From: sonny Date: Sun, 26 Sep 99 17:40:14 +1000 Subject: xfc: NEW Mind Games 1; The Profiler 1 of 9 Source: xfc From: sonny Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 1 of 9 Author/Feedback: YES please! Feedback is what feeds writers, without it, we shrivel and die. spider@webspin.org. This is a completed work. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm Category:S, X, MSR, M/angst, S/angst. Skinner...not telling Archiving:Just let me know! Spoilers: General knowledge up to Unnatural, concept rooted in Grotesque but also using something revealed in Biogenesis. Disclaimers: All the bits that they want belong to CC, Fox, DD, GA, MP, et al. All that they don't are mine Rating: WARNING: NC17 for sexual situations, language and VERY disturbing, graphic pedophile violence (taken from real cases, see references at the end). It is not gratuitous, it is contextual, but nevertheless you will find it disturbing; as well you should. I cannot stress this too much. A character takes apparently very dark twists, but hang in there....all will be revealed. Synopsis: A horrific series of child molestations and murders has escalated. The director himself, under political pressure from the Justice Department has no choice but to assign the FBI's best profiler to the case, despite a promise he made ten years previously...But this series of killings has no resemblance to anything anyone in the FBI, including the X-files' Fox Mulder, has ever encountered before. Author's notes: See the end. Thanks: Laurie (Shannara), Daniel, Judie, Meghan and Sandra, for beta reading, and forcing me to re-think again and again and again... Any shortcomings are mine alone. One day David Duchovny, supposedly indifferent to M&S romance, gave us a believable combination of motive and opportunity for the furtherance of the M&S relationship with the final scene in The Unnatural...This world kicks off a couple of hours after that... ********************* This section rated R for disturbing graphic concept ********************* PROLOGUE Day 1 - Saturday Central Hotel - Seattle 7:30 pm >From the journal of Crystal Palmer. It's been so long now that I've almost forgotten what it was like before they came. I hate it more with each passing day. I used to think they were cold, emotionless, but now I know it covers a bleakness of spirit. They walk in here, tall and black. They must all shop at the same store, even the women generally wear black. So formal, like a barricade against the rest of the world. Like undertakers. Before the others came there were only those from the Seattle office who came in for a drink or a meal. They seemed okay, except Forenzzi. None of them ever seriously propositioned me up or talk down to me except for him. A couple of the new ones have asked me out for a drink, but they're never pushy, I'll give them that. And never ever sexist remarks or a slap on the butt, except of course for Forenzzi. In some ways, they remind me of Mormons, too. Always with the short hair, black pants and white shirt, neat tie, polite and softly spoken. It took me a long time to notice the bulge under their arms, or on their hips. We've had cops in here, too, so that didn't bother me. But I never really saw these local agents like cops. The most they ever seemed to talk about was fraud and white collar crime, nothing like this. After the kids were killed and the local P.D. couldn't get any leads, they called in some sort of FBI expert. Then others trickled in, but a trickle turned to a flood when out of state kids were found dead in Seattle. And it made me sick, for they brought with them a darkness. It's awful about the kids, but I think you can - and need to - put it out of your mind. You can't dwell on it all the time, walking around, thinking about the horror. But these people here mean you can't turn it off. There's so much other ugliness on the television, on the news, it angers me, but you can choose to turn it off, or not watch and go back to just living. But with these people, they're here every day and it keeps reminding you. Every minute of every day it hits you fair square in the face. There are monsters out there, living amongst us. Monsters that tear children apart and hang them up on people's clothes and power lines in little pieces, like bloodied sheets out to dry. And it just never goes away. I hate it. I hate that they remind me we are powerless to prevent the monsters. Just look at them, they're no closer to finding out who's doing this than they were a year ago. Dad lives in fear. It's silly, really. No one's going to hurt Jace when the place is crammed full of these guys, these black carrion birds hovering over their awful photos and bits of bloodied clothing. Oh yeah, I know all right. I was cleaning one of the rooms when the new ones arrived, about eight months back. The place smelled of sweat and something else, something I couldn't understand until later. And then I saw the photos on the wall. I couldn't fathom them out at first, so I took a closer look. At first they looked like mannequin parts hanging on a line, like all the arms and legs had been pulled out of a doll. Then it hit me. It was a child. I threw up in the damned toilet. Had a few nightmares over that one, but I would have gotten over it except for them. They kept reminding me. I told them I wouldn't clean the rooms with that stuff hanging around, so they ended up taking over most of the ground floor. Brought their own cleaners in, but after a while the cleaners refused to go in there. I had to start cleaning before the roaches took over. At first it was like I'd hold my breath, but now I'm okay. Then I worried that I'd become accustomed to it. Couldn't win on that one. I talked to one of the agents and he was the one who came up with the breath-holding analogy. Not really, of course, figuratively, just building a wall between it and your emotions. It seems to have worked. I've come to accept it since then, just avoid looking at the pictures and evidence bags. And over the last six months or so I've been helping out, here and there. They're all supposed to be top notch, these feds, but sometimes they can be pretty dumb. Hate to think how many times I've gotten them out of a jam with their software, or jiggled the plugs on their computers, or God save 'em, downloaded stuff. Oh sure, they have technicians across the road, but sometimes it'll take them a day or longer just to come across and tell them all they had to do was check their plugs and re-boot. Crazy. I can't sit back and say nothing. Now, they tend to come and ask me first. I don't mind, especially if it gets them out of here faster. I realize this sounds pretty mixed up, that I could hate them and want to help them. It's just that I want them gone, I want my life back on an even keel...okay, so it wasn't so even to start with but, shit, I hate how I feel at the moment. *************** End prologue Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 2 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated PG ********************* CHAPTER 1 Day 1 - Saturday Washington D.C. 11:15 pm Mulder sat back into the folds of the sofa and lifted his bare feet onto the scattered files across the coffee table. He mindlessly rubbed his stomach in satisfaction. "What was the name of that place?" "Rube's," replied Scully. "It's just around the corner." "S'good...wonder if they'd deliver to Alexandria?" Scully grinned as she handed him his coffee. "Sure, Mulder, for an extra twenty bucks." "Mm, in that case I think I'll just come here more often." Scully raised her eyebrow and in a voice tinged with sarcasm replied "Make yourself at home." "Don't I always?" He sat forward and accepted the cup with a quirky grin. It was too hot to drink, so he placed it on the table beside his feet, pushing a file to one side to make room. He closed his eyes and stretched his arms out and above his head before leaning back contentedly in the sofa. Scully sat beside him. Her hands, cold from rinsing their plates, wrapped themselves around the mug. She copied her partner's languorous position and lifted her feet to rest beside his on the table. "So, Mulder, you're trying to tell me that all the great baseball players were aliens. That's an interesting variation on the Bewitched theory." Mulder half lifted one eyelid, dropped and turned his head in mute query. "You never saw the TV program, Bewitched, where all the great ballplayers turned out to be warlocks?" "Scully, you amaze me, you actually watched that show?" "Well, no, but Melissa watched the re-runs. What else did Arthur Dales' brother have to say?...No, no, no...I take that back." Scully shook her head and closed her eyes wondering why on earth she was encouraging him. "Mulder, I don't want to know. Really. I just...don't you ever, just once, just for the hell of it, want to live a normal life?" He rolled his head back and closing his eye replied "We tried that, Scully. It was normal, all right -- my lovely wife Laura came out of the bathroom looking like the Creature from the Black Lagoon and made me sleep on the goddamned couch." Scully suppressed a smile at the memory. "Normal life, Mulder, not suburbia." "I'm sitting in my partner's apartment with my feet up, coffee in hand, good meal, warm fire, pleasant company, all of which followed a coupla hours hitting a baseball. What's abnormal about that?" He heard her quiet sigh and grinned in victory, a little surprised, but more than gratified to feel her warm presence. Scully normally sat in the armchair, or on the floor while they worked, ate, or discussed the finer details of some case. Tonight, however was different. Tonight he had unabashedly romanced her. Oh, it was not overt, nothing they couldn't walk away from with just a smile, a pleasant memory and an affirmation of friendship. That she invited him for a takeout dinner was a natural extension of the evening. The partnership had been more than a little strained since the Consortium members were killed. He'd worked hard, in his own peculiar way, to restore the easy camaraderie they once held. Tonight had been the culmination of that. And instinct told him, perhaps something more. He swallowed a little nervously, feeling somewhat like a kid on his first date. Did he want to do this, to risk so much? But where was the risk, really? Just an overture that could easily be interpreted as a tender moment between friends, nothing more. Nothing more. Shit, who was he fooling? They'd played around this for months, ever since that fucking little bee. The horrific consequences brought home what a mistake that might have been. Like so many nights since, it would have been for the wrong reasons. But it would have been just a kiss. Yeah, right. Would six years in the making have allowed him to leave it at that? Who the hell was he kidding? Since then, the moments that might have presented themselves were somehow wrong, off kilter for one or both of them. At least he could no longer castigate himself for cowardliness, he *had* told her he loved her. He could remain comfortable in this warm, deep and loving friendship forever. Why risk all for mere lust? Scully said "You're right, Mulder. It was a good night, I enjoyed it and I'm going to say thank you, now, because tomorrow my arms will curse you." "You just need more practice, Scully." "What are you suggesting, Mulder? That we make it a regular...event?" She'd almost said date, but caught herself in time. "Can't afford it, Scully, not at ten bucks an hour to shag balls!" "Cheapskate, it was only two hours." "Yeah but if we make it weekly, that's twenty bucks a week, eighty a month, over a thousand a..." "Okay, okay, okay... I could solo next time. You pitch and give the kid, and your wallet, a break." Mulder opened his eyes and reached for his coffee. "I'm not sure you're ready for that, Scully." "Oh?" Her eyebrow arched again. "Nope," Mulder sipped from his mug then put it back on the table. He leaned back and placing one arm across the couch behind her, turned slightly to face his partner. Scully felt a sudden rush of nervousness. His warmth and closeness were considerably less noticeable than the hours spent batting. But that situation had been entirely different. His proximity then was in the guise of coaching. Now however, it was in the privacy of her apartment, accompanied by a warm fire and delicious meal. Not a drop of alcohol had been consumed, but Scully felt heady from the evening's sensory experiences. Having a man hold her so closely, in an intimate embrace far more deliberate and provocative than any dance, was unsettling, despite its supposed platonic nature. After Jack, Scully had imposed on herself an unshakeable rule about interoffice relationships. And she'd wrapped that rule around her heart and hormones like a defensive wall after she'd taken one look at her new partner all those years ago. Her mind flicked back to that fateful meeting in Blevins' office. She'd immediately sought out the basement to meet the famous Spooky Mulder. Years of sublimating her emotions, of working twice as hard as her male counterparts to cut through the inherent chauvinism of her chosen profession, had finally paid off. She descended the stairs with ego riding high. Her superiors recognized her professionalism and meticulous skills. She, Dana Scully, had been assigned to pull the FBI's legendary black sheep back into the fold. It would be a pushover. Spooky might have a doctorate in psychology from one of the finest institutions in the world, but he now practiced pseudoscience at best. Her *real* science would walk all over him. Error number one. Dazzled by self congratulations, Scully hadn't thought to check Mulder's file before meeting him. From all she'd heard at Quantico and from reading his Monty Props monograph, Scully expected a nerdy, self-centered, pasty- faced slob. Not that FBI agents were slobs -- quite the contrary. But the profilers she'd seen emerging from the bomb shelter at Quantico were so invested in their work, personal appearances fell by the wayside. And Mulder, ranked the penultimate profiler, must surely be the worst. Scully envisaged a cheap crumpled suit, with dandruff, bad posture, possibly a slight paunch from inactivity, and bad breath. Error number two. Big time. She clearly recalled her first thought as he turned his youthful face up and held out his hand. It went something like, *Oh shit, he's drop dead gorgeous.* The only sign of nerdishness were the glasses, but the lucky bastard was one of those exceptional people whose spectacles somehow conspired with an overly large nose to make him even sexier. It didn't help that expensive clothes hung off his sleek, graceful body as if they'd been tailor- made. Nor did it help that he carried the subtle smell of an equally expensive, very masculine cologne. Scully retained a fixed smile on her face, all the while cursing herself for not being prepared. Attack, of course, was the best defense. When it was clear he'd made the effort to research her background, she immediately fell back on her intellectual achievements, figuring he would not have the scientific background to understand her dissertation. Error number fucking three. She'd ridden through that first meeting the same way she'd ridden through most of her career, by slamming walls around her heart and emotions and super-gluing the surface with a professional facade. Oh, it slipped a bit during their first case... well, slipped a hell of a lot with her dropping her robe in his darkened room. But she recovered it and kept a damned tight hold of it ever since. Mostly. The passing years failed to immunize her against his physical beauty or quirky charm, so the walls had to be regularly replastered with unique Scully tools -- raised eyebrows, pursed lips and, *You don't seriously expect me to believes*. Yet through it all, she found herself adopting his habits of invading personal space, of taking comfort in his familiar, masculine smell, the feel of his hand on her back and regular, small doses of touching. Whenever it looked like getting too close, she double checked the defensive walls, bolted the door and withdrew with crossed arms. Seven years later on a baseball field, as Mulder enveloped her small body with his beautiful, strong maleness and made whimsical observations an inch from her ear, Scully found herself as entranced as that first day in the basement. And cushioning that powerful attraction lay seven extraordinary years of life, of respect and yes, love. Each pull back of the bat and sweeping, powerful stroke forward reminded her of the grace and strength in his streamlined body, of his familiar, slightly-sweaty masculine smell, of his rich voice, of how easily he could control her. Of how easy it had been for her to give up control. Of how much she enjoyed giving up control. To him. The walls were looking decidedly battered, the locks and hinges disappearing with a hundred baseballs amongst the stars. "No, Scully, I'm not so sure you should go solo just yet." He leaned back and closed his eyes again. "Scared I might hit you in the head with a ball?" "No...no, it's just that you need to flow into it a bit more. You're still a little stiff, you need to feel what my body does, then go with it." Scully almost choked on her coffee. Oh she'd felt what his body did all right. No doubt he was peripherally aware of it too, so he'd kept his hips back, but occasional contact was unavoidable. She'd dismissed it as a natural, biological afterthought due to their proximity. It certainly wasn't the first time she'd noticed one of his erections. The way they lived, it was unavoidable. He was a healthy male, after all, and gentleman that he was, took pains to hide them. Tonight was different only in that he had been holding her. Still, for all the potential suggestiveness, it was vague, a shadow feeling only, exactly like his verbal double entendres. Tired of being alone -- and drunk on the emotional warmth of the night -- her subconscious flirted, "Oh it felt pretty stiff to me." Mulder's eyes shot open and his jaw slackened. "The bat Mulder, talkin' about the bat." Scully hid her grin in her mug, shocked at her own riposte. But she also delighted in his bland, panicked look. For years she'd ignored his insinuations; it felt damned good getting in one herself. Flabbergasted was not a word Mulder previously considered attributable to him. Still, he prided himself on a quick recovery. Turning to watch her face he asked "So...you don't think you need coaching, like that, anymore?" "I wouldn't say that." The familiar rules had been bent. How far could he go before Dana backed away and Scully came out to pitch, sending him home before he'd reached first base? "I suppose it depends on whether you liked it or not." He replied, waiting for the retreat. Scully turned her face to his and replied in low pitch, "I liked it." Could she really be flirting as dangerously with the subtext as him? But Scully didn't flirt, that was the rule. His partner never allowed the conversation to continue with implied double meanings... Mulder found himself unable to resist reaching across and tucking a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. Nothing unplatonic about that, he'd done it before. It crossed his mind that he might soon be wearing the contents of the mug she held in her lap and suddenly, the easy way out seemed preferable. Sexual rejection he could handle, but not a personal rebuff. Go home, he thought, pull out a video and relax. Desire warred with the fear of losing her. This could be no one night stand, nor a short fling. This was far more complicated. His hand strayed from her hair and cupped her cheek. He'd done that before, too. That was okay...No, no it wasn't. His nostrils dilated and breathing quickened while his eyes darkened to an emerald green, leaving hers only long enough to watch her lips part in silent acceptance of the anticipated kiss. Scully felt her heartbeat race as she watched his face descend. She had not planned this, had not really believed it would happen after almost seven years of determined masonry around her heart. As his lips grazed hers in chaste overture, she felt every one of those years as arousal suddenly explode through her body, knocking the last vestiges of the walls asunder. He pulled back waiting for her to turn her head away and ascribe the kiss to a gesture of friendship, of, 'Goodnight Mulder it's time you left.' But where his fingers cupped the edge of her jaw, he felt her racing pulse. Her breath was already coming in short pants and her cheeks began to flush. Her eyes remained fixed on his lips and her tongue flickered out to taste where he had been. Good God, she wanted this as much as he did! Delighted and instantly aroused, he lowered his lips to fulfill a promise made in his hallway months before. ******************************* Chapter 1 continued in part 3 Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 3 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated PG ********************* CHAPTER 1 (con't) Day 1 - Saturday Washington D.C. 11:40 pm A loud knocking on the apartment door startled them both. Adrenaline rushed through Scully. She felt suddenly embarrassed, as if her father had caught her necking on the couch. Throwing her head back she closed her eyes for a moment to recover. Mulder pulled away and rolled his eyes in frustration. Shit! "Expecting someone?" He asked as Scully sat forward and stood. His partner shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. She deposited her cup on the table and moved to the door. Mulder's incipient erection vanished in anticipation of trouble. He fervently wished he'd brought his weapon. Eyeing Scully's gun on the dining table, he strode across and snatched it up, grumbling about bees and fucking persons from Porlock. Scully peered through the peephole in her door. "It's Skinner!" Surprise mixed with confusion in the lilt of her voice. Mulder nodded but with gun in hand moved to the shadows by the wall. Maybe it was Skinner, but then again... Anyone coming into the room would not immediately notice him. Scully opened the door, "Good evening, sir." "Agent Scully, my apologies for coming by unannounced." "Come in." Scully motioned for Skinner to enter. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything..." A.D. Skinner's eyes automatically cornered the apartment until they arrested on Mulder. "No sir," replied Scully "Agent Mulder and I were just going over a few files." Scully gestured for their boss to sit. Mulder replaced the gun in its holster on the table and returned to the living room. "Agent Mulder." Skinner nodded in recognition of the younger man's precaution. It paid for these two to be careful. "Would you like some coffee, sir? It's just brewed." Skinner's detective eyes took in the scene, automatically cataloguing the visible evidence of half filled coffee mugs and scattered files. How many of his other agents spent Saturday nights going over case files? He sighed, contemplating their almost pathological work ethic and wishing that just once, they'd take time out to go see a game, or a movie or something. He subconsciously took for granted that whatever they did, it would be together. Skinner shook his head and sighed heavily, not wanting to do this, but having no choice. "No thanks, I won't stay long. I'll get right to the point. No doubt you are aware of the Seattle Line killings?" Scully froze and out of the corner of his eye, Skinner saw Mulder's eyes close in resignation. Even buried in the basement, in their own unique world of horrors, they could not have missed what had become the FBI's worst nightmare. Skinner clenched his fists, hating himself, his job and the fucking animal that created this situation. The only saving grace was that he was able do this person and not by phone, as urgency had dictated. He continued, "I've just come from dinner at Rube's with the director and attorney general." That explained why Skinner dropped by instead of calling, Scully thought. "I tried calling you," Skinner glanced at Mulder "But there was no answer." Mulder shrugged, he was not obliged to carry his cell phone when off duty, that's what voice mail was for. Knowing what was next though, he started to feel nauseous. Ten years. Ten fucking years...and it had finally caught up with him. Jesus he'd been a fool to think they would have left it alone. "I left it at home." "No need to apologize Agent, the bureau does not expect you to be on twenty-four hour call...until now." Scully raised her eyebrow, not seriously believing what instinct told her was coming. Her eyes glanced down to a thick, clear plastic case Skinner held in one hand. "Two more... bodies were found yesterday." "Shit, he's escalating fast now," Mulder interrupted. "Not necessarily. One of them was about a month old. Street kid found behind a deserted farm house." Skinner nodded. "But the press is having a field day over the lack of progress on this one. We've assigned more than a dozen agents from Washington, as well as the Seattle office and outlying field offices, making up a team that now exceeds twenty agents. That includes a full time profiler." Mulder looked up. FBI profilers rarely worked a single case. They were generally loaded with dozens of unsolved or difficult cases and backlogged for months, even years. Once a profile was written, it became part of a vast range of tools used to identify and capture a suspect. For a profiler to be assigned an ongoing single case was unusual. Except, of course, when it was him. But then that wasn't profiling it was... "...Who's now been returned to Quantico. The attorney general made it very clear to the director..." Mulder nodded stiffly and held up his hand. No need to make Skinner connect the dots. The services of Spooky Mulder had been demanded, regardless of the psychiatric notation in his jacket, the 'official' cover, regardless of the promise the director himself made a decade ago. It didn't matter what effect it had on him or God help them, anyone around him. He was one man, and it was one case, not a shit load. His sanity could be easily sacrificed to save who knew how many children? What did it matter? He had nothing else to lose... From what he understood, they had it all backwards anyway, which explained why they were no closer to finding the UNSUB -- unknown subject -- than when this particularly grisly campaign of terror began eighteen months previously. Fox Mulder's sanity was more than a fair trade. Pity, he'd gotten kinda fond of the woman that provided it. Mulder rolled his head back and breathed deeply. In the background he could hear Scully come to the same conclusion, although she had no idea of what that conclusion *really* involved, and tersely voice her arguments to Skinner. Snatches of conversation entered his peripheral hearing. As her arguments evolved into a tirade he wanted to hug her for her loyalty. She knew virtually nothing about his profiling years. He'd made damned certain that aspect of his life had been kept well and truly sealed. No doubt Skinner had been privy to parts of it, and a few in the BSU knew, but the others were dead. Or insane. Scully had seen a glimpse, enough to put the fear of God in her. As well it should. "Dammit sir, you know what this does to him. You *know* what the evaluation was after the Mostow case. Neither the FBI nor the Justice Department have the right to destroy a man in the pursuit of justice, no matter how righteous the cause!" "I'm sorry, Agent Scully, Mulder still works for the FBI and his expertise..." "Fuck expertise!" Scully spat out. Skinner almost gaped at her expletive. Scully defending Mulder was normal. Although it was unusual for her to argue to this length, Skinner realized he was the one on foreign ground. They were not in his office like wayward school children, he had come to them, their territory in their time. But that aside, for Scully to swear like that meant...Then it hit Skinner and he almost blinked in surprise. Had he interrupted something other than case files and coffee? Scully in pit bull mode was a force to be reckoned with, but Skinner had no choice. God, if this little firebrand in front of him had any real idea of what Fox Mulder might become, he wouldn't put it past her to go down to Rube's right then and shove a gun at the attorney general's head. "Agent Scully, " he snapped back, jamming his fists in his pocket in anger at the devil's advocate role thrust upon him, "You are way out of line. I'll take that statement as being off the record. You are in no position..." Scully opened her mouth to interrupt, but Skinner used the full force of his marine corps background to glare at his subordinate. Hardening his voice he continued, "You are in no position to pass comment, *Agent* Scully. Your expertise would be appreciated and you are requested to accompany Agent Mulder to Seattle..." "No," Mulder spoke for the first time. Both Scully and Skinner stared at him. "Scully, you don't need to be part of this." He dreaded going into the fray alone, but terror overwhelmed dread. Terror for what it would do to their partnership, their friendship and whatever small spark of something that might have been ignited that night. It would all be snuffed out if she tried to accompany him into the festering pit of madness he must become in order to find this killer. He almost laughed in self derision. Who the hell did he think he'd been fooling? He knew what he was, what evil waited to take over his body, and he had been fool enough to think he could maintain something resembling a normal relationship with a woman. With Scully. Christ how many times did he have to make *that* mistake before he got it through his stupid skull? Fuck, that had been close. He looked up at Skinner, wanting to thank the man for his timing. Ten seconds later...He turned to Scully, vestigially hoping she could be kept free of this. "You shouldn't be part of it. You can't be part of it." His voice dropped and cracked in desperation as he spoke to her. Please, God, he prayed to a deity he could never believe in, just let her be my partner, nothing more now, it could never be and he *knew* that and...oh fuck I will never again succumb to that hubris but please, dear God, let me come back to her just as a partner, nothing more, I promise, but please don't take that from me. The look in her eyes made him cringe. He could see the words as plainly as if they had been spoken, "Ditching me again, huh Mulder?" Ignoring Skinner, he reached for Scully and took her hand in his. "What you saw happen to me in the Mostow case was nothing, *nothing* compared to what this case might do. I have to draw the line again, Scully. You have *no* idea what I become during a case like this. And there is *nothing* you can do to stop or help me. You'll only get in the way and get yourself hurt, or inadvertently hurt me. I don't want you part of that, I don't want you to be subjected..." Scully ripped her hand from his, anger shredding the intimacy that had so recently filled the room. She lifted her eyebrow in controlled fury "Mulder, I am an FBI agent, not a child to be coddled. You are my partner, I am your partner. We look out for each other, for better or worse." Skinner almost looked away. Until tonight he occasionally wondered if these two young agents took the understandable solace of each other's beds. But for all their extraordinary... no, downright uncanny connection, he did not believe they were sexually involved. Theirs was an intimacy of spirit that surmounted any physical coupling. That they loved each other was beyond question. He ground his teeth in the bitter realization that might have changed if he had not come here tonight. Fuck, of all the lousy timing. Then again, knowing the contents of Mulder's sealed file, maybe it *was* for the best. He looked at the two younger agents in sympathy. Christ, they had taken on so much in their young lives. Taken on more than he'd ever dared and now he was about to ruthlessly employ their unique bond. The director had been clear. They no longer had Patterson to monitor Mulder. This way was better -- use Scully to ground him instead. Long enough, the director said, to solve this case. Just keep the boy from falling too deeply into his unique brand of insanity long enough to catch this killer. Mulder could be pensioned off, if necessary. The look on the director's face added the unspoken alternative...or, if he never returned from his unique hell, have him committed to a psychiatric hospital like Patterson. "Agent Scully," Skinner said, wanting to get this over with as fast as possible, "has been assigned to this case by the director himself. There's a flight out at midnight, Agents. Please be on it. There are zip disks in here, everything we have to date." He handed the heavy case to Mulder while Scully scowled, her arms crossed in frustrated anger. The only saving grace, as far as she was concerned, was that she would accompany Mulder. Of all the betrayals within the FBI, of all the times she had felt victimized by such men who walked those so called hallowed halls with impunity, this, she thought was the most devious and inhumane betrayal of all. They would use Mulder, squeezing every drop of sanity from him, then discard him when it was over. Her gut roiled and she was suddenly hit with a wave of nausea. This was how they would destroy him and the X-files, by righteously packaging it in the advancement of law and order. In the end, they would take the accolades of an adoring press and grateful public while Mulder was tossed aside as carelessly as one of his sunflower seed husks. Skinner was right. If she knew what really happened to Mulder on these cases, she might just have taken a gun to the attorney general's head. But recalling the sight of anguished parents on television and the gruesome crime scene photos, her anger deflated. One mother had suicided. She glanced up at Mulder. He was watching her with profound sadness and regret for what might have been, and she understood. He could no more turn his back on this than abandon his search for Samantha. This was what they did. This was why they joined the FBI -- to make a difference, to put animals like this down. Scully nodded almost imperceptibly to Skinner, accepting their fate. And it was *their* fate. She'd make damned certain Mulder came out of this intact, even if it meant following him to hell and dragging him back, kicking and screaming and cussing her as she spat in the eye of the devil himself. No, they would not get Mulder, she'd make that her personal campaign. Skinner nodded and left abruptly, suddenly in great need of a drink to wash the bitter taste of betrayal from his mouth. He wondered if the director felt the same need. Maybe they could get plastered together. Mulder bit his lower lip and sighed. Looking down, he scratched his head absently and said, "I better get going. I've got a feeling this is not going to go down fast. There's a lot about this case that doesn't add up." "You mean you've been following it?" Scully replied with a frown. "Sorta...There's a lot more in this than what I've seen." He gestured to the plastic folder. "By the time I get through it, something may come to light." He moved to go, collecting his jacket and keys from the table. Scully followed, standing close to him as he opened the door a few inches. He looked down at her scowling face and grinned. "Hey," he pulled her chin up to look at him. "Scully...look," she saw pain and regret cross his face. "What you saw in the Mostow case was, *nothing* like this...I...I *become* the killer...You can't, under any circumstances, interfere with that process or you destroy it. I must become that evil and no partnership will survive the things I...*appear* to do and say to you once I'm gone ..." Scully cut him off with her fingers to his lips, "You think that after all this time I'm going to leave you now? Mulder, I'm your *partner*." Mulder let out an anguished sigh. His eyes told her what his lips struggled to say. Scully's own mouth curled fractionally and the scowl left her face, marveling at how so much affection and love could be conveyed in his hazel eyes. Mulder leaned down, hesitant at first, then with more confidence to complete their aborted kiss. Things would go to hell in a handbasket over the next few days. He wanted to say goodbye -- and yes, it would be goodbye, to her with just one kiss. It would be their first, and last, but at least he would have that to carry into the long dark, as he stood by and watched the evil take his body and.... His lips touched hers, they shared a second of an intimacy long desired but never dared. But even that was not to be. The door moved slightly with the impact of a soft knock. Mulder instantly reached for his gun with his right hand as he jerked the door open with his left. He again cursed his absent weapon, but the thought ended abruptly when he realized Skinner had returned. The A.D. sighed deeply and pocketed his cell phone. "The director. He's decided to fly the latest victims to Quantico on a charter flight. Remains should be here by morning. Agent Scully, I want you to do the autopsies before flying to Seattle on Monday. Mulder, you better get moving, your flight's still on for tonight." "But, sir," Scully objected, seeing this as an all too convenient excuse for separating them. "No buts, Agent Scully, there's no question of you joining Mulder in the next day or two, but I want you to do these autopsies at Quantico. There are some issues regarding the Seattle morgue, and the lab work can be done here faster. I trust you might, just might, pick up something the Seattle M.E. overlooked. And flying the bodies to D.C. gives a certain impression to the media. The political pressure surrounding this case has reached boiling point." "So you need a PR exercise." Mulder was too emotionally exhausted to offer more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Yes Agent Mulder, but you of all people realize how we can also use the media to benefit this case when we get something more to go on." Mulder's posture conceded the point, pleased that Scully was forced to remain behind. With any luck, circumstances would conspire to keep her in D.C. He glanced at his partner, a regretful look in his eyes as he nodded goodnight. "I'll e-mail you the report." Scully said. Mulder nodded and turned to leave with Skinner. He wished he'd been able to get a good night's sleep before entering this case because sure as hell there would be little of that in the following weeks. He mentally sighed. It had crossed his mind not half hour before that he might not be getting much sleep that night anyway. Still, better that it had never happened. Despite wishful thinking that Scully would get stuck in D.C., he knew damned well they'd exploit her ability to ground him. That it would destroy their relationship was of no consequence in the face of the waiting evil. "Agent Mulder," Skinner spoke softly as they exited the building. Mulder stopped and turned to face his superior. Skinner was moving his jaw back and forth, clearly incensed with the unfolding events that had brought him there. "It's all right, sir, something like this was bound to happen one day. I'm honestly not concerned about coming out of it," he lied easily "That's never been an issue with me, although it seems to bother everyone else. But if you have any sway whatsoever, keep Scully in Washington. Use the PR angle to have future victims flown back here, continue to assign her the autopsies and lab work." Skinner shook his head abruptly. "The director himself ordered Agent Scully to accompany you. Mulder, I know, I *know* what your sealed file contains. I know the real reason they called you Spooky was not because of this ability to crawl through the minds of these animals... of non sequiturs, but because of... this..." Skinner rolled his eyes, unwilling to use the word but knowing there was no other "This damned... psychic ability of yours to link directly to the killer's actions, to mirror what he does. And that's why the director wants Scully there. To try and keep you sane long enough...fuck it!" Skinner turned abruptly from the younger agent. Mulder could actually hear the man gnashing his teeth and for a moment, sympathized with Skinner's position. "Sir, do you understand, really understand what the contents of that file on me means?" Skinner nodded glumly. "Then you know why Agent Scully should not be exposed to this. Look sir, she's going to hinder me at every turn. It's possible, just possible I can run a normal profile on this bastard without having to let it take control. But if that doesn't work...I have not...I'm not *there* anymore. I have *no* control over things once it begins and no one, absolutely no one can get in its way. Scully will never accept the truth. Even if...when I come back, when I come out of it, she'll be incapable of believing it, of resolving it in her mind. And you know, you damned well *know* what that will do to ourpartnership!" Mulder kept his voice low, but the bitternesson his face could not be denied. "Dammit, I'm tempted to tell you all to go shove it, make my cooperation on this conditional that Scully stays in D.C. Fuck it, why not? What choices do you have...my job? Okay you can shove your job and my damned badge up your..." But he stopped himself and wrapping his arms around his body, lowered his head and shook it from side to side, bitter tears lying unshed behind closed eyes. Skinner stood stony-faced. A part of him wanted to reach out and comfort the man before him in his arms, to hold him like a lost and frightened child. Instead he swallowed and said, "Y'know I'm surprised at you Mulder. I thought you trusted and respected your partner more than that. Of all the people I've ever known, she's probably the best equipped to handle this, both professionally and personally. She's tough, Mulder and she has more loyalty to you that your sorry ass deserves. Don't underestimate her." Mulder shook his head. Skinner didn't understand, how could he? How could he know what it was like to see the face of a woman after...He opened his eyes to blind himself to the memory. He had no choice, he could no more turn his back on this than if Samantha had called his name. And the director knew that, damn the man to hell. Shit, what did it matter, it was just his body after all. Just let it use him and he could reclaim it afterwards. Yeah, right. "Then sir, if you can't keep Scully away, at least arm her with what she needs, to protect herself." He didn't need to complete the sentence, "from me." Skinner stared at his subordinate "There was never any mention that you -- it -- might endanger those nearby. Are you concerned that might happen?" Mulder closed his eyes and sighed. Skinner couldn't understand, no-one could, not until they'd seen it for themselves. Shit *he* didn't undertand except that he had to watch the whole fucking process like some sick movie while *he* sat on the side lines and waited for it to be over. "If she doesn't know, she may try to intervene. If she does that, she may inadvertently get in the way and be hurt by it. Or it may incorporate her into what's happening." His face paled at the thought. Skinner stared at the younger man for a moment, realizing the implications. But there could be no ambiguity in this. Not this, not the seals on those files. "Agent Mulder, are you requesting your sealed files be made available to Agent Scully?" "If you don't, she'll have no idea how to deal with this. Jesus, sir, she's a doctor and the first thing she's gonna try is medication and I can't have that! It will just make things worse. She needs to know before it takes over, not after. She still won't believe it, of course, but, it should at least make her back off and keep out of the way." Skinner closed his eyes and nodded. "All right, Agent Mulder. I'll have the files available and at the first sign, I'll make sure Agent Scully sees them." No matter what he'd said, Skinner also feared this would destroy their partnership. And no small part of him loathed himself with what this might subject Scully to. Jesus Christ, she deserved better! Skinner had been frankly stunned when he learned the truth about Mulder. But he believed it, to the core of his soul he knew it was true. Christ it explained so much. And the director believed it too, for he had suffered a near death experience and recognised the nature of the unquantifiable. To cap it off, they had actual physical proof...although Scully would question proof of *what*? Like Skinner, the director would never look beyond his own brief paranormal experience, but Mulder... It was not Skinner alone who made decisions about the X- files. The director himself pulled many strings to have them opened, and reopened simply because of that file. General policy might treat the Spooky Division with contempt, and Mulder had deservedly been thrown into purgatory on occasion. But despite the roller coaster ride, the X-files were still operational and Mulder remained at the helm. Because the director himself believed. Because that smoking bastard knew. In fact it was why Mulder had never been terminated a dozen times by the old consortium. Because of this...psychic talent that tore him apart. Fucking cancer man had said it more than once. One day they would need this talent, need it badly. So they allowed him to live, allowed his indulgence. But none of them were as skeptical as Scully. Fuck, she would never believe. Skinner wondered if there would be anyone left on board when all this was over. Still, there was one chance. Mulder was also a paramount profiler. Maybe that would be sufficient, maybe he would not have to give up his soul, and body to the devil. Maybe. Mulder changed tacks, interrupting Skinner's thoughts "Sir, how will the current team feel about being me being assigned to the case at this late date?" "The director has spoken to ASAC Busche in Seattle. To be frank, right now the stagnation is so bad it stinks. There are going to be quite a few shakeups over the next week. I'm heading up the case myself once I clear things here, probably Tuesday. Make no mistake, Agent Mulder, the political pressure on this one is...extreme. The director has made it clear to Busche that you and your directives are to be acted upon. They're so desperate they'll listen to any theory, no matter how..." "Spooky?" Mulder smiled in self deprecation. Skinner looked at the younger man knowingly and added, "With little forensic evidence and the...obscene M.O. to go on, the profiles have been their only real tool. That gives your role absolute priority. You're being assigned two field agents to do the dog work, including day to day BS like expense accounts and formatting presentations and reports. If you have trouble, and I mean any trouble whatsoever with any agent respecting your authority on this matter, you are to report it to me immediately. If I am unavailable for any reason, you are to report to the director himself. I'm not having interoffice politics and petty rivalries running this show. At the same time, Mulder, that's not a carte blanche to tick off everyone. We've only got so many agents in the FBI... Now get moving, time's awasting." *************************** End Chapter 1 Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 4 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated PG few bad words, possibly R ********************* CHAPTER 2 Sunday - Day 2 Situation Room Central Hotel, Seattle 6:50 a.m. "You're putting me on! Spooky fucking Mulder, that sanctimonious son of a bitch? Your putting him in *control*??!! What have they got in D.C., shit for brains?" "Forenzzi, sit down before you have an aneurysm." Busche barely raised his voice to the agents around him, but this time he had to raise his voice to get the much bigger man's attention. "But you don't understand, that cowardly little faggot..." "Forenzzi, shut the fuck up! That's an order!" Busche finally shouted. Forenzzi's eye twitched uncontrollably. The tendons on his neck stood out and his hands clenched. Busche glared at him until he sat, then staring out at the other twenty or so agents in the room continued. "The director himself has come in on this one. As you are aware, the bottom-feeding press has gone to town over this, forcing the attorney general's hand. The long and short of it means an entire re- vamping of teams and procedures. An assistant director is coming in to take over, freeing me up to return to normal duties." The protests and sounds of shock from around the room pacified Busche's sorely bruised ego. He let the men and women under him continue for a few moments before resuming. "To be frank, I'm not sorry. This case is a bitch and the only way I can see any progress being made at this stage is to take a step back. That is *not* a reflection on the time and effort you people have put in. But political pressure requires something, anything to shake things up. For many of you, it means going home to families you haven't seen in weeks, sometimes months. "Look, I know how this makes you feel, it's the worst kind of crap for an agent to be ordered away from an ongoing case, but I want you all to know I've never worked with a finer bunch of people. You've put your hearts and souls into this and the director assured me no one in this room is being demoted in any way. Some of you will be effectively promoted while others, mainly in technical areas, will stay on. A.D. Skinner coming in frees me to get back to my job and means you can now report to someone who can concentrate on this case to the exclusion of everything else. All in all, I think it's a good thing." There was silence for a few minutes while the agents digested this. Few of them had been blind to its inevitability, but it still tasted like shit, no matter how it was fed to them. "So where does this guy Mulder fit in?" Wilson, a recently arrived agent asked. "Agent Fox Mulder was a top notch profiler in the BSU about ten years back. He left to work with the VCU then transferred to a specialty unit called the X-Files eight years ago. He still does consultant profiling and the director himself appointed Mulder to come in on this one." Busche glared at Forenzzi, defying him to interrupt. "I know a lot of you have heard he has a reputation for...unusual techniques, but the fact is, he gets results, fast." Forenzzi's face darkened as he held his temper in check. "I've never met the man personally but I believe he's a little...anti-social." Busche watched Forenzzi's mouth open and he added quickly "However, I don't give a fuck if the guy picks his nose at the dinner table or scratches his ass in front of the director, he's probably no worse than any other profiler once they get into a swing. Let's face it, all those Behavioral guys are a bit off, anyway, no offense, West." A female agent in the back continued to clean her nails without bothering to look up. She was accustomed to much worse. Busche continued, "For those of you staying, I suggest you keep out of his way and let him get on with it." Forenzzi clenched his jaw and said in controlled fury, "Sir, with all due respect I think it is unwise to allow Mulder on this case without forewarning the people who stay on." Busche sighed, "Agent Forenzzi, I will not have innuendo and gossip coloring anyone's attitude to an incoming agent." "With all due respect, sir, this is neither innuendo or gossip. It's a little known fact that Mulder has been allowed to remain in the FBI solely because of his...talents." Forenzzi all but spat the word out. "I'm not denying he gets results, sir. However, I've seen Mulder in the field and it would be criminally... irresponsible not to warn those around him of his...predilections." Busche wavered. He could not prevent the inevitable gossip. Despite it flying in the face of accepted protocol he tiredly resigned himself to allowing Forenzzi his piece. At least by giving him leave to speak now, in front of Busche, it might temper the man's statements. Busche himself had heard outrageous flights of fancy surrounding so called Spooky Mulder. He had only checked the rogue agent's file briefly and it seemed some of those fanciful stories were grounded in fact. Maybe Forenzzi had a point. Forewarning some of these greener agents might not be a bad thing. "All right, Forenzzi, spit it out, but stick to facts, not opinions." Forenzzi was no fool, he'd spent too many days in court not to have honed his testimony to a fine degree. Yes, sir just stick to the facts, totally unlike the psychobabble garbage that came out of the BSU. Before he could speak, West piped up, "With all due respect, sir, this is ethically questionable." But then kicked herself at the look on Forenzzi's face. He was a local agent and longstanding friend of Busche. Both of them were straight down the line thinkers who secretly believed women should remain barefoot and pregnant. Forenzzi replied "Well maybe you think so, Agent West, but I think him coming on this case is highly questionable and if you let me speak, you'll understand why. If that's acceptable to you *Agent* West?" Sally West returned to cleaning her nails. What the hell, let the moron say his piece. Forenzzi took a few deep breaths to relax and began, "Agent Fox Mulder has a degree in forensic psychology from Oxford. He's considered a genius, with scores right off some scales, I.Q. Sanford-Binnet, the whole lot. He graduated top of his class at Quantico and started off straight under Patterson in BSU, no time out in field offices, which is pretty damned weird in itself." The mention of Patterson raised a few eyebrows around the room. Most of them had heard of Spooky Mulder and some pretty wild, off the planet -- literally -- tales. Patterson, however, was a legend who'd ended up locked away with the criminally insane after murdering his own partner. Not a good thing. "He stayed with Patterson three years. I can't vouch for everything the old man did to him, but I saw enough. Patterson had him on a short leash, like a trained dog. "Now, we all know how profilers work. But Mulder was different. Patterson had him on the worst cases, but only the current ones, never old ones. He'd let him loose down the hole like a ferret. And Mulder came up with the rat, every single fucking time. The moment he poked his head out, they had him on drugs to chill him out and shoved him on a plane to the next ugly fuck. It wasn't pretty and I'm not denying Patterson used him, nor am I denying he was good. But it was weird, too fucking weird. Sent shivers down the spine of even hardened case workers. "Then one day I saw why. Patterson wasn't around and Mulder lost the plot entirely. Hared out and went completely psycho, acting out what the killer did right down to the finest detail, and I do mean finest detail. Patterson showed up and went apeshit at us and hussled us outa there till it was over. But we all knew, Mulder should have been retired on medical disability and locked away permanently, but we were told to shut up and say nothing. Next thing he's back on the job and leash in hand, Patterson personally starts dragging his ass to the next shit fight, with a psychiatrist in tow to keep Mulder in line. His own personal fucking shrink! And they still let him carry a gun! "Three years of this then one day, the psychiatrist gets killed and right out of the blue, Mulder tells Patterson to shove it and moves over to VCU. Without Patterson or his shrink, Mulder was just some creeped-out kid that shoulda been locked up. I felt kinda sorry for him at first but then he blew it and an agent ended up dead. The dead man was my brother in law, so I took more than a passing interest. "Okay, he was cleared of that but the guy's record since then speaks for itself. His current partner disappeared for three months after a hostage situation Mulder fucked up. According to him she was abducted by aliens. And that more or less set the stage thereafter that everything is a fucking alien conspiracy, that we're secretly being invaded by little green men and that the government is in on it. "He's had a gun at his partner's head at least three times, in fact she had to shoot him once when he lost it entirely. He's been committed at least once and spent more time in hospital than most of the guys in VCU put together, except maybe his partner. Okay, we all know the risks, but this is one boy it ain't healthy being around. He leaves a fucking comet-sized trail of dead or missing in his wake. He had a child killer removed from prison on his authority, *lost* him, then shot the bastard in the head while he held a kid at gunpoint. Mulder himself stabbed a kid through the heart with a fucking stake would you believe because, get this, he said the kid was a vampire. The family had the Agency up for over 400 million dollars. Somehow it was all hushed up and forgotten about. "He's been busted a dozen times for illegal entry to government agencies and...aw, shit, the list goes on. And let's not forget he worked on the case where Patterson tipped the scales and now spends his days making daisy chains. "Look, any one of these things could have got his ass busted, but he's protected, like a fucking rare species or something. That's all well and good, he's a commodity that might just be useful on this case, but he builds his profile on the dog work of others and creams the credit at the end. He puts the lives of those around him in danger and he's a faggot, possibly a p..." West's eyes narrowed further and she snapped "That's enough! Sir, this is completely out of line. If you guys had any idea of the shit-filled minds we have to crawl through, you might understand how discussing motivations makes us sound as sick as these fucks." "West, you're way wrong there. I know what you're talking about and I've seen what he does when he hares out, he gets off on..." "Agent," Busche warned, "West is right, we've got enough crap on our plates without the media going to town about that, too. I can live with the FBI's turning a blind eye. And until Congress pushes the issue as it has in the military, let's just shut the fuck up." West just gaped at Busche's ploy. She was so incensed she was literally struck dumb. Christ, she wondered, how many times has a judge had to direct a jury to disregard one of Busche's implied statements? "Sir, the bottom line is, this guy's a sicko fruitcake. He's protected because he's useful, but he's damned dangerous to be around. All I'm saying is that everyone here should be warned that he ignores procedure and protocol and no one right up to the director, does more than slap his wrist, no matter who ends up dead or in the psycho ward. I'm just saying, steer clear of him...and watch your backs." A couple of the agents snickered at the double meaning of Forenzzi's parting shot. Busche stared long and hard at Forenzzi then said, "So I take it you wish to be transferred off this case? Until now, you were to remain, but if you can't work with Mulder then let's get it clear now." Forenzzi clamped his jaw tight and realized he'd been suckered by Busche. What the hell was Busche's game? Shit. Fuck Mulder! Forenzzi figured for sure he'd be kept on to advise Skinner. Now he either had to suck it and wear it or ask for a transfer. And he knew what that meant on his jacket. Shit. No way was pretty boy going to do that to him. "No, sir, I can work with him. I have the advantage of knowing what he's like and when he's likely to go fruit loop. In fact I think someone should be assigned to keep an eye on him." "I agree." Forenzzi paled. Surely to God Busche wouldn't put *him* on fucking *babysitting* duty?! "Agent West will be staying on to assist Agent Mulder. Agent Smith has also been reassigned to...eh, act as a liaison. Between the two of you I'm sure you can keep his nose clean and his ass wiped. His flight's due to arrive in," Busche glanced at his watch, "an hour and a half. Better get a move on before morning rush hour traffic." West raised her eyebrows, pleasantly surprised, but Smith groaned. As they left the predawn meeting someone warned him to watch his butt. Agent Rob Smith groaned and rolled his eyes at West, wondering who they had ticked off to get this assignment. ******************* End Chapter 2 Title: MIND GAMES: Book 1:The Profiler 5 of 9 Disclaimers: See Part 1 Author/Feedback: YES please! spider@webspin.org. All parts can be found at www.webspin.org/xfic.htm ********************* This section rated PG ********************* CHAPTER 3 DAY 2 - Sunday Central Hotel, Seattle >From the journal of Crystal Palmer Something happened tonight. A new one walked in. Didn't notice him at first because his coat was beige. The place was crowded because it was Sunday night buffet special. Folks come from all over. Dad thinks it's because of the cheap, good food but I think a lot of them are law enforcement groupies. Sick bastards. I was fixing up some network problems this morning. God, I hate Microsoft, give me an Apple-based system any day. Anyway, I overheard them talking about a big shakeup. The press has been giving them plenty of lip and it seems D.C. is sending a crack profiler out. One of them was saying this new guy was some sort of FBI legend, but I also heard a lot of cussing that he had been in and out of the psycho ward a few times. I found that hard to believe. They wouldn't have someone with a history of mental illness packing heat. I'm not prejudiced about that sort of thing. People get sick in their minds and they get cured and that's no worse than being sick in your body. But the FBI, well they're not so politically correct. So I ignored it, but the other stuff sounded a little weird. I mean the only FBI legend I ever heard of was Hoover and look at him, a cross-dressing little Hitler. So no, I wasn't too keen on legends. I was on the cash register at dinner and didn't notice him at first because of the coat. Then I caught a glimpse of him negotiating his way through the crowd of regulars, cold- faced FBI and fat locals gawking or stuffing their faces with the eat all you can buffet. I hadn't realized it until then but most of the agents looked...jaded. Even the way they walked, their posture, or perhaps it was this crappy case, whatever, but they seemed dull. There were new arrivals today and they were like a breath of fresh air. Straight from D.C. Sharper dressers, just overall smoother. Then this new one... He moved with a predatory grace, like a sleek cat maneuvering through lesser mortals. He turned my way and I nearly dropped Sally West's account. Sally's an agent, too and she was nodding back in his direction, indicating his meal was on the running FBI tab. I caught that much, but I couldn't keep my eyes off him. When I finally looked away, I realized most of the women in the room had also noticed. To be honest, you'd have to be blind or lesbian not to. I figured him for an investigative reporter. I mean none of the agents are ugly but this guy walked straight out of Esquire, but I asked Sally and she nodded, he was an agent too. At first, I thought new agents coming in would be a good thing, but I don't know...there's something about this guy. I better clean out the upstairs rooms for these others. They'll be trickling in over the next few days. I hope this legend turns up and puts an end to this crap. ******************** Day 2 - Sunday Central Hotel - Seattle 8:53 p.m. To: D_Scully@fbi.gov From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov Sent: 2054 hrs local time So whatcha got for me G-woman? I called, but you weren't there and your cell phone is blitzy, probably this shitty weather. Jesus, it's cold here. Can you grab a couple of more sweaters and my black woollen overcoats for me? Bring your mittens and foot warmers. M. To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov From: D_Scully@fbi.gov Sent 2358 hrs local time I've attached a copy of the autopsy report. Mulder, I have not drawn this conclusion in my official summary, although the evidence is there. I realize this questions current thinking that only one killer is involved. But the angle of penetration varies in the entry wound of the thoracic cavity. I've examined these angles in half a dozen prior autopsy results and am working on the remainder, given the variation of height of the victims. I think you should also consider that the left hand was used in one case. There are also some other points not covered in prior autopsies that leave certain questions begging. Weather has closed off Dulles for the next twenty-four hours. I should have covered most of the other reports by the time I get a flight out of here, probably on the same plane as Skinner. I'm going to get some sleep. S. ************************ DAY 3 - Monday Central Hotel, Seattle >From the journal of Crystal Palmer Well, that settles it, he's the spooky legendary genius from D.C. Now I think about it, it's obvious. There's something hooded about him, dark, brooding. I don't know, almost haunted looking in eyes that bore right into your soul. Too old for a face like that. Far too old. I'd only seen him from a distance and he looked mid-twenties, but when he came over to check the breakfast buffet I realized he was older, thirty something. I was in all morning helping with their new equipment and one of them was talking about him. Stories that would make your hair stand on end. Seriously. It all started thirteen years or more back so he's at least mid-thirties, probably closer to forty. Many of the older guys here think he's full of it. Well, they said a great deal more and it was a lot less pleasant, but I think they kept their language down because of me. I'll give them that, they're always careful around me, when they notice me that is. Despite that look in his eyes, he smiles a lot more than the others, at least to me. More life, and he'd charm the spots off a leopard. He has old Dulcie around his finger. I saw her brushing off his beige coat this morning, trying to get it clean and I spotted her taking some jeans and black boxers out of the wash today. She's never done that for anyone else, generally leaves the laundry to Greco. I watched him today. His beauty is almost surrealistic. It's at complete odds with what he is and what he does. One of them explained to me that profilers get inside the heads of killers and predict what they do. They actually try to think like the killer, feel the hype and sexual lust that drives them, so they can predict what they might do next, what sort of car they might drive, even if they'd wet the bed as a kid. What kind of sick person would chose to do that? How can he smile at all? As I said, surreal. Then someone else told me he was gay. I was stunned, what a waste of something as beautiful as that. It hurt me, hearing that and looking at him. It just didn't seem fair and I found myself resenting him. I know why. I should be over it by now, but it just grabbed at me. *************************************************** DAY 4 - Tuesday He spoke to me this morning at breakfast. That's a relative term, of course. It's always breakfast around here. He'd been out running. It was 5:00 am in the goddammed morning and he had been running in the snow since 3:30 am. It wasn't the run, I ride most days even in this weather, but the early hour. Definitely one weird puppy. Why would God put such an odd person inside such an inhumanly beautiful face? But then he spoke. His voice was soft, like all of them, not too bass, lighter, like his body, a runner, a deer. Fox they called him. Mmm, he looked like a fox. I could see how he got that name, beautiful, sleek, agile. Even in sweats with mussed hair he looked like a model so I can see why they think he's gay. I have my own problems with that aspect. As politically incorrect as they may be, under the circumstances I think I'm entitled to my prejudices. But I'm aware of them, so I took pains to hide them. He told me to call him Mulder. Most of the others want you to call them Agent or Doctor but not this one, just plain Mulder. He was friendy enough, but then I realized the whole time he was looking at me and making polite chitchat, he was analyzing me, asking me questions like I was some sort of witness. Like I was a bug under a microscope. I could see him categorizing me and filing away the answers in his brain and I remembered he was supposed to get inside the heads of killers. Could he read minds? Could he read my mind? To think I've actually become accustomed to those photos and evidence bags. I really hate them being here. Now, with this guy I feel like a specimen that can be picked and prodded at, like my life is something this man might want to use to find something he needs. And damn him that he's gay and it brings all my own nightmares back to me. Carrion eaters. Shit. He shouldn't be allowed to look like that, it's ridiculous. ******************************************************** To: D_Scully@fbi.gov From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov sent 1330 Not a happy bunch of campers here Scully. They've given me a couple of keepers. You'd be proud of me, I waited 24 hours before ditching them. Interesting stuff on those autopsy results. I'm considering pornography connections since I had already come to the conclusion we're looking at multiple killers. I've felt evil before, Scully, but this is pervasive. Did you get my stuff? If not, I'll buy some, there's still a blizzard going on and I've already saturated two coats. God knows when you'll get a flight in. At least it seems to have slowed the killers. Scully, I think you should consider staying in Washington. Future victims can be flown out there, it makes for necessary PR and your reports have, as usual, been far more detailed than those to date. Future victims, Scully. I don't think I can get around that as much as it sickens me. It's been three days and I can't get a fix on this yet and it bothers me. I've run up stat profiles, but normally, I can start to feel something by now. Something's missing. M. To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov From: D_Scully@fbi.gov sent 1633 I'm right here, Mulder, don't disconnect. How can you expect to get around something when no one else has unearthed anything viable in over a year? And staying in Washington? Fat chance Mulder, once this crappy weather clears, I'm coming. I found some interesting underwear in one of your drawers. Mulder, you never cease to amaze me. S. To: D_Scully@fbi.gov From: F_Mulder@fbi.gov sent 1338 That underwear is Frohike's. I'm just keeping it safe for him. I asked for sweaters, what are you doing poking around in those drawers way back there? Damned babysitters are taking it in turns. I'm hiding out in the fucking kitchen with a laptop and phone cord. If you're determined to come, hurry up and get them off my ass. If I'm going to have a keeper, I'd prefer it to be you. Think I'll spend some time exploring the sites again. M. To: F_Mulder@fbi.gov From: D_Scully@fbi.gov sent 1645 Are you still online? The airport's just reopened so I'll catch the first flight. It's bound to go via the scenic route so I'll meet you at the hotel for breakfast. Better send someone to pick me up, your damned overcoats weigh a ton. Why do you have to be so big? S. **************************** End Chapter 3