friend in his life."  
Cutting a little close to the bone, aren't you, he asked himself.  
Except you have Scully.  Had Scully.  Need to find Scully. 
 
"He was a good actor, as you said," Locke admitted.  "He saw her, he 
was lonely, he exerted himself to come across as a normal, outgoing 
sort of person.  It's not unusual for people to present a false 
picture of themselves when engaged in the mating ritual." 
 
"According to testimony of her friends at the trial," Perkins noted, 
"it didn't take her too long to realize she'd made a mistake."  He 
leafed through some pages.  "She told friends he scared her, that she 
was trying to work up the nerve to ask him for a divorce, that their 
sex life was miserable.  He couldn't manage much of anything without 
some kind of domination.  She spoke of a sadistic streak." 
 
"Of course," Locke pointed out, "much of this testimony comes from 
the man she had an affair with.  The affair that drove Bruno over the 
rails, causing him to see red for a few fatal moments.  During which 
he strangled Andrea."  He paused.  "He'd suddenly lost his mother. 
That left him an emotional, needy wreck. Eventually he managed to  
replace her, in the sense of once again having a person close to him 
in his life, one that he could trust, his wife.  When betrayed by the 
only person he trusted...well, you can see why the jury was willing 
to find for temporary insanity.  It was so obviously a crime of 
passion, not something Bruno would have done if he'd stopped to 
consider.  He's normally very much aware of consequences." 
 
"Like hiring expensive lawyers who could have gotten off Jack the 
Ripper," Mulder said.  "And he had some very hot shot shrinks 
testifying on his behalf as well.  Looks like he had enough money
to get in here, then enough brains to talk himself out of here." 
 
Locke raised a hand in protest.  "Come on, Agent Mulder.  You make 
this sound like a revolving-door operation when in fact he spent 
eleven years here." 
 
"Well," Perkins said, "if he was so damned sane, how come it took him 
so long to get sprung from here?" 
 
"He wasn't eager to leave!  He liked our little community, enjoyed 
talking with the others, helping them with legal problems.  He 
tutored regularly, offered classes, produced and directed dramas.  
Upgraded our computer system, taught not just the patients but the 
staff how to use the new system.  What you don't seem to understand 
is how impressive Bruno is.  He's a very special person who gave 
hundreds of hours of his time to all of us.  And he was a treat to talk 
with.  As intelligent a man as you'll ever meet, great sense of 
humor.  Hearty laugh.  Contagious." 
 
Mulder nodded.  "This tutoring.  The classes.  Any of it include 
studying mysteries, detective books?" 
 
"Why, yes.  Nearly every year.  He liked to keep current.  He'd do 
computer searches to find the new releases and help us keep the 
library up to date." 
 
Mulder pulled a thick folder from his briefcase.  "Okay, Dr. Locke.  
It's obvious you think Bruno is a cured man.  Hell, you seem to think 
he walks on water.  We, on the other hand, think he's a psychotic 
murderer who fooled you into letting him walk out of here and go on 
the prowl for victims.  Intelligent, competent women like his mother 
and wife, who happen to enjoy mysteries.  He stalks them, tortures 
them, and kills them.  He takes his time, just the way he took his 
time roping you in, seducing you to believe in him so that he could 
just stroll out of here when he was finally ready.  Take a look at 
these pictures.  Hope you haven't just had breakfast." 
 
Mulder spread the pictures of the victims over the entire surface of 
the broad, well-polished desk.  Locke rose, paled, tried to turn away 
but was drawn back.  He stuttered, then managed to speak.  "This, 
this would take a monster.  No one...."  His voice cracked and trailed 
away. 
 
"We need his records," Mulder said.  "Now.  He has a new victim.  As 
we speak, he's likely to be cutting her, burning her, breaking her 
bones, raping her.  She'll be dead soon.  He does this on a schedule.  
He has a predictable MO.  Help us.  Now."  Damn it! Mulder's mind 
shouted.  It took all his control to keep his voice even and 
reasonable when he really felt like leaping at Locke and choking 
information out of his blue lips. 
 
Locke fell back into his chair.  "I'm not convinced that Bruno's your 
man," he said.  "We don't let criminally insane people out to kill 
again.  We're extremely careful.  Have multiple safeguards."  Seeing 
Mulder draw breath to speak, he raised his hands.  "But you can have 
the records.  If seeing them might save a life, they're yours.  We'll 
find the most recent photos we have too.  If you're doing a search, 
that might be a help."  He sagged over his desk, pushing the gruesome 
pictures away.  "God help me," he sighed.  "If I'm responsible for 
this, I'll....."  He trailed off, staring out the window. 
 
"Too late," Mulder said, picking up the photos.  "There's only one 
thing you can do now."  He looked up.  "Well, what the hell are you 
waiting for?  Every second counts." 
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 


Injuries to the Spirit (9 of 13)
by MystPhile@aol.com 
 
DAY FOURTEEN 
 
Scully was alone, but it gave her little comfort.  What might the beast 
surprise her with this time?--not another body, she hoped.  The  
little boy's bones continued to simmer on the stove.  The smell no 
longer bothered her. 
 
Join the group, she thought.  Take a number, boiling bones.  She  
continued to be amazed at the number of atrocities she was willing 
to put up with, grow used to.  For starters, she spent virtually all 
of her time tied to a chair, nude.  No big deal.  Her eyebrow quirked.  
Once again, she found herself making faces at an empty room.  She 
shook her head and wondered if she'd start talking aloud to herself.  
She already addressed herself constantly, lecturing, coaching,  
kvetching.  She was her only company in all this. 
 
What you've grown used to, she reminded herself.  You were making a  
list, stupid.  Her mind skipped around constantly, refusing to stay 
on track long enough to follow a thought to its logical conclusion.  
She sighed, faced with yet another symptom of her mental deterioration.  
Which she was trying to list, but couldn't keep her mind on.  "Ironic," 
she muttered.  Oh, shit.  She *had* spoken aloud.  Was she doomed? 
 
Okay.  The list.  Nude, tied up.  Accustomed to being pounced on by 
a madman.  Takes burns in stride, as well as gashes and occasional  
slaps and kicks.  Gets photographed while paralyzed by animal  
terror.  Looks like wild woman brought up by aberrant apes who  
didn't believe in grooming.  Performs autopsy on innocent child for  
entertainment of madman, then sits around contemplating the situation
as the bones boil into a stock.  Hey, no big deal. 
 
Was this Stockholm Syndrome, she wondered.  Nah, she hated the  
cocksucker.  She couldn't wait till the moment came when *she* had  
the upper hand.  She was simply not dwelling on the burns, cuts, et  
al because there was no point to it.  He was going to hurt her;  
that was clear.  Sitting here waiting for and fearing those pains  
would simply be playing his game.  She had to play her own game.   
Get strong, keep watch, maneuver him into *one* vulnerable moment.  
Use it.  Simple.   
 
There was still the Rape Card, however.  Her calculations suggested  
she'd been here for two weeks and two days.  She better decide how  
to handle the sexual assault, when it came.  Flexing her muscles,  
continuing to build her body for the big opportunity, she settled  
down to think.  It was so much easier when he wasn't here,  
chattering, chortling, attacking.  He demanded attention in the way  
her nephew did.  He was large, muscular, and sadly arrested in  
development.  Or twisted, pretzel-like, into an immoral knot.  None of  
his strands seemed to be consistent or make sense.  Twisted, yes.   
That was Death.  Asshole, to call himself that.  Talk about  
delusional. 
 
Birds chirped outside.  It must be daytime.  As she often did,  
Scully thought she could hear the hum of traffic on a busy highway  
in the distance.  That would be like him, to put her within earshot  
of civilization.  So close and yet so far. 
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 
 
DAY FOURTEEN 
 
Things were really moving now, both in Chicago and back in the DC  
area.  Images of Bruno Danelli, his most recent photo as well as a  
selection of computer-enhanced photos that showed him wearing  
various hair lengths, facial hair, hats, and sunglasses, were 
circulating in the areas Scully had frequented:  her apartment, the 
Bureau, Mulder's apartment, her mother's neighborhood, and the motel 
from which she had been kidnapped.  Swarms of agents were hitting the  
streets, armed with photos and urgency. 
 
Mulder had at first been impressed to hear of the extent of the  
actions in DC.  Maybe the Bureau was a lot better than he'd thought  
all these years.  Maybe he hadn't done them justice.  But a call to  
Byers set him straight. 
 
"Yeah.  Frohike said he didn't want to see them dick around with  
this one," he told Mulder, his prim voice placing invisible  
quotation marks around 'dick.'  "So he made some anonymous calls  
threatening to tell the press that the FBI has information about a  
serial killer who preys on women on the Internet.  If they don't  
get out there and save Scully, he said it'd be in every newspaper  
in the world, and they'd come off looking like incompetent,  
uncaring shits.  They might have gone all out anyway," Byers  
continued, "but it can't hurt to throw a little more motivation  
their way." 
 
"Thank Frohike for me." 
 
"Yeah.  We're still on this, hacking away.  One thing we can do  
that the Bureau can't is  access credit card companies and find  
out who among current credit card holders has the 2 and 4 or b and  
d in their PIN number.  That should generate a new list for us to  
cull." 
 
"Great.  Thanks.  Later."  Mulder hung up, pleased to hear that the  
Gunmen weren't going to let a little matter of peoples' civil  
liberties stand in their way. 
 
Returning to Perkins, he grabbed the Crestview papers and got to  
work.  "Does he remind you of the geek who was always running for  
President of Student Council?" Perkins asked after they'd both  
spent some time sorting through records. 
 
"What interests me," Mulder said, "is that when he was in school,  
including high school and college, he was a nonentity.  Socially, I  
mean, not academically.   A figure held in contempt, if people  
noticed him at all."  He nodded to the bulging briefcase between  
them.  "All the school records show that he couldn't have been  
elected dogcatcher." 
 
"So then he blooms in a mental institution.  Shades of 'One Flew  
Over the Cuckoo's Nest.'" 
 
"Eh, he's no Randle McMurphy.  Like you said, this guy is still a  
geek.  He just happened to be the smartest guy here." 
 
Perkins laid down his stack of paper.  "Well, he could have been an  
octuple-letter man here.  It looks as if he was doing everything  
but chairing the board of trustees.  I don't think we can take  
their evaluations of him seriously at all.  He studied the place,  
figured out who to cultivate and how to do it, and eventually had  
his way with everybody.  I think he'd of stayed here if he hadn't  
felt like killing someone.  Without that compulsion, he was king of  
the hill here.  And he knew it."  He sighed.  "Should have stayed." 
 
Mulder nodded.  He wished fervently that Danelli had stayed at  
Crestview fooling all the people all the time.  The guy was shrewd,  
brilliant, and an empath.  If his shrink was a new female staff 
member, he charmed her with his perceptions and tact, giving  
her precisely the sensitive, sentimental responses she expected.   
If the shrink was an older man, Danelli easily assumed the role of  
the respectful son, curled at the feet of wisdom, eager to catch  
the falling pearls.  All those years of drama training had paid  off.  
Mulder had no doubt that if he were to meet Danelli, the guy  would
research him, then dredge up the alleged bathtub drowning of his 
young sister.   Soon, the story would have transformed into Danelli's
vision of her floating away through a window in a flash of bright light.  
 
His phone rang.  After a brief conversation, he turned to Perkins.   
"The Chicago PD are checking into the house he grew up in.  He sold  
it after he strangled his wife, but there are still some people in  
the neighborhood who remember him from the old days.  It's one of  
those places where the families tend to stay put." 
 
"Let's go." 

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 
 
Mulder and Perkins spent a long, long afternoon and evening  
tramping the tree-lined streets surrounding the former Danelli  
house.  Abutting Hyde Park, most of the houses were twins with  
small, well-planted front yards.  Unfortunately, many of the  
occupants were at work.  Most of those who were around had not  
lived there during Danelli's youth, or if they had, barely  
remembered him.  They didn't find anything of interest until nearly  
9 p.m., when they were ready to give up and retreat to their motel. 
 
Lisa Whyte, a woman in her late thirties who no longer lived in the  
area, was staying at the house that had belonged to her late  
mother. After a long day at work, then some hours spent sorting  
through family possessions as she prepared to put the house on the  
market, she welcomed a chance to take a break.  And she had known  
Bruno Danelli.  
 
Pushing back blonde hair from her face and tucking it into a pony  
tail, she served coffee to Mulder and Perkins at the cluttered  
kitchen table.  She gestured at the piles of papers and  
photographs.  "Just sorting through all this stuff has brought it  
all back to me," she said.  "I've just put in about three hours  
looking through things that make my childhood seem like yesterday.   
Those years have all...risen to the top of my brain.  What do you  
want to know?" 
 
"How long did you know Bruno Danelli?  How well?"  Perkins asked. 
 
Lisa sipped her coffee, then spooned in more sugar.  "He lived  
three houses down," she said.  "I always knew him."  She laughed.   
"I tried not to.  What a creep that kid was." 
 
Mulder sat up straighter.  "How?" 
 
"Sneaky.  Underhanded.  Mean."  She waved her hand in a vague  
gesture.  "I know kids are mean.  And they get over it, grow out of  
it.  Bruno was different.  He just didn't give a damn about anyone  
but himself.  He was totally focused on what he wanted.  If we  
hadn't had some bullies to keep him in line, he'd have just bopped  
every smaller kid over the head and taken what he wanted." 
 
"Do you remember his mother?"  Mulder asked. 
 
She nodded.  "A bitch on wheels.  Always out yelling for Bruno to  
come in.  God forbid he should be on the street with the rest of  
the kids.  She thought he was far superior to riff raff like us." 
 
Perkins asked, "Did she seem especially close to him?  Dress him in  
any special way?" 
 
Lisa thought.  "Now that you mention it, he did wear pretty fancy  
clothes for this neighborhood.  And he came in for some teasing  
because of it.  But he would have anyway.  He was just...an  
outsider.  Just not...one of us.  No way.  And it's not because he  
was a blazing genius, which I gather he was.  I mean, I've got a  
Ph.D. myself, and a lot of the neighborhood kids grew up to be  
successful.  So there were other smart kids, but Bruno...he went  
around...like with a lightbulb over his head.  Our resident genius.   
And we were never allowed to forget it." 
 
She poured everyone more coffee.  "His mother.  Yeah, they were  
close.  If he *did* mention her, it was like she was a saint or  
something.  Which she wasn't." 
 
"She have boyfriends?" 
 
"I didn't notice any when I was little.  But then I wouldn't, would  
I?  There were some guys when I was a teenager.  I remember one  
with a great car, big white Caddy.  It impressed my little teenage  
heart."  She smiled. 
 
"You remember when she died?" Perkins asked. 
 
Lisa hesitated.  "Yeah.  I just remembered, now that you ask.  It's  
something I hadn't thought about in years.  The ambulance came to  
take her away.  Bruno had hysterics on the sidewalk, practically  
walking on his knees after the stretcher.  Everyone was outside,  
watching.  Nobody really was that sad about her dying, but we all  
felt...kind of bad for Bruno.  He looked like he was gonna crack." 
 
"And afterwards?"  Mulder asked. 
 
"I just don't remember seeing him that often," Lisa said, rubbing  
her tired eyes.  "He lived here while he went to the University,  
but I was away by then.  I went to Berkeley.  I did see him in the  
summer.  He just seemed...wet.  Still the same creepy guy--selfish,  
no feelings for anyone else, arrogant, know it all.  I avoided him.   
He gave me the creeps." 
 
"Ever see his wife?" 
 
"The one he murdered in this very neighborhood?" she asked.  "Yes.   
She was pretty.  I remember wondering how the hell he'd ever  
persuaded her to marry him.  She seemed normal, poor thing.  He  
must have put on some act to fool her." 
 
"Any rumors about them not getting along?" Mulder asked. 
 
Lisa sighed.  "You know, you're a couple months too late.  My  
mother sat here looking out at the goings on in this neighborhood  
for fifty years.  She could have told you about his wife's freckles  
and Bruno's wisdom teeth.  But I had other fish to fry.  I followed  
his trial, of course.  But I suppose you have the transcripts to  
that anyway.  I'm sure you know more than I do." 
 
"You can see him as a murderer?"  Perkins asked. 
 
She nodded emphatically.  "Absolutely.  None of this insanity shit,  
you'll pardon me.  He always had it in him.  You'll never convince  
me otherwise." 
 
"If it was so obvious, how the hell did he get off?"  Mulder asked. 
 
"Money." Her accompanying look suggested that Mulder was pitiably  
naive. 
 
Perkins nodded.  "We're seeking him now in connection with the  
kidnapping, torture, and murder of women.  He's merely a suspect, I  
want to make that clear.  We have no proof, only some vague  
allegations.  But I wonder if you can see him as a...torturer,  
abductor." 
 
"Oh, yeah.  I don't really know him.  I just have these memories.   
And, let's face it, I wasn't a saintly child by any means.  But I  
can see Bruno hurting people, especially women, and liking it.  I  
just can." 
 
"Why women?"  Mulder asked. 
 
Lisa thought for a moment, then finished her coffee.  "Because he'd  
*perceive* them to be weaker, someone he could take advantage of.   
Despite the fact that his mother ruled him with an iron fist in an  
*iron* glove."  She paused.  "Or maybe because of it."  She laughed  
briefly.  "Everyone's an amateur psychiatrist these days." 
 
Mulder returned her smile.  "Just a shot in the dark.  Any tortured  
animals found in the neighborhood when you were young?  Any fires  
of unknown origin?  We've asked the police to check, but that's a  
long time ago, before computerized records.  Do you remember  
anything like that?" 
 
"Yeah.  When I was, oh, nine or ten, some damaged squirrels were  
found.  At first, people thought they'd just been slow enough to  
get caught by a cat.  Then a cat was found pretty well torn apart.   
I didn't see it myself, but I heard it was really ugly."  She  
paused.  "There may have been other instances, but I just don't  
remember that well." 
 
She tapped the table, then said, "Try Mrs. Snyder.  She lived  
across the street until a few years back when she moved to a  
retirement community.  She watched just as carefully as my mom did.   
She'll know everything.  And she's still got all her marbles, too.   
She'd get a kick out a visit from the Feds.  She watches cops and  
robbers shows all the time."  She rummaged through the piles for an  
address book, then copied the address and phone number. 
 
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> 
 
DAY SIXTEEN 
 
Scully stood in the bathroom.  She'd made her decision and thought  
the time had come to begin.  It was cold-blooded, it was distasteful, 
it was sick.  But she thought--hoped, prayed--it might work. 
 
The monster had not brought back any unpleasant surprises from his 
last excursion.  The routine continued, the usual warfare--the 
talking, the cooking, and the occasional attack, escalating, always 
escalating.  But there was a new glimmer in his eye, or at least 
Scully thought she saw one.  It seemed that he was staring at her 
body more frequently, as though to remind himself that a sight he 
(and she) had come to take for granted was in fact meant to be 
stimulating. 
 
The others had been raped.  After much thought and considerable 
concern about her sanity, Scully had decided on two things:  One, if 
she *was* raped, it'd be less painful if she was lubricated.  Two, her 
best guess (and *fervent* hope) was that the madman would be unable 
to perform unless he forced himself on a woman who was helpless and 
unwilling.  If she were well-lubricated enough to convince him that 
she was willing, it just might turn him off.  Either way, it was worth a 
shot. 
 
Which is why Scully stood in the bathroom after her exercises  
running her hands up and down her body caressing herself, seeking  
out the most sensitive places.  She closed her eyes and stroked her 
breasts, rubbing her fingers across the tips of her nipples.

In one of the most bizarre associations her mind had ever made, she 
thought of Eleanor Roosevelt.  She recalled that Mulder had once asked her 
who she'd like to be if she weren't herself.  He'd been unimpressed when
she answered, Eleanor Roosevelt.  Okay, she wasn't glamorous.  She 
wasn't even alive.  But Scully had read several biographies and deeply 
admired her courage and convictions.  One thing she would always 
remember.  The early years had been miserable for Eleanor, a homely 
girl out of her league with the patrician, confident, womanizing 
Franklin.  Yet, she had triumphed, made a life of her own which helped 
and inspired millions, always from the conviction that Scully found so 
inspirational:  No one can humiliate you without your permission.

Standing in a maniac's bathroom, stimulating her nipples and moving 
her hand down to her pubic area, she was determined not to feel 
abased by what she was doing.  She was masturbating not to please 
herself but to prepare to be raped or avoid being raped, an action 
that seemed to mark a new low at a time when there was a multitude of 
contenders.  Yet, thanks to Eleanor, she convinced herself that this 
was a practical course of action taken only after careful consideration.  
Something like 'close your eyes and think of the flag'? sneered her 
sardonic inner voice.

What could be a bigger turn-on, she asked herself with a smirk..  
Dozens of things, she answered.  Like changing a flat. She cupped 
herself with her right hand and dipped her finger inside.  Yes, she 
was getting wet.  Physiology, it'll work every time.  The human body 
is so very predictable.  She moved her finger in and out, then up her 
folds to moisten the entire area.  If he touched her, she would seem 
to be excited.  

How long since she had been touched with anything like affection?  
She was so starved for a gentle, warm human contact that even her own 
touch--in this ludicrous situation--lightened the pain of isolation.  
She'd been away so long, penned in with a cruel monster.  The 
movements of her fingers began to feel good, rather than being a mere 
practical course of action.  Her hand speeded up and she decided that 
from now on, this should become part of her bathroom visits, as much 
a routine exercise as her calisthenics.    
 
Gotta get *all* those muscles, she thought, her breath coming faster.  
So what do you think of this, God?  she asked the entity she still 
prayed would give her strength to escape.  Do You approve? she asked 
Him, beset by childhood memories of the body-as-God's-temple 
teachings.  When I'm doing it to save my life?  Or are You 
remembering the times I've done it for fun instead?  God could be 
pretty practical too, she recalled, depending on which part of the 
Bible you were reading.  He didn't say, Build an ark, any size you 
want.  He gave measurements, in cubits, whatever they were.  Practical, 
yes?  Of course, He also did a lot of totally inexplicable things as 
well, even if read for their symbolic meaning.  Scully liked to 
*understand*, which was part of the frustration of dealing with the 
lunatic outside the door.
 
Enough, she told herself, withdrawing her hand and grabbing the  
soap.  You're supposed to be getting wet, not getting off.  She had 
been mired in misery for so long, with only one pleasurable thought: 
killing that cocksucker.  The sooner the better. 
 
"Time's up, Dana.  Come on out." 
 
Yeah, right, she thought.  Fuck you, you murderous creep.  I will  
make you *suffer*.  You will beg to die. 
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<


Injuries to the Spirit (10 of 13)
by MystPhile@aol.com

DAY SIXTEEN 
 
A weary, disheveled Mulder sat in Skinner's office filling in the 
AD on his activities in Chicago.  The Bureau had copies of  
Danelli's records from every school he'd ever attended.  He was  
invariably described as a brilliant student and a socially  
isolated person, regardless of age.  At Crestview, where he'd been  
incarcerated, he'd changed the pattern and become Mr.  
Congeniality.  He probably realized that to be released, he'd have  
to present a "normal" personality.  So he did.   

They'd talked to every former neighbor or classmate or teacher they 
could locate.  They had dug into the trial transcripts and questioned 
the intimates of his late wife.  They had even run down a man who had  
dated his late mother.  The picture remained the same:  He was a  
classic sociopath who had given everyone the creeps.  The mother's  
date had thought he was a raging little sicko and had dropped the  
romance a week before her untimely death.  Too bad mama didn't  
confide the loss to Junior, Mulder told Skinner.  She might have  
saved her life. 
 
"There's no proof he killed his mother,"  Skinner pointed out,  
shuffling through a tall stack of papers. 
 
Mulder raised a skeptical brow.  "Even an old lady in a retirement  
community who spent years watching his comings and goings thought  
he'd knocked off mama.  He threw an operatic tantrum at the time  
of her death that seemed to fool no one.  Too bad they just closed  
the curtains and thought what a shame it was, him getting away  
with murder.  If they'd told the police, there probably would have  
been a better post-mortum.  If he was already reading mysteries,  
he probably had some nifty murder methods in mind." 
 
"Maybe they didn't care.  You said the woman was disliked." 
 
Mulder nodded.  "Everybody cared about his wife, though.  The  
people who knew her would have gladly strangled him for what he  
did to her.  They all thought hanging would be too good for him,  
let alone a stay in a cushy asylum with four-star chefs." 
 
"Why'd she marry him, if he gave everyone the creeps?" 
 
"He fooled her.  He fooled everyone at Crestview.  He fooled a  
bunch of smart women over the Internet, including the normally  
untrusting Agent Scully."  Mulder brooded.  "What do we have  
at this end?" 
 
Skinner folded his hands.  "A lot of information.  Not enough.  He  
was spotted in a lot of the places Scully frequented, sometimes  
disguised, other times not.  He stalked her for at least six weeks  
before he moved on her.  We're checking on modes of transportation  
now.  He had to have rented or bought something large enough to  
conceal her after the grab.  He had to have rented a place to take  
her to.  He had to have a place to stay while he stalked her.  If  
we find that place, it might have some clues about where he took her.   
If in fact, it's not the place he's holding her now."  Skinner shook 
his head. 
 
"I know it seems slow, Mulder, but we have a shitload of manpower  
on this one.  Agents are fanning out over five states to car and  
property rental agencies.  Now that we have the ID, the other four  
women are being re-investigated.  If we find he kept them in the  
same type of place, for instance, we'll know better where to look  
for Scully." 
 
"We're over the two-week mark," Mulder said through gritted teeth. 
 
"And we're putting in hundreds of man hours on this.  It's gotta  
pay off.  We're *on* it, Mulder." 
 
"Let's hope we get there soon enough," Mulder snarled, headed for  
the door. 
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 
 
DAY SIXTEEN
 
The gleam she imagined in his eye must have been for real, Scully  
thought, as Death leaned against the counter, hands on hips.  His  
pelvis thrust forward and he held her eyes as he moved his right  
hand from his hip to his penis, giving himself a long, slow stroke  
through his jeans.  The bulge was visible.  His eyes were avid, 
greedy.  The serpent revealed, Scully thought. 
 
It'd been two hours since her little tryst with her right hand in  
the bathroom.  Just in time, she told herself.  And here's hoping  
I'm still wet and it has the desired effect.  She forced herself  
to meet his eyes without flinching, attempted to look seductive  
rather than terrified. He needs to feel your fear, she lectured  
herself.  Don't let him.  Time for the performance of a lifetime. 
Otherwise, there won't be much time left in your life. 
 
"Do you want me?" she asked in a husky voice.  She let her eyelids  
droop in what she hoped was a sensual way.  "I *am* kind of horny,  
you know?  We've been here for some time now.  Remember how  
desperate Stephanie Plum gets for sex, how she gets it on with  
Morelli."  Shut up, she ordered herself.  Don't get into a whole  
detective fiction series here.  That's what landed you here in the  
first place, lame brain.  Besides, you're babbling.  Watch him.   
See what clues he's giving off.  Pay attention, damn it.  Your life  
depends on it.  Her nasty inner voice added snidely,  or your fucking 
honor.  Quiet, she told her divided self.  We have to act in concert 
on this.
 
Death's eyes narrowed.  He plainly was not pleased to hear that  
Scully was horny.  He pulled his hand away from his penis as if it  
had touched a hot iron.  "What's your game, Dana?" he hissed. 
 
Like a snake, her inner voice noted.  Shut up, she told it. "Game?"  
she asked innocently.  She looked into his eyes.  "You know I'm  
interested in romance.  When you were Beth, we discussed plenty of 
them--Kay Scarpetta's.  Kinsey Millhone's.  Russell and Holmes.  
Peabody and Emerson.   McCone and Ripinski.  Why should you think I 
don't want sex in real life if I enjoy reading about all those fictional
peoples' love lives?" 
 
He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his  
chest.  "So why didn't you ever mention any boyfriends?" 
 
She shrugged.  "I didn't mention grooming my houseplants either,  
but that doesn't mean I wasn't feeding and watering and cutting  
them back during all that time we corresponded.  I didn't tell Beth  
*everything*.  One thing I didn't mention is that I like sex.  I need it.  
Although I should think that would have come across in our
discussions." 
 
He was silent, thinking.  Scully considered adding to her comments,  
then decided to shut up and see how much he was buying, if  
anything.  It was true.  She had never talked about whether she had  
or did not have a sex life.  They had discussed fictional affairs  
and revealed attitudes toward sex and romance, but never had she 
given out personal information about her own sex life. 

She checked his eyes, anxious about his reaction.  If he believed her,
would it make any difference anyway?  Was he determined to use 
her sexually, no matter what?  Could a rapist, one who practically 
used a blueprint, as he did, be dissuaded from his plan? 
 
"Bullshit," he told her.  "Don't try to shit a bullshitter.  You'll  
wind up covered with crap.  Like the shit you're talkin'.  I see  
what you're doing, Dana.  I know you're clever, for a woman.  But 
you're no match for me.  Don't try to tell me you want to have sex 
with your kidnapper.  Get real."  He stalked over to her, leaned 
down, and grabbed her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.  He 
gave it a cruel squeeze.  His laugh rang out as he applied more 
pressure. You fucking bastard, she thought.
 
"Yes," she gasped, wiping the smile off his face.  He had expected  
pain, withdrawal.  Should she pretend to be a masochist, she  
wondered.  Nah, impossible to carry that off.  "It happens all the  
time," she told him.  "Look at Patty Hearst.  Abductees, especially  
women, often fall for their captors.  Do you have such a hard time  
believing you could attract me?  A great looking guy like you?" 
 
He withdrew again.  Presumably, he liked being told how handsome  
he was.  It appeared to be a new sensation for him.  Hadn't the other 
hostages tried it?  Maybe not, to judge from the defeated look in 
their eyes.  Or maybe they had, and he was simply toying with her, 
leading her through one of his elaborate rituals before pouncing for 
the assault.  The game was one of the big turn-ons for him, she knew 
by now.  He was in love with the process, the tease, the dance.

Let's hope he doesn't take me up on this, she thought.  I don't  
want to be that convincing.  No, no, she reassured herself.  He can't  
get it up if a woman wants him.  He needs force to turn him on.  He 
feeds on his victims' resistance.  Believe that.  Lay it on.  Convince 
him you want him.  Lay it on so thick he'll be as limp and useless 
as an inchworm.  Pencil dick.  Linguini dick, in his case, added 
that nasty voice that had taken up residence within.  But no time
to think about that now.  Here he came again.   Uh, approached, 
not came, she corrected, unable to silence that voice.

He grabbed her face, fingers pressing painfully into her jaws.  She  
could feel her molars quake.  "You know I'm going to kill you," he  
said, locking eyes with her and holding her face immobile.  "You  
wanna fuck a guy who's gonna murder you?" 
 
Scully moved her lower jaw slightly, causing Death to loosen his  
grip.  He didn't move his eyes, however; he was fiercely  
concentrating on her eyes, as if trying to read through them to her  
soul.  "Just because I'm going to be dead soon doesn't mean I can't  
have a little pleasure now," she told him softly, staring into his  
eyes.  "That's really the human condition, isn't it?  Everyone's  
going to die, eventually, and just about everyone still goes around  
having sex at every opportunity.  Is what I proposed really that  
weird?" 
 
His hand fell away from her jaw.  His eyes traveled down her body  
and stopped when they reached her patch of pubic hair.  "Spread  
your legs," he snarled. 
 
"Sure.  Anything you say.  You know, the way they're tied, I can't  
really move them that--" 
 
She went silent as he stuffed his hand between her legs and thrust  
his fingers into her vagina.  It felt like an invasion by lobster  
claws as he probed roughly within her.  It seemed he was trying to  
force his fist inside her.  Got a stove you'd like to add, buddy?  
she thought as she tried not to gasp with the pain.  All that  
lubrication didn't do a hell of a lot of good if he was driving in  
with a bulldozer.  She controlled herself and gave a little  
pleasurable moan.  Abruptly, his hand was gone. 
 
"Christ," he shouted, cuffing her across the face with a hand slick  
with her juices.  "What kind of whore are you?   You want to fuck  
me?  Well, lady, I make war, not love."  He continued to bat her  
across the face with hard, vicious blows till finally the chair 
toppled.  He gave her a half-hearted kick in the ribs, then stumbled 
off to the bathroom. "Cunt," he mumbled.  "Filthy cocksucking cunt.  
Fuckin' ballbreaker." 
 
Scully lay on her side, pain radiating from several different  
areas.  But she wasn't thinking about the hurt.  That nasty inner  
voice, the obscene, cynical rebel who'd moved in, was too busy  
sneering, Eat shit and die, cocksucker.  She may even have been  
doing one of those ridiculous little dances between the goalposts,  
like some dumbass football player.  She was hopeless, Scully  
thought, still gasping on the floor, but she was keeping her sane.   
And that's all that mattered right now. 

His penis, from what she could tell by checking out his tight jeans, 
had lost any semblance of an erection by the time he stomped off to 
the bathroom.  He could not rape the willing, at least at the moment.  
That didn't mean the problem was solved, though, not by a long shot.  
Pain would still turn him on.  Sexual pain would probably be the 
biggest turn-on of all.  She wasn't safe yet.  This was one battle, 
not the war.  Keep your mind working, she told herself fiercely.  He 
can be had.  You had him stymied there for a moment, on the run.  Now 
figure out what to do next to keep yourself alive.
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 
 
 
DAY SIXTEEN
 
Mulder stood outside the Gunmen's, listening to locks being thrown,  
feeling as if he'd hit a brick wall.  Over two weeks now, working  
twenty hours a day, and they still had nada.  A name, a face.  No  
location.  What condition was she in by now?  He couldn't stand to  
envision it; he couldn't drive the images from his mind. He was truly 
fucked up.
 
The door flew open.  "We have some leads," Frohike told him. 
 
"What?" 
 
"We've gone through all these credit cards and checked PIN  
numbers," Byers explained.  "We had a long list that we culled by  
limiting to a 200-mile radius of DC.  Now it's still a long list,  but it's 
easy to eliminate quickly.  Just verify where they are  right now.  
If they're here, if they're sitting at their desk at the brokerage, 
they're probably not the scumbag we're looking for.  So we go
on.  Find the ones who aren't answering phones, who aren't  
at the listed address.  Want to help?" 
 
"Yeah.  And give me the list.  I'll fax it back to the Search Team.   
They don't have to know where it came from.  Thanks to your  
anonymous threat, they're treating this like a Russian invasion." 
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 


Injuries to the Spirit (11 of 13)
by MystPhile@aol.com

DAY SEVENTEEN

The bad news was that her rib was cracked, her face was covered 
with bruises and aching like hell, one of her back teeth felt wobbly, 
her nipple was deep purple, and her vagina felt as if she'd given 
birth about a half hour ago. 

The good news was that Death looked, according to her nasty inner 
voice, warmed over.  He drooped.  He looked so dispirited that she 
feared he might just get fed up and kill her.  If he couldn't follow 
the usual pattern of rape and abuse, he could deviate from his MO 
and not wait the full three weeks.  Wait a minute, she thought.  
*This* is good news?  She was also tiring of these inner dialogues.  
She was starting to feel like the star of "Three Faces of Eve."

Besides, who was to say he wouldn't have another go at her, now that 
he'd had time to think about her ploy?  He was very, very smart.  He 
might conclude that if he made his actions painful enough, she would 
*not* desire him.  With sufficient pain, she would be terrified and 
pathetic, and he would be potent.  Christ, she hoped her little scheme 
hadn't just upped the ante, invited more pain.

She needed to end this, now.  They had entered lethal territory.  
What to do, what to do.  Well, kill him.  Yeah, of course.  But how 
to get free.  How to keep him from ripping her to shreds.  Distract 
him.  Amuse him.  Great.  How?
 
"I know you're a computer expert," she said.
 
He nodded and got up to check the stock, which continued to boil.  
Let's not think about that, she advised herself.  "I wondered if you 
used your computer skills to check out the, uh, women you're 
interested in.  For example, did you hack into my accounts?  Read my 
other e-mail?  Hack into my personnel file at work?"
 
He stirred the contents of the pot and wandered back to the main 
room.  "That would reduce the challenge too much," he told her, 
regaining a trace of his superior air.  "The game was to see what I 
could draw out of you through the correspondence.  Then, when I 
thought I knew enough, I'd spend a couple of months on the scene, 
following you everywhere.  Watching, photographing.  Enjoying the 
view.  Just hacking in would be too simple.  Where's the fun?"
 
Where, indeed, she thought.  "I just wondered if you knew what kind 
of work I do," she said, getting ready to slip into the Sheherazade 
role again.   "I work on a unit called the X-Files.  We investigate the 
unexplained, the paranormal.  We've had some weird cases through 
the years.  For instance, there was this fellow named Tooms."  And 
she was off.
 
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
 
DAY SEVENTEEN
 
Mulder drove through countryside, headed south from Mt. Vernon.  
Yesterday's list had included a number of men who could not be 
immediately located.  One, which had a post office box address, had 
grabbed his interest.  He wasn't sure what set his bells chiming, but 
it was good to feel a rush of instinct.  His intuitions had been dead 
for far too long.  
 
First, the post office box had seemed strange to him.  Then, 
another chord in his memory had been pressed.  He remembered 
reading about a small boy missing from another town about thirty 
miles from the post office.  Why kidnap a little boy?  It wasn't the 
guy's MO at all.  Totally anomalous.  It was highly unlikely there 
was any connection, he thought.  So why were his hackles, 
whatever they were, raised?  Internal bells and alarms clanged.  
Unless he tied himself to a mast, like Ulysses, he was powerless to 
change direction, resist the sirens' call.  To the post office he 
sped, sheaf of photos resting on the passenger seat.
 
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
 
DAY SEVENTEEN
 
"So, he needed to have five livers before he could hibernate," 
Scully said.  "His nest--this mass of old newspaper--was all sticky 
with bile, a kind of deep yellow and really smelly.  And he had to 
rip out each liver with his bare hands. It wasn't pretty, if you know 
what I mean."  She looked at him.  Yeah, she told him silently, I'm 
your horror soulsister.  Let's bond, asshole.  

He  was looking at her with a new interest.  Can you believe it? she 
asked herself.  I've actually managed to impress this loathsome 
monster.  Little old me.  I'd be impressed with myself, but I can't 
risk over-confidence.  Time to do or die here.  And I prefer the 
former.  Let's put it *all* on the table.  "Hey," she asked him, "can 
I go to the bathroom, please?"  She aimed for  a tone that suggested  
they were confidants...colleagues in horror.
 
Death came over to loosen her bonds.  She appeared relaxed but was 
tensed for one of the sporadic attacks he used to keep her off 
balance.  "Hurry up," he said.  "I want to hear the rest of this."
 
Gotcha, she thought.
 
After some quick exercise and some just-in-case, you-could-never-
tell-about-a-psychopath, and Christ-this-really-hurts-I'm-not-
enjoying-it-God masturbation, Scully leaned back against the sink, 
biting her lip to try to still the pain.  Her whole body ached from 
the most recent beating.  She closed her eyes and prayed, I know this 
isn't pretty, but be with me.  I know we're not always on the best of 
terms, but...help me put this bastard down. Please, if You're there, 
give me the strength to do whatever it takes to stop him.  The prayer 
was short, but her concentration was strong and focused. 

Scully washed quickly and left the bathroom.  "Can I sit here without 
being tied?" she asked.  "I'll stay in the chair.  It'd be nice if I 
could move around a little."

"For now," Death said grudgingly.  "So this guy was in jail, huh?"
 
"Yeah, for a while.  But then he got himself a good lawyer."
 
"I know the feeling."
 
"So he was released, and we knew he still needed to get his quota 
of five livers.  And the minute he did, he'd hibernate and he'd be 
out of our reach.  So my partner started to tail him, very 
ostentatiously."
 
"Oh, yeah.  So, did he snatch your partner's liver?"  

She almost smiled.  "No, he tried, but he ended up chopped liver 
instead."  He shot her a glance that was almost admiring.  She had 
his interest.  We can be pals, asshole, she thought.  Trust me.
 
 >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
 
DAY SEVENTEEN
 
"You're sure this is the guy?" Mulder asked the old man behind the 
counter.
 
He did little more than glance at the photo.  "No doubt at all.  He 
comes in about once or twice a week, doesn't get much mail.  Just 
some bills.  Been coming for, oh, two or three months."
 
"Do you happen to remember if he gets mail from a bank?  Or anything 
or anyone else?  This is really important."
 
The old man took his time.  Mulder leaned on the counter and tried 
to look as if he were breathing.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  He wondered 
if he'd hyperventilate before the answer came.  Too bad if he 
passed out and missed it.
 
"Chase."  The man leaned across the counter and touched Mulder's 
arm.  "The bank is Chase.  You there, son?"
 
Mulder blinked.  And took a deep cleansing breath.  "Yeah, I am."  
Now, he added.  "Thanks a lot.  This is very important.  Is there 
anything else you remember?  Any other mail?  Any idea where he 
lives?  You remember what he drives?"
 
A regretful head shake.  "Sorry."
 
"You've been a big help," Mulder told him, rushing to the street 
and jerking out his cell phone.
 
He called the source of most of his good leads on this case. "Byers?  
Mulder.  Listen, we're closing in.  The name he was using from your 
list, John Sanders.  He's gotten mail from the Chase Bank.  Can you 
see if he's got an account with them under that name?  If he does--"
 
"Yeah, right.  Get the checks, see if there's a rent payment or a 
car payment from the account.  Look for the source of deposits.  
We're on it."
 
"Thanks."  He called Joe to tell him and the rest of the team about 
the John Sanders lead.  Mulder had no desire to be the Lone Ranger 
on this one.  All he cared about was getting  her out of there.  Every 
hour now was critical. Maybe every minute.
 
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
 
DAY SEVENTEEN
 
"So he was chasing Mulder through the tunnel and I was hanging over 
the edge trying to get a hold of Mulder and pull him up--"
 
"Mulder.  You call him Mulder.  The last-name syndrome we discussed 
at such boring length.  I wondered why you were hung up about that.  
It's your partner.  You *do* have a lover.  I wondered how I could 
have tailed you all that time and missed it.  All those coy references 
to 'my partner' in all those e-mails.  You never used his name." He
approached her, looming.  "I see."

You see what, Scully wondered.  That if I have a lover, I have a life 
and I no longer fit your profile?  So we should just call this
whole thing off.  Or that I'm an unfaithful bitch, like mommy in your 
sicko mind, 'doing it' with some other guy, and I'm ripe for the 
slaughter?  Wish I knew which way to go on this, but I've gotta 
finesse it.  Let's stay on topic, asshole.

"I thought you wanted to know what happened with Tooms."
                               
He backed off.  "Yeah, I do.  We'll get to 'Mulder' later.  Unless 
he's six feet under minus one liver by now, hah, hah."
 
"No, actually, he made it through ahead of Tooms and I managed to 
get him back to street level.  And then Tooms was coming after him, 
slithering through the tunnel, all sticky and greasy, and we spotted 
an escalator and then...."
 
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
 
DAY SEVENTEEN
 
The guys had hacked fast and furiously.  As it grew dark, Mulder 
pulled into the driveway of a woman to whom Sanders had written a 
check for over ten thousand dollars.  Since the amount was large 
enough to cover a vehicle or a down payment on a property, he felt 
this was his best lead yet. This *had* to be the one.  
 
"Lois Lenski?  He held out his badge.
 
"What would the FBI want with me?" she asked with a tiny laugh.  
Ms. Lenski was in her mid-forties with thick brown hair and bright 
brown eyes.  She invited him in.
 
Mulder pulled out his sheaf of photos.  "We're interested in a man 
named John Sanders who wrote you a check for $10,500 a couple of 
months ago.  We wanted to know what the money was for, and if he 
looks like any of these pictures."  He gave her the undisguised 
version first, the one identified by the old man at the post office.
 
"Yeah, sure, he's the guy," she said.  "What'd he do?"
 
Mulder forced a smile.  "You don't want to know.  Just stay away 
from him if you ever see him again.  Don't let him come near you. 
Now, what was the money for?"
 
"My old Nissan Pathfinder," she said, going on to describe the 
year, color, and condition of the vehicle.
 
"He say anything about where he lives, where he was going?  Did he 
give you any information about himself at all?"
 
She shook her head.
 
Mulder rushed back to the car.  Time to check to see if the guy had 
used the Sanders ID to acquire his registration tags.  If so, an 
APB should do the trick.  Even knowing what vehicle to look for was 
some help.  Mulder felt he was closing in.  I'm coming, Scully, he 
thought.  Hold on, baby.  *Baby?*  Whoa...don't let her hear that 
one.  Hold on, Scully.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
 
DAY SEVENTEEN
 
"Nearly ready," Death chirped, stirring his stock.  "Unfortunately, 
I don't really care for this sort of thing.  Odd, I do like new 
sensations ordinarily.  But this--this is special, Dana.  This is 
just for you."  

He turned to her with a bright smile, his eyes once more raking her 
body.  Uh-oh, she thought.  The libido has returned.  Time to 
make the big move--before he gets revved up again.  She ignored his 
gross-out tactics with the stock, totally absorbed in creating the 
opening, the one tiny opening that she would barrel through and make 
him pay.  Distract him, she ordered herself.  Don't let him notice 
you're still untied.
 
"What are you going to eat today?" she asked, knowing how he loved to 
talk food.   Okay God, she prayed, the time has come.  Let's talk 
food with this guy.  Let's work him.  This may be it.  Be with me 
here.  You in?

She watched him tinkering and assumed the persona of the master 
chef's admiring apprentice.  She inhaled the aromas.  "What is it?" she 
asked, surveying the gas stove...and the heavy cast-iron frying 
pans he had assured her were the best.  He was absorbed in
slicing vegetables.  She was free.  This was probably as good as it was 
going to get.

"Oh, some good old Scarpetta stuff.  Bell peppers, mushrooms, onions 
with eggs.  I got me some nice Jalapenos when I was out."  He 
chuckled.  "A little of these babies goes a long way. You add a touch 
of the Jalapenos to the bell peppers and it makes all the difference.  
Spices it up.  Brings on the heat.  You know I like it hot."  He didn't try 
to veil his meaning.  Yep, the appetite had reawakened, and she was 
going to do her damnedest to ensure that she wasn't his dessert.  
He pulled on plastic gloves before dicing the Jalapenos.  "But of course 
you'll have your own dinner tonight.  A heavenly, delicate stock,
courtesy of your...little friend."

Scully swallowed in disgust.  She didn't try to veil it either.  Come on, 
God, she said inwardly.  Help me slice, dice, and saut this bastard's
*balls*.   She knew her prayers were getting cruder by the hour, but 
the language gave her strength somehow.  Help me put him down, 
she pleaded.
 
"Did you know that we also investigate UFOs and alien sightings?" she 
asked, hoping to pique the weirdo's interest. 
 
"What crap," Death laughed, pulling off his gloves and lighting the  
flame under a large, cast-iron frying pan.  "You're telling me my  
taxpayer's dollars go for that kind of idiocy?" 
 
Scully casually strolled to the counter.  "You pay taxes?" 
 
"Yeah, of course.  What do you think I am?"

A homicidal maniac, she answered mentally.  Aloud, she continued her 
efforts to keep him from caring that she was out of her chair.  "I 
don't know, but I couldn't believe you put on the latex to chop those 
Jalapenos."  See if we can get a little testosterone rising, she thought.  
That always impairs mental function.

She conjured Mulder at her side.  Right, partner?  Am I finally on 
the right track here?  *I* feel like I'm on a roll.  Let me know if 
my foot slips.

"Listen, little lady, I chopped enough Jalapenos to burn my hand off.  
But you wouldn't know that.  You like to be up to your boobs in that 
paranormal, alien shit.  You should have learned to cook, like a real 
woman.  When you get hungry, can *you* make something like this?  
No."

She tried looking chastised.  Anything to keep him focused on the 
food instead of her actions.  "I can cook, I just don't have time to 
cook."   He shot her a look of disgust. 

She feigned great interest as he poured olive oil in the pan with a  
flourish, cautiously making her way to his side of the counter.  He 
turned the flame up.  Scully focused on the fire.  The tiny sizzly 
sound tickled her ear, and the flame under the heavy iron pan 
mesmerized her.

Fire, Mulder, she told him.  We're going to play the Fire Card.  You 
with me, babe?  And God, I haven't forgotten about You either.  It 
takes a village, as they say.  We're going to gang up on this psycho 
and make him regret the night he was a gleam in his father's eye.

The beast was apparently satisfied with the temperature of his frying 
pan.  With Scully's eyes glued to his every move, he added even more 
olive oil, watching it heat.  He poured himself a glass of white wine 
and toasted her with a sardonic grin.  "I love a glass of a good 
buttery Chardonnay when I cook.  A little for me and a little for the 
pan.  Civilized, no?  This is Chalon, one of California's best.  It's 
so good, the pan's not getting any."  He smiled wickedly, "Salute."

She tore her eyes away from the flame and focused on her captor's 
wine.  He caught her eyes.  She caught his.  "May I please have a 
glass of water?  In the name of civility."  She was reaching, she 
knew.  But he was playing the ultra-civilized role at the moment, 
apparently ready to launch into his best-wineries-of-the-Napa-Valley 
speech.

He checked her position, once more raking her body with glittering, 
eager eyes.  Yes, definitely randy.  Working up a *big* appetite.  
Gotta get him before he got her.  Her escape would not be as easy 
this time.  She felt it in the vibrations he was giving off, the 
confident posture of a man who knew he would get--or take--what he 
wanted.

She leaned back against the counter, out of reach of any kitchen 
object.  He checked to see that the counter was empty and that he had 
a paper cup.  "No glass for you, Dana," he admonished her, handing 
her the paper cup filled to the brim.  "And don't think you can try 
anything.  You know who's in charge here.  I am being civil--for the 
moment--not stupid."
 
"Yes, I know."  She tried to look meek.
 
"One move and you'll be tied up for twenty-four hours straight 
floating in your own shit," he warned her.
 
So much for civility, she thought.  "I know," she repeated, edging 
closer.  She was about a yard from him and the stove.  The fire and 
oil had her total concentration now.  This was going to be it.  She 
backed off a bit before saying, "Isn't that an awful lot of oil?"
 
He gave a weary sigh.  "If you knew anything about cooking, you'd 
know you can never have too much olive oil, Dana.  And it has to be 
hot."  He turned up the fire as he added still more oil. Scully  
focused on the oil and the flame, her scientific mind noting that 
water and oil can be a dangerous combination.  He launched into a 
pompous lecture about his choice of oil as he reached for a wooden 
bowl of chopped onions and peppers to throw in the pan.
 
The oil was spattering and jumping with heat.  She felt the heat and 
felt energized, alive and on the offensive for the first time in 
weeks.  You like it hot, asshole, she thought.  Well, you'll love 
this.  With a motion that was a blur, she aimed the cup of 
water and hurled it as hard as she could into the frying pan.

The oil splattered wildly,  blinding Death for a second and stinging 
his body.  Before he could step back, the oil sloshed over the side 
of the pan, igniting the gas flames beneath.  He found himself 
staring at a wall of flame.  Scully, meanwhile, had grabbed  a 
potholder and seized the hot, heavy frying pan.  She began by hurling 
its sizzling contents into Death's face.  

Excruciating pain had him shrieking like a banshee.  Scully's aim had 
been sure and Death's face disintegrated right before her eyes.  Skin 
gave way to raw flesh and she knew she couldn't stop.  If she had her 
gun she could stop him, but she didn't. He was a wild wounded animal 
crazed with pain.  She whacked him again as hard she could, catching 
him on the side of the head.  Exhilarated,  she felt his skull crack 
open and watched a red river start to flow down his neck. He crumpled 
to the floor, his bellows filling the room. 

Then, the screaming stopped and his yelping began.  He writhed on his 
back, clawing at his face.  Although he was flailing wildly and in 
great pain, Scully realized that she desperately needed a knockout 
blow.  If not, he would literally rip her limbs apart in murderous 
rage.  He was a wounded bear.  So, she didn't even try to hold back.  
After seventeen days of his abominations, she wielded the pan with 
the conviction of Pete Sampras serving an ace.  She felt his nose 
break and saw the blood spurt. But he was still conscious and he 
caught her eyes.  His eyes were wild.

Don't give him a chance to knock you off your feet, she ordered 
herself.  He'll kill you.  She reached for the cutting board that 
held the Jalapeno peppers and dumped them onto his face.  Now he was 
too distracted to think of attacking her.  As he howled and clawed at 
his face, blood running and flesh burning, Scully had ample time to 
stand back, take a deep breath, and gather her strength.
 
She was tiring bigtime.  Her arms were so heavy.  Come on, God, 
Mulder, whoever's lending me strength for this.  Goliath is down.  
We've got to knock this bastard out.   She drew the frying pan over 
her head, her arms fully extended, and let gravity lead it to 
his skull, knocking him unconscious with a mighty blow.  He lay 
unmoving, bleeding, broken.  Thank you, Scully whispered.  We did it.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>


Injuries to the Spirit (12 of 13)
by MystPhile@aol.com

DAY SEVENTEEN

Keeping a wary eye on the body, Scully retreated a few steps.  Her 
fantasies ended right here: with the monster lying at her feet.  How 
odd that she'd never visualized what would happen next, she thought.  
Had she not truly believed she could overcome him?  Perhaps she 
hadn't.

But this was not fantasy; this was reality.  This evil creature had 
gotten away with murder, of his own mother plus at least four other 
women.  He was fiendishly clever.  Would he somehow fool the courts 
and be out strolling the streets, trolling for victims, within a 
matter of years?  She had been with the Bureau long enough to 
recognize the limitations of the Justice system.  She had seen 
murderers walk.  It happened every day.

She could stop this one.  Right now.  Pick another spot and let him 
have it with the frying pan.  Aim for a vulnerable area of the skull, 
or crush his Adam's apple.  Or pick up one of those sharp knives 
he was so proud of and slit his throat.  She could say it happened 
during her fight to escape.  With her injuries and the walls crowded 
with pictures of women he had tortured, there would be no questions 
asked.  Just congratulations for ridding the world of this loathsome 
monster.
 
The nasty voice that inhabited her urged her to do it, to show no 
mercy.  Look at the wounds from the cuts and burns, it told her.  The 
one on your shoulder is starting to ooze; it's probably infected.  
And look at those women on the walls.  *They* are the proper jury for 
this fucker.  And they're all holding their thumbs down.  Do right by 
us, they're pleading.  He tortured, tormented, raped, murdered us.  
He deserves to die, not sit in some comfortable cell clogging the 
system with appeals for the next ten years.  Do it for us, Dana.
 
I'm one of you, she told them, looking into their empty, despairing 
eyes.  But I can't...play God.  I wish I *had* killed him in the heat 
of battle.  That'd be the best outcome.  Truly.  But he's still 
alive, and I can't...can't... won't kill him in cold blood.  That'd 
make me--some little part of me--a bit like him.  And I can't do 
that.  I don't want to be the least bit like him.  I just hope I can 
be me again.  Cause he's taken a lot of me away.
 
She brought the frying pan down on his head again, not to crush his 
skull, just to insure that he remained unconscious.  She might be 
merciful, but she wasn't crazy, she thought.
 
Wearily, she trudged over to pick up the rope he'd used on her and 
returned to where he was lying, kicked him over onto his belly, and 
tied his hands behind his back.  With great competence.  No pleasure 
warmed her heart, however.  The adrenaline had come and gone, leaving 
her oddly passive.  Such an anti-climax once the beast is down.  
 
She found a tee-shirt in his bag, put it on, and opened the door.  It 
was night, but the moon was high in the sky.  She drew in her breath 
at the sight of it.  How wondrous it was, so huge, so bright.  How 
long had it been since she had seen the sky, breathed fresh air, 
walked freely in the world.  She felt like falling to her knees and 
kissing the soil, the way people did in movies when they made it to 
land after a stormy ride at sea.  She qualified, she thought.  That 
guy was a walking typhoon.  Thank you, God, she said aloud.  Thank 
You for letting me see the world again.  For escaping from his 
madness.
 
After gazing by moonlight at the wooded setting, she spied a white 
Pathfinder off to the side of the house and made her way to it 
barefoot, careful not to cut her feet.  It turned out to be a treasure 
trove.  After finding her clothing, her handcuffs, her badge and
weapon, and her battery-dead cell phone, she dressed quickly.  It 
felt strange, the rough fabric brushing against her sensitive skin.  
She left off her bra because of the burns on her breast and shoulder 
blade.  The fabric abraded all the cuts and sore spots, and her shoes 
felt stiff and foreign on her feet.

Hobbling slightly, she re-entered the house to better secure the 
madman.  She used her handcuffs, tied up his feet and legs with the 
rope, then took everything out of his pockets.  She found a wallet, 
car keys, money clip, change, ID, a pocket knife, and a pack of 
condoms.  Laying her booty on the counter, she rolled him up in the 
filthy rug, with only his head and feet protruding.

A ten-minute drive later, she found a gas station with a pay phone.  
Before depositing the coins of--what was he calling himself?--John 
Sanders, she asked the attendant where she was.  

It seemed strange to talk to a normal person.  His eyes widened and 
raked her from head to toe.  Undoubtedly she was a mess with her 
bruised face and Medusa locks.  Probably looked like a runaway 
battered wife.  She didn't bother showing him her badge since she 
didn't feel like an FBI agent anyway.

It occurred to her that she had returned to a world where ...she just 
didn't fit in.  She was like a ghost who haunts a scene once visited.  
Wearing shoes, walking across pavement, these were strange sensations 
now,  causing scraping, friction, noise.  And the *width and breadth* 
of the world outside the room were both astounding and frightening.
The wide, endless sky suggested there were no limits.  Scully thought 
that perhaps she needed limits now.  She needed for things to 
be...small, protected.  Sheltered. 

Here she was, experiencing what she'd coveted most--freedom.  She had 
fantasized about this moment so often and so hungrily that she feared 
she was dreaming and would soon wake up to the dreaded cackle.  
But although the attendant had told her where she was,  she still 
didn't know where she *was*.  She wondered if she'd ever find out, if 
she would ever know herself again, or know anything for certain. 
Or had the madman stolen an irreplaceable piece of her?  So many 
pieces, she mused, stumbling toward the phone.  Little bits and 
pieces of Scully, scattered all over the earth.  How morbid, she 
reflected.  Shouldn't she be cavorting at this point?  Dancing 
beneath the stars?  Shouting out her joy?  Instead, she felt 
inexplicably sad.  

She dialed Mulder.

"Mulder."

Scully opened her mouth, but no words came out.

"Who the hell is this?"

"It's me," she finally stuttered.  There was a pause.  Her heart was 
so confused, she had no idea what to say.  There was... so much to 
say, but she was unable to speak.  And she noticed Mulder wasn't 
exactly rushing in to fill the void.   Finally, she cleared her throat
and offered,  "I'm at a gas station outside of Fredericksburg.  Let 
me read you the directions."

"Are you all right?"  Mulder's voice cracked.  He sounded as if he 
were on the verge of tears.  She realized he too had suffered 
greatly.  So selfish, she accused herself.  Thinking about yourself 
all the time.  Now she felt even sadder. Her initial triumph in 
escaping her captivity, alive and still ambulatory, was rapidly 
darkening.

"Am I all right?" she repeated.   Shit, she thought.  How should I 
know?  I don't know anything right now, including how I feel.   She 
groped for a response: "I hope I will be."

Mulder didn't know whether to panic or rejoice.  No "I'm fine."  What 
did this mean?  That she was so not fine that even Scully couldn't 
force the usual words from her lips?  Or that she was simply making 
an honest acknowledgment of her ordeal?  Flummoxed, he told her he 
was over an hour away but would get some other members of the team 
to her within the half hour.  She told him where the cabin was.  They 
hung up, each shaken to realize they'd spoken in the tones of an 
operator giving directory assistance.

No connection.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

DAY EIGHTEEN


Scully lay in a hospital bed, staring out the window at puffy white 
clouds floating across a sunlit blue sky.  The sight hurt her eyes, 
unaccustomed to natural light.  There was much she had grown 
unaccustomed to, in what she found was only two and a half weeks.  To 
her, it had felt like an eternity.  Spent in hell.  One thing that bothered 
her was wearing a hospital gown; incredibly, she had gotten used to
being nude.  Lying in a bed was also a strange sensation.  

So were the people--mobs of them--who kept barreling into her 
room.  One thing she *had* gotten  used to was the lack of 
privacy.  At any time, the man she now knew as Bruno Danelli could 
invade her being in any way he chose.  But now, all *sorts* of 
people (although none were psychopaths, she reminded herself) kept 
popping into her room.  It was a mob scene, and she had grown used to 
a certain kind of solitude.  She had withdrawn into herself, like a 
frightened turtle.  Now, they all wanted to draw her out.  It was 
intimidating, jarring.

It was early afternoon.  She had been interviewed by at least a 
dozen Bureau personnel, ranging from top brass to the head of the 
search team to the PR types who wanted to make a heroine of her for 
foiling the serial killer.  Someone scented good publicity for the 
FBI.   She had not seen Mulder although Skinner said he was waiting 
to see her.  It was thought best to debrief her immediately.  They 
told her they wanted to be the first to hear what she had to say, not 
to have her impressions tainted by remarks from anyone else.

She wondered if this was because some shrink had advised them that 
she might break down once she saw people who were close to her.  
Strange policy, but she could wait.  She felt deflated, like a 
balloon lying used and wrinkled on the ground.  

She was willing to give the facts to her interviewers:  to describe 
the snatch, the time in captivity, the words Bruno had spoken, his 
means of torture.  But to do this, she had to disengage.  Her 
narrative might well have happened to someone else.  This was 
particularly true when she related the part about the little boy and 
the autopsy.  She wished that unspeakable episode could remain a 
dirty little secret.  However, there was a mother out there who 
needed to know that she should wait no longer for the return of her 
son.  She should know he died swiftly and with no suffering.  Scully 
could not bring back the dead or take back her actions following 
his death.  But she must do what she could for the living.

She was also under siege by medical personnel.  They needed to X-ray 
her for cracked bones, suture the cuts, treat the burns, discuss the 
use of plastic surgery to avoid scarring.  It was *very* disturbing, 
she thought.  All these people, rushing in and out, all talking at 
once.  They all thought whatever they wanted to talk about was so 
goddamned urgent.  It wasn't.  She couldn't see what all the fuss was 
about.  Somewhere in the course of her captivity, she had lost her 
sense of time.  She was willing to drift, indefinitely.  If these 
people would just leave her alone and stop nagging, pressing, 
pulling.  Let her retreat to the place where she'd learned to live in 
solitude, her mind.

Her mother's visit had exhausted her.  Maggie's eyes had lit up as 
she entered and rushed to embrace Dana.  Tears had flowed as she said 
how relieved she was, how thankful.  She told Dana how she had 
enlisted the prayers of Father McCue, how the two had prayed daily 
for her deliverance.

"I prayed too," Dana told her.  "But not the pretty kind of prayers 
you're talking about."

"It wasn't a pretty situation," Maggie said.  "I'm sure God 
understood, no matter what you said.  You're here, aren't you?  And 
in much better shape than I ever expected.  This is one of the 
happiest days of my life, Dana.  You're back."

Scully nodded.  She wasn't quite sure that *she* was back.  Her body 
was lying in this bed, but she seemed to have erected an invisible 
shield around her self.  She was glad to see her mother, thankful 
that Maggie was relieved and happy, but still, she felt listless, 
slightly numb.  Things just weren't penetrating.  She made an effort 
to reach out.

"I'm sorry for all the worry this put you through, Mom."

"I was worried sick, I admit.  Of *course* I was.  But it's all okay 
now.  Better than okay.  Terrific.  Oh, honey, thank God."

"Yes," Dana said listlessly.

"Do you want to talk?"  Maggie leaned down and touched her forehead, 
leaving her hand there for a few seconds as if checking for a fever.

"Not right now, Mom.  I'm just...so tired.  Really tired."

Looking less happy than when she entered the room, Maggie left.  
Scully felt guilty but helpless.   All these people with their 
questions and their caring.  Their demands.  She knew Maggie had been 
worried sick and was acting purely out of love, but still, she was 
mired in ennui. It was all...too much.  She longed to escape to her 
apartment and lock the door.

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

"How is she?"  Mulder asked Maggie.  He'd been sitting with his head 
propped against the wall for hours, dozing sporadically.  He'd found 
that, with Scully's return, he could sleep again.

"She seemed to want me to leave.  She seems...done in.  I don't know 
when I've seen her so down."

"I'm sorry.  No one knows what she went through.  It'll take a 
while."  Deliver a few platitudes, why don't you, he asked himself.  
Cheaper by the dozen.  He hauled himself to his feet.

"Maybe you'll be able to reach her," Maggie said.  "I can't.  Tell 
her I'll see her tomorrow, will you?"

Mulder nodded and held the door open for Maggie.  Then he took a deep 
breath and prepared to be sensitive and tactful.  Shit, he thought, 
that'll take longer than the space of a breath.  Maybe I should return
in six months.

He knocked on Scully's door.  

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< 


Injuries to the Spirit (13 of 13)
by MystPhile@aol.com

DAY EIGHTEEN
 
Well, this was a change.  Someone actually knocked on the door 
instead of barging in.
 
"Come in."
 
He entered, closed the door, and stood with his back to the door 
while they examined each other. 
 
Mulder looked thin and exhausted, worn to the bone, edgy.  "How 
many pounds have you lost?" she asked him.
 
"Fifteen."  He looked at her reduced frame tucked beneath the 
covers, her wild hair, her bruised, swollen face, the eyes that 
held...something unScully, something disconcerting.  "How about 
you?"
 
"Lost weight?  Ten."
 
"Let me take you out to dinner when they spring you," he said.  "We 
both need to eat some good, fattening food."
 
"As long as it's not Italian."  Her tone conveyed that she was not 
kidding.
 
He nodded.  "Do you mind if I sit on the bed?" he asked.  "Or 
would you rather I keep my distance?"
 
She looked surprised.  "You're the only one who's asked, the only 
one who's knocked, the only one who's thought that I might like 
some privacy and control."  She stopped, smoothed the tremors out 
of her voice.  "Come sit on the bed," she invited.  "I wasn't 
raped.  I have no fear of men in general and certainly not of you.  I 
want you close to me."
 
He sat, reaching for her hand.  She ignored his gesture and pulled 
his head close to hers, burying her face in his neck.  She sighed 
moistly onto his skin.  He wrapped both arms around her and pulled 
her close.  "Tell me if I'm hurting you.  I heard you have a cracked rib."
 
"It's okay.  I need to be held."  She buried her head again and 
nestled fiercely.  This felt right, she thought.  Her mother had 
tried to reach her, but she'd been too far gone.  To feel human 
again, she needed to be touched.  To feel a warm body--this warm 
body--surrounding her, sheltering her.  She breathed in his scent, 
felt the tight muscles of his arms curl around her sides, his gentle 
hands rubbing her spine.  
 
How much she must have suffered to display such need, Mulder 
thought.  She clung to him with the desperation of someone dangling 
over the edge of a cliff.  She was nowhere near "fine."  In 
contrast, he felt as if his phantom limb, the one that had tingled 
with pain all the time she was gone, had been reattached.  He felt 
whole again, and it was an incredible feeling.  He closed his eyes, 
concentrating on soaking her up.  The bones in her spine protruded.  
She felt like a waif from a war-torn country.  She is, he realized.  
She's just been airlifted out of a war zone.  My refugee.  That 
makes me a refuge.
 
He hoped no one had told her the status of the investigation at the 
time she freed herself.  He was convinced that with the information 
he'd unearthed, it was only a matter of hours, or at most a day, 
before they found her.  But the fact was that she had saved herself, 
not simply beaten them to the rescue.  Every hour counted where 
Danelli was concerned.  *One* more hour with him might have proved
fatal.  And Scully needed to feel that power, realize her great
accomplishment, she who was like a tiny, delicate bird in his hands.  
It felt as if any pressure would break her in two.  She was deceptive 
that way.
 
Minutes passed.  Connection, at least on a physical level, was re-
established.  Eventually Scully pulled back and rested on her 
pillow.  Mulder let her go, kissed her forehead, and sat close, 
his thigh resting against her hip, stroking her hand.  He noticed 
bandages on her wrist and arm.  Others showed through her hospital
gown.  The unScully look remained in her eyes.
 
"Tell me how it felt while I was gone," she said.
 
Mulder recognized this as the price he had to pay for Scully to 
talk to him.  I show you mine; you show me yours.  Okay, Scully, 
he thought, I'll show you my pain.  "I couldn't eat or sleep.  I 
kept looking at the crime scenes of the previous victims,  
imagining what he must be doing to you."  He took a breath.  "I  
hated myself for what was going on and I couldn't do a fucking  
thing to stop it.  I thought,"  he paused.  "I thought, if you  
died, like that, in such pain, I didn't know how I'd ever go on."
 
Tears rolled down Scully's cheeks.  "Thank you," she whispered.
 
He wiped away the tears.  "For what?"
 
"For, for breaking through.  Ever since...ever since I don't know 
how long...I had to get tough.  I couldn't let myself feel.  Except hate,
anger, rage.  I thought I'd go over the edge if I let myself feel what 
he wanted me to feel, all that hopelessness.  So I just...stopped.  
And now I'm back in the world, and it's...as if...it doesn't make any 
difference.   Cause I'm still trapped."  She shook her head.  
"I've...escaped, but it's not over.  I can't explain."
 
Mulder leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on her cheek.  "You 
just explained," he told her.  "I understand.  You can't walk away from
something like that and say, okay, that's that.  It's been less than a 
day.  You have to give yourself some time."
 
"You saw the pictures?"
 
He shook his head.  "I didn't want to see them," he said.  "Unless 
you want me to look, I'm not going to."  He felt it was bad enough
that Danelli had invaded her privacy without half the Bureau doing
so as well. 
 
"Everyone else did, I suppose," she said.  "And they'll be dragged 
out for the trial.  And there I'll be, nude, bedraggled, looking like 
a dog that's been beaten."
 
"But that's the amazing thing, Scully.  He couldn't beat you.  You 
didn't let him get the power over you.  You beat *him*."
 
She shrugged.  "I feel like a loser though."
 
"Why?"  He patted her hand.  "Don't answer if you don't feel like 
it.  You might be better off with a professional.  It takes a lot 
of work to get through something this painful."  He ran his hand 
lightly down her bruised cheek, gently fingered the swollen flesh 
above her right eye.  He gave her a small smile.  "I'm not talking 
about the physical pain."
 
"I know."  She looked into his eyes, soft with sympathy and 
understanding.  God, Mulder seemed like a different *species* than 
the man she'd been spending all her time with.  His touch, his 
interest--she could feel a meltdown begin in the protective icy 
layer she'd grown over the past weeks.  Each stroke on her cheek
brought more heat, more thawing.  She pressed into his knuckles, 
seeking the healing contact.

"I feel like talking now." she told him.  "Here's the problem.  I 
feel like shit.  I should be dancing in the streets cause I slew 
the dragon, or some crap like that.  But all I can think about are 
the horrible things.  I was stupid, thick.  It took me so long to 
figure him out.  I should have been out of there weeks ago.  
Instead, I let him reduce me to...almost nothing.  He broke me, and 
I, I hate that."  Her voice cracked and filled with a choking 
venom.  "I hate that fucking bastard.  And I always will."
 
Mulder took some time to think over her words and what he heard in 
her voice.   "You did what no other victim could do.  Of course you 
felt down and...and powerless; everyone does, if they're being held 
hostage.  You know that, Scully.  But you overcame those feelings 
and defeated him.  Eventually, I think you'll feel proud of yourself
for that.  You saved your life.  You saved the lives of others he'd 
go after next.  He's the kind of killer who'd go on forever, escalate,
devise new ways of hurting.  You stopped him."  He smiled.  "In 
fact," he said, "you beat the holy shit out of him so bad that they'll
probably make you part of the curriculum at Quantico.  You Won,"
he said emphatically.
 
"Well, it isn't just that he made me feel...broken...despairing," 
she said.   "It's...the control he exerted.  That I...I actually cut
up a beautiful little boy, performed an autopsy for *entertainment*.  
Then watched that...that creep boil the boy's bones.  He was 
making a fucking stock, that unmitigated asshole.   I...I 
desecrated that child's body."  More tears trailed down her 
cheeks.  "I...I love kids.  And I watched him kill one and then 
*cooperated.*   I feel like a Nazi collaborator or something.  I 
can't ever forget that, and it makes me...makes me hate...him,
me, the whole fucking world."
 
"He was the bad guy.  You were the innocent...person he was 
determined to control, to torment.  If the boy was already dead, 
your refusal couldn't help him.  It could only get you killed."
 
She scoured at her tears.  "I *know* that.  But I'm talking about 
how I *feel*, not about my rationalizations.  And remembering those 
hours...will always...make me sick.  And hateful."  She met his 
eyes, her own awash with tears.  "Some people can't even have 
children, and he...he goes around killing the ones that *are* 
here."
 
Oh, shit, Mulder thought.  The wound that keeps on bleeding.  He'd 
give his actual right arm to restore her fertility.  But she didn't 
need his guilt piled on top of her misery.  "The loss of a child is 
always a tragedy," he said slowly.  "We both know that."  He 
paused, remembering the loss of a child that had set in motion the 
course of his life.  

"The death of the little boy...I think it's ...it's right that you 
should grieve, let out your feelings.  It's a...horrible loss, an 
unspeakable thing to happen, and it's enough to make decent 
people feel...horrible.  So, if I were to advise you, which I'm not,"
he quirked his mouth into a semi-smile,  "I'd say to go ahead and
accept all those bad feelings.  Don't try to fight them.  They're 
appropriate.  But try to realize the...the real wrong here is that 
Danelli killed the boy.  Not anything you did."  He rubbed away a tear 
near her mouth.  "I think in time, you'll be able to think of it that 
way.  I hope so."
 
Scully thought over what he said and finally gave a small nod.  "I  
hope so too," she said fervently.  She paused.  "Another thing,"
she told him, "I kind of had a personality transplant while I was 
gone.  I...I just got nastier and nastier.  There was this voice 
inside of me, I'm not sure it'll ever go away.  It's obscene, 
cynical, snide.  Full of hate.  For a while, I fooled myself 
into thinking it's like your inner voice.  But it isn't.  You're 
pretty much a kind, gentle person.  This voice is a...a raving 
bitch.  And she won't go away.  It's like I split up into parts, 
created a tough, nasty part, like I needed it...to survive."
 
He squeezed her hand.  "Exactly.  Survival was the only important 
thing, so you did what was necessary.  Just what you should have 
done."
 
Scully sighed and continued to grip his hand.  "Actually, I 
discovered that survival wasn't the most important thing.  I found 
that out when he brought in the boy, drugged,  still breathing.  
Told me to... to kill him, to autopsy him while he was still 
alive."  Her voice trembled.   "I...I refused and told him to...to 
kill me if he wanted, but I wasn't going to hurt the kid."
 
Mulder tried not to flinch.  It took a great effort to keep his 
voice calm when he really felt like shouting to the skies about the 
vicious actions of that damned lunatic and subjecting him to a 
slow, excruciating death.  "Well, some things *are* more valuable 
than life.  We both know there are things we're willing to give our 
lives for.  Of course you'd rather die than murder a child. 
That's...that's you, Scully.  It's all decent people."  

He pushed her hair back, touched her brow.  "You did great.  You 
survived, you beat him, you saved yourself.  In a few days, or a 
few weeks, you'll feel better about the whole thing.  Your injuries 
will heal, and so will your...your spirit."  He paused.  "This was 
a...horrendous experience.  It takes time to adjust your worldview.  
You became who you needed to to get out.  Don't regret the 
qualities that saved you.  Just know that eventually you'll be 
more...yourself again.  This is very common with...people who've 
been taken prisoner."
 
"I...I considered killing him.  When he was already down.  When I'd 
already beaten him into unconsciousness."  The words lay there, 
glowing like radioactive waste.  She felt...deeply ashamed that she 
could contemplate killing someone in cold blood, no matter what 
he'd done.  She recalled a similar temptation when holding a gun on 
Louis Cardinale.  She was afraid she harbored, deep inside, a 
vicious, lawless intruder who might act in ways *she*, the true 
Scully, considered abhorrent.  How readily she had shot Mulder 
to prevent him from killing Krycek.  How simple it had been back 
then, when she thought her moral compass straight and true.  
Now, its needle skittered around, unable to locate a true north.
 
"But of course you would," Mulder exclaimed.  "After the way he 
treated you?  With pictures of the other victims all over the 
wall, showing you what he meant to do to you?  It'd be strange if 
you *didn't* want to kill him."  He smiled.  "The important thing 
is that you didn't give in to the impulse."
 
Tears dribbled down her cheeks again.  "Thank you."  She wondered
if she'd ever stop crying.  It was as if a dam had burst.  She
burrowed into him again. seeking  more comfort.  Maybe if she
could focus on someone else for a change.  She'd become so 
self-absorbed during her captivity.  "Tell me about you.  What 
you've been doing, how you've been holding up.  God, I missed you.  
Your strength, your ideas, your...your.... you." she confessed.  
"I felt starved, being cut off from you like that.  And all the 
time, I kept wondering what you'd do in that situation, how you'd 
save yourself.  I was convinced  you'd handle it better."
 
"You did fine," he assured her, again pushing back her Medusa hair,
which had not yet been tamed by her return to civilized life.  He 
doubted that she'd even bothered to ask for a mirror.  Troubled in 
mind, she really didn't care about how she looked.  And neither did 
he.  He was concerned only about the pain in her eyes.  And the 
painful battering her body had taken.

"I'm sure you did a lot better than I could have done." he 
insisted.  He smiled into her hair.  "You know I couldn't have
done the fire thing!"   Looking down, he could see her lips quirk
slightly.  "And I did tell you how I felt.  I was miserable.   I did a 
lot of running in place, for days and days.  We were getting 
nowhere.  I was getting, uh, pretty damned surly.  And only you 
know how surly I can get.   Finally, we got some good leads, thanks 
to the Gunmen."  He smiled.  "We need to take them out to dinner.  
Without their information, I would have been in an asylum by now.  
They hacked their asses off for you, night and day."
 
Scully smiled.  "I'd love to take them out.  Do they dine out, like 
normal people?"
 
"Good question."

"You know what saved me?" she asked, rubbing her finger along the
back of his hand.

"Your quick thinking, brilliant planning, and bold actions?"  He
clasped her hand in his and studied it.

"Besides all that," she said, smoothing his spiky hair.  "I told
him about Tooms.  It kind of distracted him to hear about a guy
even more heartless than he was.  He thought the story was pretty
cool."
 
Mulder leaned forward so his cheek lay beside hers.  "I'm so glad 
to have you back," he whispered.
 
She reached out to cradle his face in her hand, drawing him even 
closer.  God, he felt good, she thought, pressing against him.  
"Even if I'm so used to captivity that I can't stand the daylight?" 
she asked.  "And it feels weird for me to be wearing clothes?  And 
suddenly I'm like some jungle creature that's been brought back to 
civilization?  I'm spooked by crowds, by more than one voice talking 
to me?  By sleeping lying down?  I'm still a fuckin' hostage!"  She 
shook her head, chagrined.  "And I've also developed a split 
personality.  Just a minor matter of being inhabited by a foul-mouthed 
bitch.  You may have noticed, I could use an exorcist."
 
He stroked her hair, kissed her cheek.  She drew back, looked into 
his eyes, then leaned forward and brushed her lips across his.  His 
lips were so warm and soft, she thought.  More meltdown occurred.  
He gathered her closer and returned her kiss, pressing his lips to 
hers for some time.  He was lost.   Eventually, he drew back a few 
inches.  "Your poor face," he said.  "Your eye, your jaw, even your 
ear."  He touched them as he mentioned them, his fingers as light 
as a butterfly wing.  "What else?  I heard you had a cracked rib.  
And I see a lot of bandages."
 
"I have some cuts and burns.  Probably need plastic surgery."
 
"Where?"
 
She pointed to various areas of her body, naming the sites of pain.
Mulder was distressed by the lack of affect with which she recited 
her injuries:  burn on this wrist, cut on this arm, burn on the chest, 
big burn on the shoulder, where'd he'd used her like an ashtray.  
Mulder's brow grew dark, and his jaw set in anger.  "It's okay," 
she assured him.  "Nothing that serious."
 
"It's *always* serious if someone hurts you," he snapped.  He heard 
his voice.  "Sorry, I'm still upset."  He pulled her into his arms, 
trying to calm himself with her touch, her scent.  At last, her
presence soothed him and he got his temper under control.  His 
practical side had some suggestions.  "You know the guy's filthy 
rich," he said.  "You can probably sue him, get some really top-notch 
plastic surgery.  Maybe throw in some dough for the pain and 
suffering too."
 
"He doesn't have enough money to cover it," she said fiercely.  "No 
one in the world does."
 
"I know," he told her.  He leaned forward and kissed her lips 
again, glad to see that the haunted look was gradually fading from 
her eyes.  He wished he could wipe it all away, the whole experience, 
like an eraser on a chalkboard.  There were a lot of things that'd
happened to her that he'd like to erase.  But he knew that was 
impossible.  And he'd never erase *her* from his life.  "It's bad 
now," he said, "but time really does heal eventually."  He smiled.    
"In the meantime, if you can't get used to wearing clothes, I think I 
could adjust to that.  I'm willing to sacrifice if it'll make you happy."
 
For the first time in weeks, Scully laughed.  She had been held 
captive by a madman.  The memory of that insistent, grating cackle-
-and all the accompanying atrocities-- would never leave her.  Her 
sense of humor had died,  to be replaced by anger, hatred, and 
despair.  Now she thought she might be ready to try to regain the 
parts of her she had lost.

Mulder relished her laugh and the residual smile that lingered for 
some minutes.  He noticed that her eyelids were drooping.  "You need 
your rest, Scully.  That kind of thing really takes its toll.  Lie down."

Like a trusting child, she lay back and closed her eyes.  She didn't 
let go of his hand, however.  Her grip remained firm. "I'm here," he 
said.  "And I'm not going anywhere.  It's okay.  You're going to feel 
better after you've had some rest."

She smiled at his earnest, comforting voice, but still worried about
waking up and finding that this warm, loving scene was all wishful 
thinking, a dream brought on by Death's lasagna.  "You'll stay?"

"I'm not going anywhere.  I'll be here as long as you need me."

At last, she was convinced.  She closed her eyes and relaxed.  She
could feel herself taking the first hesitant step on the long, stony road 
to recovery, Mulder's hand in hers.  Scully slept.

END



Notes:  My heartfelt thanks to my tireless betas, Marie, Alelou, and 
entreamis, all of whom were incredibly generous (and often adament and 
forceful) with ideas about plot, characterization, pacing, 
descriptions, and every element of the story.  It was a difficult 
story because the psychopath had to be vicious, yet none of us 
wanted to hurt Scully.  The plotting was further complicated when it 
turned out that everyone's sensibilities were affected by a different 
element of his behavior.  I thank every member of this devoted, 
sensitive, intelligent group.  The flaws are mine; many of the virtues 
are due to their vigilance.

Detective novels mentioned in the course of the story--

Kay Scarpetta, Bruno's idol and bete noire, is the creation of Patricia
Cornwell.  Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes are written by Laurie
R. King.  Others mentioned along the way--Sharon McCone belongs to 
Marcia Muller; Kinsey Millhone to Sue Grafton; Stephanie Plum and Joe
Morelli to Janet Evanovich; and Emerson and Peabody to Elizabeth
Peters.  Classic detectives mentioned in passing by Bruno:  Blake refers 
to Nicholas Blake.  Sayers to Dorothy L Sayers.  Christie, to Agatha 
Christie, for whom the fictitious Agatha list is named. "One Flew Over the
Cuckoo's Nest" is a novel by Ken Kesey.

The Scully masturbation scene, replete with Eleanor Roosevelt, is the product
of a disturbed mind which has read too many Scully-masturbates-while-thinking-
about-Mulder scenes.  I was drugged :)

Feedback is most welcome to MystPhile@aol.com.