From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:24:46 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 24A of 27
Source: xfc

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

Part 24A of 27: Bystanders at the Massacre

Disclaimed in Part 1.


"I'm quick to perceive a horror, and could still be 
social with it-- would they let me." Moby Dick.


Embassy Suites Hotel. 11:29 p.m.


Purdue's sigh rivaled the pneumatic wheeze of the door 
that admitted him into the lobby. Rows of open 
landings towered above him, tiers on a wedding cake, 
and he slapped self-consciously at his coat of many 
wrinkles, the under-dressed guest at the ceremony. His 
loafers flaked dried mud, a crumb trail marking his 
path across the carpet.

Agent Emil Sandidge nodded at him from across the 
room. Sandidge lounged on a corner couch that gave him 
full visual access to the doors above, and he made no 
move to rise. His legs were crossed, one foot bobbing 
absently. Purdue offered a half-hearted wave but 
continued on to the elevator. If Sandidge had anything 
interesting going on, he certainly wouldn't be sitting 
on his can shooting the breeze with the desk clerk. 

Christ, had they really only been on this case nine 
days? It felt like years, Purdue decided. Like he'd 
grayed and grown feeble in the span of a week. And 
Sisyphus -- *No,* he corrected himself, *Cecile 
Foster* -- still held all the cards. She was probably 
somewhere close this very minute, watching them sweat, 
laughing while she prepared to play her next hand. 
She'd probably already picked out her next victim.

Hell, odds were she'd already butchered him.

Purdue poked the elevator button, jabbing at it once 
more -- and again, -- just for the satisfaction. By 
the fourth jab, the machinery took the hint and 
obediently swallowed him up. Purdue counted down the 
floors through the elevator's glass walls, oblivious 
to the scenic view of the lobby as it fell away at his 
feet: rich burgundy carpet, the color of drying blood, 
a central fountain chattering pleasantly, the 
pervasive odor of flowering potted plants. It smelled 
like a funeral home.

Purdue's head throbbed relentlessly. He'd popped 
several aspirin on the way from the car, but didn't 
expect much from them even once they had a chance to 
dissolve. He patted his coat for a cigarette and had 
stuck it in his mouth before he remembered he'd left 
his lighter in Wheeling.

"Shit."

How long had he lived this way, he wondered: every day 
unveiling its own peculiar horror, week in, week out, 
an unending parade of tragedy? How had it managed to 
sneak up on him without his noticing? And when had he 
surrendered, finally allowing it to consume his life? 

Yeah. Sure. What life?

The elevator door chimed pleasantly. Purdue shoved the 
cigarette into his coat pocket and left his hand in 
there with it as he approached Room 328. Olivia had 
been on his mind entirely too much today, he decided. 
The drive back from Quantico had become a gauntlet, 
her memory merciless. He'd rolled the windows down and 
turned the volume up on the car radio, but her voice 
had continued its relentless whisper, an agonizing 
treasure still tightly wrapped around his auditory 
nerve: words, phrases, a disconnected jumble of 
memories that made his hands shake even now-- 

Jeezus, he hated this. Didn't need it. Not now. Hell, 
didn't Mulder have enough grief to deal with without 
Purdue hauling *his* dead through the door? 

Patterson's voice, begrudging and mournful, 
reverberated with the now constant pounding in his 
head. *Mulder hasn't let it go. He doesn't know how.* 

"Well, hell," Purdue hissed. "Welcome to the club, 
Agent Mulder."

He raised his fist to knock. Softly, he reminded 
himself. Mulder could be sleeping. He could hear the 
television droning, though: Letterman doing his Top 
Ten routine. Great. That was all he needed to top his 
evening. Letterman and his damned Stupid Pet 
Tricks....

Beyond the door, another voice was suddenly quite 
distinct. Fowley. Her tone, bitter and frightened, 
made Purdue forgo knocking and grab for his key.

"DammitgetupFox! *Please--*"

There was no answering reply, at least nothing Purdue 
could hear over the tumble of the lock. Fowley glanced 
up guiltily as Purdue swung the door open. He 
hesitated, his hand still on the door knob. 

Mulder was on the floor, half-naked and splayed out 
like a man on a torture rack. Fowley stood over him, 
twisting his arm, or maybe just tugging at it. Purdue 
would have had cause to be more upset about the 
situation if Fowley didn't look so desperate. She 
dropped Mulder's arm and took a step back.  

"Sir," she assured huskily, "I can explain--"

"Is he breathing?" Purdue requested the information 
and closed the door calmly. Fowley blinked; this 
wasn't quite the question she'd expected, apparently.

"Ye-- Yes, sir. I--"

"Are you hurt?"

There was considerable venom in the question and 
Fowley held her breath, mouth open in mid-sentence, 
taking a second inventory of her ASAC. Purdue didn't 
want to know what she saw: a man in need of a shave 
and an antidepressant, he imagined. He dropped his 
head on the pretense of shedding his overcoat, made a 
show of shaking it out and folding it vertically 
before finding a chair to lay it across. Fowley, ever 
the diplomat, allowed his little pretense. She slipped 
a strand of hair behind her ear before answering. 

"No, sir. Agent Mulder just wasn't feeling well when 
he woke up. I was trying to help him back to bed."

Purdue scanned the room, chewing the inside of his 
cheek. Three of the table chairs were overturned and 
plastic cups littered the floor. "Is he dreaming 
again?"

"Yes. I think so. At least, he *was.*" Fowley followed 
Purdue's focus and seemed to have difficulty 
swallowing. "He, uhm, he woke up a little 
disoriented." 

"So I gather. You didn't notify Sauceda?"

Fowley pursed her lips. Purdue sympathized. 
Maneuvering your way through the rock and the hard 
place could get a little tough sometimes. "I thought I 
could handle it, sir. And, if you'll excuse me for 
saying so, I believe I've done just that."

Purdue's brows crawled for his hairline. "Uh huh," he 
said.

Fowley flushed but didn't take the opportunity to 
debate the issue as he approached. Purdue loosened his 
tie, bending over to assess the agent on the floor. 
Mulder blinked up at him, eyes fully dilated despite 
the intensity of the overhead bulb. The rings of color 
around his pupils were thin and faint, the palest 
gold. Purdue leaned slightly to his left. Mulder's 
eyes did not track the movement. Purdue leaned to his 
right. Still no response. 

"If you're not hurt, Agent Fowley," Purdue glanced up 
from under dark brows, and Fowley took an involuntary 
step backward, "then perhaps you'd care to tell me who 
the hell he slugged to wind up with knuckles like 
that?"

Fowley stared down at Mulder's hands and licked her 
upper lip, considering. Both of Mulder's fists were 
bruised, the crusted remnants of old wounds now oozing 
pinkish liquid, the flesh various shades of yellow, 
blue and purple, none of them exactly a complimentary 
color. Purdue could see Fowley rolling over the 
possible explanations, categorizing each for potential 
damage control. She flushed under the ASAC's 
penetrating glare and Purdue found himself suffering 
from an acute case of deja vu. 

"As I said, sir, he was disoriented. Upset by his 
dream. He hit his fists against the door--" Fowley 
took a deep breath, weary of playing the defensive 
position. "To be frank, sir, I'm grateful this 
happened. I think it's allowed Agent Mulder and me to 
come to a kind of understanding--"

"What? He takes a swing and you duck?" 

Fowley's ruby-studded earrings flashed fire. "No, 
*sir.* He hit the door. He hit it because he *aimed* 
for it. It was a response to frustration, not anger, 
and I don't appreciate your insinuation that I can't 
handle my job. If--"

Her vehemence seemed to have roused Mulder, and she 
silenced as he moaned softly. He blinked in her 
general direction without actually seeking her out. 
Blinking again, he found Purdue. He stared at the 
ASAC, or maybe just through him. It was difficult to 
tell with his eyes alternating colors like that. 

Purdue glanced back at Fowley, but she offered nothing 
further, arms folded across her chest, holding her 
secrets tight. She was covering for someone, Purdue 
decided, -- for herself, for Mulder, maybe both. 
Whatever had happened here tonight, he'd be getting 
only the expurgated version, he was certain. He tried 
telling himself he didn't care one way or the other, 
but it was just one more lie he'd need to keep track 
of later. 

Mulder, meanwhile, finally seemed to register that 
something was expected of him. He moved like a drugged 
man struggling to consciousness: one knee up, a random 
motion of a hand across his chest, eyes grazing the 
ceiling. Something deep in Purdue's chest knotted up 
at the sight. He ran a hand across his eyes, grabbing 
at his headache, blocking the image. He was supposed 
to have made things better for Mulder. He'd promised 
it. Sworn it to Skinner. Purdue swallowed hard. He'd 
promised Mulder. *You lying son of a bitch.* 

Mulder's arm brushed the ASAC's shin, a random motion 
as the profiler struggled to find the floor and prop 
himself up. It surprised Purdue, however; accidental 
as the touch might have been, it felt too much like a 
request. Mulder seemed alarmed by the contact himself. 
Barely managing to prop himself on his elbows, he 
scooted over several inches, putting that much more 
space between himself and human kindness. 

Purdue dropped to his knees. "You can run, Mulder, but 
you can't hide." He tugged Mulder up into a sitting 
position and acknowledged that there was perverse 
thrill in blocking the escape. After some futile arm-
slinging, Mulder stopped struggling, and allowed 
Purdue to hold him steady while he regained his 
bearings. He kept his head down and turned away, 
however, eyes invisible, his breathing tense.

Purdue couldn't help himself. "I think you'll live, 
son." 

"Shit," Mulder commented roughly, and Purdue grinned, 
glancing up at Fowley. Purdue must have done something 
right; she was watching the proceedings with open 
disapproval.

"I think you've had enough for one evening," Purdue 
told her. "Go home and get some rest." 

"But, sir, I--"

"I'll call you in the *morning.* If we haven't found 
the suspect by then, you'll have the afternoon shift." 
He paused. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer a more 
*permanent* change of venue?"

Fowley didn't hesitate. "No, sir. I don't think that 
will be necessary."

"Neither do I." Purdue nodded at her obvious relief. 
His headache had taken a sabbatical, he realized, 
easing to a dull tension that he could *almost* ignore 
entirely. On the television, Stupid Pet Tricks was 
well under way: a chihuahua, and a cockatiel with a 
top hat. 

"Get out of here and get some sleep," Purdue ordered. 
"One of us needs to be relatively conscious tomorrow."

Fowley returned the nod, but hesitated as Mulder met 
her eyes. Purdue saw only in profile: Mulder's 
expression was intense, a question perhaps, a demand. 
Whatever it was, it remained unspoken between them. 
The politics of partnerships could run remarkably 
deep, Purdue knew. Most were a minefield of barely-
negotiated tolerance and fierce loyalties, a mutual 
concession of conceits that took on the intensity of a 
marriage. He hadn't expected Fowley and Mulder to have 
developed this kind of solidarity, however, not this 
quickly. Once more, he'd managed to underestimate 
someone. Mulder, probably.

Mulder dropped his head to stare at the carpet between 
his knees. The visualization approach to standing, no 
doubt, an attempt to recall the necessary motions. 

Purdue's legs were starting to go numb from lack of 
circulation. He shifted, propping his knee behind 
Mulder's back, something for the profiler to lean 
against until he re-oriented. Fowley busied herself 
collecting her things: purse from the locked cabinet, 
her coat from the couch. Purdue took advantage of 
Mulder's confusion to risk a slightly more thorough 
examination. He ran his hand through Mulder's hair, 
fingers probing the scalp for some indication of 
injury. Mulder shook his head, then butted his 
shoulder into Purdue's chest when the ASAC failed to 
take the hint. The motion was clumsy and painless, a 
feeble attempt at independence, but Purdue yielded 
with a grunt.

"I don't believe he hit his head, sir." Fowley 
regarded them from the door.

"Did you give him anything? Any drugs? Alcohol?"

"Food?" she minced. "No. He just... woke up. Sir, if I 
may suggest, Agent Mulder is obviously suffering from 
exhaustion. He should be in a hospital. This case is 
killing him. The *work* is killing him--" 

"I'm fine, dammit." Mulder's voice was brittle and raw 
-- his "f's" stuttering on their way out -- and he 
obviously resented the effort needed to make himself 
heard. It didn't help that he was speaking to the 
carpet. "Stop talkin' 'bout me like I'm not fuckin' 
here." 

"But, Fox--"

"I'm not going to a goddam hospital," Mulder hissed, 
unconcerned with slurring consonants this time. He 
jerked sideways to glare at Purdue, but the effort 
left him reeling, hand on his chest, dizzy even as he 
sat on the floor. It only seemed to increase his 
irritation, and he had no reservations about taking it 
out on his ASAC -- another good sign, Purdue decided. 
"I'm not going to a hospital," Mulder insisted. "You 
promised--"
 
Fowley shook her head. "I'll get Sauceda--" 

"The hell you will." The vehemence in Mulder's voice 
stopped her with her hand on the knob. Purdue kept a 
firm grip on Mulder's shoulder.

"Fox, you need --"

"Enough," Purdue barked. "I'm still the Assistant 
Special Agent *in Charge* here." 

Mulder glanced at him again, his dizziness abated. 
"Oh, really?" his face said, but he kept his mouth 
firmly shut. Purdue tightened his grip enough to make 
Mulder wince then released him with a little shove. He 
favored Fowley with slightly more patience. "Go home. 
The day I can't handle this pissant punk is the day 
I'll retire." His tone brooked no argument.

Fowley raised her brows cautiously, but excused 
herself without further comment. 

"Pissant. Is that what you think of me?"

Purdue slapped his knee against Mulder's back before 
even turning to look at him. It was a childish effort 
to release frustration, but done without thinking it 
over too closely and thus allowable. And it worked. 
Mulder looked like he'd kill if he had the energy. 

"Just what the *hell* do you think you're doing, 
Mulder? I don't know what went on here," Purdue spat, 
"and I don't really give a shit. But you try holding 
that promise over my head just one more time and I'll 
slap your butt into Electronic Surveillance and keep 
you there until you learn to kiss my ass and *like* 
it. Understood?"

Mulder didn't look like he believed it much, but kept 
his mouth shut just in case. Purdue took this as 
further evidence of the profiler's returning sobriety 
and stood. It required a bit more effort than he was 
accustomed to, but he couldn't afford the energy to 
think about that just now. He noted the two dirty 
smudges marring the white paint on the door. Each mark 
was about the size of a man's fist, set at roughly the 
same level, two, maybe two-and-a-half feet apart. 
There were dark scrapes across the wall next to the 
door as well. They looked like the tracks left by... 
someone's heels? Mulder was wearing socks--

"Did you hurt her?" Purdue demanded. "Dammit, Mulder, 
is she lying to me?" 

Mulder, legs sprawled, glanced up in surprise. He grew 
solemn almost immediately, however, and Purdue 
frowned. Purdue had expected a haughty "no" and a 
severe cussing. The fact that Mulder had to actually 
give the question some real thought did not set too 
well. 

Mulder chewed his bottom lip as he ran a mental replay 
of the evening's events. "No," he answered at last, a 
husky, almost vowel-less rasp, the barest hint of 
questioning lilt on the tail end.

Purdue sighed. He supposed he would get the truth out 
of Fowley eventually.  

Maybe.

"Can you walk?" This time Purdue didn't wait for 
Mulder to assess himself for an answer. He grabbed the 
profiler by the upper arms, tugging him up from the 
floor. Mulder struggled to assist in the process, his 
own limbs blearily protesting their involvement. 
Still, it took a few tries for Purdue to get him 
vertical. Mulder was more compact that he looked, 
heavier, solid muscle filling out his lithe frame, and 
Purdue was doing most of the grunting. Mulder did most 
of the swearing.

With both feet finally planted, Mulder pushed the ASAC 
aside and headed for the couch. He wasn't steady on 
his feet yet, though, and swayed like a drunkard. 
Purdue wrapped an arm around his chest, as much to 
tackle the man as to keep him upright.

"No, you don't, Mulder. You're going back to bed." 
Purdue wouldn't allow himself to be shrugged off this 
time, and Mulder took to swearing again.

"I'm not tired, godammit--" 

"Well, I *am.*" Purdue kept a firm grip on Mulder's 
arm as the young man shifted to free himself. "And I'm 
not putting up with your shit tonight, mister. You're 
going back to bed and that's an order."

Mulder twisted and blinked at him, perplexed. "You 
can't order me to bed like I'm some kid." The words 
were still slurred, but braced with a dignified 
defiance.

"Fine," Purdue nodded. "Then we'll just sit out here 
all nice and cozy, and you can tell me what the hell 
all *this* was about." He kicked one of the errant 
plastic cups across the floor. 

Mulder watched the cup spin over the carpet and lose 
itself beneath the sofa. He drew himself to his full 
height, a deposed monarch requesting the terms of his 
abdication. 

"So, if I go to bed, can I still watch TV?" 

Purdue grit his teeth to keep from swearing. "Just get 
your ass in gear."

Mulder grinned, obviously satisfied and Purdue's palm 
itched to slap the crap out of him. He didn't, but 
Mulder's knees buckled all the same. Purdue caught him 
as he staggered, tugged Mulder's left arm across his 
shoulder and wrapped his free arm around Mulder's 
back. To his surprise, Mulder allowed this assistance, 
accepting Purdue beside him like some suddenly 
attached limb, awkward but welcome. Purdue kicked 
another plastic cup aside and they headed for the 
bedroom. Mulder was solemn suddenly, contemplating the 
distance across the room. Purdue caught himself 
feeling guilty for wanting to slap him. Told himself 
to get over it.

"You wanna tell me about this dream of yours, Mulder? 
Is Sisyphus keeping herself busy somewhere? Is that 
why we haven't located her?" He glanced over at 
Mulder's bowed head. Mulder's jaw worked in 
concentration. 

"No." Another vowel-less rasp. Another uncertain 
disavowal. But of which question? 

"Look, Mulder, I know it's been tough--"

Mulder head came up and he jerked unexpectedly, 
stumbling to his left and pushing Purdue with him. It 
was an awkward but deliberate motion; they seemed to 
be circling something, skirting invisible furnishings. 
Purdue, caught off guard, allowed the course 
correction, trying to read Mulder's body language. 
Mulder looked surprised, oddly enough, turning his 
face away briefly as though to watch something pass. 

"What's wrong, Mulder? What's going on?"

"It'ssss... nothing." Mulder faced forward guiltily. 
"I... I'm just disoriented, that's all." He didn't 
sound entirely certain, though. He seemed drained, 
suddenly, his skin the color of spent ash. There was a 
fluttering in his cheek as well, a nervous tic Purdue 
hadn't noticed before. He'd get Mulder to bed, he 
decided, then, early morning flight or not, he'd have 
Sauceda in here to look the man over. 

They'd taken only three more steps before Mulder 
froze, tugging Purdue to a skittering halt beside him.

"Mulder, what in the hell--?" 

The remaining words refused to form. The hair had 
begun rising on Purdue's arm, a tickling against his 
shirtsleeve that refused to be ignored. The sensation 
passed from the wrist of his right hand, up his 
forearm, and Purdue searched the ceiling for an air 
vent, something to explain the sudden draft. There was 
nothing. One side of his sleeve was plastered to 
Mulder's back by sweat, Mulder's body heat radiating 
through Purdue's jacket and shirt; on the other side, 
this same arm endured the advance of an arctic storm. 
Frost tickled Purdue's bicep and shoulder, traced soft 
fingers across his spine and then fled down the other 
arm. 

All the while, Mulder's eyes tracked something unseen 
across their path, his vision following the direction 
of the chilling breeze--

Tales learned at his grandmother's knee returned to 
haunt Purdue. Tales of ghosts and malevolent spirits, 
of mediums cursed with visions of the dead--

*Bullshit.* 

Mulder grunted as Purdue's arm tightened around him, 
jerking him up straight. 

"Let's get a move on it, Mulder." 

Mulder pulled back a little, twisting to see him 
better. Purdue leveled a forbidding glare at him, 
daring him to argue. Instead, the ASAC's breath caught 
in his throat. Reflected in Mulder's ultra-dilated 
pupils, was an image: Purdue's face, stern and dark, 
and another floating beside him, just the briefest 
glimpse, a second face, there behind his shoulder. The 
image was captured in stereo as Mulder focused on him, 
an identical exposure perfectly reflected in each eye. 
There was no disavowing this as an aberration of 
light. It was a child, a boy no more than eight or 
nine, the reflection so clear Purdue could have picked 
him out in a lineup. 

Purdue felt his mouth go dry. He gripped Mulder's 
wrist, steadying himself as he turned. No one. 
Nothing. Perhaps the child had stepped around behind 
Mulder, but no. There was a glare across the 
television and it reflected the room very clearly: the 
couch, the chair, misshapen and concave at the edge of 
the screen, he and Mulder severely distorted -- but 
there was no other living being in the room.

Purdue turned back to his profiler. Mulder's brow 
furrowed under Purdue's scrutiny and he faced forward 
abruptly, tugging to disentangle himself. Purdue 
maintained his hold on Mulder's wrist, however. He 
didn't want to be left alone with the child standing 
behind him, didn't want Mulder left alone with him, 
either. That too-gray figure with its vapid eyes and 
painful smile... Mulder yielded after only a token 
resistance and Purdue resumed his plodding, dragging 
Mulder with him. They'd covered barely a yard before 
the hair started rising on Purdue's arm again -- the 
other side this time. 

It, whatever It was, was coming back. 

Like a time out of place, Purdue recalled an event 
some seven months old to him now: a nondescript Sunday 
morning, Purdue, the dutiful widower, home alone with 
too much time on his hands and too many memories. He'd 
been standing at the kitchen sink, washing dishes in 
self-defense, when he'd heard a footstep, a single 
whisper of soft shoes stepping onto the kitchen tile. 
The door was to his right, less than a yard from his 
shoulder, and he'd glanced back. Nothing. No one. But 
he'd felt her presence. *Knew* she was there. 

The glass he'd been washing slid back into the soapy 
water. He'd needed both hands to steady himself 
against the cabinet. As he turned, though, she had 
continued on, a soft whisper, come only for a brief 
visit, come to see how her home was faring under his 
administration. She hadn't slighted him, he understood 
that in the space of seconds; she'd been here before 
when he hadn't known, watching after him, but this 
visit had a different purpose and she hadn't the time 
to linger. He felt her moving, a shifting of air 
molecules more subtle than a breeze and he struggled 
to call out. The cat did it for him, a bright, 
contented "me-ew" as it trotted into the kitchen. His 
wife's silver-point tabby, pale blue eyes serene and 
staring up as it trotted, following his mistress, tail 
held high with joy, dark tip twitching. 

Olivia had continued without pausing, through the 
kitchen and into the den. Unable to trust his legs, 
Purdue had tracked her progress beyond the bar that 
divided the two rooms. The cat circled the den -- the 
Sunday Washington Post was scattered on the couch, but 
the room had been fairly well-ordered otherwise -- 
tail up, steps bouncing, staring fixedly. It mewed 
twice, making the trek back up the length of the den, 
still following, stopping at the entrance to the sun 
room. The French doors were closed, a defense against 
the October morning chill. They were no barrier to 
Olivia, though. The cat mewled his disappointment, 
tail sagging, pink-padded paw against the lowest pane 
of glass. He'd mewled again, louder, and Purdue knew 
that Olivia had continued on, far beyond, the wailing 
cat left to overcome his own disappointments. She'd 
had other promises to keep. 

Purdue waited, though, breathless, but she hadn't 
returned for the tabby. Nor for him, either. He hadn't 
the heart to step out into the back yard to see what 
she might have disapproved of there. He and the cat 
had spent the rest of the day on the couch, mutual 
partners in grief.

This was no gentle, familiar presence, however, no 
faithful spirit stopping by on its way to tend the 
business of eternity, Purdue was certain of it. His 
gut was knotting so tight it hurt to breathe. Grief 
could do strange things, he reminded himself. You only 
wanted to believe it was her that day, now you've been 
thinking about her again. Maybe--

Purdue glanced at his profiler. Mulder's eyes were 
focused firmly forward, a single bead of sweat 
tracking down his cheek and staggering drunkenly over 
the stubble on his jaw. Purdue's rationalization died 
only half-formed as he finally made the connection: 
whatever it was Purdue merely sensed, Mulder *knew.* 
Mulder could *see.* Like that silver-point tabby. 
Mulder could see it. 

And it was Mulder tugging them forward now, putting 
one foot before the other, at least as best he could, 
his arm tense across Purdue's shoulder. The returning 
chill discovered Purdue's neck and lingered, and the 
ASAC shivered involuntarily.

*They want him--* Purdue had no clue why the thought 
should occur to him, no idea what it might mean. He 
recognized it as truth, however. He shook his head to 
rid himself of the thought. *Stress,* he insisted, 
almost a prayer. *It's just the damned stress--* 

They progressed like snails, fleeing for their lives. 
Despite his logic, Purdue's heart pounded with a 
wisdom his head did not possess. He cursed his fear, 
unwilling to capitulate, and pulled Mulder forward as 
the profiler paused to glance back again. Mulder, 
disoriented and distracted, did his best to keep pace. 

Two hard-won steps, and the frost invading the base of 
Purdue's skull slid down his spine suddenly. He felt 
three distinct pressures midway down his back, very 
solid -- the impress of fingertips? -- then, a 
definite shove. He stumbled, biting his tongue as he 
struggled to remain upright, to keep Mulder from going 
down with him.

Mulder grabbed for him, instinct overriding his 
trauma. The two men tumbled together against the 
coffee cabinet, plastic cups rattling in the sink from 
the impact. Purdue searched Mulder's face 
breathlessly. The chill was gone, and the ASAC 
realized he was drenched in sweat. The floor shuddered 
beneath his feet with the rumbling approach of 
thunder. Mulder stared at him, surprised, mouth 
working without sound. He wouldn't speak the words, 
couldn't. Couldn't trust so much-- 

He glanced away, focusing on some innocuous stain on 
the Formica. Purdue wiped blood from his mouth and 
swallowed. 

"Let's go, son."

Mulder didn't question the order, allowing the ASAC's 
arm across his back even though his steps were 
steadier now. Purdue preceded the agent through the 
bedroom door sideways. The room was bathed in 
twilight, the light behind them not strong enough here 
to even throw their shadows. Purdue's heart skipped as 
Mulder froze again, in mid-step, and swayed slightly. 

Purdue twisted his neck, seeking out Mulder's face. 
The young man refused to return the questioning look, 
blushing darkly before glancing down. Purdue searched 
the room: he saw was only the dresser and the drapes 
beyond, two hulking, rectangular voids against walls 
of deep gray. Purdue realized that he feared what 
*Mulder* had seen, however. He also realized that 
Mulder hadn't pulled away. Purdue had sensed the 
intention to do so as they'd paused, an ominous 
trembling in Mulder's arm across his shoulder. The 
profiler had found some kind of strength in the 
crossing, a renewed determination. It bled from him 
now. But Mulder hadn't released him. His arm remained 
around Purdue, almost a protective gesture. Purdue 
wasn't certain he liked the implication. 

Because if it frightened Spooky Mulder, Purdue didn't 
have a prayer. 

CONTINUED IN PART 24B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:24:54 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 24B of 27
Source: xfc

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

Part 24B of 27: 


No. This was ridiculous. The very idea--

Yet, Mulder waited for his decision, licking his lips, 
a thirsty gesture. Purdue tried, but he just couldn't 
find it in him to turn around and head for the couch. 
Hell, he couldn't even turn on the bedroom light. That 
would be an admission of weakness, something Purdue 
had never allowed himself to afford.

Mulder wouldn't fault his cowardice, though. The 
certainty of that surprised Purdue, but he didn't 
question it. Mulder would never mention this moment, 
not even with a knowing glance many years hence. 
Purdue wasn't ready to accept such largesse, however. 
Not even from Spooky himself. 

*Spooky? Shit.* Purdue snarled, lip curling with 
distaste. *I'm getting as bad as everyone else in this 
hare-brained outfit.*

"Come on, son." He hissed the words, and Mulder 
relented without comment. Mulder's face was calm, 
Purdue noted, but his eyes were shut: a man resigned 
to death but unwilling to watch it slither across the 
room for him. Purdue swore at no one in particular and 
tugged the young man across the short distance to the 
bed. 

Mulder stumbled, stocking feet catching on carpet as 
he shuffled. He didn't go down, however, and Purdue 
sighed gratefully, easing the profiler over to the 
near side of the bed. He turned Mulder around, and 
gave him a shove when Mulder didn't take the hint on 
his own. 

Mulder dropped onto the bed, dead weight, his feet 
still on the floor, torso falling back, arms out, his 
head bouncing gently from the impact with the 
mattress. Then, he simply stopped moving. 

"Oh, no, you don't." Purdue snapped on the bedside 
lamp, macho posturing be damned. The shade cast its 
glow only half-way across the room, a charmed circle 
against evil. Purdue slapped Mulder's knee with a bit 
more force than necessary, still unaccountably 
overcome by a pervading sense of urgency. "In the bed, 
son. You get some sleep and we'll sort all this out in 
the morning." The sound of his own voice was a 
comfort, so certain and calm. It was a lie.

*Damn, but it was cold in here.* 

"Mulder? Are you listening to me?"

Mulder didn't nod. He didn't even blink. He was 
conscious though, just very still, like a man 
listening to something distant and indistinct. Purdue 
opened his mouth to complain, but only a puff of 
frozen air escaped, the words forgotten on his tongue. 
The hair was rising on his arm again, tickling his 
sleeve. It was his left arm this time, the arm 
farthest from the light, and he jerked the limb back, 
cradling it against his chest as he squinted into the 
darkness at the foot of the bed. 

With no change of expression, Mulder turned his face 
away from that same darkness. He didn't pull his arm 
away as Purdue had, though, and Purdue watched as the 
flesh prickled on Mulder's forearm, the dark hair 
flattened against his skin. Mulder's fingers turned 
grayish-blue, trembling. The phenomenon traveled up 
Mulder's arm and Purdue stared, fascinated, as the 
short hairs on Mulder's neck and chest rippled, a 
response to a strengthening breeze. 

Only there was no breeze. The air was so still, in 
fact, that Purdue had to gasp to take in oxygen. 

There was a presence here, in the ambered circle with 
them, an impossible entity come to conduct business. 
Purdue was as certain of the fact as he was of his own 
name. He was equally certain that this was not the 
force that had pushed him moments before. It... *felt* 
different. There was nothing playful here, nothing 
impish or mischievous. This was sheer malevolence, 
hatred given breath, a soul of evil come to collect a 
debt. 

And it had come for Mulder. An exchange was taking 
place on the bed, a plea, a demand, heard by only one. 
Mulder shook his head, one slight jerk, a refusal. The 
response was immediate: Mulder's hair plastered 
tightly against his skull, the skin of his neck and 
shoulder goose-pimpling as he endured the entity's 
silent roar. The outer edge of a gale buffeted Purdue 
and he blinked convulsively, squinting as turbulence 
washed over and past him. Mulder shook against the 
onslaught, but he remained resolute, his own eyes 
carefully closed, waiting it out. 

Beyond Mulder, traveling from the foot of the bed, 
depressions were forming, elongated dimples in the 
bedspread, pushing into the mattress itself, one, two, 
appearing, disappearing as a third took its place a 
good half foot away. About like a man's knees and 
shins might make crawling across the bed--

No. Way. In. Hell.

*Stop!* Purdue screamed the word, but only in his 
mind. Watching Mulder shudder, he was beyond speech, 
beyond the confines and protocols of reason. He jerked 
with the effort to vocalize his resistance and lunged 
for Mulder, folding down over him, employing his body 
as a shield to block the assault. He hoped it was 
enough.

Mulder flinched beneath his weight, but didn't move 
otherwise. Purdue felt the young man's gasp, a sudden 
rise of Mulder's chest against his ear, his skin 
scorching Purdue's cheek despite the sub-zero 
temperature of the air that surrounded him. Purdue 
paid no heed, focused on the encroaching darkness at 
the end of the bed, Mulder's frozen fingers gripping 
the bedspread, fisting it up, searching for a 
lifeline, something solid and real in this hellish 
wonderland.

A final blast that left Purdue blinking -- and it was 
over. The presence exited so abruptly that Purdue 
could have sworn he'd heard a "pop" in the air, the 
explosion of atoms colliding as the air pressure 
sought to equalize. The bed shook -- no, the room 
shook, the lamplight wavering slightly as a deep, 
moaning roll of thunder gripped the building. Then 
stillness. Silence. 

Purdue jerked as a hand slapped him in the back of the 
head.

"So, get the hell off already."

Mulder's voice was ragged and haggard, heavy on 
bravado and short on conviction. Purdue rolled off him 
and sat up, wiping sweat off his face. Mulder rolled 
in the opposite direction but had a bit more 
difficulty getting himself into a sitting position. 
Purdue didn't offer assistance, taking time to get 
caught up on his own breathing, and re-evaluating the 
world as he knew it. 

Mulder slid off the bed using his hands against the 
mattress to help him stand. The lamplight washing over 
him was not kind. There were stark shadows developing 
beneath his ribs and he was shivering, tiny periodic 
tremors that shuddered through muscle and then fled. 
At least the goose bumps were disappearing. Mulder put 
his hands on his hips and moved his shoulders, 
shrugging back into his skin. He lolled his head 
forward, back, working too-taut tendons, trying to 
convince himself he was still in possession of his own 
body. 

Purdue chanced a deeper glimpse around the room: 
shadows which were *only* shadows were all that 
greeted him now. He glanced back at Mulder, who was 
still working his shoulders. Mulder lifted his chin, 
eyes closed in concentration. As his head tilted back, 
Purdue stood, staring. There were streaks across his 
windpipe, the skin mottled deep red, irregular stripes 
across flesh blue with evening stubble. Purdue, 
familiar with violent death and strangulation, 
recognized the pattern. It was the imprint of fingers. 

"It's Fredricksberg. Isn't it?" Purdue whispered the 
words before they'd even had the chance to form 
clearly in his mind. This was beyond reason. The more 
rational areas of Purdue's brain cautioned him to hold 
his tongue, tried to place the malignant entity within 
his developing theory. But it *was* Fredricksberg. The 
certainty came from a place beyond knowing, and he had 
too little pride left to argue with the insanity of 
the situation. "Patterson was right. That's what all 
this has been about. All those kids..." Mulder watched 
him warily. "Deny it, damn you! I dare you to deny 
it."

Mulder didn't deny anything. He paled suddenly, eyes 
widening, jaw clamped. His hand rising to his chest as 
he turned and fled back the way they came. Purdue 
swore and grabbed Mulder's upper arm. His grip 
tightened when Mulder tried shrugging him away. 

"You're not running, dammit. You're going to stand 
here for once in your life and give me an answer--"

Mulder, his throat working, doubled the fist of his 
restrained arm and back-handed Purdue in the face. 
Purdue released him, grabbing for the stars blinding 
his right eye. He felt his cheek swell beneath his 
hand, an answering echo in his sinuses that threatened 
to set his nose to bleeding. His left eye was still 
functioning, however, and he made another grab for 
Mulder, but missed, his fingers leaving dark, angry 
whelps along Mulder's upper arm as the young man fled.

Mulder didn't get very far. He was doubled over by the 
time he reached the door, wracked with pain. Purdue 
stumbled after, his vision returning in tentative 
flashes. He skittered to a halt, almost tripping over 
Mulder as the profiler collapsed against the door 
frame. Mulder slid to the floor with a moan, his head 
falling back, jaw clenched as he choked back bile. One 
side of his body was lit by the amber lamp of the 
bedroom, the skin rendered deceitfully warm. The 
bright-white glare of the bulb in the sitting room 
blasted across other side of his body and Mulder 
glowed ghost-white, ashen as a corpse. The mysterious 
whelps on his throat were even more prominent now. 
Almost as prominent as the blood trickling from his 
nose. Purdue knelt, bruised cheekbone forgotten. 
Mulder was holding a hand across his abdomen, the 
gesture of any nauseated man. Except that beads of 
blood were pooling from it, trickling, thread-thin, 
down into the waistband of his jeans--

"Jeezus Christ--" 

Purdue jerked at Mulder's hands. Mulder resisted, but 
Purdue slapped his arm back, fingers still stinging as 
he ran them over Mulder's stomach. His free hand felt 
along Mulder's neck for the artery, seeking any hint 
of arrhythmia in his pulse. He could find no 
irregularities, and Mulder's abdomen presented no 
injury, no break in the skin. The blood was fresh, 
though, and there were no smears to indicate that he'd 
obtained it from the nosebleed. Mulder, meanwhile, 
held his bloody hand before his face, staring at it 
like he'd never seen it before. 

Purdue searched his back pocket for a handkerchief. He 
didn't bother to unfold it, patting down Mulder's 
abdomen, seeking the source of his injury. The blood 
wiped up obediently, but there truly *was* no wound. 
The ASAC gasped as the blood frothed again: bubbles 
the size of pin heads, foaming from Mulder's pores, 
glistening in the two-tone light--

"God Almighty damn," he rasped, "God help--"

Purdue scrambled for his feet, ignoring the pain that 
now defined the right side of his face. Mulder grabbed 
for his wrist as he stood. The grip was desperate but 
his fingers were slicked with someone's death; Purdue 
tugged free easily and lurched for the bed. He tossed 
the bedspread aside and jerked up the blanket. The far 
corner was tucked too tightly and it took extra effort 
to loosen it. He tugged harder. Purdue had been 
trained to act, not to react, and procedure steadied 
him now. He needed to get Mulder warm before shock set 
in. Mulder's pulse had been strong, but his skin was 
clammy and too damned pale. He was breathing shallowly 
and far too rapidly-- 

*Maybe he's just scared, Reg. Scared? Hell, *I'm* 
scared--*

Purdue jerked the blanket free with one final, 
exasperated tug. A gleam of burnished metal caught the 
lamplight as he did so. He froze, blinking, not 
trusting his injured eye. A snub-nosed .38 slid from 
under the pillow and tumbled to the middle of the bed, 
harsh black against the thick, creamy expanse of the 
blanket. Bad eye or no bad eye, Purdue recognized it 
instantly. 

"Son of a BITCH--" 

He snatched up the weapon and spun, kicking past the 
bedspread. Mulder couldn't fail to note the fury in 
the man lumbering for him and tried to slide backwards 
into the sitting room, stocking feet propelling him 
across the carpet. He didn't get far. Purdue caught 
him before he could get past the coffee cabinet, 
grabbing his ankle and jerking it hard enough to make 
Mulder yelp. 

"Tell me you stole it from him, Mulder," Purdue 
insisted, shaking the weapon at him. "Tell me you 
stole it, or I'll shoot him myself, Godismywitness--"

Mulder didn't bother feigning ignorance. He didn't 
bother explaining, either, beyond a reluctant shake of 
his head that could have meant anything. He rested on 
his elbows, waiting to see which way the wind would 
blow next. His eyes were very quiet, watching Purdue. 

Purdue glanced down at the weapon in his hand and 
froze. He'd had his finger on the trigger. What the 
hell was wrong with him? He'd had his finger on the 
goddam trigger-- 

Purdue snapped the cylinder open and shook the bullets 
out onto his palm. 

*What the hell was Lenny thinking? What could have 
possessed him to pull something this stupid?* Purdue 
pocketed the bullets and shoved the revolver into the 
waistband of his slacks, snug against his back. 

"How often have you done this, Mulder?" His own voice 
was unsteady. "How many years have you bled like 
this?" 

"Just--" Mulder looked Purdue in the eye, an effort to 
prove his sincerity. He wasn't quite up to the strain, 
however, and his focus slid away to a spot just over 
the ASAC's left shoulder. He didn't seem to be 
tracking anyone this time, though. "Just the once," he 
whispered, vocal chords grinding. "In my apartment." 

Purdue pursed his lips. "The one Sauceda reported?"
 
Mulder nodded, glancing at Purdue's face briefly, 
gauging effect, then away again.  

It was everything Purdue could do to keep from kicking 
him. "You bastard. You expect me to believe that?"

Mulder fought a wave of shivering and let his head 
loll back, lifting it again with a grunt of pain. He 
recoiled when Purdue grabbed for him, sliding him 
around to prop his back against the coffee cabinet. 
Purdue was far from gentle about it, but Mulder 
blinked his thanks once it dawned on him that he 
wasn't being attacked outright. 

"Just the once, huh?" Purdue didn't believe it, but 
he'd play along for now. "Just when you dreamed about 
Kay, right?" Mulder didn't answer. He was still 
shivering, and hugged himself from the chill, head 
down so Purdue couldn't see his eyes. It wasn't like 
Mulder to incite pity to get himself out of mischief, 
and Purdue returned for the blanket he'd left on the 
bedroom floor. "Are you still dreaming about her, 
Mulder?" His voice bounced as he trotted the short 
distance. "Is that why you're bleeding again?"

Mulder shook his head, coughing, and pulled his knees 
up protectively. The bleeding, never much to begin 
with, had stopped. He flinched as Purdue dropped the 
blanket over him. It was an involuntary reflex, but it 
hurt Purdue to see it nonetheless. Purdue bit his lip 
to keep from swearing at the profiler, draping the 
thick fabric around Mulder's shoulders, tucking it in 
against the cabinet. 

"Look, I'm going to get Sauceda. Can I trust you on 
your own for about a minute and a half?"

"Probably not." Mulder grimaced, and seemed to have 
difficulty swallowing. He snaked one hand from under 
the blanket to probe his windpipe, wincing at the 
damage he found there. He glanced furtively at Purdue.

"Yeah, I noticed it." Purdue settled back on his 
haunches with mock aplomb. "Cut yourself shaving, 
huh?" He tugged his cell phone from his jacket pocket 
and started dialing with his thumb. There were no land 
phones in this suite. Purdue had had them removed 
before Mulder had arrived. The wall cords too. He'd 
seen too many suicides accomplished with electrical 
cords and had only left the lamps intact because they 
needed some type of light and the cords were unusually 
short.

Mulder frowned, watching him dial, and pulled the 
blanket up to his chin. "I'll be okay." The lie came 
too easily. "I just need to take a shower--"

"Don't start that crap, Mulder."

Mulder grunted and struggled restlessly, dropping his 
legs flat to the floor, then drawing his knees up 
again, blanket bobbing as he worked out his 
frustration. "I've just got to get this... *stuff* off 
me," he moaned. "Please. I'm not lying."

"No, not much you're not." *Christ, now it's "please" 
and everything.* Purdue's eyes narrowed. "You're going 
manic again, aren't you?"

Mulder, scandalized, dropped his legs flat and left 
them there this time. "No, I'm not *manic.*" He spat 
the word indignantly. "Does this look like a state of 
euphoria to you?" Purdue held up a hand of truce, but 
Mulder wasn't through with his diagnostic analysis. 
"My attention span is still relatively healthy, I have 
no special plans for world domination and I certainly 
feel no compulsion to *chat* excessively. And I'm only 
irritable because you insist on pissing me off."

"Jeezus, Mulder, it's not an insult, it's just a 
question."

"Well, it's a *pissant* question. And the answer is 
*no.* Fuck you." 

Purdue raised a brow but didn't argue. With Mulder 
calm, he finally finished dialing Sauceda's number. 
Another wave of shivering struck the profiler and 
Purdue chanced a second question.

"When was the first time you did this?" he demanded 
softly, cell at his ear. "This dream stuff. When did 
they start? Can you remember?"

Mulder glanced away, holding himself tightly, but the 
shivering was short-lived this time. Mulder shrugged 
when it released him, the gesture meaning nothing, 
just something to fill the space as he gathered enough 
control to speak.

"First time," he frowned, concentrating. "First time 
was Shreveport. I think."

"You think?" 

"Pretty sure." Mulder's brow furrowed. "I don't 
remember anything like it before then."

"You lying sack of--" Purdue could hear the ringing in 
the phone in his hand, the muffled echo of Sauceda's 
phone through the wall behind him. "You were doing 
this crap in the Academy when Patterson was slipping 
you cases against orders. You had to have been. I saw 
the files. There's no way you came up with those 
answers from the kind of evidence you were given. 
Hell, it's all VCU talked about for months. Spooky 
Mulder solved the Freeway Killings. Spooky Mulder 
glanced at a few photos and found a senator's niece--"

"All I found was a corpse--"

"In a field fifteen miles from nowhere with nothing 
but a class photo and a damned tire track. Don't tell 
me Shreveport was your first case like this."

"It *was!* Goddammit. What do you want from me? 
Christ!" Mulder jerked at the blanket, burrowing 
deeper. "I don't remember afterward." The confession 
was reluctant and seemed to surprise him. He didn't 
look up. "I just started noticing it after the Barnett 
case. The one *you* brought me in on." It sounded like 
an accusation, too harsh even for Mulder's anger, and 
he added, "After I got out of the hospital, anyway." 
He fell silent, chewing his lip. 

Purdue remembered the shooting. Last September VICAP 
had been working a rash of armored car heists. It was 
Purdue's first major case as ASAC and it had dragged 
for months with few leads. Patterson, happy to rub 
Purdue's nose in his misfortunes, had sent Mulder to 
profile the UNSUB for them. Mulder had pissed Purdue 
off just looking at him walk through the door, all 
fresh-faced and self-assured. Mulder had already built 
a formidable reputation as BSU's premiere profiler, 
though, and there was no arguing with his stats. By 
every indication, Mulder was a natural inductive. He 
wrote profiles using the principles of subatomic 
chaos, the physics of a world governed by the random 
collision of quarks and anti-electrons, where time 
could stop on a whim and double back over itself. That 
was Patterson's theory, anyway. Purdue knew only that 
Mulder could make the most impossible connections and 
develop a plan of attack while everyone else sat on 
their thumbs and bitched about not being able to track 
the logic. With no other options in the offing, Purdue 
had taken a chance and made the quantum leap with 
Mulder. His profile had been dead on target, and 
Mulder had even helped to set the trap for John 
Barnett, had fired the bullet that brought the man to 
his knees. 

They'd been loading Barnett into the back of the 
ambulance, a U.S. marshal at one corner of the gurney, 
when Barnett, in spite of two gunshot wounds, one in 
the shoulder and one in the hand, had grabbed the 
marshal's gun. There had been a wild struggle and 
Mulder had run to join in the fray. Barnett had aimed 
wildly, but there was no doubting his target. The 
bullet hit Mulder, throwing him backward off the 
bumper of the ambulance. The wound itself was nothing, 
a glancing shot to the left bicep, but Purdue could 
recall the first time *he'd* been shot: the sickening 
pressure of the bullet penetrating flesh, the 
disorientation as you spun and fell, body still too 
shocked to feel much, the nerves too busy jerking to 
register the pain. 

Then the realization of how close death had come. For 
some, it was psychologically devastating. But Mulder 
had held up well, even laughed when Reg, panicked, had 
dropped to his side to stanch the blood flow. 

Mulder wasn't laughing now, though, and all he was 
doing was recalling dreams. 

"You went back to BSU after the Barnett case. Covered 
the Baytown murders. Then straight on to Shreveport." 
Purdue's eyes narrowed, considering, the phone 
forgotten at his ear. "You were having these kinds of 
problems there, too? And no one reported it? Sons of 
bitches--" 

Mulder wasn't listening, coughing softly, unconcerned 
with this run-down of closed cases. 

"Sauceda knew, didn't he?" Purdue wanted to hear 
someone admit it. If not Mulder, then he'd shake it 
out of Sauceda himself. "How'd you convince him to 
keep his mouth shut? I swear to God I'll have his 
pension--"

Mulder shrugged away from Purdue's vehemence. "It's 
not like that. He didn't-- I-- I don't ever remember 
it being this bad." He scrubbed at his face, trying to 
untangle the filaments of memory, how things were, how 
things should have been. "It's like it all happened to 
someone else," he lisped. "Like looking at a film. 
Only I'm holding the camera..."

"You don't remember the cases?"

"I remember the damned cases," Mulder snarled -- what 
was it about genuine human concern that made him so 
nervous? But the extra effort to speak left Mulder 
wincing, his throat raw. "I just don't remember the 
dreams," he whispered hoarsely. "*If* I dreamed. Or 
what I knew when. What came first." He drew his knees 
up again and leaned his forehead against them, his 
admission mournful and tired, muffled by the blanket. 
"It's not so bad when I'm profiling from a desk. Or 
when there's not so many bodies." He shrugged again 
without glancing up. "Ollie North disease. 'Senator, I 
do not recall'." 

Purdue watched Mulder grit his teeth as another bout 
of shivering demanded his attention. The unanswered 
buzzing of the phone had finally grated through to 
Purdue's last nerve and he hit the power button, 
huffing as he stood. 

"All right, Mulder, here's the deal: I'm going next 
door just long enough to slap Sauceda out of bed. If I 
come back and find you in the shower, I'm crawling in 
it with you and hauling your butt out. And I'm not a 
very happy camper when I'm cold and wet. Understood?"

Mulder, head still down, nodded. Purdue frowned. He 
didn't trust this newly-compliant version of Fox 
Mulder, no matter how sick he appeared. He wouldn't 
call down for Sandidge to fetch Sauceda, however. 
Purdue had a few choice words to say to the 
pathologist, and he'd be damned if it would wait. He 
left Mulder huddled on the floor, tucked tight beneath 
his blanket. 

Sandidge glanced up as Purdue stepped to the railing 
outside the door. The lanky Midwesterner had been with 
Purdue since Purdue had made ASAC, and had served with 
him in the ranks for several years before that. A 
brief signal was all that was necessary between them 
now. Sandidge nodded and assumed a watchful stance 
midway between the elevator and the short hall to the 
service stairs. If Mulder made a dash for it and 
managed to get past Purdue just one door away, then 
Sandidge -- and his less obvious backup -- would be 
waiting to run interception. 

Purdue stopped at Sauceda's door, tapping softly. The 
hotel had been gracious enough about their more 
intrusive arrangements, but Purdue didn't see the 
point of waking fellow patrons just to get Sauceda to 
the door. He tapped just a little harder and waited 
another minute before fumbling for the key. 

*Dammit, Lenny, you could sleep through a freaking 
hurricane--* 

The thought brought back more ghosts. Purdue squelched 
the unbidden image of Kay, rain-soaked, her pale fist 
pounding at Sauceda's door in the dead of night. The 
key in Purdue's hand shook, scraping at the lock 
before he managed to jam it into the hole. He swore 
under his breath. He was doing an awful lot of 
swearing lately. Ever since he'd acquired Mulder, in 
fact.

The sitting room was dim, lit only by the amber glow 
of a lamp from the open bedroom door. The lamp light 
surprised him. Maybe he'd finally managed to wake the 
man... It was cold as hell in here, too. Someone must 
have been seriously messing with the thermostat. The 
hairs on the back of Purdue's neck were prickling. It 
was not the violent invasion he'd confronted in 
Mulder's room, however. This was the more familiar 
prickling of instinct, the awakening certainty that 
something here was very wrong.

"Len? You up?" Purdue pocketed his key as he crossed 
the floor, freeing his gun hand without thinking why, 
a habit honed to instinct by years of criminal 
investigation. He didn't reach for the weapon, 
however. Quick eyes scanned the sitting room, alert, 
finding nothing to justify the alarms ringing in his 
head. The room had the air of a converted tactical 
command post: crumpled and abandoned, awaiting yet 
further assault. Take-out boxes were stacked on the 
cabinet next to the coffee machine, the carafe still 
half-full although the machine's indicator light was 
off. The atmosphere was thick with cigarettes, 
pepperoni, and testosterone. The upholstery here 
didn't have a prayer.

"All right, Lenny! Get your pants on, Mister, you've 
got a patient." 

The empty .38 rubbed against Purdue's back as he 
walked. He'd deal with that later. Mulder may or may 
not be heading for shock right now, and he'd let the 
young man put off a good medical exam long enough. 

There was no answer from the bedroom, and Purdue 
tapped the door jamb before sticking his head in.

"Lenny?"

The room seemed in perfect order: a suitcase next to 
the chair, 'TV Guide' on the bed stand. The bed covers 
were pulled down, a tangled lump at the foot of the 
mattress. The light was dim, too golden to display 
colors properly or to distinguish shadows. Purdue 
needed no further illumination, however. There were 
splotches on the sheets, the carpet. They sparkled, 
coppery black in the lamp glow. The stench of blood 
was almost enough to knock him down. 

From the bed, Sauceda regarded him calmly, the barest 
hint of a smile upon his lips. He'd been gutted from 
sternum to groin, organs lying neatly on the bed 
beside him, slick and dark like great swollen bruises.

Purdue stumbled backward into the bathroom. And for 
the first time in his life, he vomited at a crime 
scene.

XXXXXXX

Sandidge needed no orders as Sauceda's door jerked 
open and Purdue burst out. The ASAC grabbed the rail 
to keep himself from flying over it, noting instantly 
that Sandidge was on the move, overriding the elevator 
control, radio at his ear as he barked for backup. 
Purdue scrambled for Mulder's room, aware he was 
mumbling to himself, unable to decipher his own 
convulsive language, aware of the acid aftertaste 
burning the back of his throat. His hand was shaking 
too hard to operate his key efficiently, and the 
elevator pinged as he finally got the room unlocked.

"Mulder!" Purdue slammed the door open, shouting the 
name. The profiler, huddled against the cabinet, 
should have been clearly visible from the door. 

Should have been. Wasn't. The blanket was simply a 
lump of fabric tossed on the floor. Purdue registered 
Sandidge behind him as he raced for the bedroom. A 
single dresser drawer was open, clothing spilling out 
of it. 

Behind the closed bathroom door, the shower was 
running. Purdue swore. How had he possibly failed to 
notice? He spun, Sandidge dancing backward to avoid a 
collision. 

"Frost and Lamott are on their way up, Reg. I'm still 
trying to get through to Fendley and Heller in the 
garage."

Purdue nodded, brain assimilating the information 
without consciously interpreting it. 

"Mulder!" he bellowed the word, pounding his fist 
against the bathroom door. "Muld--" 

The door, lockless, snapped open under the force of 
the blow and slammed open. The shower curtain was 
closed. 

Purdue lurched into the room, heart in his throat. He 
knew what he would find, something about the way the 
water ran, something about the screws rolling on the 
floor. He jerked the curtain back, plastic rings 
snapping loose and flying against the tile. He stood 
there with the curtain in his hand, heedless of the 
water splattering the arm of his jacket.

Sandidge followed his gaze. High on the wall was an 
air vent, grateless, a gaping, empty exit from a world 
gone truly mad. Sandidge hissed into his radio, 
"Dammit, someone pull the plans for the ventilation 
system! Heller, you son of a bitch, give me a status 
report--"

Purdue shook his head. "When we find Mulder," he 
whispered, "I get the first shot."

XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:25:02 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 25A of 27
Source: xfc

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

Part 25A of 27: Your Actual Mileage May Vary

Disclaimed in Part 1.


"It is a man, it was one all along. No it isn't. It is 
a man with the conscience of a woman, always coming 
out of something, turning to look at you, wondering 
about a possible reward. How sweet to my sorrow is 
this man's knowledge in his way of coming, the 
brotherhood that will surely result under now darkened 
skies. The pressing, pressing urgent whispers, pushing 
on, seeing directly--"   -- John Ashbery, "Haibun 4." 
*A Wave.* Penguin Books. New York. 1985.



Friday, May 20, 1988. 12:02 am. Embassy Suites Hotel. 
Ventilation system. 

She was claustrophobic. Hell of a time to realize this 
fact, she decided. Crawling on your hands and knees in 
a too-tight shaft in the belly of a -- what? -- ten 
story building--?

That thought, and the image it invoked -- the tons of 
masonry and steel towering above, a massive, 
mysterious architecture just beyond the thin sheaf of 
metal shaft -- only escalated the pounding in her 
chest and temples. Her vision swirled with the 
onslaught, and she believed, sincerely believed for 
the space of one heart-crushing moment, that she had 
felt the building sway. Tectonic plates, stationary 
for eons, were shifting. The earth, that violent, 
blood-thirsty goddess, was opening its jaws to swallow 
her whole, prepared to devour half a city just to have 
*her.* Her sister-in-blood. 

Sisyphus froze where she knelt, body convulsing, heart 
pounding fist-like against her ribcage, and waited for 
the squeal of metal, the flesh-destroying impact of 
concrete as they -- she and the Embassy Suites -- 
dropped into the heart of the earth. She huddled, 
panting, eagerly anticipating. There was a rumble. An 
echo. She wasn't imagining this--

The rumbling deepened, shuddered, sighed and then 
rolled on, high above, distant.

Thunder? Was it only thunder? Surely not--

She waited with the infinite patience of those 
resolved to the certainty of death: palms flat against 
the floor of the shaft, forehead pressed down between 
them. Her knees were beneath her now, her butt in the 
air, a pilgrim rendering homage to Mecca without 
benefit of compass.

Another deep-throated rumbling, more distant this 
time, faint. 

Thunder. 

She lifted her head and blew air out her cheeks. She 
might have felt ridiculous if her lungs were working 
properly; instead, she just felt nauseated. The shaft 
was narrow and she wasn't a tiny woman, nor was she 
accustomed to crawling about on all fours like some 
dissipated cat. The fabric of her black slacks 
provided far too little cushioning for her knees, her 
back hurt, her shoulders ached, her head throbbed--

Well, it was just her luck to have found the *exhaust* 
shaft, she supposed. The air here was plentiful and 
constantly regenerated, but it was hot, and too humid 
to breathe easily. Could one suffocate in an air 
shaft? She hadn't a clue, but decided that if anyone 
could pull it off, it would probably be her. 

The warning signs had come early; she couldn't fault 
her body for lying to her. There had been that 
fluttering in her chest from the get-go, when she'd 
first shoved herself into the vent. She'd been too 
excited to listen, too proud when she'd proven fit 
enough to leverage herself up the short vertical 
section of the shaft and into the infinite horizontal 
plane on which she now traveled.

That initial elation had carried her a surprising 
distance. The lighting in the shaft was dim, an oh-so-
faint glow from the parking garage that glimmered and 
reflected its way down the recess before her. She'd 
taken this bit of illumination for granted, had 
assumed, contrary to all logic, that it would remain 
with her, or that the shaft had come equipped with 
some kind of lighting system -- a necessary detail for 
maintenance, surely. 

The second corner had proven her folly. She'd entered 
darkness, a blackness so complete, it might have been 
a living entity. It certainly had mass, a density that 
suggested physical presence, and it enveloped her in 
impenetrable arms. It had hands, too, impossibly 
heavy. They stroked insistently: her hair, her face, 
her breasts. She'd tucked her thighs together tightly 
without thinking why, waited, gasping, the lazy 
fluttering in her chest bursting into spasmodic 
tremors, sharp throbs of panic that gripped her lungs 
and intestines. 

No. No, she couldn't stop. He was waiting--

The black beast heaved, a seething blast that tore the 
breath from her throat. Sympathetic stars flared 
before her eyes, phantom light registered by a brain 
frantic for visual stimulus. 

Was she even conscious? In the darkness, she couldn't 
honestly say. Wondered if it mattered. She continued 
moving -- into dreams, visions or reality -- 
determination carrying her forward, against all 
reason, into the tunnel of night. 

Because he waited.

Her progress was slow, made slower still by the fact 
that her hands were clenched like claws, nails 
scraping against the metal. 

He waited.

A screw, misfed or loosened from its hole, impaled her 
hand as she sought her way. She yelped, more in 
surprise than pain, sucked at the blood running slick 
against her palm, grateful for something real, some 
reassurance of life.  

He waited for her. 

She couldn't disappoint. 

Somewhere above her, metal creaked, a quiet threat 
that might have been a laugh. She took a deep 
steadying breath. He'd be worth it, she reminded 
herself. 

She'd make certain of it.


XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Excerpt: Criminal Investigative Analysis, UNSUB: 
Multiple Homicide. Wheeling, WV. May, 1988. Analyst: 
F. Mulder, VCU.

"...Despite compulsive anti-social behavior, the 
subject is not insane by accepted legal and 
psychiatric standards. She understands the rules of 
society and is aware of the potential consequences of 
her actions. The consequences simply do not concern 
her. Her behavior is a result of choice, freely 
exercised. She is rational, always aware of what she 
is doing and why. Her kills are casually executed, the 
aggression cold, lacking any form of intense emotional 
arousal. She is a psychopath: highly adaptive, 
socially functional, behaviorally upright, morally 
insane.

Uncharacteristic of most psychopaths, however, the 
subject is rarely glib or grandiose. She will flatly 
deny being deceitful, appalled at the suggestion. In 
her non-homicidal roles, she is rarely manipulative 
and displays a level of responsibility bordering on 
compulsion. She prides herself on being a "good girl." 
Neighbors will describe her as gracious, if not 
socially gregarious, a model citizen. She has no 
criminal record.

Subject's PRIMARY CHARACTERISTIC is a profound lack of 
empathy. She is indifferent to all that makes life 
joyful or interesting. Love, horror, humor are beyond 
her experience and have no ability to move her, and 
she cannot comprehend that others are moved by them. 
If she has ever known joy, love or compassion, she 
cannot recall them as sensations, and knows only that 
"something" is missing, without comprehending the 
intensity of the loss or lack. An above-average 
intelligence has allowed her to compensate socially, 
and she has learned the appropriate emotional 
responses required by others. These reactions are 
strictly paint-by-number, however. Her emotional life 
is non-existent, and she has no experiential knowledge 
of human feeling. Locked in this emotional void, she 
lacks even the capacity to feel sorrow for 
herself...." 


XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Fingers, slick with grit, reached down into nothing. 
She grunted, snatching blindly at the place where 
metal should have met her hand and didn't. The 
broiling air rushed faster here, slapping her hair 
into her face and blasting down over her fumbling 
hand. The current tumbled from high reaches, an 
invisible Niagara, eager to be gone, hungry for the 
heart of the earth. Disoriented as she was, it took an 
additional minute for her to register the 
significance.

A vertical shaft. 

Her stomach knotted. The moment of truth had finally 
arrived. Her breath caught in her throat. There has to 
be a service ladder, she reminded herself. The one 
she'd been anticipating since she'd entered the shaft. 
There had to be a service ladder to the next level, 
right? So that people could fix things. Ever so often, 
surely someone had to fix something-- 

*But there are no lights,* her eyes accused, throbbing 
in their sockets. Yes, the air was occasionally 
sprinkled with stars, but these were only the private 
inventions of her stubborn brain. The truth was 
simple: there were no lights. There were no lights 
because no one ever came here. Because there was 
nothing here to fix, just a tunnel full of air. 

She could die here, she realized without wonderment. 
She could fall clear to the subbasement and die and no 
one would ever know. They probably wouldn't even 
notice enough to complain about the smell while she 
rotted--

Sisyphus laid down and reached into the rioting wind, 
extending her body as far as she dared, one hand 
steadfast against the wall beside her, the other hand 
groping into darkness. 

Nothing. She reached further, blind eyes squeezed 
tight against the pounding of the gale. Her hair 
lashed her cheeks, sharp as slivered glass. She 
ignored the sensation, black leather pumps sliding in 
her struggle to reach farther into the emptiness that 
blocked her way. Just a few more inches, surely, just 
a little more-- 

Her fingertips brushed metal, hot, dry, and far too 
distant. A flat wall. She tapped it out, fingertips 
tracing, scraping, coaxing secrets from the dark. The 
wall of metal yielded nothing. 

Rage overwhelmed her and she flailed her arm at the 
wind like a wild thing, up, down, left, right, body 
balanced precariously. Air and smooth metal wall just 
beyond the full reach of her arm. More of the same to 
her left. She slapped her palm to the right and the 
shaft resonated with the impact and with her yelp. 
Hand still stinging, she rubbed it across the metal in 
the darkness. 

No hint of hardware. No rungs. No recesses. Nothing. 

No. This wasn't possible. She had *plans.* She hadn't 
been consulted--

Sisyphus resettled herself, panting, wordlessly 
cursing the darkness, too incensed to speak. No one, 
nothing, said "no" to her. She simply wouldn't have 
it. How dare--

She was moving again, struggling to hold her position 
in the shaft, wind-chafed hand searching the stretch 
of wall that dropped down below her. More seamless 
metal. She swung the arm like a pendulum. Left. Right. 
Left, growling-- 

Wait. Something brushed her fingertips, the barest 
change of air current that set her hand to tingling. 
She strained, wriggling her upper body forward. Just a 
few more inches-- and she flattened her palm against 
metal. The vertical shaft had a floor, then. Well, of 
course it did. She was just below the first floor and 
her tunnel was the exit. The sub-basement would have 
its own ventilation system. Some building code 
nonsense, probably.

Sisyphus folded herself carefully, trembling, not 
daring to hope. Discovering a floor in the darkness 
might be significant, but that was for later, when 
she'd be needing to locate her exit. Right now, *down* 
was not a direction she was particularly interested 
in. She slid into the shaft, careful as the metal 
creaked beneath her feet. Unhindered now, she explored 
the walls, confirming her earlier appraisal: no 
ladder, no access to the heights above. 

The darkness left her dizzy and the sudden space 
beneath her hand -- the entrance to her own tunnel -- 
was a welcome friend. She climbed back inside, then 
slapped one hand against the ceiling of the tunnel, 
left it there, sliding it slowly as she pushed herself 
back out into the vertical shaft. Her legs collected 
beneath her, muscles tightly bunched, bracing the 
weight of her body. She reached up, straining, a 
cursory exploration before collapsing back into her 
little crawl space. The results were no surprise. More 
metal walls, ascending. No hint of purchase, no 
indication of an entrance for the next level. Michael 
Jordan might have found it, she surmised. Cecile Fuche 
would not.

She was enraged. She could tell because her heart was 
pounding in time with her head, her blood pressure 
thundering in her ears. She was gritting her teeth, 
too, and her left hand was clenched so tightly the 
nails bit into her palm. All this physical turmoil, 
however, was quite distant and distinct from the 
silence within. Her mind calculated quietly. With her 
back against one wall and her feet braced against the 
wall opposite, she might be able to propel herself 
upward, a delicate counter-balance of push and shove 
and traction. She'd seen it in a film once. Some 
fabrication about the life of Harry Houdini. She could 
do it. But not in these shoes. Not in her flabby 
physical condition. Not at her height. She wouldn't be 
going up this shaft. Not in this lifetime.

She sat still for a moment, stunned by 
impossibilities. She hadn't cried since the early 
years of her marriage, when tears could still 
manipulate and incite guilty obligations. Tears were 
not possible for her now, even if there had been 
someone here to see and grant her desires. The air, 
boiling in at her, had dried her tear ducts. She could 
no longer tell when her eyes were opened or closed. 
What did it matter to one gone blind?

She laid down on her belly, and slid backward a few 
feet into her shaft to nowhere. She reached out one 
hand, fingertips intruding into the vertical column to 
be assaulted by the wind. The pounding in her chest 
steadied and she contemplated the whispering of the 
torrent and the gentle hum of air-conditioning. She 
didn't think, didn't need to. Deep inside, things -- 
impulses, unbidden decisions -- were shifting quietly. 
She waited for further clarity, squeezing her fist 
harder, harder, meanwhile, enjoying the sensation. 

The noise had gone undetected for some time before she 
noticed: a change in the background melee which, 
although distant, traveled down the network of metal 
tunnels as though through a badly connected amplifier.

*Thump-screech-pause, thumpthump.* Repeat.

She tilted her head, considering. The sound lacked any 
real rhythm, but it was rapid. And nearing, as best 
she could tell, coming down the shaft from some 
distance above. The squeaking bothered her most, 
however. It was vaguely familiar... Fingernails on a 
chalk board? But she'd never actually heard anyone run 
their fingernails across a chalk board. She was 
reminded of televised basketball games, though: Nikes 
sliding roughly across a polished court. 

Tennis shoes. On metal. 

Her hands flattened and she concentrated on her 
breathing. The rolling in her soul had stilled, 
awaiting further development. There was a distinct 
warmth growing low in her hips.

Above: a long screech, the protest of rubber against 
metal. A hastily muffled yelp -- human. Masculine. A 
heavy thud. A long quiet. 

Then the *thump-screech-pause* resumed. A bit more 
cautiously this time.

She smiled, content, the warmth spreading up her belly 
and down both thighs. She ignored the sensation, and 
gathered herself for retreat with honor. Still on her 
stomach, feet slightly elevated, she shoved backward 
with both hands, the effort sending her sliding 
several yards back down the way she'd came. And 
silently, too. The distance traveled surprised her, 
and her smile broadened. She should have thought of 
this earlier. She'd be back to the garage in no time-- 

"Mmmmmlllldrrrr!"

It was little more than a hiss reverberating down the 
maze of shafts above, consonants ricocheting on metal, 
vowels -- if there had been any vowels -- too mangled 
to have mattered much. 

Sisyphus held her breath. The *thump-screech* had 
paused, too, listening as intently as she was. 

"Mlldrr!" The profanity that followed after was 
surprisingly distinct, even filtered by distance. The 
squealing thump resumed, however, making its 
precarious descent down the shaft. 

*Thump-thump-ping-thump.*

She wriggled, insuring her own comfort, and pushed 
again. Harder. Oh, yes, indeed. This would do quite 
nicely. 

*Thump-screech-thumpa-thump--*

Good things do come to those who wait.


XXXXXXX

She slipped free of the shaft and staggered back, 
breathless. After the prolonged darkness, even the dim 
light of the garage was blinding, white-hot lancets 
piercing her optic nerve. 

She reveled in it. Giggled.

She tripped but kept her footing with difficulty. 
Mutt, damn him, had caught against her heel. She 
steadied herself, eyes gradually re-adjusting, and 
gave his lifeless body a kick for his insolence. He 
scarcely registered her anger, as immune to it, at 
last, as she was. 

Her eyes widened, Mutt forgotten almost immediately. 
There were two guns on the concrete beside him. A high 
caliber pistol of some sort, high tech, too, from all 
appearances, and no doubt complicated. It lay just 
beyond the reach of Mutt's out-flung hand. His fingers 
were still curled to grip it, unaware that such things 
were unnecessary now, untrained in the fine art of 
knowing when to say when.

The second weapon lay only inches from his chest. A 
.22 pistol very like her own. 

Sisyphus reached instinctively for the weapon 
holstered against her ribs -- no, it was still there. 
Curious. She picked up the duplicate weapon, examining 
it carefully. A semi-automatic Ruger, compact, light 
as guns go. And recently fired....

Ah. The young executioner. *He'd* left it behind. 
Well, it made a certain kind of sense. Professional 
killers, or so she'd read, didn't use the same weapon 
repeatedly. Such frugality would provide a trail of 
ballistic matches, allow law enforcement to combine 
clues from multiple crime scenes, and intensify the 
risk of exposure. Then there would be all those 
additional charges to deal with. The young man had 
left the weapon here, then, deciding, no doubt, that 
*here* was just as good a dumping place as any other. 

Sisyphus, of course, had no such desire for anonymity. 
She was proud of her accomplishments and worked hard 
to make certain her calling card was easily 
identifiable. One should always, she believed, take 
pride in one's craft.

She slapped the weapon against Mutt's knee. Again, he 
had no reaction and she giggled, giddy with 
anticipation. The mirth was hollow, and echoed back at 
her. The garage was as cavernous as the crawl space 
had been, and sounds here were distorted, writhing 
echoes. She could still hear that rhythmic *thump-
squeal* thundering in her head--

No -- her hand gripped the cast-off pistol and she 
stood. No, these were not thumps. They were footsteps. 
Footsteps echoing across the garage-- 

A black man, bulky, his trenchcoat flapping as he ran, 
rounded the cars several rows over. His hand fumbled 
at his hip.

"FBI!" he shouted, "Stay--"

She shot him without thinking, and was surprised when 
he grunted. She'd never trusted her aim on a moving 
target. Not at this distance-- 

But he spun, staggered. She fired again, and again as 
he went down, blood splattering from his temple and 
onto the white column beside him. She waited, 
unmoving, the .22 weighting her hands, her wrists 
tingling from the recoil. She fired again, the gun 
responding with only the empty click of a spent 
cartridge. He lay still, one arm visible beyond the 
rear wheels of a station wagon. The hand didn't seem 
to be moving, either. Not even a twitch.

*Whump.* She jerked at the hollowed lumbering in the 
wall beside her and brought the gun to bear on the 
opening to the vent. She winced at her own 
foolishness, leaned to drop the pistol soundlessly 
onto Mutt's chest, fumbling her own weapon free in the 
same motion. Her foot slipped on drying blood and she 
stumbled, one leather pump finding purchase to the 
left of Mutt's leg, the other to the right. She kept 
her eyes and her weapon firmly trained on the opening, 
her breath steadying.

*Thump. Ump.*

He materialized in sections and sound. A solid thud, 
the whispering of fabrics. His shoes were too dark to 
distinguish clearly from the gloom of the shaft. Even 
his jeans were a bare hint of dimension: slender 
columns of black against deeper black. His torso was 
yet to be revealed, still behind the wall above the 
vent. The Nikes shuffled as he got his bearings, 
decided his course.

Her stupidity reviled her suddenly, and she bit her 
lip to keep from swearing. She should have found a 
hiding place: out of sight around the wall, a few feet 
away behind a car, perhaps. Should have waited for him 
to get free of the shaft, and taken him unawares when 
he'd been certain of his freedom. As it was, he needed 
only to withdraw back up into the darkness whence he'd 
come. The walls were concrete, impenetrable to her 
.22. He could pull himself back up, kick her senseless 
if she attempted to pursue.

It was too late for plans, however. Her movement -- to 
hide, or to avail herself of Mutt's larger caliber 
firearm -- would only alert her prey and she would 
lose him altogether. 

She just wanted to see his face, she told herself. She 
could kill him where he stood -- regrettable, 
certainly-- but she had to see his face as he 
discovered her. Watch as the realization dawned. 

She remained where she stood, body bathed in shadows, 
gun trained on the shaft, hands steady despite her 
rising excitement. 

This was joy. Surely this was joy. 

Mulder's hands slid into view first, long tapered 
fingers so familiar to her from hours spent watching 
him sleep. The hands were animated now, tensing as he 
crouched, countering his body weight as he shifted in 
the confined space. His sweater was impenetrable 
black, his arms and torso invisible as he dropped to 
his knees, all disembodied hands, the face in profile, 
neck and a V-shaped glimpse of chest. 

This was like... eloping, she decided. She wondered if 
he would feel the same, just as she'd wondered how her 
husband had felt so long ago. Mulder's face, bathed in 
darkness, was too closed to tell her. Did he have the 
same burning in his gut, did he wonder at the 
wickedness and wrong of it all, sneaking away from all 
who loved and cherished you, away into the wholly 
unknown? Into the arms of one who did not cherish, 
into the arms of one who merely wanted you?

His dark head ducked down almost immediately, one hand 
fumbling to his face, fending off the glare as his 
eyes adjusted to unaccustomed fluorescence. His free 
hand, more reliable than his vision, probed the air 
before him, seeking the non-existent grate. He glanced 
up, bewildered, blinking spasmodically, his face in 
the shadows a series of deepening grays. Intent upon 
the opening and still half-blind, he didn't see her, 
but, after a moment's confusion, he focused further, 
to the carnage on the garage floor.

He saw Jeff first. Difficult not to, considering Jeff 
lay sprawled to his right, almost directly beneath 
him. Jeff's face was turned toward the shaft. Sisyphus 
watched Mulder's face, aching to see what he stared 
upon: the lax jaw, the flaccid features, the skin so 
smooth it seemed inorganic. The vacant eyes that 
somehow managed to make you feel that they saw so much 
more than you did. 

She waited his reaction, willing herself not to 
breathe, not to destroy this singular, perfect moment.

Mulder's breath had frozen in his lungs, but beyond 
the sudden cessation of his chest muscles, there was 
disappointingly little reaction. His hand clenched to 
a fist, skin pale against the darkness. His jaw 
tensed, too, but otherwise all expression had washed 
from his face. Or perhaps it was there, just hidden by 
shadow. Sisyphus clamped her jaw. *Not* squeezing the 
trigger was taking real effort now. She deserved 
better than this. Sure, Mutt and Jeff weren't truly 
her work, but *he* had no way of knowing--

Mulder leaned slowly forward, vision moving on, his 
face finally, fully, into the light as he located 
Mutt's out-flung arm, the hand, so pale there, glowing 
a fluorescent milky-white against the concrete. But 
Mulder's face, so intent, revealed nothing. Beyond a 
kind of resolved sadness and a convulsive swallowing, 
there was simply no expression. 

There would be, damn him. Before the night was out, 
she'd have her money's worth.

He looked at her then. His eyes startled her with the 
suddenness of their attention. There had been no 
lingering transition from Mutt's body to her own, no 
slow panning from Mutt's face, down his chest and 
hips, to her feet, then, disbelieving, moving upward 
to find her there. There was no dreadful recognition. 
He'd simply looked from Jeff's hand to her face, the 
shift so sudden she couldn't even say that he'd 
blinked. 

Her hand tightened on the gun, her mouth frozen in the 
process of forming words. But there was nothing to 
say. He simply stared at her, without remorse or fear. 
And completely without surprise. There was no 
evaluating appraisal in the glance. No sizing-up of an 
opponent. No judgment rendered. No plans being re-
evaluated. Just an electric meeting of the eyes, an 
acknowledgment of presence and person. 

He'd been expecting her.

She forced herself to breathe deeply. This was... 
wrong. He was making no attempt to flee, no effort to 
avail himself of Jeff's gun. He remained crouched in 
place, his fist loosening to rest on his thigh. The 
other hand remained forgotten against the wall of the 
shaft. His shoulders, too, had eased, a voiceless sigh 
of relief, as though he'd discovered an old friend at 
the end of his journey. She was struck suddenly by how 
young he was, how boyish, except for those too-steady, 
shadowed eyes. Perhaps he'd already seen far worse 
than she was capable of. 

Oh, no. He'd seen nothing yet.

"I'm going to climb out now." 

The gravely tenor surprised her: warm with no hint of 
tension or concern. He might have been asking her 
permission. She nodded, rendering consent without 
being entirely certain. He shifted again, working his 
long legs free of the shaft, but he did not take his 
eyes off her. His focus was unnerving, as much as she 
hated to admit it. Predators do not like being stared 
at, and he should have known better. He did know, but 
he stared all the same.

Leveraging himself free of the wall, he stood. Jeff's 
gun was to his left, closer to the grate than she felt 
comfortable with, a deep shadow within a shadow. 
Perhaps he wouldn't see it. Perhaps she wouldn't have 
to kill him here. Despite recent setbacks, she still 
had hopes for the evening. Still had plans. 


CONTINUED IN PART 25B

From: cslatton17@aol.com
Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:25:09 EDT
Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 25B of 27
Source: xfc

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

Part 25B of 27:

His foot brushed the weapon as he stepped forward to 
present himself and he glanced down, froze. Sisyphus 
raised the site on her .22, a warning, and he turned 
to her, his brows lifted bare millimeters, offended 
that she would be so distrusting. But that was the way 
of the world, was it not? He raised his foot 
carefully, never wavering his attention, and kicked 
the weapon away. It spun into the deepest shadows 
behind her, metal grinding across the concrete as it 
fled.

"Wise man." She smiled over the gun sight, finding it 
easier now to return the unblinking gaze. 

"Enough people have died, I think." He didn't so much 
speak the words as submit them for her consideration.

"One more to go." 

His brows tightened. "But *just* one." 

This was not a submission. The steel in the graveled 
voice caught her off guard and pushed all the wrong 
buttons at once. Her finger tightened on the trigger. 
She could do this here and now. Between Mutt and Jeff, 
she had an arsenal in this corner. She could fend off 
a swat team long enough to rip him open--

Those unblinking eyes closed suddenly. Mulder lifted 
his chin and his hands slid to his hips. She watched 
him stretch his torso and shoulder muscles, uncertain 
of this new tactic. He moved slowly, with measured 
pauses. The garage lights, distant, shone behind him, 
outlining his right shoulder in bright neon yellow. 
One side of his face and his hand was red, chafed by 
the shaft and his effort to descend. The other side of 
his body remained in shadows, a deep too-cold blue. 
There was a dark stain on his hand, drying blood, 
perhaps. But it was his neck that held her gaze: the 
sliver of yellow halo-ing from behind, bathing the 
first inch of skin before fading to red and, finally, 
deepening to a blue rough with evening stubble. 

He breathed then, slowly, very deeply, head still 
back. And she understood without knowing the proper 
terms to explain: the beta male was exposing his soft 
underbelly to the alpha, submitting without defense. 
His Adam's apple bobbed once, and the sight left her 
trembling with hunger. Her finger eased from the 
trigger, satisfied.

He lowered his head in a languid, fluid gesture, his 
hands returning to his sides, each movement carefully 
executed. He opened his eyes and focused on her again, 
but this time no higher than her belt buckle. He 
turned his head slightly, keeping even this gaze 
indirect.

*I have the gun.* She wondered why she felt it 
necessary to remind herself of such a fact, to 
remember that she was the one in control. He had 
surrendered, hadn't he?

"They'll be looking for me." It was not the grandiose 
statement of the braggart, merely a quiet observation. 
"Shouldn't we be going?" There was no resistance in 
his tone, no hidden dagger waiting to strike.

"To the car," she ordered. "Fourth row over. Try 
anything and I swear I'll kill you here and now. And 
then I'll shoot everything that moves in this garage 
for the next two hours. Understood? They'll all die--"

"I get it." More steel, and the eyes flickered to her 
face, but jerked away again after only the briefest 
glimpse, too quick to read clearly. He shrugged, hands 
raised, demonstrating submission. "I... get it."

"Then get in the car."

He complied, moving carefully, maintaining a 
respectful distance and keeping his hands in clear 
view. Stepping to the first row of vehicles, he 
paused. She followed his gaze: the fallen agent there 
beyond the station wagon. She watched, waiting: he 
squinted hard, his jaw clenching spasmodically. In 
profile, she thought he may have licked his lips 
briefly. He turned his head away from the spectacle, 
however, and moved forward before she could remind him 
to do so. 

She followed, black patent leather shoes stepping free 
of Mutt's dead body, deftly avoiding the slick of 
blood pooling on the garage floor. 

"Fifth row--"

"I see it." His tone was difficult to gauge. It might 
have been resentful. It might also have been simply 
weary. The tension across his shoulders was not a 
significant indicator, she decided. He'd been tense 
like this even in his sleep. 

As he moved, light flowed, opening like water around 
him. His sweater, jet black, soaked in the light and 
refused to surrender it in kind. He was a reverse 
negative, defined only by the halo of diffused 
florescence surrounding him. He was the darkness given 
form and animated.

He approached his own vehicle, shuffling a few steps 
uncertainly. He glanced back at her, and shrugged, 
mumbling. 

"I musta forgotten my keys in my other pants."

She smiled. She couldn't help herself. A gun to his 
head and the certainty of death, and he could still 
joke. It would indeed be an interesting evening. 

"In the ignition, love. Just keep your hands where I 
can see them."

He grunted, turning away as he muttered something 
else. The roar of the garage obliterated the words, 
but the tone was completely without inflection, yet 
oddly appreciative. It might have been, "I bet you 
like it on top, too." 

She didn't ask him to clarify.


XXXXXXX


Purdue burst from the stairwell in time to see 
Mulder's car pull past and on toward the exit ramp to 
the street.

The ASAC yelped and lunged, slamming his hip and both 
fists against the hood of the trunk as the vehicle 
rolled past. The garage echoed the impact, its 
futility, flesh against steel. Purdue clung to the 
hood, fingers scraping at the hinge, desperate and 
determined. A face loomed at him from the darkness of 
the rear window. The face of a woman, unnervingly 
omnipotent. It was the face from Purdue's fax machine, 
the face Harris had sent him from Columbus. 

And she was smiling.

Purdue slid free of the vehicle, stumbling to his 
feet, empty handed and panting. The Monte Carlo 
swerved, already moving too fast, heedless of the 
confines of the garage. The motion varied the light 
within the car, just so, and Purdue caught a second 
glimpse: the glint of metal, as bright and lifeless as 
her eyes. A revolver. The point of the barrel was 
pressed against Mulder's skull, just below his right 
ear and angling upward. Mulder's face in the rearview 
offered no plea, hooded by too many shadows. They were 
the eyes of Mr. American Lit, gutted on his couch, his 
pupils large and dark as any doll's. 

The eyes of a dead man.

These images, minute as flash photos, were impressions 
only. Purdue's brain supplied the details, burning 
them into his retina, processing in patterns of white 
on black, blurs of red and green. 

Sandidge materialized from nowhere, scarcely 
registering on Purdue's consciousness even as the man 
brushed past him, sending Purdue staggering. 

Sandidge's shouts -- "Federal agents! Stop!" -- went 
unheeded. He pursued the vehicle up the ramp on foot, 
weapon drawn, but not fired, unwilling to risk the 
return fire, exposed as he was.

Purdue's stagger became a full run in the opposite 
direction, back toward his own vehicle. He fumbled in 
his pants pocket as he ran, seeking keys, twisting 
past rows of cars. 

He faltered seconds, precious seconds, when he found 
the body: a black man, well-dressed, a former 
linebacker, surely, face down, coat flapped back 
revealing the unsnapped holster, the weapon still 
sheathed. Agent Warren Thomas. Blood pooled beneath 
the man, mingling with an old oil slick. 

Purdue leaped to clear the corpse, heart pounding in 
time with his legs. He slowed his momentum by slamming 
his body into driver's side of his Chrysler, jamming 
the key into the lock in the same violent motion. 
 
He followed Mulder's example, taking the ramp at 
frightening speed, tires squalling in protest. The 
Chrysler burst into the street, shocks bouncing with 
the variation of pavement and Purdue's sudden stop. It 
was close to one a.m. and traffic was minimal, 
virtually non-existent, but what had been rain earlier 
was a downpour now, and Purdue swore heatedly, 
engaging his wipers. 

There was no sign of Mulder. 

Purdue fought with the window gear, struggling to hear 
Sandidge's shout as the agent ran back up the street 
toward him. A sheet of water poured through the few 
inches of open glass, soaking him instantly. 

"M Street!" Sandidge screamed, one hand shielding his 
vision from the deluge, the other arm gesturing south. 
"He's heading west on M! M!" 

Purdue gunned the engine, leaving Sandidge flapping 
his arms on the sidewalk. M was the first corner, and 
Purdue took it on squealing tires, not bothering to 
note the color of the traffic light. He was not a 
praying man but he was praying now. "Clear the roads, 
just clear the roads--" a mantra to Whoever might be 
listening and otherwise concerned. 

M street was a four lane and the few cars traveling it 
were proceeding cautiously in deference to the 
weather. Purdue identified Mulder's tail lights almost 
immediately: they were the blood-red smears fleeing 
like that bat out of hell everyone talks about. Purdue 
fed his engine, passing an offended Nissan sedan just 
barely visible in the downpour. The rain was hitting 
the ground with enough force to splatter it back up 
again a good foot or more. It rose in a fine mist from 
the pavement.

"Where the hell are we going, Mulder?" Purdue growled. 
His voice was lost to his own ears, drowned by the 
combined roar of rain and engine. "Where the hell 
would this bitch be taking you?" 

*Some place quiet --* the Chrysler ate the road that 
separated them -- *some place rural. She's not been in 
town long enough to know the city well--*

A blur of yellow hanging in the near distance. Now 
red. Purdue swore again. A traffic light. Wisconsin 
Avenue. 

Mulder plowed through the red light without even 
tapping his brakes. Only a few car-lengths separated 
him from Purdue now and the light was still red when 
Purdue hit the intersection. Suddenly, Purdue had no 
time for swearing. A blue Ford materialized from 
behind a wall of water to his right, swerving in a 
surrealistic flash of red and white and blinking 
yellow. 

Purdue fought the wheel and his own dread, keeping his 
focus determinedly on Mulder's receding tail lights 
while the Chrysler floundered. He was completely into 
the far eastbound lane before he recovered, horns 
blaring angrily behind him. He didn't glance back. 

Mulder turned abruptly left and Purdue followed, 
making the turn himself seconds later, hydroplaning, 
but somehow maintaining his course. Only as the guard 
rails sped past did Purdue recognize the route: the 
Key Bridge, crossing the Potomac. 

They were heading south, then. Shit, what was south? 
Virginia, at the end of the bridge. Was Mulder heading 
for Alexandria and home? No way. Sisyphus wouldn't 
haul Mulder back to his apartment. She hadn't evaded 
them this long to suddenly be that stupid. 

What then? Purdue replayed possibilities. Harris had 
said that Cecile Fuche was a homebody, as best they 
could tell, rarely wavering from her accustomed trek 
between Columbus and Wheeling. What would she know of 
Virginia? Hell, what would any tourist know from a map 
and a half-decent guide book? The entire state was a 
spattering of national parks and Civil War 
battlefields, so many nice quiet places prized for 
their privacy....

Purdue poured on the gas, taking advantage of the 
clear shot of road to attempt to pull up alongside the 
Monte Carlo. But Mulder's driving was relentless, 
matching Purdue's pace mile for mile and bettering it. 
The ASAC backed down, unwilling to exacerbate the 
situation, particularly on a bridge.

"Goddammit!" Purdue rattled his steering wheel 
helplessly. "Goddamn General Motors products and 
goddam Chrysler!" His head was throbbing, his right 
eye still tender from Mulder's sucker punch, but his 
vision, thankfully, was unimpaired. He fished under 
the dash for the switch to his police radio, flipped 
it on. They were rapidly running out of bridge.

"Attention any available units--" Purdue gasped as his 
car bounced unexpectedly, his speed overemphasizing 
the slightest variation of pavement as the bridge 
became highway. "Attention any available units," he 
repeated. "Federal officer in need of assistance, 
southbound on Whitehurst."

"This is One-Charlie-twenty, Fairfax County Sheriff's 
Department." The voice, remote and unfamiliar, was the 
herald of angels. "What is your situation?"

"I have a 41-40, kidnapping in progress. In pursuit of 
a red Chevy Monte Carlo two-door, license number 
Robert-Union-Union Seven Four Seventy-five. Suspect 
wanted for multiple homicide, armed and dangerous. 
Hostage is a federal agent and is driving at 
gunpoint."

More static. "Sounds like a situation to me," the 
voice answered. "Dispatch, One-Charlie-twenty, code 
three...." 


XXXXXXX

She'd chosen the back seat as a kind of refuge/assault 
base. She enjoyed ease of movement here and the 
confidence of absolute control. He was readily 
accessible to her, yet she shared nothing with him but 
her air. 

Mulder sat hunched slightly forward over the wheel, 
peering into the rain-ravaged darkness. She checked 
his speedometer, slid to the far passenger side to 
check the side mirror.

A sign loomed out of the darkness and rain, legible 
only when they were almost half past it: "Interstate 
66" in great white, reflective letters. Suddenly they 
were rising, the gentle slope of an on-ramp. 

"Where are you going?" She grit her teeth on the 
words, gripping the weapon, keeping it level with his 
head. She hated admitting ignorance, hated the not 
knowing more. 

"You know," he answered carefully, testing the waters. 
"*I'm* not the one initiating a kidnapping with no 
pre-established get-away plan." 

"Oh, I have a plan, sir," she purred. "It's called six 
bullets in your skull in rapid succession if you don't 
get this thing parked in the very near future."

"That might take all the fun out of it, don't you 
think?" His face in the rearview was impossible to 
read. There was a dizzying sensation as the Monte 
Carlo slid left, easing smoothly past a tractor 
trailer.

"I'll make up for it when I get around to your friend 
back there," she tossed her head in the direction of 
the several sets of headlights following them. 

Mulder raised a critical eyebrow. "So, that's the 
thanks I get for saving myself for you," he muttered.

"Oh, did you now? Liar." 

His eyes flickered to the rearview but he thought 
better of it before he focused. She smiled. He was 
intelligent, sensitive. This was going to be 
marvelous.

"I thought you wanted someplace quiet." His voice was 
subdued, submissive once more. "Just you and me, 
right?" His sincerity didn't fool her.

"Stop the car."

"Stop the car." He repeated the statement with minimal 
inflection, squinting, examining the words for hidden 
meaning. "Stop the car?" 

Sisyphus slid to her favored position, dead-center of 
the back seat, braced at the edge of the upholstery. 
"Stop the car." She emphasized each syllable 
patiently. This close to her intended target, she 
could afford to be gracious. "I do believe I can 
handle one half-assed Fed, thank you."

He blinked at her in the rearview. "To which half-
assed Fed are you referring, may I ask?"

She leaned forward, enjoying the involuntary tension 
of his body as she invaded his personal space. "Oh, 
your ass is just fine, love." She lowered her pistol 
between the bucket seats and dragged the muzzle across 
the side of his hip. The front sight caught on his 
pocket and she tugged at the fabric, teasing, watching 
his face freeze, his entire body stiffening. "It's 
your shadow, darling," she whispered, nodding in the 
general direction of the back window, "that I take 
exception to." She returned the pistol to the level of 
his head. "Now quit stalling and pull over."

She watched him search the road ahead before glancing 
at her in the rearview again, his eyes shifting 
briefly to the headlights behind her. His focus 
returned to the road and he shook his head with enough 
genuine regret to make her pause.

"I can't do that, Cecile."

She blinked, jamming the gun into the hollow below his 
skull. He winced, but didn't try looking at her again. 

"Excuse me," she announced, "but compliance is not 
optional here. I'm *not* asking. Understand?"

He took a deep breath, biting his lip. "No--" he 
shifted his shoulder, pulling away from the rapidly 
increasing pressure of the barrel against his neck. 
"It's just-- It's just that it gets this whole Catch-
22 situation started. You know, I stop *my* car, he 
stops *his* car. You try to blow him away. I try to 
stop you. You shoot me, then you shoot *him.* Or 
maybe, he shoots you first, but then he feels bad 
about me getting whacked... It's just a vicious cycle-
-" 

"What do you care?" she hissed. "You'll be dead."

He shrugged his eyebrows, considering. "Yeah, well, 
there's *that,* at least," he said.

A siren wailed, nearing, to her left. The rain-smeared 
windows ran blood red suddenly, then electric blue, 
then red again, a cyclic revolution of emergency 
lights, their source impossible to distinguish for the 
glare, but somewhere behind them. Close. 

Mulder searched his mirrors. "Ahhh... shall I pull 
over now?" he requested mildly.

She jerked at his seat, slamming the butt of her 
pistol into his headrest. He winced, body tensed for 
the blow she scarcely managed to contain. 

"Just drive, you sonofabitch. You so much as slow 
down, and I start looking for people to shoot. How's 
that for your Catch-22?"

He didn't slow and didn't argue. His hand moved to the 
stick shift and she tightened her grip on the gun. 
There was a click and the car shot forward 
effortlessly, the tachometer dipping with a sigh. 
Overdrive. 

She shoved her body to the far passenger side, 
chancing a glance out the rear window: a haze of 
lights, red, blue, yellow, white, surrounded them. 
They lit the interior of the car like a strobe, 
tossing her shadow, here outlined in red, there 
redefined in hues of blue, color and darkness 
splattering in constantly shifting angles. She 
shimmied back to the center of the vehicle. The view 
of the front seat was only marginally better. The 
sensation was akin to being physically assaulted. 

Powerless. She would not be powerless--

"Idiots."

Mulder didn't answer, eyes flitting briefly to the 
rearview, back to the road, back to the mirror, in 
little spurts. She slapped his headrest again, this 
time with her open palm. He returned his focus to the 
road and kept it there. 

"Bunch of idiots," she hissed again. "Tell me what 
you're profiling off of." She tugged at his sweater 
through the space between the seats. "Tell me where 
you got your information, smart ass. This bunch sends 
you into prisons to do your little surveys and fill 
out your little charts, and make up profiles on people 
you don't even know. Think about it! All the 
information you have on file about killers is from the 
ones *stupid* enough to get caught." She sneered. 
"Yeah. Sure. Then you think you're going to waltz out 
here and profile me. You arrogant little shits." 

Mulder rubbed his right palm against the wheel, 
flexing his fingers before gripping it again. The 
sweat sparkled on the leather, reflecting an angry red 
that made her thirsty suddenly.

"Maybe," he hesitated. "Maybe you should just rethink 
this situation--"

"You expect me to surrender?" Her mouth twisted with 
the word, the impossibility of the concept. "Maybe I 
*did* pick the wrong half-assed Fed."

She didn't mean it, though, and he knew it. One glance 
in the rearview told him. He jerked his eyes back to 
the road, gripping the steering wheel that much 
harder. She smiled. He understood so much more than 
his graphs and his surveys, didn't he? More than he 
wanted to know. Especially now.

She sighed, resting her forehead against the side of 
the passenger headrest, and raked her eyes down the 
length of the lean body beside her. Just being near 
him had been enough to get her heart to racing. It was 
a good sign. A very good sign. 

She had been killing for years: animals, at first. Her 
mother. A particularly pathetic co-worker behind a bar 
one evening. Those had been quiet little affairs, 
listed simply as robbery-homicides, unsolved. 
Spectacular only in their savagery. 

The kills had been intensely satisfying, as only 
intimate betrayal could be. The problem was, Cecile 
didn't know enough people well enough to truly attain 
that level of pleasure routinely. There had been her 
mother. Her husband, that co-worker. And that was 
about it. She hadn't the patience to make friends. Too 
much effort, too much requisite self-restraint. 
Unfortunate. Otherwise she'd have had a bigger list 
from which to glean. 

Small matter. She was resourceful by nature and had 
discovered ways to compensate. Savagery had 
substituted for intimacy. In some ways, sometimes, it 
had proven even more enjoyable.

Lately, however, killing just... didn't seem to do it 
for her. It no longer revived her, made her feel 
alive. When she had been young, one kill would sustain 
her for months. Years, sometimes. This satisfaction, 
however, had waned recently, growing increasingly more 
short-lived. And more difficult to attain. Like a 
junkie, she needed more and more control, more and 
more gore, more... something. 

And the *something* had been eluding her for months. 

Until *this* man. She'd killed that young cop in 
Bridgeport for this man, a kind of tap at his door, if 
you will, an acknowledgment of intent. A salute. It 
had been intensely satisfying, but in so many unusual 
ways, a kind of sharing she had never expected: 
imagining his reaction, anticipating his 
comprehension. His appreciation.

The woman in the diner. That... that had been the 
best. She had touched something deep with that one. 
Something very personal to him. Shared whole new 
levels. It had been *his* blood on the floor that 
night in the diner: blood he had roused. Skin he had 
cherished. A body he had made his own. 

And Sisyphus had made it hers. Then graciously 
returned it. An invitation to share. As had been all 
the kills thereafter. He had understood this, 
naturally. Accepted it in spite of his companions' 
interference. As he would accept so much more....

Her hand touched his side, low on that long torso, 
below the ribs, the sweater as soft against her 
fingertips as it was against his skin. She let the 
weight of her hand drag her fingers slowly down: the 
smooth tension of his flesh beneath the fabric, the 
sweater bunching slightly at his waist, the thickness 
of his waistband. The slight curve of his hip, denim 
pulled tight as he sat behind the wheel, the solidity 
of his thigh as she rested her palm on his leg, 
fingertips angling inward toward his groin, nails 
pressed lightly against more denim....

She didn't need the rearview to see his profile at 
this angle. Erratic light flickered across his face. 
His lashes, long and lush, closed, a blink, only a 
blink, focus held carefully forward. A flash of fire 
at his cheekbone: a single bead of sweat reflecting 
the lights of sirens and dash dials. She watched the 
tiny ball of water descend, leaving its damp track 
trailing across his cheek, over the curve of his jaw, 
sliding slowly down his neck--

She caught it with her tongue at the curve of his 
shoulder and he gasped. She felt the car waver 
slightly, smiled against his skin as he recovered, 
vehicle moving steadily again beneath them. His 
shoulder rose and fell beneath her lips, short, 
shallow breaths that never reached his lungs. She 
kissed the damp, salty spot her tongue had claimed, 
kissed the skin beside it. He stopped breathing 
altogether, his heart thundering in the vein at her 
cheek.

"She died quickly," she lied, her whisper warm and 
humid in his ear. "You owe me for that, you know." 

There was no question who *she* was. He nodded, a 
delicious motion beneath her questing mouth.

"Yeah. I owe you for that."


XXXXXXXXXX       XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Note: Mulder's profile is heavily based on comments 
from *Without Conscience: The Disturbing World of 
Psychopaths Among Us* by Robert D. Hare, Ph.D. Guilford 
Press, 1999. Thanks, DJ. Do my friends know how to 
pick out great Christmas gifts, or what? <g>