From: Brandon Ray <publius@avalon.net>
Date: Mon, 12 Jun 2000 23:27:06 -0500
Subject: Lacrimae Mundi
Source: direct

=========== 
Chapter Fifteen 
===========

Outside "The Burning Zone" 
The Bronx, NY 
Thursday, March 9, 2000 
11:29 p.m.

Scully wrinkled her nose in a futile attempt to ward off the
smell, and tried not to pay too much attention to the things
she was stepping over and around as she made her way down
the alley that ran next to "The Burning Zone".  The random
litter that had been visible out on the street was even more
prevalent here.  The stench of decaying food, urine and God
only knew what battled for ascendancy, and seemed to grow
stronger with each step she took.

A few minutes ago, she'd watched with amused tolerance as
her partner abruptly sped off on his own to grab a chance to
talk to the suspect, leaving her and Burks to finish
soothing Lt. Hodges.  A small part of her wanted to be
annoyed at him for his behavior, but really, it was just
Mulder being Mulder.  And in truth, Scully was actually
pleased at the development, taking it as further proof that
her "therapy" was working, and that her partner was
gradually returning to normal.

Reaching the end of the alley, Scully was able to make out a
couple of paramedics and a uniformed officer standing next
to a large, exceptionally smelly pile of garbage.  It was
even darker down here in this cul-de-sac than it had been
out on the street, but as she closed the remaining distance,
she saw that there was a body lying on top of the pile.

"I'm Special Agent Scully," she said, offering her badge to
the officer.  "FBI.  What's the site status here?"

"The photographer finished a few minutes ago, ma'am," the
cop replied soberly.  "We're just waiting for the M.E. to
show up and give his blessing before we move the body."

Scully nodded, and moved over to stand directly in front of
the body.  After a moment's hesitation, while she
contemplated the unidentifiable filth and garbage lying at
her feet, she knelt down for a closer look.

The body was that of a young woman, in her late teens or
early twenties.  She had short, brown hair, framing what
Scully thought had probably been a plain-looking face, which
had in turn been enhanced by the application of far more
make-up than Scully would ever have considered using.  The
woman's features were contorted into a mix of fear, pain and
horror, and her eyes stared sightlessly up into the night
sky.

It was obvious enough what had brought that expression to
her face:  the woman's abdomen had been ripped open from
just above the pelvic bone, all the way up to the sternum. 
Coils of dark-blue intestine protruded from the gaping
wound, with what Scully assumed was fecal matter visible
wherever the organ had been severed.  This woman had not
died an easy death.

Of course, there was blood everywhere, no doubt pooled and
congealing in the abdominal cavity, as well as soaking into
the victim's blouse and skirt.  The woman's short, denim
skirt was hiked up around the her hips, and Scully saw that
she wore no underpants.

"She was found just like this, right?" she asked,
straightening back up and glancing at the officer.

"That's right," the man said with a nod.  "I was the first
on the scene, and I checked for pulse and respiration, but
it was obvious she was dead."  He pointed to the darkest
recesses of the alley's dead end, and added, "The asshole
who did it was right over there when I got here.  He was
just standing there, his pants around his ankles, with one
of the biggest woodies you'd ever hope to see.  Pardon my
language, ma'am."

Scully nodded.  "What about the victim's underclothes?" she
asked.

The cop shrugged.  "We found a pair of panties on the
ground, right about where you're standing.  I'm assuming
they'll turn out to be hers.  Somebody'd ripped the hell out
of them."

Scully nodded again, thoughtfully.  "Sounds like she was
assaulted," she said speculatively.  Of course, there would
be no way to tell for sure until after the autopsy, but for
the moment, that was the way the evidence seemed to be
pointing.

"Doesn't sound like it, from what I've found out so far." 
Scully turned in surprise, to find Paul Burks standing a few
feet away.  He went on, "I just got through talking to the
bartender, and a couple of customers who didn't vamoose as
soon as they heard the sirens.  They all agree that the
woman left the bar with the suspect of her own free will,
and everyone I talked to also thought it was pretty obvious
what they were up to."

"Maybe she changed her mind," Scully suggested.  "And then
he wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."

"That's possible," Burks agreed.  "But again, not likely,
from what I've heard so far.  Both she and the suspect have
been seen here before, although never together, and both of
them appeared to frequent the place for the obvious reason. 
Neither of them ever left alone, so far as anybody can
recall."  He shrugged.  "We'll have to do more interviews,
of course, with people who actually knew each of them.  But
as of now, it looks like it was consensual."

"Consensual sex that turned into murder," Scully responded.

"That's right," the detective replied.  "Just like the other
three cases."

"That's true," she agreed, nodding reluctantly.  It was also
circular reasoning, to some extent, Scully thought.  The
fact that in this case consensual sex had led to murder
proved there was a connection, and the connection to the
other cases bolstered the supposition that in this instance
the sex was consensual.  But Scully didn't want to shut the
door on Burks or his ideas too quickly.  Best to wait until
all the evidence was in.

She looked back up the alley, and saw another man
approaching.  Mulder.  She stepped past Burks to meet him.

"Hey, Scully," he said, his tone of voice so very normal
that despite the seriousness of the situation, Scully almost
wanted to cry with joy.  He really was coming out of his
shell, at last.  "What have you got?"

"Come see for yourself," she replied, and turned and led him
back to the pile of garbage with the body lying on top of
it.

Mulder stood quietly and studied the woman's corpse for a
pair of minutes, while Scully in turn studied Mulder.  He
was looking so much better than he had even earlier this
afternoon.  His expression was alert and thoughtful, and his
gaze was focused and probing.  Here at the crime scene, at
least, he was completely back in his element; he was
practically glowing.

"He's pulling back," Mulder said at last.  "The others were
done with bare hands; this time, he used a weapon.  That
could mean he's trying to distance himself -- maybe even
starting to feel remorse."

Scully raised an eyebrow at her partner.  "Which 'he' are we
talking about, Mulder?  The last I heard, there were three
other people in custody, charged with the other murders."

"Yes, yes," he said, his voice tinged with good-natured
impatience.  "But I'm not talking about them; those are the
metavictims.  I'm talking about the *real* killer."

"'Metavictims'?"  That was Burks, and Scully shot him an
amused glance as she realized that the detective had not yet
witnessed Mulder in full cry.

"Metavictims," Mulder repeated.  "McSparran, Hamilton,
Denson, and now Danvers.  They were the ones who committed
the actual crimes, but they were not self-motivated.  In a
very real sense, they're also victims."

"How so?" the detective asked.

"This isn't a simple case of possession," Mulder responded,
waving at the body lying before them.  "But there *is* a
connection between these cases, and these people *were*
influenced by an outside force."  He looked Burks in the
eye.  "Have you heard of an artist named Lacrimae Mundi?"

Burks' brow furrowed, and he shook his head.  "Can't say
that I have."

"Well, these people have," Mulder went on.  "All four of
them -- all four of the killers -- had bought a painting
from this guy, Mundi, within a few days of committing their
respective crimes."

"So?"

"So those paintings, somehow, some way, influenced their
behavior."  Burks eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Mulder
continued, "I've felt it myself.  First at Devon McSparran's
condo, and then again at Bradley Hamilton's home in
Saddlebrook."  He went on to briefly describe the incidents
that he'd already told Scully about, concluding, "Agent
Scully thinks these experiences were brought on by stress,
and at first, I thought she was right.  Now, I'm not so
sure."

Burks was nodding, "Okay, I can see where you're going with
this, but it's going to be a bitch to prove, even if you're
right."  He gave a crooked smile.  "And I'm not saying that
you're right.  I'm just trying to keep an open mind."

Mulder nodded, and looked back to Scully.  "I called Danny
this afternoon," he stated, "and asked him to do a
background check on Lacrimae Mundi.  If those paintings are
the connection, that's the place to start."

"And if they're not?" she asked quietly.  Her emotions were
in a whirl; she was so happy to have the old Mulder back,
and terribly afraid that the slightest skepticism on her
part might undo all the good that working on this case had
accomplished.  On the other hand, she couldn't in good
conscience embrace her partner's theory; not without any
solid evidence beyond his own subjective perceptions.

Mulder shrugged.  "If they're not, we're back to square
one."  He stepped closer, crowding her personal space in a
way he hadn't done in weeks.  "But I'm not wrong, Scully. 
Not this time."  And despite her determination to remain
objective, Scully felt a thrill of excitement at hearing his
words.

#          #          #

At last, the anger is flowing.

A short while ago, Shara told him about the visit from the
FBI agents.  A man and woman, she reported, asking
questions, prying into his business, mocking his work. 
Adding more pain and humiliation to his already overburdened
soul.

The music is pounding through him tonight, as he dances
before the easel.  Pounding in time with his anger; pulsing
in rhythm with his hate.  The streak of red that he
previously smeared on the canvas has now become the
centerpiece of this new opus, and finally the rest is taking
on shape and form.

Soon it will also take on depth, and from there it is but a
short step before it becomes real.

Already the sweat is pouring down his body, dripping from
his face and running down his ribs.   The darkness is
waiting for him, now, he can feel it surrounding him and
embracing him, preparing to gather him in.  He leaps and
prances, slashing at the canvas with his brush, adding more
color and texture to the savagery already there.

This is his vengeance, this is his release, this is the only
outlet for the terrible rage he feels.  The horrible,
agonizing ritual is well underway, and then suddenly he
becomes ....

The man in the darkened room, diverted from his purpose by
the sudden arousal flooding his body.  His cock is hardening
and thickening almost before he realizes it's happening,
pressing painfully against his slacks, begging to be free,
frantic to seek the hot, moist haven that awaits it ....

The woman is here, too, in the darkened room, watching him
with her own desire evident in her deep, blue eyes.  A
slight smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as he
approaches her, and he finds himself fascinated by her lips,
mesmerized, entranced.  The tip of her tongue darts out, and
traces the outline of those lips, sending another throb of
pleasure through his body ....

He's standing directly in front of her now, and if only he
could take his eyes from her mouth, he knows that he would
see the excitement in her own gaze.  She's backed against
the wall, now -- not from fear, but as a tease.  For a
moment he hesitates, unsure what he should do, but then she
licks her lips again, and he is lost ....

And she's on her knees, unzipping him and pulling his hard,
erect cock from his pants, swirling her tongue around the
head, tasting him, sending jolts of electricity deep into
his groin and up his spine.  It has never felt this good
before; never.  Her mouth is so warm and moist, her tongue
just slightly rough as it glides along the length of his
shaft, and dear god it's beautiful ....

Her mouth finally closes over him, and in the next instant
he's thrusting himself into her mouth, grasping her head
with his hands, tangling his fingers in her gorgeous, auburn
hair, fucking her mouth until the tip of his cock bumps
roughly against the back of her throat.  She gags and
coughs, but he does not relent, and after a moment she finds
his rhythm, and then she's taking him smoothly, all the way
inside ....

He's crying out with the pleasure of it, now.  She's
suckling on him, scraping him gently with her teeth,
caressing him with her tongue, and her fingers are playing
with his balls and rubbing the sensitive strip of flesh
behind them.  His eyes are closed, he feels the climax
hovering, just above and behind him, and he knows it won't
be long now ....

And then suddenly it's here, bursting on him as a million
bright pinpoints, beginning at the base of his cock and
spreading outwards, seemingly at the speed of light, until
his entire body is engulfed in fire.  He convulses,
thrusting into her mouth one more time with savage
brutality, and then his hands are around her throat, and
he's squeezing her, throttling her, cutting off her air,
lifting her from the ground as his thumbs methodically and
inexorably crush her windpipe, until finally she goes limp
....

The artist returns to his body, and finds himself, once
again, alone.  And as has happened four times before, he now
finds himself sobbing with grief and bitterness and despair.
 The tears run down his cheeks, mingling with the sweat, and
finally falling from his heated flesh onto the canvas.

After a while, he slumps to the floor, and sleeps.

==========END CHAPTER FIFTEEN==========

=========== 
Chapter Sixteen 
===========

The Best Western President Hotel 
Manhattan, NY 
Friday, March 10, 2000 
6:40 a.m.

Scully heard the cell phone ringing as soon as she turned
off the shower.  Swearing softly, she hurriedly wrapped a
towel around herself and stepped from the bathroom.

The phone rang again as she moved across her hotel room --
the room that the Bureau was paying for, but that she hadn't
really used since arriving in New York three days earlier. 
This morning she'd elected to take her shower in here,
though, in hopes that she could avoid waking Mulder until it
was absolutely necessary.  But now the damned telephone
might be about to undo her good intentions.

She pushed open the connecting door, which she'd left
slightly ajar so that Mulder would know where she'd gone if
he *did* wake up, and saw with relief that he hadn't
stirred.  He was still lying sprawled on his stomach,
drooling onto his pillow, with one arm reaching out to her
side of the bed.  Scully smiled at the sight, even as she
was crossing to the nightstand and scooping up the phone. 
She punched the CONNECT button just before it could ring for
the fourth time.

"Scully," she said quietly, moving away from the bed again
and turning her back.

There was a moment of silence on the other end.  Then: 
"Agent Scully?  I'm terribly sorry.  I thought this was
Fox's number."

Scully gritted her teeth as she recognized Allen Carstens'
voice.  Another day, she might have been able to cope the
Englishman, but between her own exhaustion-induced
irritability, and the still-fresh memory of how the man had
participated in abusing Mulder, all those years ago, her
patience and willingness to suffer fools gladly was
extremely thin.

"This is Mulder's phone," she acknowledged.  "But I'm afraid
he's not available right now."

"I ... it's rather important ...."

The man's voice trailed off, and Scully shook her head,
barely restraining herself from suggesting that Carstens go
fuck *himself* for a change.  Of course, the one she
*really* wanted to get her hands on was Phoebe Green, but
she wasn't immediately available, and Carstens was --

"Agent Scully," the Englishman said softly.  "Please.  May I
speak to Fox?"

"Why don't you call Inspector Green?" Scully replied
abruptly.  "I believe you have an understanding with her." 
She hit DISCONNECT without waiting for a response.  For a
moment she hesitated, feeling a vague tinge of guilt that
she hadn't waited to listen to what the man had to say --
but he hadn't had anything for them yesterday, and he *had*
shown himself to be a self-absorbed manipulator.  They
weren't missing anything by not hearing him out, she
decided.

She closed the phone decisively, and turned around to look
at her partner again.  Still asleep, thank God.  They hadn't
gotten back to the hotel until nearly 2:30, and had simply
stripped off their clothes, fallen into bed, and gone
straight to sleep.  The question of where Scully would spend
the night had never been raised, and she felt a quiet
happiness at that, even if neither of them had had the
energy for anything beyond a goodnight kiss.  If only she
hadn't had to get up early this morning to participate in
the autopsy ....

She turned away again and stepped back into her own room,
still carrying the cell phone.  She tossed it on the bed,
then proceeded to dry herself and dress.  She caught herself
yawning several times, which only increased her level of
annoyance, as well as her determination to see it through. 
She was just buttoning her blouse when the cell phone
shrilled again.

Scully growled softly.  If that was Carstens again --  She
grabbed the phone off the bed and hit the CONNECT button. 
"This is Scully," she snapped.

Again, there was a moment of silence.  Finally, she heard an
uncertain chuckle.  "Agent Scully, this is Danny Grimes in
D.C.  Have I called at a bad time?"

"Oh."  She knew her face was reddening; thank God there was
no one here to see it.  Or hear the way she'd answered the
phone.  "I'm sorry, Danny.  I thought it might be someone
else."

The man laughed again, a little more easily.  "I guessed. 
Anyway, I was trying to reach Agent Mulder.  Is he there?  I
did dial his number, right?"

"Yes, you did," Scully replied.  "But right now he's asleep.
 We had a late night last night."

"That's fine," Danny said.  "I've got some info for him on
that Lacrimae Mundi character, but nothing earthshaking;
it'll keep.  Unless you want to take the report?"

Scully hesitated, and glanced at her watch.  She knew Mulder
would want the information; on the other hand, it was
already almost seven; she was going to be late as it was. 
And Danny had just said he didn't have anything important. 
"No," she said, deciding as she spoke.  "Mulder's handling
that end of it, and I'm really short of time.  Can I have
him call you later?"

"That'll be fine, Agent Scully.  Anything else I can do for
you this fine morning?"

"Not that I can think of," she replied.  Scully paused
briefly.  "Danny?  I really am sorry about how I answered
the phone."

Another chuckle.  "Don't worry about it," the man replied. 
"You should hear some of the things my wife says to me." 
And the connection was broken.

Scully stood looking at the cell phone for a moment, then
impulsively switched the power off with her thumb.  She and
Mulder had made plans the night before to have lunch with
Burks after the autopsy and plan their next move; that would
be soon enough to tell him about the calls, and let him
decide what to do about them.  In the meantime, he needed
his sleep.  She was pretty tired, herself, but she could
take it; she'd gotten along on less when she was in medical
school and during her residency.

She pulled a pen from her pocket and hastily scrawled a note
asking Mulder to call her when he woke up so they could firm
up their plans for lunch.  Then she set her partner's cell
phone on the nightstand by the bed, grabbed her coat and
headed for the door.

#          #          #

11:02 a.m.

Mulder's first thought on awakening was to wonder where
Scully was.

She'd been there the night before, when he fell asleep.  Her
small, soft body tucked in against his, her hand resting
delicately and possessively on his chest, her breath warm
and moist against the side of his neck ....

But that had changed during the night -- no, it had been
early this morning.  As Mulder gradually returned to full
conscious, he had vague recollections of his partner
slipping quietly out of bed several hours earlier.  It must
have been morning, because there'd been a gray light
filtering in through the partly-closed curtains.  Then she'd
bent over the bed and kissed him gently on the cheek, and
he'd been asleep again before she'd finished straightening
up.

But now he was awake -- fully awake.  And he remembered why
Scully had gotten up so early, and where she had gone. 
Bellevue.  The autopsy.

Mulder sighed, and rolled out of bed.  A bleary-eyed squint
at the clock revealed that it was past eleven.  Jesus.  He
should have left a wake-up call, but he hadn't thought it
was necessary -- apparently he hadn't realized quite how
tired he was.  He shook his head, and headed for the shower.

Twenty minutes later he emerged again, feeling almost
civilized.  In fact, he felt more awake and alert than he
had in weeks.  That was Scully's doing, of course.  Scully,
and her relentless campaign to drag him out of the doldrums
he'd fallen into, and put him back on an even keel.

He wondered about that as he dressed; wondered how any woman
as smart and sturdy as Dana Scully could be so devoted to
*his* welfare.  But she had been, almost from the start --
years before either of them even considered the possibility
that they might one day become lovers.

He had used her too, he admitted to himself.  Not in an
evil, manipulative way, but he'd used her, nonetheless. 
He'd come to depend on her steadiness and common sense to
balance his own more reckless tendencies.

Suddenly, this morning, everything was becoming clear to him
somehow.  All these years, Scully had been by his side,
supporting him, and the past three weeks had been no
different.  She'd given him space when he needed it, despite
the fact that it was hurting her, and then *somehow* she had
known, apparently by instinct, when the time had come that
he would accept her love and comfort once again.

Unburdening himself to her yesterday afternoon must have
cleared the decks, he decided, as he tied his tie.  It
wasn't the first time he'd done it, of course; not by a long
shot.  The first week they'd worked together he'd told her
the basic story of Samantha's abduction, and over the years
he'd added details, as time and circumstances seemed to
warrant.

She'd also found out about Phoebe, of course, and about
Diana.  In each case, the revelations had been slow in
coming, and almost criminally incomplete, but at least she'd
found out about them.  Now, at last, after yesterday, she
knew everything, and Mulder felt as if a great weight had
been lifted from his shoulders.  He felt a sense of relief
second only to the one he'd experienced the night he
discovered Samantha's fate.

Because Scully had not abandoned him.

This was a new thing in Mulder's experience.  Everyone he'd
ever known and cared about, everyone he'd ever allowed to
get close enough to really know him, had used him, betrayed
him and finally left him.  Even Diana, whom he'd thought he
could trust, had turned on him, in the end.  He didn't know
how or when or why, but that scarcely seemed important.

All that mattered was that she had.  And that Scully had not
only *not* betrayed him, but had supported him and bolstered
him, display a fierce, unabashed loyalty, at great cost to
herself.  She even loved him, as impossible as that might
seem.

He needed to do some things for Scully, and the very first
item on the agenda was healing himself.  He was working on
that -- with her help; always with her help.  But the next,
and even more important item, was to find out what
*Scully's* needs were.  He'd thought he'd known what she
wanted, out of this job and out of her life, but now he
realized that he hadn't ever really looked past the surface.
 More importantly, he'd never *asked*.

A home, a family, the so-called "normal life" -- those
things mattered to her, he was sure, but they weren't
priorities.  Dana Scully ran much deeper than that, and he
was determined to find out where her heart truly lay.

But first, they had to solve this case, and that meant he
had to find Lacrimae Mundi -- or whatever his real name was
-- and wring the truth out of him.  Specifically, he was
determined to find out why Mundi was producing those
paintings, and what it was about them that turned ordinary,
respectable people into ruthless, brutal, impulsive killers.
 And the first step would be another conversation with Shara
Wyche.

Finally finished dressing, Mulder picked up his cell phone
from the night stand.  He hesitated briefly as he saw that
his partner had left a note asking him to call when he got
up, but then he shook his head; that could wait.  He'd call
her when he got back from New Rochelle.

==========END CHAPTER SIXTEEN==========

=========== 
Chapter Seventeen 
===========

Residence of Shara Wyche 
New Rochelle, NY 
Friday, March 10, 2000 
3:11 p.m.

"So you're back."

Mulder nodded affably, doing his best to project open
friendliness to Shara Wyche.  It had taken him longer to get
here than he'd wished, in large part because Scully had
taken their car.  That had been fine when all he'd intended
to do was stay in the room and make some phone calls, and
eventually take a cab over to Bellevue so they could have
lunch together.  But with his change in plans that was no
longer adequate, and he'd been forced to rent another car. 
God knew how the bureaucrats in accounting were going to
respond to that, but what was done was done.

"I'm glad I caught you at home," Mulder replied.  "I just
have a few more questions I'd like to ask, if you don't
mind."

The woman hesitated, and her gaze flicked past Mulder's
shoulder, and then back to him.  "I guess so," she said,
with apparent unconcern.  Then, more pointedly:  "Where's
your partner today?"

Mulder shook his head.  "She couldn't be here," he
explained.  "She has other duties."

Shara Wyche nodded.  "Okay.  Come on in."

She turned and led the way into the house, but this time she
didn't take Mulder to the kitchen; she took him through the
living room and down a hallway to a room that appeared to be
a spare bedroom that had been converted into an office.

An antique roll-top desk sat in one corner, a computer
monitor incongruously perched on it.  A short filing cabinet
with an oak panel veneer stood next to the desk, and a
couple of unremarkable paintings hung on one wall:  one was
a portrait of an undistinguished older man and a
plain-looking woman; the other was of a child's swingset
with a flower garden in the background.

Mulder turned from looking at the paintings, to find that
Wyche had sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk, and
was looking at him coolly -- and once again, he was struck
by how much she resembled Scully.  Not just her build and
her hair color, but the air of reserve she carried about her
as a cloak, as well.

Of course, in Scully's case, he was able to look past the
surface, and see the warm, compassionate woman who lurked
beneath the cool exterior.  With Wyche he couldn't. 
Presumably, that was because he'd worked with Scully for so
long, but as he thought back, he could no longer really
remember what it had been like in the beginning.

And even with Scully, he reminded himself, there had been
times when she'd closed herself off so thoroughly that
nothing was visible but the shell.  When she'd been sick
with cancer, the woman Dana Scully had been almost
completely subsumed by Special Agent Scully, at least
insofar as her interactions with *him* were concerned --

He shook his head slightly, driving the thoughts away.  This
wasn't the time for such things, and it was all in the past,
anyway.  He turned his attention back to the woman in front
of him, and saw that she was looking at him quizzically. 
Time to get started.

"One of your clients paint those?" Mulder asked, gesturing
at the paintings on the wall, hoping to break the ice a bit.

"No," she said.  "I sell my clients' work; I don't display
it.  Those are just ... paintings that I liked.  Now what
questions did you want to ask?  I'm a busy woman."

Mulder nodded.  Glancing briefly about the small room once
again, he realized that there was no place for him to sit. 
Apparently Wyche intended for this to be a short interview.

"Ms. Wyche," he began, "I'd like to know a little more about
Mr. Mundi."  She nodded, but didn't say anything.  Mulder
went on, "I believe you said yesterday that you've known him
for several months?"

"That's right.  I also told you that I don't remember
exactly where or when I met him.  That hasn't changed."

"Okay," Mulder said.  "But you *have* met him, right?"

"Of course.  I do business with him.  But he doesn't go out
much; he's a recluse.  I don't see him very often."  If
anything, Wyche's voice was even cooler than before.

"So you don't consider him a friend?"

The woman paused for a long moment, and her face took on a
very odd expression, that Mulder found himself unable to
interpret.  Finally, she shook her head.  "No," she said
firmly.  "Mr. Mundi is not my friend."

"What do you mean when you say he's a recluse?"

She paused again, and cocked her head.  "I mean ... what I
mean," she said.  "He's ... he's reclusive.  He doesn't go
out much, because he doesn't need to.  He gets along fine
without other people."  Another hesitation, briefer than the
others.  "Perhaps 'self-sufficient' would be a better word."

"I thought you said you don't know him very well," Mulder
commented curiously.  He was growing more confused by the
minute; the woman was being much more cooperative than she
had been the day before, but her answers weren't quite
adding up.  It occurred to him that she must be hiding
something -- but he had no idea what that something might
be, or whether it was even important.

"I never said I don't know him," Wyche said, in low tones. 
"I said he's not a friend.  There's a difference."

"Okay."  Mulder thought about that a minute, trying to
decide what to say next.  "So you know him, but he's not
your friend.  How *would* you characterize your relationship
with Mr. Mundi?"

"Business associate," she said promptly.  "I told you that
already."

"That's true, you did."

"Agent Mulder, is there some point to all this?"  Shara
Wyche shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and waved one hand
vaguely at the desktop.  "I do have things I need to be
doing."

"I understand," Mulder replied.  "And there is a point to
this."

"You just can't tell me what it is."  Was that sarcasm in
her voice?  Mulder couldn't quite decide.  Then the woman
went on, her voice once more calm and cool.  "But you expect
*me* to tell you *everything*."

"You say Mr. Mundi is a recluse --"

"'Self-sufficient'," she interjected.  "I believe I settled
on 'self-sufficient'."

"'Self-sufficient'," Mulder acknowledged.  "Do you think
that Mr. Mundi's self-sufficiency would allow him to meet
with me?"

Wyche frowned, and she bit her lip.  "I ... don't know," she
said at last.  "He really doesn't go out very often."  She
gave a nervous-sounding laugh.  "I don't think he likes
people very much, to be perfectly honest."  She shrugged. 
"I suppose I could ask him."

Mulder nodded.  Progress.  Maybe.  "Do you think you could
call him now?" he asked.

The woman's eyes widened, then narrowed, and she shook her
head sharply.  "No," she said.  "I don't call him.  He gets
in touch with me, when he feels like it."  Another uneasy
laugh.  "I don't even know *how* to contact him."

Mulder raised his eyebrows.  "How do you stay in touch,
then?  How do you notify him that you've made a sale?"

Wyche cocked her head again, as she seemed to think about
his question.  After a moment, she answered, "I told you. 
He contacts me.  When he feels like it."

"That seems like a very odd way to do business."

She shrugged.  "It's the way he wants it."

"How do you get his money to him?"

Wyche looked puzzled.  "His money?  We have an ...
arrangement."

Mulder couldn't keep himself from lifting his eyebrow. 
"What sort of an arrangement?"

"A business arrangement," she said, settling back into her
cool, distant mode, obviously intending to say no more on
that subject.

Mulder gritted his teeth in frustration.  Shara Wyche was
not, in fact, telling him very much -- and every time he
actually *did* seem to be getting somewhere, he found a door
suddenly being slammed in his face.

Of course, it would help if he actually had some idea of
what he was trying to find out.  All he really had to go on
was his own subjective experience with Mundi's paintings. 
That, coupled with the coincidence that all four of the
killers owned paintings they had recently purchased from the
artist, had led him to the conviction that the artwork was
in some way the missing element that linked these murders.

But holding that conviction and *proving* it were two
entirely different things.

"When was the last time you saw Mr. Mundi?" Mulder asked
suddenly.

Again, something flickered across Shara Wyche's face, but
was quickly gone.  "Yesterday," she said calmly.  "I saw him
yesterday.  He said he had a new painting for me to sell."

"Did he bring it with him?"

"Oh course.  I couldn't very well sell it otherwise, now
could I?"  She hesitated, and once again she cocked her head
at him as she gave him an appraising stare.  "Would you like
to see it?"

"Why, uh, yes," Mulder replied.  The invitation startled
him, but he wasn't about to turn it down.  Perhaps if he saw
another of Mundi's paintings, he'd at least be able to
evaluate his strange response to them a little better.  Of
course, he reminded himself, it was always possible that he
would have no reaction to this one.  It was always possible
that Scully was right, about this being all stress-related,
and they'd just be back to square one again.

But somehow, he didn't think that would be the case.

Wyche rose from her chair and led him back out into the
hallway and towards the front of the house once more.  They
reached the living room, and the woman motioned for Mulder
to wait, while she crossed to the far side of the room. 
Reaching back behind the sofa, she withdrew a large
portfolio, and then with one fluid motion she extracted the
painting that was inside it.

For a moment she stood there with her back to him,
apparently studying the work.  Mulder couldn't really see
much of it from where he was standing -- just a brief
impression of whirls of bright red against a background of
deep, deep blue.  Even so, he felt a slight tremor of
*something* ... the same undefinable twinge he'd first felt
in Devon McSparran's living room his first day in New York. 
Then Shara Wyche turned to face him, and displayed the
painting --

Mulder felt as if he'd been hit in the face by a hammer.  He
gasped, as a powerful rush of emotion washed over him:  fear
and anger and rage, and most especially pain.  Yes, pain --
the pain of humiliation and degradation.  The withering,
crippling sense of emptiness and self-loathing that he
thought he'd left behind when he'd finally found his way
first to Scully, and then to the conclusion of his quest. 
It was palpable; it surrounded him; it was everywhere.  It
was a living, breathing thing ....

He's lost in the fog.  Lost, lost, lost in the fog.  No
matter where he turns, there's nothing but dull, featureless
gray.  No light.  No sound.  No form or shape of any kind. 
Just stultifying gray mist, neither warm nor cool, but
simply there.  A distant, rational corner of his mind
recognizes this fog, recognizes it as being related to the
things he felt in McSparran's home, and then more strongly
still in Bradley Hamilton's.  But that knowledge is so tiny
and far away that it is useless to him ....

Gradually, he begins to make out ... things.  Nothing
coherent or understandable; just vague, shadowy forms slowly
coalescing out of the mist.  Misshapen, deformed things;
horrifying caricatures of living creatures, swarming and
growing before his eyes.  And overlaying it all, the
overwhelming flood of hurt and anger and shame -- and
arousal ....

God, the arousal is everywhere, intense and throbbing and
brutal.  He feels as if he's burning, as if he's on fire,
and only one thing can quench the flames.  Only one thing
can bring him relief.  His hands clench, reflexively, over
and over, and now his need is all he knows.  It fills him to
overflowing, the pressure building within him so very, very
fast ....

And suddenly the fog clears, and he feels the bottom drop
out of his stomach as he seems to abruptly lift upwards and
backwards.  He looks down and he sees ....

Himself, walking with slow determination towards the woman. 
He can no longer remember who she is; he cannot remember her
name.  He can only see *her*, backing slowly away until she
bumps up against the wall.  His own need, his own
overpowering lust seems to fill the room, so thick and
pungent that he can actually see it, and he watches as his
hands reach out to grab her shoulders, to force her to her
knees --

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Mulder's eyes flickered open; he hadn't realized that he'd
closed them, but apparently he had.  For a few seconds he
was confused and disoriented, and all he could see was
bright blue eyes framed by coppery hair.  Scully?  But how
could it be Scully?  She was downtown, doing an autopsy. 
Wasn't she?

"Agent Mulder!"

He blinked and shook his head, and found himself standing
only a few inches from Shara Wyche.  She was backed against
the far wall of the living room, and was holding the
painting between them as if it were a shield.  The
expression on her face was a study in affronted anger, and
she was breathing in short, sharp puffs, her chest rising
and falling rapidly as she obviously struggled to retain her
composure.

Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed as he backed carefully
away.  Opening his eyes again, he saw her still standing
where he'd left her, tightly clutching the painting to her
chest.  "I ... I'm sorry," he said.  "I don't know what came
over me.  The painting --"

"I think you'd better leave," she said sharply, tossing her
head at the door.  "Now."

Mulder swallowed again and nodded.

"And don't come back."

==========END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN==========

=========== 
Chapter Eighteen 
===========

The Plough and Stars 
Manhattan, NY Friday, 
March 10, 2000
6:52 p.m.

Once again, Scully and Burks wound up at the Plough and
Stars.  The smoky little bar was, if anything, even more
packed with people than the night before, and the music
seemed even louder -- although, somehow, Scully didn't seem
to have any trouble tuning it out, when it suited her.  She
had never been much interested in the bar scene, and had
tolerated it in college only because it offered the
opportunity to dance.  But there was something warm and
comfortable about this place.

The autopsy had taken much longer than she had hoped.  For
openers, the prosector was late, and they hadn't actually
had the body on the table, ready to begin, until nearly
9:30.  Then when they finally *did* get started, the
supervising pathologist assigned to the case turned out to
be a plodding, methodical man who insisted on checking each
finding a minimum of three times -- and more than that, if
there was any ambiguity at all.

Scully sympathized, on an intellectual level.  She prided
herself on her own care and precision, and she was well
aware that a post mortem was often the only hope the
deceased's family had for any kind of closure.  But this
man's caution bordered on neurotic.  Unfortunately, she had
been present as a matter of professional courtesy, and so
there was little she could do about it, other than grit her
teeth and nod politely each time he decided that a
particular examination needed to be repeated.

When they finally finished, around five, she'd tried to call
Mulder, but got a recorded message that his phone was out of
range or switched off.  Apparently he hadn't noticed that
she'd turned it off -- and she winced as she realized that
she'd forgotten to call and give him the message from Danny
Grimes.  There was no answer at the hotel -- either his room
or hers -- so apparently he'd gone out somewhere.

Nearly two hours later, there was still no answer, and
Scully shook her head in frustration as she put her phone
away yet again and turned her attention back to Paul Burks. 
The detective was sitting across the table from her,
methodically cracking peanuts and popping the meats into his
mouth.

"Still no answer, huh?" he asked, cracking another nut.

"No," she said with a sigh.  She picked up a peanut and
turned it over in her hands.  "And it's at least partly my
fault.  I turned off his cell phone this morning so no one
would bother him, since we had such a late night, and then I
was unavailable most of the day, even if he *did* try to
call me."

"That last part wasn't your fault," Burks pointed out.  He
crunched another peanut and swallowed.  "An autopsy takes as
long as it takes."

"True," she admitted.  "Although this one didn't have to
take as long as it did."

"Which also was not your fault," the detective replied.  He
cocked his head and seemed to study her face for a moment,
while Scully fidgeted uncomfortably under his gaze.  "You
know, Agent Scully," he said after a few seconds, "it's okay
to be worried about him."

"I'm not worried --"

"Bullshit."  Scully looked at the detective sharply, but the
sad, ironic smile on his face took the sting out of the
word.  "You wouldn't be human if you didn't worry.  I
worried about Susan every single day, and she worried about
me.  She went off to get us coffee and a donut, I worried,
because in this business you can never be sure what's
waiting around the corner.  And my relationship with her
wasn't ... similar to what you have with Agent Mulder."

Scully nodded slowly, in reluctant acceptance of the man's
point.  It was true, after all.  Even in the early days,
when they had been just partners, and not yet even friends,
she had worried about Mulder.  And heaven knew *he* worried
about *her* -- that had been obvious from the outset.  From
that first night in the field when she came to him with the
lumps on her back that turned out to be mosquito bites, it
had been clear to her that this oddball she'd been partnered
with against her will actually was concerned for her
welfare.  Occasionally that concern had seemed too much --
even stifling, from time to time -- but if she was honest
with herself, it had never been completely unwelcome.

"I guess you're right," she said at last.  "I just feel
stupidletting myself get worked up like this.  I mean, how
much trouble can he really get himself into?  He's a grown
man; he can take care of himself."

"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" Burks asked
quietly. Before she could respond, he went on, "Agent Mulder
strikes me as a very intense man.  I would imagine that
whatever he does, he puts all of himself into it.  And
sometimes that can lead a person into trouble."

"He *is* very intense," Scully agreed.  Over the past few
days she'd found herself confiding with the detective more
and more.  It made her uneasy to be so reflexively trusting
of the man, but she couldn't seem to help herself.  His
entire manner invited openness.

"And it does get him into trouble," she went on after a
brief pause. "But at the same time, it's one of his best
qualities -- the ability to *focus* on what he's doing, to
the exclusion of all else.  I think it's one of the things
that makes him such a great profiler."

Burks nodded.  "I understand that," he replied.  "And I'm
not putting him down for it; honest."  His lips quirked
slightly.  "I do value my life, after all."

Scully couldn't help but laugh a little at that.  "I think
you're safe," she murmured.

Again the detective nodded, and then his expression turned
serious once more.  "Agent Scully?  What's your stake in all
this, anyway?" She looked at him questioningly, and he waved
a hand vaguely.  "The X-Files; the paranormal.  You've told
me a little bit about why Agent Mulder's involved; what
about you?  I don't really know you very well, but if you'll
pardon the observation, this doesn't seem as if it's exactly
your cup of tea."

For a moment or two Scully stared at the man, trying to
decide how to respond.  He was right, of course; the X-Files
*weren't* -- or hadn't been -- the sort of thing she'd ever
envisioned herself taking seriously, let alone getting
deeply involved in.  Yet she had.  She had.  And Burks was
waiting for an answer.

"I'm not sure if I can explain it," she replied slowly.  "At
first ... at first, it was just an assignment.  They sent me
to him so that there'd be someone there to act as a check. 
But after a while ...."

Scully let her voice trail off.  How could she possibly
explain it? She didn't really understand it, herself.  She
knew she was tied to Mulder and to the X-Files; she'd known
that for a long time, and it had literally been years since
she'd seriously considered leaving.  Not since shortly after
her first abduction, in fact --

"I was taken," she said suddenly.  She found that her gaze
had drifted away from the detective; now she forced herself
to look him in the eye.  "I was kidnapped by a suspect in a
case Mulder was working on, but there was more to it than
that."

"More?"

"Yes," she said with a firm nod.  "A lot more.  I was gone
for three months, and I don't remember any of it, other than
vague flashes here and there.  I don't know where I was, or
what was done to me, or why. But I do know some of the
consequences."  She saw something flicker in the man's eyes,
and abruptly stopped speaking.

Burks' partner had disappeared under similar circumstances,
she remembered.  Scully shuddered reflexively, and found
herself suddenly praying that Susan, this woman she had
never met, truly was at the bottom of the East River. 
Anything was better than what she'd been through.

Wasn't it?

Scully shook her head and pushed the thought away.  Not
going to go into that, she told herself firmly.  Not with
this man she'd only known for a few days.  Not when she
hadn't even talked to Mulder about most of it.

The sudden knowledge struck her like a thunderbolt.  Had she
really kept that much from her ... lover?  She shook her
head again.  She'd made a conscious decision, years ago,
shortly after her return, that she couldn't afford to dwell
on these things.  She'd decided that she needed to put it
all behind her, and concentrate on rebuilding her life.  She
hadn't had time for weakness.

More importantly, *Mulder* hadn't had time for her weakness;
he hadn't been up to listening to her.  He'd been on the
ragged edge of despair already -- Missy had told her about
it, and then she'd observed it herself when she finally
returned to work.  And besides, they were both so damned
busy, reopening the X-Files, getting things going again ...
and then there'd been the Samantha clone, and Ken Soona and
Mulder's apparent death and sudden resurrection, and Missy's
death and  --

And somehow, after a while, her own problems didn't seem
very important.  They were still there, tucked away in a box
in the back of her mind, but there was always some reason
why *this* wasn't a good time to open it up and take a look
at what was inside.  Even when the cancer came, even when
Emily appeared in her life and then was as suddenly taken
from her, there was always something else going on,
something that seemed more urgent than *her* problems.

She'd been fine, after all.

Fine.

Scully dragged herself back from the precipice that had
suddenly appeared in front of her.  Stepping carefully, not
wanting to topple over the edge, she forced herself to focus
her gaze on Paul Burks, still sitting across from her in the
booth in this cheap but homey bar somewhere in Manhattan,
eating peanuts and watching her curiously while strangers
swirled around them, talking, drinking, smoking, dancing ...
and how in heaven's name had she ever come to this place?
What concatenation of choices had led her here, and would
she change any of them now, even if she could?

And where in the hell was Mulder, anyway?

And her cell phone rang.

With a sigh of relief, she pulled the phone from her jacket
pocket, flipped it open, and punched the CONNECT button. 
She didn't even think about who it might be or how to
answer; she simply brought it to her ear and said, "Mulder? 
Where have you been?"

There was a  moment of silence at the other end, and then
she heard a chuckle, followed by a man's voice.  "Sorry,
Agent Scully; this is Danny Grimes."

Scully let out her breath and resisted the temptation to
swear at the man.  It wasn't *his* fault that he wasn't the
one who she was hoping to hear from.  And in the meantime,
she *still* hadn't notified Mulder of the call this morning.
 "Yes, Danny," she said.  "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I'm about to head out, and I still haven't heard from
Agent Mulder.  And I was hoping to clear this report before
I closed up shop for the day.  Would you happen to know
where he is?"

She sighed and shook her head, oblivious of the fact that
the man couldn't see her.  "No," she said.  "I don't.  I've
been trying to reach him myself.  Why don't you just give
the information to me, and I'll be sure he gets it."  In
retrospect, she should have done it this way this morning --
but she hadn't had any inkling that her partner was going to
disappear on her like this.  Well, that was water under the
bridge.

"Sure.  As I said this morning, I really don't have that
much for him; there doesn't seem to be much to find." 
Scully pulled a notebook and pen from her jacket pocket, as
the man continued to speak.  "In a nutshell, Lacrimae Mundi
doesn't appear to exist.  I found a couple of minor
references in filler items in the New York Post, all within
the last three months.

"But beyond that -- the guy has no credit history, no
military record, no selective service record, no police
record, nothing.  He's never applied for a passport, and
he's never had a driver's license anywhere in the United
States -- he doesn't even have a Social Security number. 
The one thing he *does* have is a bank account."

"A bank account?"  Scully felt herself becoming interested,
almost in spite of herself.  None of this proved anything,
she reminded herself.  She and Mulder had already surmised
that 'Lacrimae Mundi' was a pseudonym, and everyone they'd
talked to -- with the exception of Shara Wyche -- had agreed
on that point.  But it wouldn't hurt to hear Danny out.

"Yeah," the man replied.  "At Chase Manhattan, no less.   I
wasn't able to get a record of activity; Mulder said you
guys don't have enough for a warrant at this point.  But I
can tell you that there haven't been any transactions over
the ten thousand dollar limit." Banks were required by law
to report cash transactions over ten thousand dollars.  "But
I *was* able to find out that it's a D/B/A account."

"D/B/A?" Scully repeated.  "Doing business as?"

"Right," Danny confirmed.  "The actual account holder is
someone named Shara Wyche, of New Rochelle, New York.  I did
a quick rundown on her, too.  You want it?"

"Sure."

She heard papers rustle in the background for a few seconds,
then Danny continued, "She, at least, is real.  But there's
nothing remarkable.  Couple of traffic violations in New
York, and one in Connecticut.  A slow pay on her Discover
card last year.  A few references in the Post, and one in
the Times.  A handful more from when she was a kid, in
Manchester, New Hampshire.  She does have her own bank
account, also at Chase Manhattan.  Want me to go a little
more in depth?  I could probably dig a bit more out for you
by tomorrow sometime.  Probably wouldn't be much, though."

"No," Scully said, after a brief hesitation.  No point in
wasting the man's time.  "We still can't get a warrant, and
that would limit you pretty severely.  Thanks for your help,
though, Danny."

"Sorry I couldn't find more for you."  And the connection
was broken.

Scully sat staring at the phone for a pair of minutes as she
tried to decide what to do next.  Obviously, she needed to
pass Danny's report on to Mulder -- but she'd have to find
him first, and even then, the researcher hadn't really
discovered anything of significance.  All his report boiled
down to was that Wyche was probably using the name Mundi as
a pseudonym, something that Scully supposed might be
interesting to those in the art community, but did nothing
to prove that there was any link between the paintings and
the murders.

Of course, Scully knew perfectly well how she *could* get
more information, if she really wanted it:  the Gunmen. 
*They* wouldn't be hampered by the lack of a search warrant
or probable cause, and she'd seen first hand what they could
do, the night they'd helped her dig into Diana Fowley's
background.

But it would be a terrible invasion of privacy; those laws
were there for a reason.  And besides, there was no link,
she reminded herself. Nothing to connect the four murders,
and nothing to tie any of it to Lacrimae Mundi or Shara
Wyche -- even if they *did* turn out to be the same person. 
It was a dead end.  The whole case was a dead end.

But Mulder would want to know.

"Anything interesting?"

Scully looked across the table at Paul Burks, who was
watching her with open curiosity, still popping peanuts into
his mouth.  He chewed the nuts slowly, his gaze never
leaving hers.  He had no real idea what she and Mulder were
all about, she reminded herself, despite several days of
congenial companionship.  No idea at all.  But maybe he'd
asked the right question, despite that fact.

//Agent Scully?  What's your stake in all this, anyway?//

Mulder would want to know, she repeated in her mind.  Even
if there was nothing there, he would want to know.  It
really was quite simple when she thought about it that way.

But there was an even better reason than that, she realized,
and that was that *she* wanted to know, as well.  She wanted
the truth, all of it, and she was no longer content to
accept customary explanations without question.

She wanted *all* of the truth.  No matter how unconventional
-- or frightening -- that truth might be.

Without looking away from Detective Burks, Special Agent
Dana Scully moved her thumb, and pushed the speed dial for
the Lone Gunmen.

==========END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN==========

=========== 
Chapter Nineteen 
===========

The Best Western President Hotel 
Manhattan, NY 
Friday, March 10, 2000 
7:28 p.m.

Try as he might, Mulder couldn't get the images out of his
mind.

It had been more than three hours since he left Shara
Wyche's home.  The drive back to the city was nothing more
than a vague memory in his mind, and it distantly occurred
to him to wonder how he'd avoided an accident.  Because all
he'd really been able to see, since his first glimpse of
that painting, was the fog, and the things that lived within
it.

On an intellectual level, somewhere deep down inside, Mulder
knew he was dissociating.  From the instant it all started,
he'd recognized the state, but knowing what was going on and
being able to do something about it were two entirely
different things.

Even now, as he lay on the bed in his hotel room staring at
the ceiling, he couldn't get away from it.  Everywhere he
looked, he saw the gray, pulsing fog and the dark,
mysterious shapes.  Closing his eyes just made it worse;
closing his eyes brought the experience closer, let him feel
the feelings again.  Closing his eyes made his body throb
with anger and lust, and allowed the fog to coalesce until
once again he saw the woman kneeling before him, her red
hair flying as her head moved back and forth and her lips
and tongue assaulted his cock.  He could feel his fingers
closing around her neck --

He shook his head sharply, once again forcing it all away. 
In a sudden flurry of activity he threw back the covers,
rolled out of bed and began to pace.

He thought he knew what was going on now, but as yet he had
no way to prove it.  The paintings, in some way, affected
those who looked at them, and drove them to commit these
crimes.  Not just *anyone* viewing the paintings, he
amended.  Just the person they were targeted at, apparently,
because no one *else* in any of the households seemed to
have been affected.

But who was doing the targeting?  And why?  And why was
*Mulder* affected, even peripherally?  That last one had
quite evidently been aimed at him, personally, for some
reason -- but why had he felt anything at all when he looked
at the other two?

He abruptly stopped pacing as a thought occurred to him, and
he raised his hand and ran his fingers across his scalp,
until he found the ridge of scar tissue that was the only
visible remnant of the involuntary brain surgery he'd
undergone the previous fall.  Could *that* have something to
do with it?  He had no idea what had been done to him, and
only a vague idea of why.  He knew only that before the
surgery he'd been able to read minds, inefficiently and with
great discomfort, and afterwards, the ability seemed to be
gone.

He moaned in frustration as the fog closed in on him once
again.  It was almost impossible to think coherently while
this was going on.  He felt an almost overwhelming
compulsion to just *act* on what he was feeling.  The
pressure was so strong, so intense, and it was all he could
do to keep it from taking him over completely, and seeking
out the woman he saw so vividly behind his eyelids.  The
woman who could release him from this -- but only with her
death.

He needed to talk to Scully, he thought.  If only he could
talk to Scully, then between the two of them they could work
it out.  The only problem was that he was afraid even to be
in the same room with her.  It was not lost on him that the
woman in his vision bore a disturbing resemblance to his
partner, and he was unwilling to risk what might happen if
he saw her.  And yet again, even as he thought about it, he
felt his fingers tightening, tightening, and he saw those
beautiful, sky blue eyes bulging in terror --

Mulder snapped his eyes open, shaking his head violently
from side to side.  No!  He was not going to allow that to
happen; he wasn't even going to think about it.  He would,
by god, eat his gun before he would permit himself to bring
harm to Scully.  And then he lost himself again ....

He found himself on his knees in front of the bureau, and
slowly he managed to focus his eyes.  He needed help.  He
had to have it.  He'd been hoping that once he left the
vicinity of the painting, its effects would fade, and he'd
be able to cope once again.  Unfortunately, they seemed to
be getting stronger instead of weaker, and the attacks were
coming at more frequent intervals.  This one had been the
worst yet; he didn't even have a clear memory of what had
happened -- although the painful throbbing of his erection
told him more than he needed to know.

He needed help, he repeated in his mind, and there was only
one place he could get it.  Scully.  He would just have to
warn her, that was all.  She probably wouldn't believe him;
she thought it was all brought on by stress, anyway.  But at
least if he warned her she'd have her guard up, so that if
he *did* lose control she'd be ready to defend herself. 
God, he needed her ....

He had his cell phone in his hand, although he couldn't
remember pulling it from his pocket.  He stared at it
dumbly, as if trying to figure out what this strange object
was.  His brow furrowed slightly in confusion as he realized
that it was switched off.  When had he done that?  Had it
been that way all day?  But then he shook his head; it
didn't really matter.  His thumb moved, and he turned the
phone on again --

And before he could even punch Scully's speed dial, it
started ringing.  Mulder frowned in annoyance, and pushed
the CONNECT button.

"Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, this is Shara Wyche."  The woman's voice
sounded cool and composed; the anger and fear that had been
there as she ordered him from her home was gone.  And she
continued, "I'm calling to let you know that I just spoke
with Mr. Mundi, and he'll be here in a little while.  He'd
like to talk to you."  There was a moment of silence.  Then:
 "Agent Mulder?  Are you there?"

Mulder shook himself, and realized he needed to reply. 
"Yeah," he said.  "Yeah, I'm here."

"Well?" she asked.  "Will you be able to come over?  Mr.
Mundi is very anxious to meet you.  He'd like the chance to
answer your questions, and satisfy whatever doubts you may
have."

Mulder felt as if his were head clearing slightly as Wyche's
words slowly sank in.  Lacrimae Mundi was going to come out
of hiding, and wanted to talk to him.  He wanted to answer
his questions.  Maybe *this* was the break he'd been waiting
for.  He was already climbing to his feet and heading for
the door as he responded, "Sure.  I'll be there within the
hour."

#          #          #

The Best Western President Hotel 
8:11 p.m.

"Well, he was definitely here," Scully commented as she and
Burks stood in the connecting door leading from her room to
Mulder's, looking at the unmade bed.  She flushed slightly
as she noticed her own clothes from the night before, in a
disorderly pile on the bureau.  Well, it wasn't as if that
was much of a secret at this point, at least from Paul
Burks.

The detective made no comment about her clothing, though,
and stepped past the bureau as if he hadn't even noticed it
was there.  A moment later, he was running his hand across
the bedclothes, a thoughtful look on his face.  "He hasn't
been gone long," the man commented.  "Sheets are still
warm."

Scully nodded and thought about that for a moment.  Her
partner had been here, no more than, say, thirty minutes
ago, but then he'd left.  Why?  And where had he gone?  For
that matter, had he been here all day, or had he been out
part of the time?  And if he'd been out, how had he gotten
around town?  She'd taken their rental when she left for
Bellevue that morning.

At that moment, her cell phone rang.  Scully forced herself
to move with deliberation as she pulled it from her pocket
and punched CONNECT, but even before she spoke, she could
feel her pulse quickening.  It was Mulder.  It *had* to be
Mulder.

"Scully."

"Agent Scully," said the man's voice, in that familiar,
annoying English accent.  "This is Allen Carstens.  Please
don't hang up."

Scully growled softly, and for an instant her finger hovered
over the DISCONNECT button.  But then she shook her head
angrily.  "What do you want?"

"I ... I heard about the fourth killing," the man said, his
voice trembling.  "On the television this morning.  About
poor Henry."

"My sympathy is reserved for Lydia Hamman," Scully grated
out.  "If you've got a point, please come to it.  I haven't
got a lot of time."

"Yes, of course," Carstens said.  "And I'm sorry to be
bothering you.  I've been trying to reach Fox all day, but
his phone --"

"Now, Carstens," she snapped.  "Or get the hell off my
phone."

"Agent Scully, I'm afraid I might be next."

Scully felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and despite
her inclination to give the man short shrift, she heard
herself asking, "Why would you think that?"

"Because I'm the last one left," he answered.  "The last
member of the jury who hasn't committed one of these
horrible crimes."

She was suddenly alert.  "Danvers was on the same jury as
the other three?"

"Yes," Carstens replied, his voice shaking.  "And so was I. 
And ... and I wasn't completely candid with you and Fox when
you came to see me the other day."

"No kidding."  Scully couldn't keep the sarcasm from her
voice, but Carstens didn't seem to notice.

"No," he said flatly.  "I wasn't.  You asked if there was
anything noteworthy that took place during the jury's
deliberations, and I brushed you off.  But in fact, there
was."  The man seemed to be calming slightly now that he had
a chance to talk.  "Indirectly, it concerns that artist Fox
asked about -- Lacrimae Mundi."

"In what way?" Scully asked, her grip tightening on the
phone.

Carstens laughed nervously.  "Actually, it concerns his
agent, Shara Wyche.  She fancies herself an artist, as well,
but she's never been terribly successful.  To be perfectly
blunt, she's awful.  Dull, derivative -- her technique is
competent, but she just doesn't have any *vision*, if you
see what I mean."

"I think so," Scully replied.  "Go on.  What happened that
was noteworthy?"

"Well," the man said, "she had submitted her own work for
the exhibition, along with Mundi's."  He paused, and added,
"And we rejected it."

"So?  Surely she wasn't the only one --"

"No, of course not," Carstens interrupted.  "But in Wyche's
case ... well, it was late at night when we dealt with her,
and we'd all had a bit to drink, and ...."  His voice
trailed off and he sighed.  Suddenly, all in a rush:  "We
sent her a rather ugly letter, Agent Scully."

"Ugly?"

"Gratuitous," he elaborated.  "Unprofessional.  You
understand?  The sorts of things that one says to one's
colleagues in private, only we wrote them down and *mailed*
them to her."  He repeated, "Do you understand?"

"Yes, I do," Scully said with a frown.  "I mean, I
understand what you did, but why --"

"Agent Scully," the man interrupted again, urgency once more
coloring his voice.  "We humiliated her.  Totally and
completely humiliated her.  And then members of the jury
began committing these ghastly crimes, and you and Fox came
around asking about her and her client, and last night --"

"Okay, okay," Scully said, cutting him off.  She stopped and
thought for a minute, while Carstens waited in silence.

It was absurd; it was impossible.  It was a link of sorts
between the four crimes, but there was no way that Wyche
could have influenced those four people to do the things
they'd done.

Yet, all four of them *had* purchased paintings from
Lacrimae Mundi, and Wyche was, as far as jury members knew,
Mundi's agent.  So they'd done business with her, in order
to do business with Mundi -- little knowing, as Scully now
strongly suspected, that they were actually the same person.
 They'd made those purchases only a few days before each
committed their respective murders.  And Carstens had told
them that the bidding had been by invitation only --

"Mr. Carstens," she said, "who was invited to bid on Mundi's
paintings?"

"I ... I don't know," the man said.  "Not the complete list,
anyway.  Not with certainty."  He paused.

"But?"

She heard a sigh.  "But one hears things, of course.  People
will talk, over cocktails or while waiting for a meeting to
begin.  And I know that it must have been a *very* short
list, because quite a number of people have mentioned to me
that they wished to be invited."  He hesitated again, and
added, "It's possible that I may have boasted a bit about my
own invitations, and they may have hoped that I had an in,
or something."

Scully closed her eyes in frustration, then struggled to
keep her voice under control as she asked, "As far as you
know, was anyone who was *not* a member of the exhibition
jury invited to bid on any of the works?"

"No.  Not as far as I know."

Scully shook her head.  It wasn't enough; even with that, it
*still* wasn't enough.  There simply wasn't any way there
could be a cause and effect relationship.  It *had* to be a
coincidence.

But Mulder wouldn't think so.  Mulder would want to pursue
it.  She felt her hand tightening still further on the phone
as the thoughts flooded through her, and she felt a tremor
of fear mingled with excitement as she realized that *she*
wanted to pursue it, as well.  She *wanted* to find a
connection between these cases, and Carstens had just given
her the best lead they'd had so far.

Once again, Paul Burks' comment from earlier in the evening
floated through her mind:  //Agent Scully?  What's your
stake in all this, anyway?//  And the answer was plainly,
blindingly obvious.

Her stake was the truth.

And, somehow, she knew that the truth lay with Shara Wyche.

She punched the DISCONNECT button without saying goodbye.

#          #          #

Residence of Shara Wyche 
New Rochelle, NY 
8:50 p.m.

Mulder could not remember the drive back to New Rochelle. 
Now he stood on the walk leading up to Shara Wyche's front
door, considering what to do next.

The house was dark and silent; not even the porch light was
on.  The garage door was shut, and there were no cars parked
in the driveway or on the street.  The neighborhood was
quiet and reserved, as befitted an elegant suburb of one of
the world's great cities.  All around him, people were
preparing for bed, supervising their children as they
brushed their teeth, turning out the lights ....

But *he* was here; Mulder could feel it.  It was in the air,
it was all around him and inside him, making the fog in his
mind -- and the painfully erect cock in his pants -- pulse
with eager anticipation.  Lacrimae Mundi was here.

He moved slowly up the walk, his eyes fixed on the door in
front of him.  Still, nothing moved.

He reached the front steps, and put his foot on the first
riser, then paused as the door swung slowly open, revealing
the dark interior.  Someone was in there; he could see a
dark, shadowy figure, retreating slowly into the house, but
he couldn't tell who it was, or even make out any detail,
beyond the vague outline of a human form.  The dark of
night, combined with the mist still clouding his mind and
his perceptions, blocked that from him.

There was music playing, too -- strange, loud, dangerous
music, coming from somewhere deep inside the house.

But it didn't matter.  None of it mattered.  He had to go
forward.  He no longer had any alternative.  To be perfectly
truthful, he no longer had the volition to turn aside.

Mulder let out his breath, and climbed the steps and entered
Shara Wyche's home.

He closed the door firmly behind him.

==========END CHAPTER NINETEEN==========

=========== 
Chapter Twenty 
===========

Northbound on the Bruckner Expressway 
Approaching New Rochelle, NY 
Friday, March 10, 2000 
8:50 p.m.

"Dammit!"

Scully slammed on the brakes as a light blue VW Rabbit
suddenly swerved into her lane without signaling.  The blare
of horns coming from behind testified to the annoyance she
had in turn caused other drivers, but she was only
marginally aware of it.  All of her attention was focused on
the highway in front of them, and a few seconds later they
were in the clear once more.

"Try it again," she said to Burks, sitting in the passenger
seat next to her.  She knew it was too soon; it couldn't
possibly have been as long as five minutes since the last
time.  But she couldn't keep herself from making the demand.

She saw the man shrug out of the corner of his eye, then he
hit the speed dial on her cell phone, for at least the fifth
time since they'd left the hotel.  He held it to his ear for
a moment or two, then lowered it and pushed the DISCONNECT
button.

"He's still not answering," the detective said quietly. 
"But at least we're not getting the out of service message
anymore."

"Right."  Scully nodded in agreement, but she was having
trouble taking much comfort from the knowledge.  If Mulder
had turned his cell phone back on, why hadn't he called her?
 At the very least, why hadn't he answered when *she*
called?  Something was wrong; she could feel it in her
bones, now, and she found she was unwilling even to *try* to
dispel it with an appeal to rationalism.

Something was wrong.

At that instant, her cell phone shrilled, and Scully felt
her pulse increase.  Mulder.  It had to be Mulder.  She
glanced at Burks, and saw that he was hesitating, unsure
whether he should answer it himself, or pass the phone to
her.  She nodded sharply, and he opened the phone and
punched CONNECT.

"Paul Burks answering for Dana Scully."  He listened for a
moment, then went on, "We're in traffic right now, and Agent
Scully's driving.  Can I take a message?"  Another pause,
shorter than the first.  Then:  "Okay.  Just a minute."  He
handed the phone to her, saying, "Man's voice.  Won't talk
to anyone but you, and he says it's important."

Scully sighed and tried to suppress her disappointment, even
as she was bringing the phone to her ear.  "Scully."

"Agent Scully, this is Byers, and I've got some information
for you on Shara Wyche."  She could almost see the dapper
little man's goatee bobbing slightly as he spoke.

"Talk to me," she replied briefly.

Byers wasted no time.  "We began by verifying the
demographics that Bureau researcher found for you," he said
briskly.  "And we have nothing to add in that area.  Ms.
Wyche appears to be a solid citizen, unremarkable in any
way."  He stopped speaking, and seemed to be waiting for a
response.

"I think I detect a 'but' in there somewhere, Byers," Scully
said tensely, after a moment.

Again, she could almost hear the nod.  "As it happens," he
said, "Langly's been working on a tapeworm program that's
designed to infiltrate hospital computer systems and
download lists of patient names and problem lists."  Scully
opened her mouth to ask why, but thought better of it.  She
didn't really want to know.  Byers continued, "And as it
also happens, he did a test run on New York City area
hospitals a few weeks ago, and he still has the data on
disk."

"And Shara Wyche is in that database," Scully guessed.

"Correct," the man confirmed.  "And it's not good news,
Agent Scully.  If Mulder's with that woman, he could be in a
lot of trouble."

Automatically, Scully felt her iron control clamping down. 
She was a professional, she reminded herself, and she and
Mulder had gotten out of some very tough situations.  They'd
get out of this one, too.  "What did you find?" she asked,
amazed at how calm her voice sounded.

"Shara Wyche has been in and out of psychiatric hospitals
for the past ten years," Byers replied.  "Early on, the
records are a little confusing -- sometimes she carries a
diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia, other times it's major
depressive disorder.  But fairly recently, about six months
ago, she spent nearly a month in a private facility over in
Jersey, and *they* tagged her with with dissociative
identity disorder.  What used to be called MPD."

"Multiple personalities," Scully whispered.  "So she and
Lacrimae Mundi really *are* the same person.  Literally."

"That's right," Byers answered.  "And the reason we're
concerned is that the psychiatrist on her case also
confirmed those two other diagnoses, and identified each of
them with a different personality.  Shara Wyche is the
depressive, but the other personality -- which didn't have a
name at the time -- is paranoid.  Full-blown paranoid,
complete with homicidal rages, delusions of persecution, the
whole nine yards."

"Jesus."  Scully shook her head, trying to make sense of
everything the man had just dumped in her lap.  "But Byers,
they let her go, right?  They discharged her.  So they must
have thought she'd be okay."

"One would assume so," Byers replied.  "However ...."  He
didn't complete the sentence.  He didn't have to.  A sign
flashed up out of the darkness, serving notice that the
first New Rochelle exit was just ahead.  Scully pressed down
on the accelerator a little harder.

#          #          #

He stands perfectly still in the middle of the living room,
trying to pierce the gloom with his gaze.  Some instinct is
telling him not to turn on the light.

At least, he thinks it's an instinct.  But with the fog
still swirling and coruscating in his mind, and the lust
pervading his consciousness, it's impossible to be sure. 
They clog his senses and befuddle his thoughts, deadening
his perceptions both of the world and of himself.  And after
a few more seconds, he doesn't even remember that it
happened.

The shadowy figure he saw in the doorway a moment before
seems to have vanished.  But he knows where that person --
whoever it was -- has to have gone.  And without really
thinking about it, because he can't really think about
anything, now, he finds himself walking slowly down the
hall.  Following the sound of the music.

Four closed doors, two on each side of the hall.  Four
closed doors, and he doesn't hesitate as he passes them by. 
Even without the music, he would know.  Even without the
music, the open door at the end of the hall, dark and
foreboding and unbearably enticing, would be enough of a
clue.  It signals to him, it calls to him, drawing him
forward like an impatient lover.

He reaches the open doorway, and for just an instant, he
stops.  It's dark here, darker even than the rest of the
house.  The music is louder, pounding and throbbing and
blending with the fog as it wraps itself around him and over
him and through him.  He moves a hesitant foot forward,
feeling his way, and discovers that he must step down.  Then
another another step down, and another, each step taken with
slightly more confidence, as he descends slowly but steadily
into the darkness.

Leaving the world behind.

#          #          #

Residence of Shara Wyche 
New Rochelle, NY 
9:09 p.m.

The front door was locked, of course.  Scully hesitated for
a moment, trying to decide what to do.  There was another
car parked in front of the house, one with plates that Burks
identified as being part of a series reserved for rented
vehicles in New York.  Presumably it was Mulder's, and that
meant he was here.  The place was completely dark, but the
faint sound of music coming from the house told her that
someone was inside.

She reached into her pocket and drew out the lockpick she
now routinely carried.  She was briefly aware of the look of
mild surprise on the detective's face, but he didn't say
anything, and a few seconds later she had the door open and
they were both drawing their weapons and moving forward into
the darkened living room.

Automatically, Scully felt along the wall until she found
the light switch, but when she flicked it, nothing happened.
 She swore softly, and fumbled in her pocket again, this
time for her penlight.  She found it and turned it on; a few
seconds later, Burks apparently found his own pocket flash,
and a second beam illuminated the room.

The room looked pretty much as it had when she and Mulder
visited the day before.  They had only passed through the
room on their way to and from the kitchen, but as far as she
could tell, nothing had changed.  Sofa on one side,
unremarkable paintings on the walls -- and Scully suddenly
wondered if they were examples of Wyche's own work, as
opposed to that of her Lacrimae Mundi persona.  Carstens had
said she was unimaginative, and these certainly fit the bill
--

She shook her head and put the question to one side.  Later;
she could deal with that later.  Right now, she had to find
Mulder.

She turned her light so that it illuminated Burks' face,
without shining it in his eyes.  The man had apparently just
completed his own canvas of the room, and now turned his
gaze on hers.

"Well?" he asked, softly.

Scully shrugged, and flicked her light in the direction she
remembered the hallway being.  "Through there, I guess," she
said.  The man nodded, and Scully stepped past him, leading
the way into the gloom, the music growing louder with each
step she took.

#          #          #

He stands still as he reaches the bottom of the stairs.  The
music has now completely enveloped him, claiming him as its
own, merging with the fog and intensifying its assault on
his mind.  He no longer thinks; he no longer reasons.  He
simply feels ....

The painting is here, too; the painting that has been
singing to him, calling to him, seducing him, ever since he
first saw it.  The painting owns him now, it commands him,
and he can no more resist its siren song than he can stop
his own heart from beating.  He cannot see it, but he does
not need to see it.  It's here, and he can feel it, and
that's all that matters ....

His feelings of lust and arousal abruptly double and
redouble as he realizes that in addition to the painting,
someone else is in the room.  There is no sound or motion,
nothing to give the other's presence away, but somehow, he
knows.  Here is his chance, here is his opportunity.  Here
is where he can relieve the pressure that's been building
within him, forcing its way through him until there's room
for nothing else.  No thought, no memory, no identity --
only raw, animal need ....

And then he suddenly feels himself being lifted up and away,
until he no longer completely inhabits his own body. 
Looking down, he sees himself, still standing at the foot of
the stairs looking poised and hungry and very, very
primitive ....

"Over here."

The words are low and guttural, just loud enough to be
audible over the throbbing music, and barely discernible as
having come from a human throat -- and somehow, that excites
him even more.  There is no need for subtly here; no need
for gentleness.  He can take and take and take, and not ever
have to give.  His body, no longer under his control, turns
slowly in the direction of the voice ....

"She wouldn't let you finish," the voice goes on, anger
burning underneath.  His body begins to walk slowly forward,
and the words continue to come.  "She wouldn't let you
finish, because she's weak.  A sniveling, mewling, pathetic
creature, unable to stand up for herself, unable to face the
ugliness.  She's weak, and useless, and afraid.  But I'm
not."  And with each syllable he hears, with each step his
body takes, with each beat of the music, his arousal builds
and builds and builds ....

He gasps in shock and pleasure as his body encounters warm
flesh.  A woman's flesh, he realizes.  Hot and ready and
covered with sweat.  He hears her growl, and realizes that
she is only echoing the sounds his throat is making, and
that just makes his need even greater ....

He cannot wait; not any longer.  The pressure is too strong,
his arousal too intense.  He has to have release; he *must*
have release, and he must have it now.  He's barely,
remotely aware of a flash of light in the darkness, and the
sound of a woman's voice, hauntingly familiar, but he pushes
it away.  Not now; not when he's so very close ....

And his body places his hands on the shoulders of the woman
in front of him, and forces her brutally to her knees ....

#          #          #

For an instant, Scully stood frozen in place at the head of
the basement stairs, shocked at the tableau revealed by her
flashlight.

Mulder stood at the far side of the room, perhaps thirty
feet away.  His body was stiff and angular, reminding her
somehow of a puppet on a string.  And standing directly in
front of him, pressed up against him as if in a lover's
embrace, was the nude body of Shara Wyche.

Abruptly, Scully was clattering down the steps, calling her
partner's name as she went.  Burks was close on her heels,
but she was barely aware of the detective's presence.  All
she could see was Mulder and the woman -- the woman who he
was even now forcing to kneel before him; the woman who was
reaching eagerly for his zipper --

And something snapped inside of Dana Scully.  She had never
dealt well with her jealousy; she had always been possessive
of the men in her life.  Now she saw her lover -- she could
not in that instant even remember the word "partner" --
intimately engaged with another woman, and nothing else
seemed to matter.  Nothing else in the world existed, except
for the scene unfolding before her.

#          #          #

Suddenly, he feels resistance.  An instant before, the woman
kneeling before him had been willing and cooperative, as
desperate to fulfill his desire as he was to be satiated. 
Her hand is still in his pants, her fingers lightly wrapped
around his urgently throbbing cock, but even before she
pulls back, he knows that something has changed ....

"No ...."

The word echoes in his head as the woman tries to draw away.
 In a tiny corner of his mind he knows this is a signal, a
warning, and perhaps the only one he will receive.  He
should stop and let her go, and for a moment his body's grip
on her shoulders slackens ....

But that's not what she wants, and somehow he knows that,
too.  This is the weak one, the useless one, the one who
pushed him away before, and she must not be allowed to
decide.  He's too tight, too pent up, and so is the other,
the one who was here a few seconds ago.  They both need
release, and they can only find it in each other ....

He feels his lips stretching into a smile, and again his
body tightens its hold on her shoulders, so hard that he
knows it must hurt, but she does not cry out.  And he knows,
then, that the other is back again, and that soon their
consummation will be complete ....

#          #          #

Time seemed to slow almost to a halt.  Scully felt
powerless, completely out of control, as she watched the
drama unfolding before her.  She wanted to make it stop, she
wanted to pull Mulder away from the brink, but something was
holding her back and preventing her from acting.  She saw
the couple before her hesitate, and for an instant she
thought perhaps the spell was broken -- but then the moment
was gone, and events began to move forward once again, still
in horrible, agonizing slow motion, as Wyche's hand began to
move in harsh, steady motions within Mulder's pants.

And suddenly Scully was free, and she found herself stepping
sharply forward.  She was distantly conscious of Burks
moving behind her, positioning himself to back her up.  She
heard a low rumbling, and identified it as her own voice,
once more calling to Mulder.  She saw Mulder move slightly,
his head turning, his eyes widening as his gaze came to rest
on hers.  There was awareness in his eyes, there was
something flickering to life, as he seemed to recognize who
she was, and Scully felt relief flooding through her system
--

And Shara Wyche was scrambling to her feet, her features
distorted with rage, and a low, guttural sound emanating
from her throat.  Scully felt her own eyes widening as the
other woman's hand struck like a snake at Mulder's belt,
grappling for his SIG.  Scully raised her own weapon by
reflex, leveling it at Wyche, guiding the sight by long
habit until it rested on the center of mass.  Wyche had
Mulder's gun now, and she was turning to face Scully, and
Scully's finger lightly caressed the trigger of her own
weapon, once, twice, three times --

And the woman stumbled back, splotches of red blossoming
like tiny flowers on her chest, until finally she collapsed
on the floor, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. 
Wyche twitched once, convulsively, and then she lay still.

Scully imagined that she could hear the woman's heart as it
slowed to a stop, even over the incessant beat of the music.
 And in her mind -- it must have been in her mind, for Wyche
was surely already dead -- she heard a woman's voice,
whispering, "Thank you."

==========END CHAPTER TWENTY==========

=========== 
Chapter Twenty-One 
===========

The Best Western President Hotel 
Manhattan, NY 
Saturday, March 11, 2000 
3:03 a.m.

Mulder shut the door to his room behind him, and paused only
long enough to strip off his clothes before collapsing on
his bed in an exhausted heap.  It was over.  It was finally,
finally over.

It had been more than half an hour before he'd really
started to come back to himself, after Shara Wyche was shot.
 At least, that's what Scully and Burks had told him; he
hadn't been in any condition to notice the passage of time
on his own.  All he remembered was the fog, and the music,
and the desperate need to literally fuck the life out of the
woman who'd been kneeling before him.

It had taken a few minutes for him to fully understand that
he hadn't done exactly that.

But he hadn't, and he had Scully to thank for it.  She'd
figured out what was going on, at least well enough to come
after him, and once more she'd pulled his sorry ass out of
the fire before he got too badly burned.

By the time he'd worked out in his own mind what had
actually happened, his partner and the detective had calmly
given their accounts to the local police who'd responded to
their 911 call.  The three of them -- Scully, Burks and
himself -- had gone together to Wyche's home to ask her a
few more questions concerning a case they were cooperating
on.  The interview had been proceeding pretty much as
expected, when Wyche had without warning grabbed Mulder's
gun and threatened them, forcing Scully to shoot her in
self-defense.

Wyche's nudity was explained as a personal idiosyncrasy. 
The woman's motive for the attempted assault was unknown,
but her past history of mental illness no doubt had
something to do with it.  Mulder's own blurry mental
condition at the time the police arrived was attributed to a
knock on the head he received when Wyche went for his
weapon.  Fortunately, the paramedics who also responded to
the call could find so sign of serious injury.  Not even a
lump.

Scully's expression never flickered as she told this story,
and it was, Mulder had to admit, a good one.  The best part
of it was that although Scully and Burks fabricated a few
details, it was in its essence true, and the central point
was *completely* true.  Scully *had* killed Wyche in
self-defense.

Mulder wished, though, that *he* understood what had really
happened, even if the police were never going to know. 
Clearly, Wyche had been deranged; equally clearly, her
Lacrimae Mundi persona had in some way been able to use
"his" paintings to influence the behavior of others.  But
had it been conscious and purposeful?  Had Wyche understood
what was going on, and been lying to them by omission that
first day?  If not, had Mundi, at least, been acting with
deliberation?  Or had it all been beneath the surface?

Now that Wyche was dead, they might never know the answers
to those questions.  But even more important, at least to
Mulder, was finding some explanation for his *own* behavior.
 Had it been completely due to Mundi's power, exercised
through that painting?  Or had Mundi been tapping some inner
darkness within Mulder's own psyche?  The latter possibility
seemed all too likely, based both on Mulder's knowledge of
himself and on his professional knowledge of psychology and
parapsychology.  And the thought that a lust-crazed killer
lurked somewhere within his own mind was unsettling, to say
the least.

And, of course, there was the piece de resistance.  Four
people who were almost certainly innocent of any wrongdoing
were going to spend many years in prison, and might even
face execution, and there wasn't a damned thing Mulder could
think of to do that might prevent it from happening.  The
only silver lining in the whole unhappy business was the
knowledge that no one else was going to be victimized in
that way.

The ride to the hotel, after their weapons were given back
to them and they were finally allowed to leave, had taken
place in silence.  Burks had volunteered to see that their
second rental was returned, allowing Mulder and his partner
to drive back together, alone.  Mulder hadn't known what to
expect, and had been a little tense, out of fear that Scully
might be angry with him -- or worse, disappointed.  But
she'd apparently had nothing she wanted to say.

He wasn't sure he liked that.  She couldn't really be angry
with him, could she?  They knew each other too well for her
to take the scene in the basement of Wyche's house at face
value.  But her continued silence as the miles flowed by had
worried him.

And now here he was lying in bed, alone.  Scully had
disappeared into her own room as soon as they'd arrived,
some twenty minutes earlier, still without having spoken a
word.  He'd resisted the impulse to knock on the connecting
door and see if she was doing okay.  He wasn't sure *why* he
hadn't done that; lord knew he wanted to.  But something had
warned him to keep his distance.  She'd come to him when she
was ready.

She *had* to come to him.  Please, god, let her come to him.

Even as he was thinking those words, repeating them in his
mind in a forlorn attempt at self-comfort, he heard the
connecting door open.  He felt himself tense slightly, and
despite his relief that she wasn't going to leave him alone,
he couldn't force himself to turn over or open his eyes.  He
didn't want to see the expression on her face.  If she felt
that he had let her down, or betrayed her, he didn't want to
know it.

Not yet.  Not until he had to.

Then the covers were being lifted, and an instant later the
mattress shifted slightly as his partner crawled into bed
next to him.  A little more movement, and he felt her small,
warm body cuddling up behind him, her arms slipping around
his waist, her bare skin familiar and comforting against his
own, and slightly damp.  And Mulder found that he could
breathe again.  A shower.  She'd just wanted to take a
shower.

"Fox?"  Her voice was very quiet, so low he could barely
hear her.  "Fox, do you remember me?  My name is Dana; we
had lunch together the other day."

Mulder couldn't keep himself from smiling at her words, as
all his remaining anxiety evaporated in an instant.  He felt
her snuggling a little more closely against him, even before
he'd given his response.

"Sure, I remember you, Dana.  The woman of my dreams.  How
could I forget?"

He felt her lips touch the base of his neck, and he could
almost hear her smiling as she replied, "I didn't think you
would have.  I just wanted to be sure."  She paused, and
kissed him again, a little higher on his neck.  "You know,
you're the man of my dreams, too."

"I know."  Mulder felt his throat constricting slightly as
he acknowledged her gift, and his eyes stung with tears.  "I
know.  But it's good to hear you say it."

"You're the man of my dreams," she repeated.  She kissed the
back of his neck for a third time, and added, "And you
always will be."

"You'll always be mine, too," he agreed.  He tried to turn
over, at last, wanting to face her and take her in his arms,
but she pressed her body more firmly against his and
prevented it, and Mulder acquiesced to her unspoken request.
 He could wait.  At least for a little while.

Her hands started moving, then, slowing stroking and petting
his chest and abdomen.  Mulder felt a thrill of pleasure
shooting through his body at her touch, and a profound sense
of relief that the quality of his arousal as Scully's hands
glided across his skin was so very different from what he'd
felt earlier in the evening, when he'd been with Shara
Wyche.  Those hadn't been his own feelings, and in his heart
he knew it.  But still it was a comfort to have first hand
evidence of that fact.

Scully's hands continued stroking him, moving not at random,
but in a slow, intricate pattern, rubbing here, tickling
there, pinching gently in yet a third spot.  Mulder shifted
his legs legs slightly to accommodate his rapidly-growing
erection -- and then one of her hands slipped lower, taking
him gently in her grasp, and he moaned.

This time when he tried to turn, she let him.  Mulder eased
himself onto his back, his head lying on the pillows as
Scully's own head came to rest on his shoulder.  One of her
arms was now wrapped around his shoulders and gripping his
upper arm, while beneath the covers her other hand continued
to stroke and caress his cock.

He felt a brief tremor of anxiety over the fact that he
couldn't *see* that it was Scully touching him.  It was
irrational, he knew -- there was no one here but the two of
them, after all, and there never would be anyone else, ever
again, for either of them.  But only a few hours before a
hand had touched him there, and it had not been hers, and he
needed to *know* that this time it was right.  And so he
threw back the covers and allowed himself to look.

God, what a beautiful sight.  It really was her; it really
was Scully.  It was her hand and her fingers, the ones he'd
come to know so well over the years, touching him in the
most intimate manner imaginable.  He suddenly realized that
he'd never told her how beautiful her hands were, and now as
he watched her gently fondling and stroking his cock, he
once again felt tears of love filling his eyes.

He reached down, and with shaking fingers he brushed the
back of her hand.  He felt her fingers tighten around him
slightly as he touched her there, but her motions never
faltered, never slowed.  And Mulder settled his hand on top
of hers as she continued her ministrations.

He looked up then, and saw that she was looking not at their
hands, but at his face.  Her expression was soft and
feminine in a way he could not recall ever having seen
before.  Her eyes were a deep, deep blue, and Mulder felt as
if he were looking down into her very soul.

And then she was kissing him; his Scully, his lover, was
kissing him.  Her tongue was deep in his mouth, and the hand
that had rested on his upper arm now cupped the back of his
head, her fingers tangling in his hair as she sought to draw
him even closer.  He returned the kiss, alternately sucking
on her tongue, drawing it still deeper, and then pushing it
back as he explored her mouth with his own tongue.

She tasted just the way she ought to taste; she tasted like
coffee and chocolate and Scully, and as the kiss continued
and deepened further, he felt his arousal building,
building, building ....

He rolled her onto her back and moved on top of her, and she
spread her legs, cradling him with her thighs.  Her hand was
still on his cock, but now she was no longer holding him and
stroking him; now she was guiding him, urging him forward,
until finally the tip found the hot wetness of her entrance,
and they both gasped ....

He was inside her, then, all the way inside her, with one
quick stroke.  Her legs wrapped around his hips as she
sought to pull him even farther inside, and her arms circled
his upper body, her hands gripping at his shoulders ....

They began to move together, instinctively finding the
perfect rhythm.  They were both moaning, now, and gasping
and murmuring and humming, filling the room with the sounds
of their pleasure.  The scent of their mutual arousal
mingled in the air, the whole so very much more than the sum
of its parts.  And she was so hot and tight and wet, and he
was so very, very hard ....

How could he ever have mistaken anything else for *this*,
even if he *had* been under some sort of a spell?  There was
no other person on this planet with whom he could perform
this act, and have it be an act of communication, the way it
was with Scully.  There was no one else with whom he could
share his soul ....

He knew the moment when she reached the edge; he knew it,
because he saw it in her eyes.  They'd been watching each
other the whole time, unable and unwilling to look away,
blue eyes mingling with hazel until it was no longer clear
where his gaze ended and hers began.  Now he saw her eyes
widen, and he heard her soft, almost inaudible gasp ....

In the next instant her gaze became blurry and unfocused,
and then her body convulsed savagely beneath his own, again
and again and again.  He thrust into her one more time, even
more deeply than before, and he was there, too, and they
were there together, they were jumping off into space and
floating ever upwards, wrapped in the warm cocoon of each
other's embrace ....

Time had passed.  It must have.  He was lying on top of
Scully, her arms and legs still loosely wrapped around him,
his spent cock still resting inside of her.  His face was
buried in the hollow of her neck, and he could taste her
skin, warm and slightly salty, against his lips.

And Mulder reached an epiphany, as he lay in bed resting in
his lover's arms.  He'd thought on the car ride back to the
hotel that they might talk about what had happened, and work
it all out in their usual style.  He'd expected to debate
and argue, and finally arrive, if not at consensus, at least
at a point where they could agree to disagree.

But Scully had known better.  This had not been a normal
case.  It had wound up being intensely personal, and the two
of them had never been very successful talking to each other
about such things. Scully's silence on the trip back to the
hotel, that he had mistaken for anger or disapproval, had
simply meant that she was waiting -- waiting for a chance to
express her feelings and talk to him in the most basic and
primitive way of all.

It was an outlet the two of them hadn't had in the past, and
they were both still getting used to it.  But Scully had
apparently, in this case, reached out for it instinctively.

He was drawn from his musings as his partner stirred
slightly beneath him.  He should get off her, he realized. 
He was probably crushing her.  She was so tiny, after all,
and she needed to be able to breathe.  And so he stirred,
and tried to lift himself --

Only to have her tighten her four-limbed embrace, denying
without words his attempt to move.  Refusing to allow any
distance to come between them; any distance at all. 
Proclaiming once and for all that she owned him, and would
not allow him to leave.  And Mulder relaxed again and closed
his eyes, knowing that Scully would tell him when she needed
space again to breathe.

After a while, they slept.

==========END CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE==========

=========== 
Epilogue 
===========

United Airlines Flight 921 
Somewhere over Iowa 
Saturday, March 18, 2000 
7:45 p.m., Central Standard Time

For once, they were flying first class.

Of course, they weren't traveling at Bureau expense this
time.  This trip was private.  This trip was just for the
two of them.

Scully turned away from the window, where she'd been
watching the lights of cities pass by 35,000 feet below. 
The scenery outside the plane could only hold her attention
for so long, after all, when she had Mulder at her side.

Her partner was still asleep, as he had been ever since they
took off from Washington National.  His face was smooth and
unlined, and his eyelids flickered slightly, signaling that
he was dreaming.  His lips were pursed as if he were deep in
thought, but from the expression his face it was clear that,
for once, his dreams were happy ones.

He was beautiful.

The past week had been busy for both of them.  Between
cooperating with the New Rochelle police, sitting through
yet another of the Bureau's shooting reviews, and the need
to get their report finished for Skinner, they'd put in a
lot of long days, leaving them precious little time for each
other.

This trip was intended to remedy that.

It had been Mulder's idea, originally.  "Let's go back to
the beginning," he'd said, and Scully had immediately known
what he meant.  He wanted a fresh start and a new
commitment, both personally and professionally, and there
was only one place that stood in both their minds as a
symbol of all that was good in their partnership.  It was
the place where it all began, seven years ago this month;
the place where they started the agonizingly slow process of
learning to trust one another.

They were closing the circle.  They were going back to
Bellefleur.

Mulder murmured something in his sleep, drawing Scully out
of her thoughts.  She smiled gently as she once again
allowed her gaze to drift across his face.  She could never
tire of looking at him, and one of the best things about
finally being his lover was that now she didn't have to deny
this to herself.

There were still things they had to work out, of course;
there were still problems that needed to be resolved.  For
her own part, Scully continued to have small, niggling
doubts about her true role in this partnership.  Mulder had
done his best to reassure her, but she couldn't help but
feel that sometimes she held him back instead of helping him
to move forward.  That perhaps the men who sent her to
Mulder, all those years ago, intending for her to sabotage
his work, had succeeded after all.

And sometimes, too, as she lay alone in the darkness waiting
for sleep, on the far side of midnight, Scully still worried
that maybe she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere, and wasn't
meant to be on this path at all.  Was her own personal
happiness truly enough to outweigh everything else --
including the loss of the contributions she had once
expected to make to the field of medicine?  Not to mention
what had happened to Missy, and the gaping chasm that had
opened between her and the rest of her family ....

She shook her head slightly, pushing the thoughts away.  Not
now; not now.  Those concerns needed to be addressed; she
needed to find closure for her own misgivings and personal
demons, just as Mulder had needed to find closure for his. 
But now, at last, she felt that perhaps those questions
might actually have discoverable answers, and that she was
no longer adrift and alone as she grappled with them.

She had Mulder to thank for that.

And as she'd done ten days earlier, while Mulder slept
during the flight to New York, Scully reached over and
lightly stroked her partner's cheek.  And as he'd done that
previous time, he smiled without waking, and softly murmured
her name.

It was enough of an answer, at least for now.

Dana Scully settled back in her seat and allowed her hand to
return to her lap, as she continued to watch Mulder slumber.
 Soon her own body relaxed, her breathing evened out, and
her head came to rest against her partner's shoulder as she,
too, finally drifted off to sleep.

=======THE END OF THE WHOLE STORY=======