From: cslatton17@aol.com Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:25:15 EDT Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 26A of 27 Source: xfc "Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com http://www.softlight.8m.com/ Part 26A of 27: Note: Objects In Mirror May Be Closer Than They Appear Disclaimed in Part 1. "He who has waited long enough will wait for ever. And there comes the hour when nothing more can happen and nobody more can come and all is ended but the waiting that knows itself in vain. Perhaps he had come to that. And when (for example) you die, it is too late, you have been waiting too long, you are no longer sufficiently alive to be able to stop." -- Samuel Beckett, *Malone Dies*; New York: Grove Press, Inc. 1956. Mulder did not take the expected detour onto the Beltway. Instead, he continued west on I-66, averaging speeds of 75 and 80 miles per. He maneuvered carefully, making no attempts to shake his escort. Purdue stubbornly remained the center vehicle of the chase, Virginia Highway Patrol and Fairfax County Sheriff's vehicles fanning out behind and before him, left and right as traffic allowed. No one wanted Cecile Fuche panicking, but the weather rendered helicopter tracking an impossibility, and dropping back to allow Mulder room to breathe was not an option Purdue was willing to take. The slick roads allowed few opportunities for forcing a safe stop. State troopers informed Purdue that they were preparing a roadblock just east of Centreville. Traffic, such as there was at this ungodly hour, was being diverted. Purdue's responses to the updates were short but grateful. He would take what hope he could. He'd chosen the Embassy Suites himself, worked the routine to a fine science, yet this woman had taken the place by storm, killing four agents in the process, butchering one while Purdue sat in the next room-- He gripped the wheel, hands numb but holding desperately. Sauceda's presence was heavy in the car, real as his own breath. If he glanced over he would find blood on the floorboard, Lenny in the passenger seat, holding his guts together, slamming his hand against the dash. *Faster, dammit! Drive!* Purdue didn't glance over. Didn't want to see the seat, empty or not. Grief was not someone he wanted in control of the wheel right now. Not in a high speed chase with rain relentless against his wiper blades. He tried to imagine what was going on in the vehicle ahead. Water sheeted the rear window of the Monte Carlo, reflecting the emergency lights in a cycling kaleidoscope, and he could catch only the occasional glimpse of Mulder's dark head. He noted Sisyphus's position when the effect cleared sufficiently; she was a second head upon Mulder's shoulder, merging, her proximity a weapon as unnerving as any knife-- Then they were gone again in a wash of cold blue, red, and horrific yellow. What was it like, he wondered? What was it like to be Mulder, to know what he knew and to find such a creature breathing in his ear? What was it like to recall that endless parade of snapshots, crime scenes, victims discarded, splayed in all their horror... And to know that, despite all hope, you were next. You were *now.* Purdue's foot ached to accelerate. Suicide by cop, Mulder had warned him. She'd go out in a blaze of glory, taking as many as she could with her. And Purdue had no doubt: Mulder would be number one on the list. Purdue had seen a great deal in his career. Some people, he'd learned, kill by wholesale slaughter. Some kill just a piece at a time, preferring the lingering afterburn of psychological butchery. This one had done both, destroying Mulder by degrees, whittling him away, bit by bit, with every victim, every cut of her blade. Murder on the installment plan. And now she would finish the job. Her persistence was a matter of record. Nothing would keep her from her appointed desire. But Purdue would be damned if he'd just sit back and watched her. The Monte Carlo changed lanes ahead, drifting slowly left. The trooper out Purdue's window and slightly ahead, drifted with him, maintaining as much of the distance as possible, a patient pace car. The deputy behind Purdue did not fill the space, allowing the ASAC to change lanes as well. The play of light across Mulder's window cleared briefly and Purdue caught another glimpse into the Monte Carlo: Mulder's head visible above his headrest, Fuche's head and shoulders an indistinct lump beside him, arm wrapped around Mulder's bucket seat. The sight, although expected, made Purdue's heart shudder against his ribs. Mulder's head moved, a quick check of his side mirror, then forward again, returning his focus to the windshield. Purdue recalled a similar movement suddenly: Mulder laying across the bed -- what? a half hour ago? -- under duress, under attack. And turning his head briefly. A refusal, not open to negotiation. And what of that refusal? What was it he had refused, and to whom? A ghost? A phantom of his own mind? No. A breakdown, he could understand, he'd seen the results, the razor cuts, the oozing wounds across Mulder's thighs, tokens of desperation. The hemorrhaging, too -- an extreme psychological manifestation of stress, right? But what psychological aberration was capable of changing air pressure or... Or forming knee prints in a mattress? *Sweet Jeezus...* What was he saying? That Mulder's behavior had simply been a sane response to insanely impossible phenomenon? Did Purdue dare believe... Believe... what, exactly? The view into the Monte Carlo vanished, lost in mists of red and gold. Purdue concentrated on his breathing, alternately tensing and relaxing his hands on the wheel, trying to restore feeling. *You don't have time for this right now, dammit. Right now you've got a psychopath with a gun. A one-woman plague that functions without restraint of conscience.* The weapon pinching against his spine was an accusation: *Mulder has no weapon. You made certain he had no weapon--* Purdue grit his teeth, willing the voice into silence. "I'm sorry, Lenny. I didn't know...." He spoke the words and they were sincere, but too hollow to persuade even himself. No redemption here. No such gifts deserved. They passed an aging Pontiac, the driver's rheumy eyes staring wildly as the convoy swirled by, a vast beast of lights and riotous sound. Mulder resumed the middle lane after a respectful distance and the escort followed suit, everyone nice and cordial. Purdue's calf muscles clenched, spasming with the effort to keep his foot steady on the accelerator. A sign loomed out of the bombarding rain: "Centreville 6 Miles." "Play to it, Mulder," Purdue whispered. "Play to her fantasies. Make her let you live long enough for us to reach you." XXXXXXX Her hand moved like one familiar with him, laying claim to a manifest destiny. He chanced a glance at his rearview: a haze of lights, merging, impossible to distinguish one from the other. Help so near. So distant. Her fingers brushed the edge of his collar, his neck, slid languidly across his collarbone, down a few inches, rubbing lightly at the soft hairs curling above the V-neck of his sweater. Her hands were cold as death. And why had that surprised him? Typically, psychopaths had inordinately low blood pressure; if he ran an EEG on her, the results of that would not be normal, either. At least that much of ViCap's research was not open to speculation. Such trivia should serve to keep him calm, he supposed. But it didn't. Sisyphus was too excited. It radiated off her like body heat, suffocating him. He pried his right hand from the wheel, leaden fingers seeking the air vent controls. He felt her watching him, her breathing, carefully controlled, growing increasingly rapid. Her hand slid down under his sweater, probing. She found his left nipple and he forced himself not to flinch as she lingered there, teasing. Her breath was too warm against the right side of his neck. Oxygen, heavy with rain, blasted at him from the dash but he was unable to inhale. He could do little more than whisper. "We need to be looking for a sign." "A what?" More hot breath against his neck, another languid kiss that made his skin crawl. He spoke louder, needing to be heard over the barrage of rain on steel, the wipers, and the hum of the engine. His voice was harsh, too highly pitched, alien in his own ear. "I said, we need to be looking for a sign. An exit sign." He felt her frown but steadfastly refused to glance at her in the rearview. The physical assault was enough; he didn't need to see, didn't need to watch this macabre seduction. Another kiss, wet this time, the barest tip of her tongue on the crease of flesh behind his earlobe. He bit his lip as she giggled. Coppery taste of blood in his mouth. She'd want to share that, too-- *Stop the car. Just stop the goddam car. Right here and let them finish it. Finish her. Four open lanes and -- what was it now -- five cars following? No way she walks away from this, no way she escapes--* But he'd be dead before she crawled out of the car. She'd be certain of that shot. And she had the patience and presence of mind to be certain of a couple of more before she died, too. Funny how precious life turned out to be when death is breathing down your neck. And giggling. A rise in the road. The Monte Carlo climbed the slight incline with no noticeable change in the engine; they might just as well been airborne. Mulder's eyes narrowed as the vehicle hit the crest of the rise. A flash -- a row of lights in the far distance -- gone as quickly as it was glimpsed. Something wrong about the lights. Something odd. It hit him as soon as the words formed in his head. Red and white lights. Blue lights above, but red and white below. Police cars, trooper's cars, red rear lights, white *headlights,* scattered, a staggering pattern across the road. Mulder checked his rearview: the vehicles behind were falling back, not much, but noticeable. "Roadblock." That brought the lovemaking to a distinct halt. Sisyphus jerked her head up and pushed back, gun still tight against the back of his head -- he had a throbbing headache centralized just there -- and surveyed the view out the back window. The muzzle shifted a few millimeters and she was back at his shoulder again, peering out at the road ahead, wipers slinging water furiously. "Where, dammit! Where is it?" "Ahead a few miles, I think. It's hard to judge--" "I'll kill you before you get this damned thing stopped. You understand? I'll--" "I get it, Cecile--" "You get it," she mimicked, mouth twisting as he glanced at her in the mirror. She had a face that was more interesting than pretty, petite enough to be deceptively fragile but her strength was belied by the way she moved. Her face, suddenly twisted with anger, was inhuman, washed with cycling reflections of blue and red and the occasional yellow. Jeezus. He'd wound up in someone's acid dream... "You *get* it," she hissed. "I don't *care* if you *get* it. Just *get* us out of here! I won't stand for any more of your tricks!" "Tricks? Shit!" Mulder exploded with too much pent-up energy, too much fear. He slammed his open palm against the steering wheel and she jerked reflexively. "Tricks? I'm the one telling you we need to find a fucking exit, bitch. This is not a goddam trick." He couldn't resist. "*Get* it?" She stared at him, and he risked another glance at her face. She was livid, mouth forming words that would not come, bottom lip trembling with rage. "I have the gun," she managed finally. "You've got the gun," Mulder nodded. His explosion had quieted him, energized him into a calm certainty. He had a plan. Somewhere under all this mess, he had a plan. The problem was staying alive long enough to figure out what it was. "Yeah, you've got the gun," he acknowledged, cut his eyes at her sharply. "And I've got the wheel." She stopped breathing for the space of three heartbeats. There was a sharp intake of breath as realization dawned. "I'll kill you." "And I'll take you with me. Use that gun and we both die. Your choice." "Stop the car!" Did he detect a hint of panic? "No." His seat shuddered as she slammed her body against it, the muzzle of the .22 shoving him sideways. The wheel shuddered in his hands. The slick pavement and their speed magnified the shift in steering and she tumbled back, weapon finally falling away from his skull as she lost her balance at the edge of the seat. Mulder tapped the brakes, righting the car, and the muzzle was back against his neck in the next heartbeat. He regained speed, restoring the rhythmic *pa-pump... pa- pump... pa-pump* of the tires rolling across the concrete spacers of the road. "Don't do that again." She was panting. Mulder considered: self-preservation was a powerful force. Quite possibly the only true emotion she understood. A sign. At last a sign: "US 50," and a smaller sign attached above it: "Airport." Mulder changed lanes abruptly, sending the trooper's car at his right taillight scrambling to compensate. The trooper dove for the paved shoulder and then overcorrected, hydroplaning back across the highway, into the headlights of the remaining escort. Tires squealed behind him as vehicles scattered, trying to avoid the inevitable collision. Mulder cursed beneath his breath, tapping his brakes once more. One trooper's car passed him, overshooting him, a second close behind. Mulder jerked his wheel hard to the right, taking the exit, and suddenly it was all behind him, cycling lights abruptly gone. Even the direction of the rain had shifted, pounding his side of the vehicle harder now. His headlights sought the route: US 50, another four-lane, widening to six, heading northwest. The little town of Pender flew past, a blur. The spacers raced away under them now, *pa-pump, pa-pump, pa--*. Headlights in his rearview. The familiar cycling of red and blue. The rising scream of a siren. Sisyphus dropped all pretense of holding the gun to his head. Perhaps she was just too busy trying to stay upright. Mulder didn't know what she was doing. Didn't care. He was doing eighty-five and finding it difficult to hold the wheel steady on the slick asphalt. The road dipped slightly, rose again. Two sets of headlights followed them now, washing the rear window with their combined glare: a trooper's car, and another vehicle without emergency lights. Both holding steady. *Shit.* Sisyphus' head popped back up at his shoulder, blocking his view. "This isn't the plan!" she hissed, teeth clenched defiantly. "This isn't how it's supposed to go!" "So adapt." His growl, only half-considered, was followed by a long, intense silence. He chanced a glimpse at the mirror. Sisyphus' face reflected back at him, staring through him, her eyes cold as glass. Without a word, she slid deliberately back against the seat behind her, and over, out of sight. So, Mulder marveled, this was how it ended. After all the struggling, all the dying, this was it. Finally. The certainty brought a surprising level of calm, even gratitude. He was sick of fighting the wheel, of anticipating, of holding so many other lives in his hands. He eased off the gas without realizing it, leveling the speedometer out at seventy-six. His shoulders ached, his eyes burned, and his right calf was cramping like a sonofabitch. He wondered if he could drive with his left foot just as well, but it was no longer something he'd need to worry about, was it? He had a sudden ridiculous craving for a cigarette-- "She was a long time dying." Sisyphus, very quiet. He'd expected an explosion, the impact of a bullet slamming through his skull. Her voice, by contrast, was far too still, but its aim was every bit as accurate. The throbbing behind his left eye escalated abruptly and he slid his hand from the wheel to hold the eye within its socket. The pain was excruciating, throbbing violently against the heel of his hand, vital as he tried to avoid her voice. "She begged me to kill her." "Don't--" "I held her heart in my hand while it was still beating. Then I chopped it out of her. She was in too much pain to scream. It's astounding what the human body can endure when the desire to live is strong enough." Another hiss: "And my, but she must have wanted to live." Mulder was silent, the air in his lungs a fist that threatened to crush his heart. There were no words to speak. How do you hurt a creature who has no capacity for compassion? No concept of human dignity or shame? Thoughts echoed, unheard, memory focusing a single image before his vision: Kay's arm on his empty pillow as she slept, white skin in the darkness. The bend of her elbow. The taste of her flesh as he kissed her just there in the hollow of her forearm. Her sigh.... A pickup truck approached in the center left lane, headlights too high, horn blaring as it passed. It swerved to the far lane, giving the trooper's car ample room, then disappeared into the darkness behind them, miles away in moments. Mulder dropped his hand back to the wheel, still blinking from the onslaught of lights. He found himself still on the road, driving through the rain, the darkness. Sisyphus was back at his side, leaning forward to gauge the accuracy of her assault. She seemed to enjoy the results. Mulder no longer cared. His body was numb, the weight of his hands the only thing holding them to the wheel. He noted that he was blind in one eye, his left eye no longer willing to participate in the proceedings. Sisyphus' frozen fingers sought his shoulder, his collar. He didn't even flinch this time, his mind shutting down to bare essentials as she stroked his chest.. "You think I don't deserve to live." She whispered against his neck, so far away.... "No one does." He heard the words, heavy with fatalistic bravado, uncertain if he actually spoke aloud. "It just happens." She nuzzled his ear, tongue leaving a slick track in the crevice behind his earlobe. He blinked slowly, listening to something stirring in his chest. *Pa-pumpa-pumpa-pumb--* XXXXXXX Dulles Airport cops offered their regrets, but they had an emergency of their own to deal with. They suggested Purdue obtain the services of the Fairfax County Sheriff's Department. Purdue dropped the radio mouthpiece into the passenger seat, not bothering to thank them for their time. The rain was easing; it wasn't light by any means, but at least it wasn't the deluge it had been. Mulder had dropped his speed slightly and Purdue settled in to simply keeping pace, grateful he'd taken the time to refuel on his trip back from Quantico. The trooper at Purdue's left flank matched him mile for mile. Good man, Purdue acknowledged. Pursuing another good man. Purdue could still see Mulder occasionally when the lights hit just right. Sisyphus was little more than a growth on Mulder's shoulder now: a shark on a feeding frenzy. She'd be looking for weak spots, detecting vulnerabilities and pushing all the right buttons. If Mulder survived this, it would only be because his buttons were intact. Purdue's heart was beating furiously. There's a conversation there, surely, Purdue decided. Mulder's using his name, using it repetitively because names identified people, made them less easy to perceive as "things," as "targets." He would be telling her his personal history, inviting her to take the stroll down memory lane with him: childhood events, remembered joys, his favorite color, *anything* to make this personal. To make pulling the trigger harder for her. Or would he? Would that only feed her delusions that she was Mulder's intimate companion? That he belonged to her, his body, his every thought, even the ring upon his hand. Was she capable of hearing anything outside her own fantasies? Did Mulder know better than to waste his breath? Probably. Purdue's radio snapped to life and he recognized the voice of the trooper beside him. It shamed him to realize he didn't even know the man's name. "We've got Loudoun County deputies waiting at the county line. We're going to try to force him off the road. Fishtail 'em. Then try to draw her fire. Maybe we can run her out of ammo before-- Well. Maybe we can run her out of ammo." Purdue acknowledged the message and dropped the radio again. Sometimes he wondered if there even was a God. XXXXXXX CONTINUED IN PART 26B From: cslatton17@aol.com Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:25:23 EDT Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 26B of 27 Source: xfc "Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com http://www.softlight.8m.com/ Part 26B of 27: Another sign: "Welcome to Pleasant Valley." Pleasant Valley. Sounded like a funeral home. It was gone before he knew to miss it, Sisyphus' fingers clutching his neck as she peered into the darkness, ice clinging to searing heat, devouring it whole. Forward and to their right was a dazzle of lights. A tower. Dulles Airport. Mulder blinked hard, clearing his vision. The little town of Chantilly spread away to his left. The road was deserted, cops parked at major intersections, their lights whirling, blurs of red, white and blue in the blowing rain. Not pursuing. Similar lights drew his attention back to his right. Beyond a high chain-link fence, a runway ran parallel to the highway, slick tarmac defined by the reflected lights of emergency vehicles. The Monte Carlo's left tires thumped over lane markers. Mulder corrected his course and chanced a second glance at the runway: a graceless mass in the far darkness, the hulking tail of a cargo plane highlighted by halogens and fire. The arching path of chemical foam competed with the storm. Mulder and his little situation were blissfully insignificant here tonight. There was a tremendous *whoomph,* a concussion that slapped at the Monte Carlo's right flank even at this distance. Flames burst from the rumpled aircraft, boiling into the sky. Sisyphus scrambled for a clearer view, watching the steam billow and hiss. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" she lisped. "Death." "Yeah." His windpipe constricted, mangling the words on their way out. "There's nothing I like better than a good slaughter." She laughed, a soft sound in the back of her throat as she slid back toward him, dropping to her knees in the floorboard. She resettled the .22, her cheek brushing the stubble on his jaw. She felt him flinch involuntarily and chuckled as he tried to cover it. "You'll have to tell me if I got it right, you know." "Got what right?" Why did he bother playing to this, he wondered? Because anything was better than acknowledging the zeal of that mouth against his skin- - "Death." It seemed to be the catch word of the evening. "You've seen so much of it," she insisted, "you'll have to tell me if I got it right. Just-- I don't know, a little nod before you stop breathing. Maybe--" The car erupted in static as he flipped the radio on. "Turn that off," she demanded. He twisted the dial savagely, fingers clumsy from lack of oxygen. She was off his neck, at least, the pistol shoved back into its familiar spot at the base of his skull. Between the two of them, he preferred the pistol. The radio sought human contact: Mel Tillis. James Taylor. The rapid-fire edict of an insurance ad. The thunderous roar of Guns 'N Roses. She shoved him aside, slapping the button impatiently. "I said, turn it *off.*" Her voice was petulant, strident. Careful, Mulder.... *Careful, hell. I'm dead already.* Mulder slipped his free hand back to the wheel. "You don't want me falling asleep, do you, Cecile?" he complained. "You got a poem for me? No? How about a song? You know, some traveling music to set the mood." She didn't answer and he shrugged a levity that no longer existed in his world. "I've always been fond of the Stones, myself," he marveled where the words were coming from, who was speaking with his mouth. "How about 'Sympathy for the Devil?' You do the lyrics and I'll do the 'whoo hoo's' on the chorus." "The others didn't fear me, either," she whispered huskily. "Not at first glance." His jaw tightened. She felt the bone shift, the motion repositioning the muzzle of the gun by millimeters. It was his only concession to her voice. She inhaled deeply, like she could absorb him whole. One tremendous gulp and he would be gone-- "After a while," she breathed the "while," a tremendous sigh across his ear, sensuous, hungry. She repeated the words, enjoying the affect, watching his face in the mirror, tense next to her own. "After a while, you learn to prolong the fear. Just... incapacitating them enough to keep them still, but not dead, yet. No," another extended syllable, a corresponding shiver through the veins of his neck as her free hand slid across his shoulder to encounter exposed skin. "No, the victim should be alive, don't you think? There should be *someone* there to appreciate the pains you take with them. Who better to appreciate, but the one experiencing the deed firsthand. Hum?" His response, aside from a narrowing of the eyes, was cut short. There was a sudden *whump* as the Monte Carlo encountered a change in pavement: asphalt abruptly replaced by tar and gravel. Mulder returned his focus to the road: the six-lane was rapidly dropping to two. "Loudoun County" was a small, unobtrusive sign to his right. Just past the sign, lights flooded the interior of the car: sheriff's cars to either side of the road, snapping on their headlights and joining in the chase, rubber squalling on gravel. Purdue and his escort dropped back, allowing room. "Shit." "What?" she demanded, squinting over her shoulder. "Lose them, dammit! Lose them now!" The road here was remarkably slicker, oil from the tar mixing with rain. The Monte Carlo's tires squealed, finding traction with difficulty. The sheriff's car to his left was faring considerably better. His headlights filled Mulder's side mirror, blinding him. Mulder shifted in his seat, fleeing the glare, reacting on instinct. Half-blind, he searched his rearview mirror: the second deputy had pulled back, forcing Purdue and the Fairfax trooper's vehicle to fall in behind him on the narrow stretch of road, clearing the shot for the lead deputy. A fishtail maneuver. Mulder had been trained in the procedure at Quantico, a lifetime ago. It was designed to bring a high speed chase to a relatively quick halt, with as little injury to life and property as possible. The idea was simple: a pursuing unit delivered a quick, solid tap to one side of a vehicle's bumper. Executed properly, the concussion was enough to spin the suspect's vehicle around, causing the driver, startled and disoriented, to instinctively hit his brakes. Pursuing law enforcement could then move in for the arrest. Mulder had barely enough time to brace himself for the impact. In a brief burst of speed, the deputy rendered the necessary blow: a tap on Mulder's left rear bumper-- just a tap. It exploded like a concussion in the vehicle. Cecile squealed, disappearing into the back seat, kicking frantically. Mulder didn't fight the wheel as expected. He tracked with the force of the blow, allowing the Monte Carlo to take its right-angle swing, controlling it rather than fighting. The car slid to the shoulder and threatened to disappear into the dirt field beyond, the deputies pursuing. Mud and gravel rumbled beneath the passenger-side floorboards and Cecile slammed into the back of Mulder's seat. Her arm fumbled across his shoulder, grabbing sweater and skin with equal determination. Mulder ignored her, wincing as her nails drew blood, but intent upon the wheel. He made his correction, finally, with the last of the gravel shoulder under his left rear tire. He corrected carefully, but the shift and the resulting struggle for traction had Cecile screaming. Or had she always been screaming and he simply hadn't noticed? His head was throbbing, and for the life of him, he couldn't remember. "I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you--!" she squealed, drowning out sirens and the whine of the engine. Mulder's left front tire hit gravel again after an eternity. Behind him and to his right, lights swirled, growing distant: two deputy's units well into the plowed field, wheel-well deep in mud. Mulder regained the road and Purdue and his escort fought to resume the chase, their headlights approaching rapidly. Traction be damned, Mulder floored the muddy two-door, shooting forward into the darkness. Sisyphus, breathing hot against his neck, was finally speechless. XXXXXXX Gilbert's Corner, Virginia, is simply that: a corner in the middle of nowhere in particular, the merest mark on a map. Aside from a smattering of blurred lights, he would have missed it. He did notice the deputy's vehicle, however, parked to the left, just at the opening curve of the road. Its lights were out, but tell-tale reflectors danced as Mulder's headlights grazed the rise of a small hill beyond, no more than a mound, farm house and barn forming a skyline in the near distance. Christ, but the men in this county were persistent, he'd give them that. The rain had let up considerably, dissolving into a miserable drizzle that ate at the brain. Mulder squinted, conscious only of seconds fleeing. Precious seconds. Only one vehicle. For a roadblock it was blatantly undermanned. Mulder chewed his lip. This stretch of US 50 was almost a straight shot, with no sharp turns and few curves. Excellent for driving, piss-poor if you were expected to lay a last minute road trap. Still... Mulder's mind raced, speeding past time and the rumble of wheels on pavement. He noted the motion of a solitary figure beside the darkened vehicle. A one man, one vehicle roadblock. No one was that confident unless-- Spikes. The man had laid out a TPD, a tire puncturing device, Mulder would lay money on it. The chain of vicious metal claws was standard issue for highway patrol. Cecile noted the sudden change in tension and shoved forward, gun tight against Mulder's skull, a sensation as common to him now as his own breath. "What is it?" "Hang on," he hissed. He took the shoulder again, heading into the curve of the hill beyond the deputy's car. Beside him Cecile yelped, gripping both him and the passenger seat, knuckles white. Mulder clipped the rear bumper of the deputy's vehicle as he passed it, turning his wheel into the hill's incline, just missing the barbed wire fence at the summit, tires slinging mud, rock, and sod. It had been a calculated gamble, and he fought to complete the turn and regain the road. As he had hoped, the slope of the hill had allowed water to run off swiftly. The ground beneath him held. He gathered traction as he dove back to the pavement, hitting the road hard, shocks groaning with the impact. Sisyphus released him abruptly, protecting her head from the ceiling as she bounced. She scrambled to recover -- the gun apparently welded to her hand. Mulder ignored her, scarcely noticing the muzzle shoved against his ribs this time. He sped onward into darkness. In his rearview mirror, the deputy stood stunned a minute too long, then scrambled for the TPD. Too late. Purdue's escort hit the chain of spikes, tires exploding. Sisyphus took a moment to register the significance of the resulting havoc, then squealed her delight. The hapless trooper slammed into the field below the hill, taking out the fence before lumbering helplessly into the mud. Mulder searched the road behind him until darkness swallowed it whole. There was no sign of Purdue's Chrysler. The interior of the Monte Carlo was silent for several minutes, Sisyphus' excited panting growing more steady in the brief space of a mile. Mulder didn't trust the silence but was grateful for it all the same. Off to the west, clouds were clearing, framing stars of great piercing heat. The moon was a slender shard, a sickle prepared for harvest but what little light filtered to the earth offered no wisdom. He shook his head. "I can't believe I don't even rate a damned poem." XXXXXXX His voice was that of a man speaking from far below the surface of things, from a small, hidden room in his gut, a place so far down in the depths of the human soul that the mind could speak only the echo, unaccustomed to giving voice to intimate confessions, making up nonsense, since true words did not exist there. Unaccustomed to such depths herself, Sisyphus ignored him, tuned to her own frequency, scanning the landscape fleeing past her window. The soft hand on his shoulder must have been expected, he didn't even flinch. Was he so tired? Or was he simply resolved to his fate? She purred at his ear, "I like foreplay as much as the next girl, but this has gone on long enough, don't you think?" God, but he smelled marvelous. The climb down the shaft, the drive, nothing had robbed him of that essential essence, that rich warm scent that was uniquely his. He licked his lips, considering. The image made her thirsty. "The evening was just getting interesting," he noted. She smiled, knowing he could feel it without glancing in the mirror, a shift in the tension of her check where it grazed his neck. "That's right," she promised. "It *is* just getting interesting." She smiled pleasantly, leaning forward between the seats to insure his attention, his appreciation of her charity. "You've done so well, so far. Tell you what, you stop the car, and I'll let you live." He glanced at her sidelong, eyes slitted, pupils lost beneath dark lashes. "Like you did Kay?" He faced forward abruptly, a dismissive tilt of the head that left her growling. "There's no one to save now, my angel. One way or the other, this vehicle is going to stop." She jabbed the pistol against his rib cage, feeling muscle and bone give slightly. He winced, shifting, keeping his hands carefully on the wheel, his foot steady on the gas. He shook his head. She grabbed a handful of hair and jerked, batting his head into the headrest with a satisfying thump. "No one tells me no," she hissed, emphasizing each syllable. "I said stop the damned car." The speedometer rose slightly, his only answer. She cuffed him with the side of the pistol, not too hard, she hoped, but enough to insure his attention. Mulder grunted, the wheel jerking in his left hand, his right hand grabbing at his temple. Rage, frustration, and the tantalizing scent of blood were finally too much for her. She jerked forward and took the wheel for herself, yanking it hard to the right. She would stop the car in spite of him, allow the mud of the field beside them to do it for her. Then she would begin in earnest, have what she had come for, enjoy the fruit of her patience-- She glanced up just in time to realize her folly. A narrow arch bridge glistened in the headlights, approaching rapidly. The bridge and its guard rail were stone, hand-quarried, hand-set, hand-mortared when the country was young. "Built to last," her father would have said. Strange how the mind can wrap itself in trivia at such a time. The highway sign beside the road announced "Little River." Mulder, right eye filling with blood, saw it just as she did. He tightened his grip on the wheel. And pressed the accelerator to the floor. They mounted the bridge with a tremendous jolt of shocks, then hit the guard rail, her terror consumed by the scream of twisting metal and the explosion of stone. Sisyphus slammed face-first into Mulder's headrest. Seconds later she could not recall the details, only note its results: her eyes aflame with stars, the sickening sweet smell of her own blood filing her sinuses. And the pain. Then they were airborne, her body rising. The top of her head collided with the upholstered roof, slapping her back against the seat. The double impact knocked the wind from her chest, smothering her scream. She watched the .22 fall from her hand, tumble to the floorboard and disappear beneath Mulder's seat. She was vaguely aware of Mulder's body crumpling down but it was not the gun he was after. There were other things more deadly now. His seat belt held, but momentum flung him sideways, hurling him against the center console-- Why was it all in slow motion, she wondered? How strange. They were running in slow motion, like movies do to highlight pivotal scenes-- She marveled, watching Mulder's arms rise to protect his face from the impact. His body jerked, slowly... so slowly... Sisyphus tumbled back to her seat, languid, like Alice leisurely tumbling down the rabbit hole. As she fell, she noted the scene beyond the windshield: water. Water without horizon, swirling, the river heavy with rain. The vehicle shuddered, concussed. The swollen river rose to meet the windshield, headlights burning through the murky depths: algae and debris, clay of the riverbed rising, deep red and pockmarked like the surface of Mars. The wheels and one front fender scraped the bottom before natural buoyancy lifted them again, rattling her teeth with its dance. Mulder pushed himself back from the dash with a groan, and Sisyphus grabbed for him, too far gone to surrender him now. Her arm found his neck and she pinned him in a pseudo choke hold, tight against the passenger headrest. He made only a feeble effort at resistance, too stunned to react. The engine sputtered. Angled nose-down in water, they bobbed like a heavy cork, the current boiling around them, eager for the sea. The river pushed the vehicle before it, slammed the tail of the Monte Carlo into the bridge, bumper and left rear fender catching on the arch. Sisyphus was airborne again suddenly, flying. Mulder fell forward as well, instinctively sliding sideways and grabbing for the wheel to hold himself in the seat. Without his body to weight it, the passenger seat flipped forward and Sisyphus tumbled over it, her shoulder ramming the windshield. Tiny hairline cracks fractured the glass on her impact. She felt that her body must have shattered as well, unable to even draw in air. She remained conscious somehow, adrenaline insisting that she live. She scrambled blearily, trying to regain a sense of time and place. Droplets beaded against her cheek, her blood diluted by river water oozing through the fractured glass. She rolled free of the dash, an awkward, excruciatingly painful motion, and managed to land almost upright in the front passenger seat. She didn't allow herself to think about the pain, incapable of that much clarity. The arch of the bridge forced the car's nose deeper, ever deeper. Metal squalled above, panicked, desperate. Or was that his voice she heard? Was he speaking? Or only grunting? She forced her eyes to focus, her brain to concentrate, to locate him. She found him beside her, slipping free of his seat belt, twisting wildly. He was bloody and convulsing-- no, not convulsing. He was just struggling with the window control. Now, why would he want the window down, she wondered? Didn't he realize it was raining? Didn't he realize they'd get wet? The window gave grudgingly, and water splashed her face as Mulder tried to force the glass. The icy spray brought a measure of clarity and she attacked him with the vengeance of the demented. He could not escape. She could not allow it. He was hers. Hers. Pain only lent her fight an enhanced desperation. Mulder refused to release the window control. She reached past him, body screaming, clawing at his hands. He jerked one hand free, ratcheting the lever violently, using the other hand to drive the glass down into the door. Finding no traction for her fingers in the blood that soaked his skin, she grabbed a handful of his hair, tugging blindly. He refused to turn around. He jerked his body against hers, knocking her back into the passenger seat, knocking the breath from her lungs. The vehicle bobbed as she landed, and she tumbled to the dash, yelping as she hit the gearshift. More stars and pain she could not identify, new sensations she had no frame of reference for. There was something wrong with her lungs. Her sternum had transformed into a dagger of some kind-- She struggled up, her pistol regarding her from the floorboard, baleful in the murky water. The river splashed in from Mulder's slowly opening window, a waterfall, threatening to become a torrent as the water level rose. Sisyphus scrambled for the weapon, slapping at Mulder's leg, insisting on her property. The window gave at last, water pouring in, and they were suddenly sinking in earnest. He kicked, gathering his knee beneath him, kicked again, and she realized finally that he was not fighting her. He was trying to push his injured body through the window. She grabbed him by the waist and clung for dear life, pulling him down despite the agony wracking every muscle in her body. Mulder clung to the opening, grunted, gasped as water rushed over him, rising higher, at his chin now. She clawed his eyes and he cried out, despair, agony, and desperation at war within that single animal syllable. He caught her with his elbow, jabbing it backwards at her ribs. Pain radiated everywhere at once, too intense for sound or thought. But she did not let go. Masonry crumbled in little *pings* against the rear window, penetrating her consciousness. She rolled her face against his back, glancing over, up, to see what could possibly be happening now. She saw only the black underbelly of the bridge, a dark beast bathed in the fiery red of the Chevy's tail lights. And then the world rolled over. Suspended between buoyant air pressure and rising water, the Monte Carlo lost its struggle with the swollen current. The fender came free of the bridge in a great high-pitched whine. The car bobbed bitterly once. Mulder lost his grip, gulping a mouthful of water that left him choking. He tumbled backward, on top of Sisyphus as she reached out a hand, seeking to correct her own balance. Her fingers found the windshield, water lapping hungrily just beyond the glass, the fingers of a tree branch scratching at her, begging for admittance. The vehicle twisted drunkenly, more metal crumpling high above. The arch caught them again, the other fender this time. The river raged, hammering relentlessly, forcing the front bumper to follow the current, bridge or no bridge. The Monte Carlo surrendered, flipping front to end, upside down into the dark water. Sisyphus screamed as she and Mulder tumbled together to the roof of the car. He landed first, softening her landing and she held him there beneath her, marveling as the water poured in from the open window and the dash, filling the vehicle with impossible speed. Mulder gasped, struggling as his head went under, the steering column holding his legs captive. Sisyphus felt his rib give beneath her hand, felt him convulse. She smiled, waiting for his body to still. He clawed at her, a savage, hungry for air, grabbing flesh and upholstery. She didn't care if he managed to tear her skin off but the water was rising without mercy. Sisyphus managed to gather one final mouthful of oxygen for herself before the river swallowed her whole. Mulder's hand slid away, still, and she kicked upward, arm flailing at the hapless passenger seat, driving it back as she sought *up* and the remaining air pocketed within the overturned vehicle. She opened her eyes as she surfaced, head slamming into the floorboard: less than half a foot of the Monte Carlo's interior remained above the water line. It spun around her like a thing possessed, dragging her with it. The world convulsed as both fenders caught the stone bridge in rapid succession. It took her only seconds to realize that Mulder had not surfaced with her. She growled, gulped air and kicked, pushing herself back below the water level. Silt and muck burned her open eyes but the headlights still burned, reflecting in the water's haze, dash and buckets seats casting deep shadows. Mulder was half-way out of the window already. She flailed at him, grabbing one leg and holding it fast, climbing up him, her lungs screaming for oxygen. He kicked at her, equally determined, eyes large in the roiling water, impossibly green... There was a sharp snap from the dash. Sisyphus glanced back. The tree branch that had pleaded with her earlier had found the weakness in the windshield. It was pushing through the glass, seeking her with surrealistic patience; a dark companion limb battered the passenger window with similar results. The world had turned to slow motion again, she noted, moving at some random speed. Caught up in the wonderment and the need for oxygen, she failed to see the tree attached to the limb. Failed to realize that it, too, was tumbling through the glass -- the windshield and the window -- ripping through the Chevrolet's roof-- Mulder's final image of her would be one of nightmare: her hair swimming wildly, eyes wide with surprise, mouth open in a little "O," a scream she could draw no air for. He kicked free just before the shattered oak drove through her chest. Her final view of the world was lit by headlights: bubbles like bright moths flying away to the surface.... XXXXXXX Another kick and Mulder's body floated without his efforts. He couldn't tell which way was up, whether he fell or rose, didn't truly care. There was a roaring somewhere, metal screeching... Stone... Something else. The sounds rolled over, though him, reverberating through the water, shaking his ribs and gripping his spine. He had breathed twice before he realized he was doing so, great gasping gulps that left his lungs screaming. He glanced up into a blood red sky, blinked. No. Not sky. The underside of a bridge, lit by the taillights of a car-- His brain fought to make sense of it. Taillights of a car-- His car. And he remembered. Relived. The bridge slid away, presenting him with the sky, deep black, the moon and its stars, if they existed, invisible behind miles of clouds, oblivious. The water roiled around him, carrying him aloft. He floated with it, unaware that he should resist, incapable of it. A branch, too small to offer rescue, brushed his face. His feet encountered clay, slid away, his brain registering only the merest distress, his battered body unresponsive. His head fell forward, and he hadn't the strength to lift it, felt the current twist around his legs, pull. He blinked in resignation and numbed amazement as the river tugged him under. Water flooded his nose and he tasted silt, thick and alkaline in the back of his throat. He struggled not to cough, fighting to lift his head. The current refused to yield, however. It jerked his out-flung arm and wrapped itself around his chest. His lungs throbbed with the relentless pressure and he kicked, back straightening against something solid. He yelped, water pouring from his mouth. His ribs, his shoulder, his brain shuddered, twitching spasmodically. It was not the current squeezing his chest, he realized. It was an arm. Pain and relief forced his feet into action, scrambling frantically for the soil that sloped beneath him suddenly. The arm shifted, releasing his wounded ribs, and became hands under his armpits, dragging him backward, free of the water. The hands lowered him to the ground, turning him to his side as he choked up river water and blood. "Mulder. Mulder, can you hear me?" The world settled, finally. Soft sounds, his body shivering. A large hand holding his shoulder, steadying him. Cold, it was so gloriously cold, even more than the river had been. It was good to feel something again, even this. "Mulder!" He nodded, struggling for clarity, recognizing the voice. Purdue. Purdue who had pursued him without headlights, waiting for his chance, waiting for Mulder to give him that chance. And had he? He tried to think, memory twisting petulantly, second-guessing motive, obscuring detail. Hell, he was alive, so he must have, he supposed. God owed him no favors and Sisyphus... well-- "She's in the car," he gasped. He found Purdue's wrist beside him and grabbed it, grateful for something solid as the ground rolled beneath him, riotous as the Little River overrunning its banks. "She's still in the car. We've got to get her out. She's--" "She's dead, Mulder." Purdue's hand squeezing his shoulder. "She's dead. It's over. Just let it go." Mulder slapped the arm away. He flopped to his back, writhing to ease the pain. Over? What did he know of *over*? He blinked against the rain, a fine mist that penetrated the skin. Over. Mud beneath him, dark sky above. Purdue's face, drenched in sweat and water, blocked the drizzle. His dark skin sparkled in the headlights of the Chrysler parked across the water, just beyond Mulder's field of vision. He had left the car door open; the Chrysler's warning bell pinged patiently, just distinguishable over the growling of the river. Purdue lifted a hand to Mulder's face, hesitated, then turned Mulder's chin, checking his eyes. "I'm okay," Mulder promised, still blinking against the misting rain. He was *numb,* actually, he realized, and it was beyond a mere matter of semantics. He closed his eyes, unable to make his voice steady, unable to block the relived terror of hours, of days, the grief of endless weeks. "I'm okay," he insisted -- I *am,* I *am* --"I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm--" He continued the words, failing to hear them any longer. His grip on Purdue's wrist was the central pivot upon which the galaxy spun, the only thing holding him to the world. He clung to it, nails digging deep, unable to let go. "I'm okay. I'm okay--" Purdue's hand slipped over his, but the ASAC did not try to break free. "You're okay, Mulder," he promised and Mulder believed. "Everything's going to be okay." XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX From: cslatton17@aol.com Date: Wed, 3 May 2000 06:25:31 EDT Subject: xfc: NEW: "Mercury Falling" Part 27 of 27 Source: xfc "Mercury Falling" cslatton17@aol.com http://www.softlight.8m.com/ Part 27 of 27: Epilogue: Regularly Scheduled Maintenance. Disclaimed in Part 1. "The dead remember." -- Vernon J. Geberth. *Practical Homicide Investigation*, Third Edition. Boca Raton: CRC Press LLC. 1996. "Because you're a bungling fool!" The sharp British voice made him flinch. His physical reaction, however, was little more than a startled wince; the sedatives held him tightly under, refusing to yield. He licked his lips in a vain search for moisture. His throat was tight, stuffed with cotton batting, the same thick layers of fluff that blanketed his brain. The discomfort was distant though, and he did not resist the drugs, content within this spell of non-pain, non-thought. He moved, the trembling of one hand, fingers sliding aimlessly across fresh linen. Then stilled. Quiet again. It was good to be here, he decided, wrapped in this cocoon of unconcern. He was dry. Warm. There was the random beeping of omniscient machines; even their alarms were a kind of indecipherable comfort. A slight pinching on the back of his left hand -- just beyond the edge of actual awareness: tape tugging skin -- was a reassurance that he was, indeed, still alive at some level; that there were as yet no dreadful realities waiting to scorch his impenitent soul. "I did what I thought was best for the project--" Soft tenor, plaintive, a casual whine. The acrid fragrance of smoke, old cigarettes. The voice and the accompanying scent left Mulder mildly unsettled, overcome with an impending sense of doom revisited, as though his cells recalled events his conscious mind could not. There was something familiar here. Something old and awful at the edge of memory.... "You did nothing but satisfy your own warped curiosity." The Briton again, scolding jealously. The voice was quieter this time, though, little more than a cultured hiss somewhere to Mulder's left. "The very idea that you would put the project at risk for some petty personal--" "I would have allowed no harm to come to him--" "No harm?" Frustrated, disgusted growl, a parent weary of pointless argument. "Get out. I'll deal with this myself. Out, I said!" Footsteps shuffling. Another lungful of acrid smoke that burned with the oxygen being force-fed through Mulder's nostrils. His stomach rolled vainly, stilled as Sauceda's voice echoed in his head: "Need to give those things up, kid. They'll kill you." He heard the quiet "huff" of a heavy, well-cushioned door. The continual almost subliminal beep above his head and to the right. Another, different, beeping beside him, rhythmic, steady. Hypnotic. He could feel his own heartbeat. His lungs, inhaling. Exhaling. Deep sighs. The consolation of unyielding darkness. The whisper of fabrics beside the bed.... This was all just a dream. Right? Another dream. Or maybe the doctors had returned, or the nurse. Hadn't she just been here? The nurse? Mulder could recall her clearly, though he had perceived, not actually seen her: the strong hands, cool on his wrist when she had been here moments ago -- or was it days? It was difficult to be certain. The deceptive nature of dreams and drugs... Time simply did not exist in this room of soft beeps and swirling voices. He'd learned her voice, though, always the same, hopeful, coaxing without condemnation: "Hello, Fox. It's Nurse Owens, again--" Owens? Or was it Olson? Owens. Olson. Owens-- Well, O-something. She had been inordinately kind to Mulder, and, defenseless, weary, he had allowed it. Her proddings were gentle and discrete, and she had patiently explained her every intent, as though he could comprehend or care. The bandaging, the protesting of alarms as she adjusted this and that... There was nothing for him to concern himself with, she'd promised. He shouldn't worry. When they were ready, they would wake him, and meanwhile, the important thing was rest. Just... rest. Solid advice any sensible man would take. And Mulder prided himself on being a sensible man. But, no, this... this was not Nurse O- something. It was the Briton again, reassuring, persistent, speaking softly. He was not fussing now-- not at Mulder, anyway. The odor of stale cigarettes dissipated slowly, fading from Mulder's consciousness, lost to memory in the space of a breath. The Briton's voice remained familiar, however. Familiar without that nameless dread.... No, everything was better, his visitor promised. Everything was well and would be well and there would be no more dreams and no more visions. All a terrible mistake. Talents awakened too early, yes, but there was no permanent harm, Mister Mulder, nothing to concern him. He would not even remember... No permanent harm. How comforting-- Chilled hand against his neck, cold as death but kind, the sharp prick of a needle-- And the world of beeps and faceless voices disappeared into luxurious darkness. XXXXXXX Saturday, May 21, 1988. 11:48 p.m. Georgetown Medical Center Hospital. He shut the door behind him quietly, leaned against it, eyes closed, listening. No footsteps. No one searching for him. Not yet anyway. Mulder registered the fact with relief but did not move. The room was cold and the door, sheathed in metal, was ice against his temple. The cold radiated, piercing the throbbing pressure in his brain. Pain bled out his ears, oozing, an invisible fire down his neck, leaving him vaguely disoriented. He'd woke with the headache, a slightly less intense version of the one he had suffered over the past several months. This one seemed to be centered differently, as well: a dull, general throbbing that crept up his spine and slammed fist-like into the base of his brain. His body offered little sympathy, having problems of its own, aches trapped deep inside muscle and bone. His ribcage was bandaged tightly, an excuse not to breath too deeply and set his lungs to screaming. There was an ominously thick padding around his right thigh, but his leg seemed to be in one piece, twinging only when he stepped too quickly right or left. By concentrating, he could avoid limping, and ignore the sharp pain below the bandages across his ribs. He'd staggered occasionally on the way down from his room, but the disorientation had been intermittent, there one step, gone the next. The halls had been all but deserted in this area of the hospital; the few personnel he had passed had not seemed to notice anything too unusual. Certainly no one had stopped to question him. His knee shuddered menacingly now, ceased when he opened his eyes. The lights were dim here, blessedly so. His left eye had almost stopped throbbing, nerves relaxing hesitantly, loosening their sympathetic synchrony with his heart. Mulder twisted to face the room, rolling his head against the door as he did so, allowing the back of his skull to seek its share of cooling relief, grateful for this unexpected dispensation. He finally allowed his eyes to focus. The room was large: chrome cabinets to his left and right, a wall of stainless steel facing him, awash in gloom and reflected colors. Light filtered in through an open door, distant and to his left. There was a hall beyond the door, more rooms. The name plates were invisible to him due to distance and angle, but he knew them. He'd visited here often enough. He could walk the layout in his sleep: labs running to the left of the hall, a break room, a vending machine just before the service elevator. The autopsy bays were to the right. Someone was busy tonight. The third door on the right was open, a gap where light bled across the linoleum. Aretha Franklin's "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" bounced on the com speakers. Lenny would have approved. A deep, twisting ache shot through Mulder's abdomen. He refused to bend, however, to bow to the grief. He hadn't the luxury of yielding. Hadn't the right. He'd understood that before he had come here, as soon as the news report had penetrated the residue of drugs -- the television's volume low, a mumble across his room, then names, significant nouns: FBI, Fuche, spokesperson. Victims. Sauceda. He pushed away from the door, swayed, and planted his feet to recover his balance. The room waited, cool and inviting, patient as Fate. And why not? Everyone came here eventually, didn't they? Here, or at least to a room very like it: utilitarian white walls and stainless steel. Standard morgue. This one was better equipped than some he knew, but death seemed to demand the same provisions no matter where he found himself. Gurneys and vials, chemicals, pans and scales, measuring devices, pipettes, cutlery and spoons. Drawers and shelves stood ready, too, filled with more of the same, provisions sufficient for a holocaust. The Egyptians were right: the dead seemed to require so much more than the living somehow. But who could begrudge them their one final excess? Mulder approached the wall of drawers, shuffling carefully, paper shoes whispering his progress. Stainless steel reflected his image back at him: stolen scrubs from the tiny lounge beside the nurse's station, physician's coat. The name tag flashed briefly at his collar, the name a smear within the washed chrome reflection, the photo bleary, a dark, East Indian man, smiling. The pale man in possession of the badge staggered, staring at his own reflected face. Deep blue and purple pooled into little wells below his eyes. A row of tiny surgical Band Aids ran across his right temple, glowing ghostly in the gloom. Stubble ran heavy on his jaw and down his throat. His skin was the color of cigarette ash. Jeezus. When had he gotten so old? And why had no one told him? He laid his hand upon the reflection, on that face, steadying his legs, refocusing. The metal reflected blood on the bandage at his wrist. He didn't see. *There's no time for this. Labels. Read the labels...* Next to his hand was a white tab of tape, "A-15: Atkins, J." written across it in fine felt-tip marker. Chest-level and to his left: "B-14: McKenzie, P." Mulder stepped back, his hand-print a damp multi- limbed shadow upon the metal, burning away as he read. "B-12: Doe, Jane." "B-10: Fuche, C." He paused, swaying again. His tongue sought his lips and he reached out to touch the drawer, fingers barely brushing metal before he caught the hand back, pressing it to his abdomen, cradling it like a thing bitten. His fingertips left two fine rings just at the edge of the drawer. He watched them fade, debating. No. No. He had not come for this. He wouldn't look on her face again-- He turned, allowing the walls of drawers to steady him, waiting for his brain to focus on each carefully printed tag. "A-9: Afonse, R." "B-8: Hoffman, C." "A-7: Sauceda, L." Mulder's lungs refused to function, muscles frozen. He didn't notice for at least a full minute, insensible to the cool metal rising beneath his hand, the thump as his palm slid and his shoulder hit the wall of drawers, hard and real, chill penetrating the cotton jacket. The label radiated in the light of the open hall, the drawer itself reflecting blue, neon, a sparkling mirror of indicator lights from the centrifuge across the room. The felt-tip letters of the label stared at Mulder accusingly: "Jeezus, Marty. Just look at this shit. They can't even get the damned label stuck on straight--" Mulder's lungs drew breath. The resulting pain, the clarity it brought, was as welcome as the voice of an old friend. "Hey, Lenny." Silence. He deserved that, he supposed. But... Maybe it was another Sauceda, L. It was possible, right? It had to be possible. The reporter had been confused - - or the drugs had reordered the words as Mulder had struggled to sit up. Lenny was in Memphis. Probably hauling his wife through Graceland-- Still, Mulder's hand refused to obey his brain, fingers fumbling metal, missing the latch on the drawer by several inches. He took as deep a breath as he could tolerate, biting his lip, but his shoulder still refused to reposition his hand. *Shit--* His throat refused to voice the word, his tongue managing only a sickly click before clinging to the roof of his mouth. *Please, God--* The latch, at last. He paused, disbelieving, metal grainy beneath his fingers, slick at his thumb. A click and the drawer slid free several feet, rolling easily. Mulder took another struggling breath. Inside the drawer was a sheet lit in deepest blue, disappearing into the dark recesses of the wall. A folder, pale beige, lay across what was surely a man's chest-- Mulder stepped to the side of the drawer, careful to hold it still partially closed. His fingers sought a desperate hold on the crimped metal edge, but he avoided touching the sheet, eyes focused steadfastly upon the folder. The steel grew hot beneath his hand and he concentrated on simply breathing, ignoring the chemical tinge to the air, and other... things. *Chart. Read the chart. That's all you need--* Mulder reached for the folder, paused, resuming the motion after a moment's care. He watched his hand, giving his brain time to process the position of the paper, to coordinate his aim. A great clarity washed over him, a certainty of time and place, of smell, the sensation of air across skin. A moment as memory penetrated soul, merging with his heart, a bitter treasure. Precious. Such are moments that remain in the consciousness of the race, that follow the soul to lives beyond. That create, and recreate the world-- He opened the folder where it lay, using his right hand, his left hand unable to release the drawer. Autopsy notes. Hastily scrawled, preparatory to transcription and official report. The handwriting sprawled across the paper, deeply slanted, foreign and unconcerned, alien, so unlike Lenny's patient, meticulous print. Mulder's eye ran down the sheet, seeking, not finding, finding too much-- "...single gunshot wound... massive hemorrhaging, multiple incisions postmortem, translateral incision to the spleen, colon and kidney...." Toxicology followed: several sheets of print-outs, information too indistinct in this light, ink pale from overuse of the ribbon. Then a master sheet: doubled columns of chemical names, small boxes checked off to the left of the words, comments or numerals on tiny lines to the right. The list was only partially complete but the histamine results were there. Mulder stared at the number. Moisture formed on his lashes and he blinked it away, trying to hold the papers still, unable to believe, to hope. But there it was, the number quite clear. Proof. Certainty. Lenny had died quickly. She'd killed him before she'd begun her work, like the early victims. Inexplicably, she hadn't forced the old man suffer. She'd granted him this much, then, somehow. For some impossible reason, she had given Mulder this much. There was a breath across Mulder's neck. He blinked at the paper in his hand, waiting. Somewhere above the ceiling, there was a mechanical shudder, a hum: the air conditioner changing its cycle. The breath continued across his shoulders, cooler now. Simply air. Mulder returned the paperwork to the folder, careful to maintain order, closed the file. He waited several seconds -- how could he be sweating in a room this cold? -- and pulled the drawer slowly open. It was Lenny all right. Odd, Mulder realized, how he could distinguish Sauceda's form even beneath the anonymity of a sheet: the lump of shoulders, the barrel of the chest and abdomen.... A corner of the sheet fluttered gently in the down draft. A pause, and Aretha resumed her warbling, forever vibrant and eager while Leonardo Sauceda lay quietly on a slab like those he had so often stood above in life. Lenny lingering among the dead with whom he'd had such a passing acquaintance-- *Hey, kid.* A shiver jolted through Mulder's body, grabbing his shoulders before tumbling down, quickly down the height, disappearing into the floor, electric, alive, a bolt to wake the dead. Sauceda's voice, however, was only memory and longing, the goose bumps across Mulder's arms simply a response to the blowing of the air vent above. He rubbed a still trembling hand across his eyes, unable for a moment to accept the truth: there were no ghosts here. Amazingly enough, after so many months, no spirit stood at his elbow. There was no private communication, no request. None that Mulder could perceive, anyway. Nothing beyond the sense that something *should* be here, that someone watched. The tingling in his gut made it difficult to decide whether he was disappointed or grateful. Best not to think about it. What did it change? Frantic feet ran past the closed door, shoes pounding. They didn't slow, fading past without breaking rhythm. They were looking for him, surely. What other emergency could there be in a morgue, save searching the halls for runaway patients? *You shouldn't do Purdue like this, kid. He'll kick your ass.* More memory, but Mulder shrugged anyway. *Maybe I deserve it.* *'Course you deserve it, kiddo. But that's beside the point.* Mulder didn't have an argument for that, and this internal dialogue was just a little frightening. He focused deliberately on the wall beyond him, its detail lost in shadow, stainless-steel plumbing glinting here and there, reflecting more indicator lights. He did not notice, eyes unseeing although squinted, the mind focusing on interior landscapes. He waited, soul tense. And still no one came. No familiar touch upon his shoulder, no desperate sigh upon his forearm. Mulder's mouth worked in concentration, wondering who could have negotiated this sudden truce, convincing the dead to leave him in peace-- *Lenny?* There was no response. Sauceda's body waited patiently, admitting nothing, denying less. Mulder blinked down upon the sheet, awaiting permission, at least, a "no" that would not come. He released the gurney, placed one hand to either side of Sauceda's head and carefully, slowly, folded the sheet back, still waiting for that "no." Sauceda's face was surprisingly calm, reassuring so. Except that the skin lay too loose across his cheeks, a harsh gray re-tinting the once rich brown complexion. The razor burn had cleared considerably, no longer its angry red, simple bumps across the line of the jaw. The brow was smooth, the lips parted only slightly as if in deep sleep-- Mulder let the sheet fall, fingers too numb to feel the cloth any longer. It folded gently down across the body mid- torso. He willed himself to look down, to focus: Lenny's chest had been sewn shut, a great jagged V-shaped slit that began at the nipples and disappeared, bled white, under the sheet across the pathologist's abdomen. Sisyphus' calling card, her great "V" of victory and vengeance. Other incisions had been sealed as well, wounds of autopsy only slightly more professional than Sisyphus' blade, necessary to provide access to the chest. Such terrible damage... Still, the body is a crime scene unto itself, an expert witness, and Lenny would have been the first to insist on telling his tale. The stapling looked hastily done, though, so unlike Sauceda's own usual methodical work. Dark curling hair sought to hide the sacrilege, ashamed. Sauceda's shoulders were slumped, so vulnerable, but they shouldered nothing now. Mulder felt the weight of thousands across his own neck and shoulders. He could not raise his head, he realized, although the sight of Lenny only made the pressure worse. He shifted beneath the load, widening the distance of his feet, locking his knees. He would not falter here, would not faint and shame himself in this man's presence. Sauceda deserved better. His partner, his sometimes-unwilling friend, deserved the dignity that life had seemed so reluctant to give him. The compassion that Mulder had been too selfish to afford.... Goddam. Sauceda offered no rebuke, though. Eyes patiently closed. Mouth open in its sleepy half-smile. Mulder gripped the edge of the drawer, fingernails of one hand scraping metal, fingertips twisting cotton sheeting with the other. He felt the words before he spoke them. Felt them gather in his chest with a fury that frightened him. He tried to choke them back. What did words matter now? Too little. Far too late. Impossible that Lenny should hear him-- The plea would not obey, however, swelling, swirling, pushing its way into and through his throat, bursting forth in a painful gasp. "I'm sorry, Len." The sentence echoed back at him in the stillness. Just words, with no one to hear. But the constriction in his chest eased with their escape, the trembling of his body subsided. The pressure across his shoulders remained, steadying him, a harsh but welcome arm across his upper back. And he knew. The apology-- beyond all reason-- had been accepted. XXXXXXX Purdue was waiting for him when he stepped into the hall. The ASAC did not move, his back against the wall, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles. Silent. Staring down the hall. Mulder allowed the door to close quietly and set his back against it, palms flat against the metal, waiting. He glanced down the corridor, following Purdue's gaze. Nothing but the closed doors of an elevator, and, next to it, an abandoned cart of towels. Mulder kept very still, focused on the cart. He asked quietly, "So, who called Imelda?" "Me." The response was only slightly more than a grunt. Mulder frowned and glanced back at the ASAC. His palms were sweating, sticking to the door. He didn't move them. "Should have been me," he said. "It was me." Purdue turned his head to look at him, but he didn't change position otherwise. He had managed to shave and probably shower. The suit, at least, was relatively unwrinkled. There was a dark bruise rimming his right eye. Mulder vaguely recalled his fist connecting with bone just about there.... It felt like a lifetime ago. Mulder bounced his shoulders against the door once. Twice. Glanced back up the hall. "How is she?" Purdue's foot shuffled, stilled. "She asked about you. Wanted to know if you were okay." How could mere words inflict so much physical pain...? Mulder lowered his head, eyes burning, focused tightly on the cart of towels. "Wasn't my question," he noted. "Yeah, well. It's all the answer I've got." Purdue shifted away from the wall, one step closer to the profiler. But no closer. Mulder watched this movement as it was reflected in the polished surface of the elevator doors. Purdue stared down at his own shoes. "It's all the answer *she's* got right now," he admitted, regretful, respectful. "She's quite a lady, isn't she?" Mulder shook his head. It wasn't a comment. He simply knew no suitable response. "I, ahm," Purdue sighed, glanced up, gulping air, and tried again. "I heard from Fredricksburg this morning." Mulder blinked steadily at the elevator. Purdue had found Mulder's reflection there, too, and was watching carefully. "They found their killer," he continued. "Shot him as he fled." "Yeah?" "Yeah." Purdue squinted across the distance. "Happened about the time you got to bed last night." *About the time someone tried crawling across the bed looking for you--* Purdue didn't speak the words but they hung thick in the air along with the faxed photograph he didn't mention: the latest victim. The earnest face of the child Purdue had seen reflected in Mulder's eyes. "Anything you wanna tell me, Agent Mulder?" Mulder bit his lip, released it. Shrugged. "You look like shit?" Purdue's mouth opened and he dropped his arms to his sides, both movements very deliberate and controlled. Mulder squeezed his eyes shut. He was too tired for this argument. He'd surrendered too much already, dammit, and the room had started up a kind of slow, hazy rolling motion-- He opened his eyes just as Purdue grabbed him by both arms. His head bounced back against the door and Purdue held him there, pain and surprise preventing any real resistance. "Hey!" "Hey?" Purdue's grip was vice-like, his face pinched and unyielding. "Hey?" he repeated viciously. "Hey, you know what I've finally decided, Mulder? I've decided that I'd have to be crazy to put up with your crap for the rest of my life." He shoved Mulder tighter against the door, and Mulder gasped with pain, bowing his head against the nausea welling up from his thighs and digging through his gut. His moan escaped through clenched teeth, involuntary. Only then did Purdue seem to realize what he had done. He released Mulder abruptly, eyes widened with horror at his own violence. He breathed through his mouth, watching Mulder recover, lips working silently, trying to place the exact moment when he'd lost his mind. Mulder managed not to double over, rubbing his left arm unconsciously, working at the fingerprints Purdue had left beneath his sleeve. He managed to control his gasps, keeping Purdue in focus peripherally, wary, offering nothing. He had nothing left. Purdue stepped back, the fingertips of his right hand pressing lightly against Mulder's chest as he distanced himself. Mulder allowed it. His ribs were screaming, his right leg spasming ominously. The pain allowed him to focus, though, and he searched the ASAC's face. Purdue removed his hand after a moment's hesitation, and stepped back another yard, like he didn't trust himself anymore. "There." Purdue's tone was very quiet. "See what I mean? I'm certifiable already." His voice wavered. "You're conscious less than an hour and I'm ready for a stint the nut ward." He flapped his arms helplessly. It might have been an apology, but he didn't seem to be able to find the words for it. He frowned as Mulder shook his head. "What?" Purdue asked bitterly, shamed. "You don't think I'm nuts? You don't--" "I don't know, Reg," Mulder admitted. He held Purdue's gaze lightly, sighed around the rib scraping his left lung. "I don't profile my friends." Purdue froze. It seemed to take him a long moment to resume breathing himself. "Uh huh," he said. He tilted his head warily, blinking. "Scared to, huh?" Mulder grinned despite the pain. A chuckle started somewhere low and converted instantly into a fit of coughing that finally doubled him over. He moaned, gasping air. Lacerating pain gripped him from head to ankles, radiating from his ribs, down his legs, and up his spine into his brain. He felt the world going black, darker than his tightly clenched eyelids. He fought it, gripping his knees. The darkness retreated and the coughing subsided with effort. He finally became aware that Purdue was bent over beside him, rubbing his back in great arching motions. Mulder's first impulse was to push him away, but he remained as he was, unwilling to antagonize his body further. Purdue's hand stilled finally, and moved to his arm, a steadying pressure only, unwilling to intrude. "You okay?" Purdue asked, and Mulder nodded carefully. Purdue didn't argue, but he didn't sound convinced, either. "Let's get you back to your room, son. I think I saw a wheelchair up--" "No!" Mulder wrapped his arm across his chest and forced himself to straighten. "No, I can walk. I'll... I can do it." He didn't look Purdue in the eye but Purdue respected the effort. "Okay, so you walk. But when I get you back to your room, I'm going to get that half-wit doctor of yours to order up something to knock you on your ass. You need to get some rest. The nurse said you had some more tests in the morning, Doctor--" he tapped Mulder's stolen ID badge and squinted at the text-- "Doctor Devananda. Good likeness, by the way. Does you justice." Mulder made a bitter face. "What tests?" "I dunno what tests. Hell, Mulder, it's a hospital. They do that sort of thing, you know?" Mulder nodded without actually agreement. He kept his shoulder against the door and took a cautious step, pausing to adjust to new sources of pain. Purdue slipped an arm across his back and waited with him. Mulder hesitated and raised his arm to lay over the ASAC's shoulder. Purdue flinched at the movement, recalling past assaults, but he didn't release Mulder. Mulder settled his arm, biting his lip to keep from blushing. "Don't get fresh," he advised. His focus was on the floor, though, gauging distance and fortitude. Purdue grunted. "Don't flatter yourself. You couldn't handle it." "Really?" Mulder tried to sound intrigued. Five safe steps down the hall bolstered his confidence, and he asked with feigned maliciousness. "So, what happened to your eye?" Purdue bent his head to judge the expression on his face. "I cut myself shaving," he assured. He grinned. "Hell, you should see the other guy." XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX END