NC-17 material.  If you are under the age of 18, go away.  If the
idea of bondage and discipline disturbs you, you might want to go
away.

Mistress 5/21
by Amperage


     "New lead."  Scully's voice was dry as Mulder entered the
office.
     "Good morning to you too."  Mulder said casually, putting down
his briefcase, taking off his trenchcoat.  "And yes, thank you, I
slept fine after I took some Advil."
     Fine?  He'd kept starting awake, dreaming that the killer was
in his apartment.  That Tanny was lying beside him in the bed,
gutted and cleaned and unmistakably dead.
     "A neighbor, a new neighbor, a Mrs. Geiger, saw a man
slipping out of the Tower residence around 11:30 the night of the
murder."
     Mulder frowned, shrugged.  "That's too early, isn't it?"
     "It's right above the high end of my estimate, yes.  But she
could be mistaken as to time."
     "How did she time it?"  Mulder asked, not even bothering to
try and grab the file away from his partner.  
     "Letterman was just coming on."
     Mulder gave her a stare.  Thank God for Television.  If a show
was just coming on or just going off you knew the time within a
minute or two.  
     Scully sighed.  
     "Anyway, our guy's too good to be seen by a neighbor.  I bet
Tower had a male lover."
     "The investigation team asked Tower's daughter that.  She was
rather indignant."
     Mulder grinned.  "I bet she was.  I bet she still denies that
her father used to play sexual games with a woman named Tanneka
Bonet too.  She's a devoted daughter.  Like you were."  Finally she
would let him have the folder.  "Ask someone else.  His wife, for
example.  In private."
     "What's that supposed to me?"  Scully's voice was sharp, even
as she let him have the folder.
     Ouch.  "You know what it means.  You were a daddy's girl." 
Mulder found his reading glasses in a pocket and put them on.  Then
threw them down.  He only had one working eye, after all. "Nothing
bad about it, unless you let it blind you to flaws in his nature.
. ."  He read through the report.  "Just some poor little fellow,
turning tricks with Tower. . ."  Mulder sighed.
     "You don't like him because he doesn't fit the profile." 
Scully's voice was teasing, but also a little hurt.  
     Mulder looked up.  "I'm sorry about that crack.  I didn't
mean. . ."
     "I know what you meant.  And I'm not really upset." Scully
replied.  "You look like hell.  How do you feel?"
     "I'll be okay once the swelling goes down."
     "It should start doing that today.  I'm surprised it didn't
happen last night."
     Yeah well, you run into a cabinet knob at 3 a.m. chasing
ghosts around your apartment while leveling your Sig-Sauer at
imaginary men and the swelling in your eye just doesn't go down as
fast.  Mulder shrugged.  
     "Do you think the. . .male prostitute. . .knew Tanneka Bonet?"
     Mulder shrugged again.  "I doubt it.  It doesn't feel like her
style."  He closed his good eye, thought a moment.  Remembered
Tanny dressed in a short black slip that barely covered her cunny,
with black stockings and black silk garters.  Dancing, her perfect
figure sinuous and erotic, voluptuous.  Laughing as her hair shone
and spun behind her, a perfect veil to break the honey bright
light. She glowed like the chimera of gold.
     "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure dome decree.
     Where Aelph the Sacred River ran in caverns measureless to
man." 
     Her voice had rolled across the searing, lovely words, 
     Oh, it hurt so much.

     
     A quiet day, intentionally so.  Doing reports, letting other
agents chase down their leads.  Sometimes, Scully forgot that she
was a G-12 and that Mulder was a G-14.  She forgot that if someone
just read their rank the automatic assumption would be that they
were both successes in their chosen field.  She forgot that on a
case outside the X-files there would be grunts to do the busy work.
     "Agent Mulder?"  The voice was young and nervous.  Scully
looked up from her comparison of autopsy reports. 
     "Hmm?"  Mulder pulled himself out of a file, peered around the
glass divider.  
     A page came into the office, laden with a bouquet of blood red
roses and shasta daisies.
     "This arrived for you."  The kid handed it off, happy to be
ridding himself of the load.  Looking around, getting a good eyeful
and the infamous den of the elusive Spooky Mulder.
     Mulder took the roses, face turning pale, watching the kid
leave.
     Okay, Scully blinked.  Nice bouquet.  
     "Who're they from?"  She asked, smiling.
     "Nobody.  There's no note."  Mulder said distractedly, setting
it down on a counter, one of his hands snaked out and stroked a
half-opened rose.  Stroked it as though it were a man's penis, as
though it would respond to his ministrations with pleasure.  His
eyes were distant.  Far distant.  
     Scully blinked, narrowed her eyes.  Listened to him breath.  
     Mulder closed his eyes, wrapped his free hand around his
chest.  His face was white.
     "Come on."  She took him by the elbows, pulled him away from
the counter.  Mulder did not resist. 
     "Come on.  You're hyperventilating.  Mulder.  Take deep
breaths.  Come on.  Take a deep breath and then let it out slowly."
     Mulder collapsed into a chair but did not listen to her.  His
breath came in puffs and spurts and he was trembling.  
     "You're going to faint if you don't stop that."  Scully made
her voice harsh and firm.  A doctor's condescending voice.  "Now
stop that and start breathing slowly."  She plucked his wrist
between fingers and took a pulse.  120.  "Come on.  You don't have
any choice.  Just calm down.  Calm down."  Soothing now. 
Placative.  "Mulder, I'm going to breathe with you.  You've got to
breathe with me."
     "I'm okay."  He forced trembling words into his mouth.  "I'm
okay.  I'm okay."
     "No.  You're not.  You're having problems.  It looks like an
anxiety attack.  Is that what it is or do I need to call an
ambulance?"
     Mulder gave a brief nod.  
     "Come on."  She took a cold, tense hand in hers, began rubbing
it, massaging the smoothness.  Oh fuck, Mulder.  Oh fuck, what's
happening to you?
     


     
     
     "I'd like him to be placed in mandatory counselling."  Scully
finished, staring not at Skinner but at the pen set on the front of
his desk.
     Skinner was simply staring at blank space, listening to her
rendition of the past 4 days. 
     "Is he able to do his work?"  He asked suddenly.
     "As far as I'm aware."  Scully replied.
     Skinner nodded.  "He cannot afford to screw this case up, you
know that?"
     Scully nodded.  "I think that's okay.  I don't think he's
having any problems there.  I think this is a personal problem
possibly associated with the stress of the holidays."
     Skinner sighed.  "How much assistance will mandatory therapy
be to Agent Mulder?"
     "I don't know."  Scully admitted.  "But he won't talk to me
and his behavior is beginning to frighten me."
     Skinner considered this.  "Agent Mulder may know the identity
of Tanneka Bonet's FBI client."  He said flatly.
     Scully blinked, surprised.
     "He came in here aching to tell me, but he didn't.  I wish I
knew who.  It isn't myself or the Director.  Other than that I have
no idea.  Every damn director in the FBI fits his profile to a T.
Hell, half the SACS and ASACs fit it too."  Skinner considered the
form lying on top of Mulder's personnel file.  Signed his name to
it. Scribbled something in sharp, angular print.       

     The roses and the daisies were gone.  Mulder remembered the
feel on his skin, remembered Tanny's rooms overflowing with roses
and daisies.  Blood red bright roses, symbols of her trade.  
     Tanny's bouquet.
     He knew Scully was up in Skinner's office. He knew Skinner was
signing the form she would have brought with her.  He knew he would
be forced in the next couple of days to go to a therapist.  
     He did not know what to say to a therapist.  
     He got his coat, scribbled a note to Scully.  Usually he
wouldn't have left the note, but now, right now, he knew she would
be on edge, worried about him.  She'd just gone to sign him up for
day camp at Club Psych after all.  
     He didn't know where he was going, what he was going to do. 
But he had to do something.  He could not stay here.  He could not
stand for her to come back from her little meeting with Skinner,
for her to come in and talk to him, to tell him in a soft, placid
little voice that he had to go into therapy because he needed some
help dealing with whatever-it-was.  That Skinner had already signed
the papers and she had a friend in psych services who'd agreed to
see him tomorrow morning, bright and early. . .
     He could not stand that at all.
     There was Tanny's house.  Tanny's quiet house populated with
silent, uncomfortable ghosts.  Tanny's house and his latex gloves
and touching the smooth, cool roundness of heavy globes, swirls and
patterns, globules of color trapped inside, suggesting beautiful
patterns.  Maker's marks trapped on the underside.  Some were very
old.  
     He was halfway out the building, walking fast, walking steady
when he heard her feet.
     Don't turn around.  Don't listen.  Ignore it.  Ignore her.
     Mulder thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trench
coat.  Burberry.  499.95, on sale.  Lined with thinsulate, then
with wool.  Treated on the outside to shed water.  Warm and light
and goodly scratchy.  
     "Mulder.  I'm going with you."  Her breathy, scratchy with
running.  Panting.  
     He did not slow his pace.  He did not stop.  He did not
acknowledge the figure puffing beside him.  
     At the car he stopped.
     Held out a hand.  Scully stared at him, puzzled.
     "I know Skinner signed."  Mulder said.
     "Is that what this is about?"  Scully asked, reaching into an
inside pocket the lined the outer pocket where she kept her gloves
and tissue.  A sheet of paper folded twice.  The carbon. Thin and
Yellow. The third carbon for the intended patient.  The original
went to records, first copy to the signer, second copy to psych
services.  Third copy to him.  Only Scully would have a copy too. 
Mulder didn't know where she would have gotten her copy.  Probably
a Xerox of Skinner's.  "I'm sorry I had to do that.  I told you
what I was going to do."
     "I know."  Mulder opened the sheet.  All very civil and
polite.  If he didn't show up for the session the next message
would be more bluntly phrased.  Right now they were all smiling and
asking "pretty please."  Dr. Rose Crane.  
     "She's not the one you used."  He said bluntly.
     Scully stared at him, silently asking how he knew she had used
a therapist.  Mulder stared back, blank faced.  
     "She's. . .<one Scully *did* use> knows her.   She's a
clinical psychologist.  She's very good."
     "She sees the crack-ups, the ones they want to give a waiver
to."
     Scully paused, closed her eyes.  "You don't know who she is."
     "I know the type."
     "Then you know why you're going to Crane and not someone
else."
     "Because it's not voluntary and I have a bad history with
staff shrinks?"
     "Yes."  No denying it.  "Mulder, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I had
to do this."
     "You're *not* sorry."  It was a snarl.  Mulder stared at her
coldly.  "You are *not* sorry."  He whirled, hating the sound of
his voice, clenching and unclenching his leather gloved fists. 
Staring across the parking garage at concrete walls.  At directions
telling government employees how to go up and down, how to get in
and out.  Where to go in case of fire or other emergency.  
     "Yes.  Yes, I am.  I didn't want to.  I honestly didn't want
to.  But you're falling apart in front of me.  And I can't let you
do that.  I can't."
     "Shut up!"  The words were out there, in the air between them
and Mulder did not know where they had come from.  He had no idea
who had yelled them.  Oh he knew, but he could not believe it. 
They were not his.  He would not claim them.  He turned to the door
handle, put a hand on the latch.
     "Where do you want to go?"  She asked.  Mulder stared at her,
saw that her face was sharp and white and that yes, this was
hurting her like fuck too.
     "I'm. . ."  He did not know where he was going.  "I'm going to
talk to Tower's widow."
     "Oh.  Why?"
     "Social call," Mulder replied, swallowing any trace of a
anger or fear.
     "Let me drive."
     "I'm not on any kind of restriction?"  He asked, glancing at
her.  
     Scully opened her mouth to answer and then saw Mulder's
questioning face.  His hand was off the Taurus latch.
     "No,"  she said quietly.  Sick to her stomach.  "No.  No
restrictions.  Just go see Dr. Crane tomorrow at 9 a.m. and do what
she tells you to."
     



     "You're the young man Michael hit," Mrs. Tower stared at his
face curiously.
     Mulder gave a half-smile.  As much of one as he could.  They
were sitting in the front parlor, staring at a roaring fire.  
     "How are you feeling?"
     "I'm fine," he lied facily.   
     "I'm sorry for Michael's actions.  It's just. . .it hit him so
hard, and then seeing all the police in here. . .people don't know
what it feels like. . ."
     Mulder bit his tongue.  Let the old biddy ramble on.  Of
course he knew what it felt like.  People don't think.  When a
tragedy happens it happens to you and to you only.  It wrapped
people up inside themselves and they forgot that the faceless men
with their badges were human.  That they had families who were not
exempt from tragedy.  That bad things happen to everyone.  It is,
for some reason, much easier, much more comforting, to believe that
you are the only one.  That no one else in the world has ever been
hurt like you are hurt.  That it has never happened before and will
never happen again.
     That it certainly didn't happen to the people you look at on
the street.  And most certainly to the police who were sent out to
the scene of a crime.
     But that was untrue.  Completely and unequivocally not true.
     He focused in on her words as the extended, self-pitying
apology wore to a close. 
     "I need to ask you some questions about your husband."  He
said in a soft, reassuring voice.
     "You're going to ask me if he visited the dominatrix, the
woman who was just killed?"
     Mulder did not deny it.
     "I used to think. . ."  She sighed.  "I knew he had affairs. 
He had a few.  I had a few."  She fixed her eyes first on Scully
then on Mulder, daring them to condemn her.
     "We. . .I still loved him.  He still loved me.  But it gets.
. .it's like it's a straight jacket, being perfect, being
everything they tell you to be.  It's. . .sometimes you just want
to scream and scream and scream.  I would go out and there would be
the current piece of manflesh, all muscles and good looks and
willing to have sex all night and I wasn't Mrs. Robert Tower.  I
wasn't the good mother and the good wife, the socialite's
socialite, good works with the Junior Leaguers. . ."  She sighed. 
"I was someone else."  
     She paused as a housekeeper came into the room laden with a
coffee service.  Mulder took a large, delicate, porcelain cup and
saucer.  
     "I suppose you're wondering why I'm telling you this.  I
suppose you're wondering what happened to the nice matron you saw
yesterday with her children."  Mrs. Tower sipped her coffee a
moment.  "But I know Robert saw Tanneka Bonet.  I didn't know her
name, but I knew he was seeing someone who left welts on his
bottom. . .I knew she existed, and it didn't bother me.  And I'm
tired of being the matron you saw yesterday."  Her eyes closed and
a few tears trickled down the sides of her face.  "I don't care if
it gets out.  I'm not staying here anymore.  My sister lives in
Palo Alto.  She wants me come out there.  We'll go shopping and
waste tons of money.  We'll travel.  With Robert we could only go
on the nice trips of Europe and the Orient.  We could only do what
people in our set do."  Her voice was bitter.  "I loved him so
much.  But I'm so tired.  I'm so tired."
     Mulder exchanged a glance with Scully.  But his heart ached to
talk to this woman truthfully, to tell her she was not alone.  That
he understood.  Everything.
     "There is the report of someone leaving your home around
11:30."  Scully began in soft, confidential tones.  "We asked your
daughter if . . ."
     "Kathy doesn't know anything about us.  To us we're her Momma
and her Dadda."  Mrs. Tower sighed.  "It was Luke."
     "Luke?"
     "This sweet young man.  Robert's play buddy.  They fucked each
other.  He came in to see me before he left.  He's a very sweet
young man.  Very cute."  Mrs. Tower waved it away.  "Katherine
thinks she was conceived by immaculate conception.  She can't even
imagine us having sex with each other, much less with people
outside the marriage bed."
     "Are you sure your husband was alive at 11:30?"
     "Quite sure.  I went across the hall and teased him about Luke
leaving so early."  Mrs. Tower sighed.  "The best thing about money
is that even when your own body sags, you can still afford to
stroke firm, hard flesh.  I would like for you to protect the truth
from my children, they're so innocent and arrogant.  But if it
comes down to their protection or putting away the killer, I want
you to know, that our sex secrets are unimportant."  Her voice was
steady and firm and granite.  "I don't care.  Just catch the
fucking killer and fry him."

NC-17, tres' disturbing stuff.  If you are underage, or don't want
to be disturbed, back out NOW.

Usual disclaimers.

Mistress 6/21
by Amperage


     "Agent Mulder."  Her grip was firm.  Bright violet eyes, tall
and thin.  She was not overly pretty, but neither was she ugly. 
Plain.  "Come on in.  Have a seat."
     A tiny little office.  Just enough room for her desk and for
two comfortable chairs.  Mulder sat, staring at the stacked
paperwork lining her desk.  
     "I understand you're a psychologist yourself."
     "Yes."  She was trying to be polite.
     A nod.  "And that this is mandated counselling, initiated by
your partner, Dr. Dana Scully."
     "Yes."
     "I've spoken with Dr. Scully and with Director Skinner.  They
both feel that you're going to be a difficult client."
     Mulder shrugged his shoulders. 
     Crane looked down at the sheaf of papers on her desk.  "Agent
Scully reports that you've had an anxiety attack or two. . .that
your behavior is erratic.  Depressed.  Is that correct?"
     Mulder swallowed.  Nodded.
     He could see some relief, some guarded relief in Crane's
posture.  He admitted to problems.  One thing she did not have to
fight.
     "But you refuse to talk about what's causing it.  It started
at Christmas.  Christmas Eve?"  She looked up, blinked.  Wanting
Mulder to confirm or deny.
     Mulder did neither.
     "Do you want to talk about what's going on?"  She asked simply 
     "No."
     "If I try to draw you out is this only going to turn into a
game playing session, with you proving that you're smarter and
better educated than I am?"
     Mulder swallowed.  Stared at her.  "Yes."  He admitted.  
     "I don't have time to waste.  I'm overworked and underpaid. 
There are a lot of people who want to talk to me, who need to talk
to me.  I don't have time for games."  Crane said, staring at him
levelly.  "I rearranged my schedule to see you."
     "I'm sorry.  I don't want to be here."
     "And yet.  Here you are." Crane sighed.  "You know I can't
talk about whatever you tell me."
     "I know."
     "But you won't talk about it?"
     Mulder swallowed.  Tell her.  Just tell her and get it out of
your way.  She can't talk.  She can't tell.
     She *can* however, recommend that you be taken off this case. 
That's what you'd do if you were in her shoes.  She can make you
take a leave of absence.  You know that's what she *should* do.  
     "I can't."  He whispered, slipping past one or two strands on
the shining web that surrounded him and held him.  A bug in a
spider's web, that's what he was.  In storage until the spider came
sliding down the wire, ready to suck the blood right out of him.
     Crane's posture softened.  "Is it something work related?"
     Mulder sighed, closed his eyes.  "Can't you just send me to a
psychiatrist, get me something, some drugs or something, to make it
through this case.  I don't care.  I honestly don't care."
     Crane swallowed, cold.  
     "What's happened?"  She asked softly.
     Mulder opened his eyes and threw the veil between them again.
Stared at her cocksure, arrogant.  A look he used to piss women
off, a look that said "I'm hotshit because I have a cock and you
don't."
     Crane did not blink.  Her expression did not change.  "Your
partner seems to think you're depressed.  Are you?"
     The word no was on his lips but he did not say it.  It was a
lie and Crane knew it was a lie, she just wanted to know if there
was any openness any receptiveness.  Mulder swallowed.  "Yes."  He
replied.  
     "How depressed?"
     "Just depressed."  Mulder shrugged.
     "A lot of people suffer from seasonal depression.  You've been
through a lot recently.  Your father died, you nearly died, your
partner's sister died.  There's good reason for you to. . ."
     "Shut up!"  The outburst was unexpected from both parties. 
"I'm okay.  It isn't that.  Stop thinking it's that.  It isn't
that!"  He was aware as he yelled it that he was not yelling so
much at Crane as he was at Scully.  Scully who was not in this
room, but whose influence had put him here.
     Crane was staring at him, vaguely stunned by his outburst. 
But not upset.  A great many outbursts had echoed off these papered
walls.  A great many FBI agents had yelled here.  And cried here.
     "And you won't talk about what it is?"  Crane asked, not
really expecting an answer.  
     Mulder swallowed. 
     "What are you so afraid of telling me?" Her voice was soft and
lulling and confidential.  
     He closed his eyes.  Felt his body trembling.  Oh God, he
could not cry here. 
     "I would really like to know what's going on."  More of the
softness.  
     


     He was drowsy, had taken a nap and now Tanny's hands, playing
with his cock and with his balls had brought him into some kind of
awareness.  He was not awake, not conscious, not in control.  But
he was in an odd way aware of the strong fingers along his growing
length of the pulling of his sac.  He knew her fingers were digging
into the fold along his bottom.  He knew that she was lying with
her head on his chest.  Her hair smelt sweet and her body was soft. 
He knew that, and he knew she was there.  No thoughts.  Tanny was
simply there, urging his body on in animal sensation.


     "Would you like some Kleenex?"  Crane's voice was gentle. 
Razor edged, deadly with softness.  
     Deep breath and hold it until you think you'll burst. Then let
it out slowly through your nose.  "No.  I'm okay."  Mulder pinched
his legs cruelly, letting the pain, the small bruises that would
bloom on the outside of his thigh, cauterize the pain inside him.
"I'm fine."  Pinch, pinch, pinch.  "Nothing's happened.  I'm fine."
     Crane was staring at him.  Bullshit.  Fucking bullshit. 
Something terrible has happened to you and I want to know what it
is.  I want to know, because you're acting really hurt right now.
     Mulder gave her his best arrogant, fuckyou look.  "How long do
I have to stay here?"  He asked.
     "Why?  So you can go to the bathroom and cry?"
     That was exactly why he wanted know.  Mulder was unaware how
like a 15 year old he looked as he rolled his eyes and manipulated
his face and body into an "oh puhleeeasse" look and posture.
     "We have about 4 more minutes.  I'm going to schedule 20
minute sessions twice a week."  Crane scribbled something on a
card.  "I've already given Agent Scully this."  She handed the card
to Mulder.  "The front is my business card.  The back has my
personal number.  Did you know I saw your file a little over a year
ago and again in May?"
     Mulder blinked.  "After Scully disappeared and then when I
attacked Skinner?"
     Crane nodded.  "Director Skinner had it handed to me for a
purview.  Your behavior wasn't any more. . .disturbing at those
junctures, I wouldn't say.  But we had reasons for those.  If this
is a reaction to some significant stressor, I can write up
something and you can just come in if you have significant problems
like more anxiety attacks."
     Mulder smiled.  Nice try, bitch.
     "Okay.  I believe the secretary set you up for Tuesday.  Now
you can go to the bathroom and bawl your eyes out."
     Bitch.

     

     He had been quiet all day, since coming in from his meeting
with Crane.  Quiet and working on things that had nothing to do
with what was increasingly being referred to as the "Dominatrix
Murders." 
     "Big plans for the weekend?"  Scully asked at 5:30, watching
as the modem uploaded her opinion on an autopsy report to a
Sheriff's department in Alabama.
     Mulder gave a half-smile, shrugged.  It was unlike him. "I'll
probably do some work up here on Saturday."  
     "You going out?"
     He shook his head.  No need to ask why.  She could see that he
simply didn't feel like it.  
     "You know that if you need me, you can call.  Anytime."
     "I'm not going to take a walk off my roof.  I promise." Mulder
replied, flashing what he could of a real smile.  
     "I know.  But you might get lonely."
     "I won't."
     A sigh.  Scully stared at him.  "Why don't you come over
tonight?  We'll order pizza."
     Mulder shook his head.  "Thanks.  I'd rather not."
     It was exasperating.  "I'm going to call around 8."
     She was treating him like he was fragile, like he needed
special handling.  Mulder knew he should be angry, but he couldn't
find the energy for anger.  It was as though the colors had run on
a painting and all that was left was a washed-out version of what
had been.  He just wanted to curl up somewhere and be alone.  Faded
and about as thick as a china cup.  He did not have the strength to
even be upset at Scully's overconcern.
     "Are you sure you don't want to come over?"
     "No thanks.  It's a nice offer though."  
     Scully sighed.  She'd hated his anger and his flare ups, but
anything seemed better than the dead way he'd moved all day, as
though going to see the therapist had drawn the life from him and
all that was left was an empty husk.  He was quiet and withdrawn
and she knew he'd cried twice during the day, just gone out and
come back with puffy red eyes.  It hurt to see Mulder like this and
to know that she wasn't trusted.

          
     "Who owns you?"  Tanny's whisper, warm and wet.
     "You. . .you do. . ."
     "And can I do whatever I want to you?"  It was a dangerous
purr.  
     He closed his eyes, looked at the floor.  "You're my
mistress."
     "Does the mistress always know what is best for her slave?"
     "Yes."  Hesitant.  Nervous.
     "Put this in your hands.  Remember that I am your mistress. 
Get on the bed and hold the rail."
     He felt the thrill of fear, listening to the soft rustled
behind his vision.  Fingers clenching and unclenching around the
bar.
     He arched his back as the strop fell across the rounded halves
of his bottom.  Arched his back and cried out, howling at the pain
that issued in electric currents.  He could not think of anything,
nothing.  No thoughts, no reasons, only the sharp, sharp biting,
charge of the strop as it fell.  He held the anal plug that she had
given him.  fingers squashing the deep red rubber that would soon
force its way into his anal passage.  The stropping stopped.  For
a moment, he could not understand that it had stopped.  His mind,
lodged into a place where the leather meeting flesh in a caliphony
of pain and desire could not touch him, refused to acknowledge. 
For a moment his mouth was still filled with the awful tang of
metal. 
     "Are you my Secret?"  There was a purr of love in the words.
     "Yesssss!"  He could not help but cry.  
     He felt Tanny's fingers draw his hands from round wooden
knewls, felt her hands push him down.  He fell onto a cushion of
pillows, penis pressing against embroidery and summer white drawn
irish lace.  Drawing into his mouth the odor of thick cotton sheets
dried in cracking summer light.  The anal plug taken from his hand
and the feel of cold lubricant against his rectum. 
     Visceral, preternatural, incorporeal, ecclesiastical pain. 
Pain without meaning or motion.  The round curve of a man's bottom. 
The vulnerable touch and crawl of his skin.  To be tortured without
cause.  Exposed.  Unprotected. Defenseless.  Without defenses or
recourse.  
     Quiet the feel and the plug stretching, straining.  Silent her
movements and the heat emanating from tortured flesh consumed his
thoughts.  In the half-darkness of a summer's evening she worked
without sound, punishing his body.  His mind delighted and revelled
in the agony.  His soul took consolation in the appeasement of
corporeal submission.  The pain mingled with the mouth of lustful
desire.  Secret.  Owned by Tanneka.  He was Secret.



     "Hi Mulder.  Just calling to see if you're all right.  I said
I'd call about now.  Call me back."  Scully's voice.  Careful and
precise and uneasy. 
     Mulder stared at the answering machine as the message was
created and the small wheels of the microcassette recorded her
concern.
     He thought about picking up the phone, shaping his hands
around the smooth black surface of cordless.  But he did not move. 
He did not move, fingers clutching a cheap pair of chopsticks,
fried rice clinging to tiny strands of loose wood.
     Mulder made no move, listening to the calm logic of one of the
sane.  His feet ached from the jog he had taken. The jog which had
pumped his adrenalin, which had taken away aches and given him
hunger where there had been none.  8 miles, then 10, finally 12 
The pit of despondency had lifted for a moment, even though the
smooth, razor core remained untouched.  Enough that he could eat. 
     The red light of the machine flashed once.  Blinked against
the smooth surface of open blind.  He wanted to roll against the
back of his couch and simply hold his body close, staring at
nothing. He had felt okay, not great, but okay until this moment,
until Scully's voice invaded the quiet cocoon.
     But the box of fried rice kept him sitting upright in the dark
shadows of night.  
     He could not put it down, his fingers, his hands, his arms
would not make the fluid motion and set the paper cup elsewhere. 
He could not make any move that might be calm.  Not without
breaking some ancient, inviolatile code a shaman from another age
was wiring through his body.  
     The square paper was warm and grease made soft what his hand
held.  Inside bits of pork and vegetable dotted the beige bits of
starch.
     Warm and the smell had been good, he had wanted this after his
jog.  The smell had made his stomach growl in desire.  The smell
would make him vomit if he held it any longer.
     
     The box hit a picture and fell from there.  When the small box
hit the floor it tumped to one side and rice spilled onto the
floor, a small bright flood.  Mulder thought about kicking the
coffee table away from him, thought about going into the bathroom
and finding his razor and tearing apart skin on his body, thought
about finding some visceral pain to calm the seething, raging,
shaking misery that had sprung up at the lucid sound of Scully's
voice.  He realized that the thought should frighten him.  But it
did not.  He could see the blood and his skin parting as the bright
red blood trickled from a spot of sharp, vibrant pain.  It would
drip warm then cold and he could release deep breaths in his body
and everything would be all right. He could call Scully and tell
her everything was all right.  He could call Scully and laugh at
her worry and her overprotective nature and when he went and saw
Dr. Rose Crane she would wonder that he had ever yelled at anyone.
That he had ever looked so unstable.    
     He found the strength somewhere, strength he hadn't quite
known was there, and curled his body around itself, hands tucked
deep into the center, pressed against his penis, which was just a
flaccid instrument for dispelling urine from his body, after all.
Curled his body deep and tried to breathe, to hold on.  To wait.


     "Hi."  Mulder's voice still slurry with stitches.  Scully took
a deep breath of relief.  
     "Where were you?  I called and. . ."
     "First I went jogging and then I got hung up at the Chinese
take-out. . .they had a new kid working there, he mixed up my
order.  And then I didn't check my machine."  Mulder's voice was
tolerant, bemused.
     "You got Chinese?"
     "Yeah.  General Tso's chicken."  
     "Which place?" 
     "Jesus Chinese."
     "Which tract did they give you?"
     "The one on fornication.  I always get that one.  I think
someone's tipped them off to my porn collection. . .why do I keep
going there?"
     "They're cheap and good and the owner always slips you extra
eggrolls because you work for the FBI."  Scully relaxed against her
couch.  "I'm going to come in tomorrow."
     "Why, because I am?"
     "Well, that and the fact that I'm behind on regular work
because of all the Tanny stuff."
     "As your supervisor and official boss I hereby give you an
extension on all of it."
     "Thanks, but you never have set a deadline in the 3 years
we've been working together."
     "Well. . ."  Mulder sighed patiently.  "There is that.  I
could start."
     "Oh right."  Scully chuckled.  "When you start filling out my
evaluation reports instead of chucking them over to me."
     "I delegate.  I don't need a handholder.  I'm fine."
     "No handholding. You get the full dinner or the half dinner?"
     "I paid for the half, but they gave me the full."
     "Bring the leftovers and I'll bring some guacamole and
chips."
     "Internationale."
     "Ole."
     "Listen, I've got *The Day the Earth Caught Fire* in my VCR.
Let me let you go."
     "All right.  See you tomorrow."
     Mulder hung up the phone and stared at the gash across his
bare thigh and shivered at the crossed line.  Felt fear in his
mouth.  Oh God, Tanny.  Oh God.

NC-17 Material.  Do not read if you are underage!

Usual disclaimers apply.




Mistress 7/21     
by Amperage

     "Agent Mulder?"  
     He blinked at the soft, husky voice.  It was nearly Tanny's
voice.
     "Yes?"
     "This is Marina Sullivan.  I'm Tan's cousin.  The police said
that I should call the FBI for information and the switchboard said
you were the only member of the taskforce working today."  
     "Oh.  Listen, Ms. Sullivan. . ."
     "Mrs."
     "Mrs. Sullivan, can I have your number and I'll call you
back to save on your long distance bill."  Mulder replied.
     "I don't think that's necessary."
     "Well, I'd really like to speak with you and. . ."
     "Are you suffering from a hangover?"
     "No ma'am."  His mouth hurt suddenly.  "I have stitches in my
mouth."
     "Oh.  Well it's not necessary.  I'm at the DC Hilton."

     
     "Don't take your coat off."  Mulder was drawing on his own
winter trench the moment Scully entered the room.  
     She frowned.  "What?"
     "Tanneka Bonet's cousin has arrived; she's at the Hilton."
     "And this is important to us?"
     "There are a lot of things I don't know about that woman.  If
the killer had a special attraction to Tanneka, I want to know
about her life."
     
     Blonde hair in a soft, gentle pile atop an aristocratic head. 
A perfect posture.  Long, thin fingers, shaped around a spoon.  In
his mind, Mulder could hear the soft dusky voice, urging him on,
forcing him to do, making him bear, tripping his secrets from him.
     
     "Mrs. Sullivan?"  
     The woman looked up.  Tanneka's body, Tanneka's face.  Tanneka
without benefit of makeup or her beautiful exotic clothes.  Tanneka
with wrinkles around her mouth and eyes that Tanneka never allowed
herself to get.  
     "Mrs. Sullivan, I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder and this is my
partner Dana Scully."  He opened his badge for her.  Keen eyes
inspected the stitches along his mouth as though searching for
trickery.  This was not Tanny.  This was not Tanny.  His breath was
hot in his nose.  
     "Please, have a seat."  A soft voice, not Tanny's.  Oh not
Tanny's, but something in the gentle inflection was something in
Tanny's velvet.
     Tanny.  This woman was not Tanny nor would she ever be.  But
she was alive and walking and breathing and Tanneka Bonet was dead
and always would be.
     Scully and the woman were exchanging pleasantries.  So sorry
about your loss, no that's all right, were you close. . .
     Were you close?
     Mrs. Sullivan stiffened at this question.  Mulder sniffed at
it, examined the nature and texture of her reticence.  
     "Were you?" He asked softly.
     "When we were children, yes.  We were."  Mrs. Sullivan
whispered.  "And then there were those long years when Tan was
gone. . .and then when. . .I guess she wanted to still be close,
but I couldn't. . .not with her living in sin and depravity like
that."
     "Gone?"  Mulder seized the words.  "Mrs. Sullivan, the FBI's
records are rather. . .sketchy.  Could you tell us about your
cousin?"
     The small blonde woman with Tanny's large full breasts, and
Tanny's doe soft mouth swallowed.  "I guess I figured you'd just
know."
     "No ma'am."
     "We allay's played together.  Our houses were across an alley
from each other."  A sigh.  "Tan's Momma died.  That was my momma's
sister.  Her daddy wasn't really a good Christian man.  He was. .
.mean.  He used to belt her for everything.  Anything.  When he was
gone or drunk, or asleep, she'd sneak over and Momma would put
salve on her and feed her."  Her eyes closed.  Her voice was dusky
and gentle, innocently sensuous.  Grief and remembrance gathering
in the dust.  "When Tan was 14, she disappeared.  Her dad, he said
that she was in boarding school.  But we knew better, because he
didn't have the money for no boarding school he could afford and
Tan wasn't a straight A student.  When her momma was alive she was.
. .I guess, her daddy was probably using her too."  She added as an
afterthought, glancing at Mulder and Scully, begging them not to
say it aloud, to leave it at that.  
     "Her father sexually abused her?"  Scully asked gently.
     "He raped her."  The voice was harsh and sharp and nasal. 
Tired.  She sounded so fucking tired.  "Over and over again. .
.you'd think with that in her past she'd hate sex.  You'd think
she. . ." a sigh.  
     "What had happened to Tanneka?"  Mulder asked softly.
     "He'd sold her.  To this rich old geezer.  Tanny told me that
she went to live in an estate.  As a slave.  But she was special. 
Tan told me that he didn't touch her for two years after she was
sold.  No one touched her.  She had a tutor and new clothes and her
only duties were to read to him and help her master in his garden. 
Then he asked if she was ready to be a good slave and she said
yes."  A swallow.  "There's more. . .I tried to talk to my pastor
once, but he didn't understand.  He was so. . .stupid about it.  I
used to think my pastor knew everything.  When I tried to talk to
him about Tan and he started calling her a fornicator and a devil
woman and how evil she was. . .I think he was trying to convince
himself she was evil.  Not me.  That's not what Tanny was. . .she
was living in sin and she was doing evil, but it wasn't like she
decided that was what she would do."
     "Her profession?"
     A nod, a soft sorrowful nod.  Mulder felt his mouth go dry,
staring at this woman, this woman who might have been his Tanny. 
He felt the urge to vomit and covered it, pinching his legs
underneath the table cloth. 
     "What happened after that?"  Scully.  Let Scully ask.
     "When she was 21, he let her go. . .she worked for a place for
a while.  She said she would go back to visit her old master
sometimes.  Stay for the weekend. . ."
     "Worked for a place?"  Scully questioned, frowning.
     "You know.   Like what she did.  But she did both things."
     "Sadism and Maschoism?"
     Mrs. Sullivan nodded. 
     "And after that?"
     "He died a year and a half later.  In a plane crash.  He left
her good money and a letter.  That's what Tan said.  Letter told
her who to call and she could be a dominatrix.  The highest paid
dominatrix in the city."
     "Do you know the name of. . .of her owner?"
     Mrs. Sullivan shook her head.  "Tan never said."
     Oh God.  The list.  Who to call.  Had *his* name been on that
list?  The list.  She'd had a list.  Mulder closed his eyes for a
moment, opened them.  Her eyes were wildcat green.  
     "She didn't contact me until Elise was born."
     "Elise?"  
     "My daughter.  Elise has Spina Bifida.  Tan called me then. .
.I was so unhappy to know what she. . .Tan sent money every month. 
Wired it to an account in Elise's name.  My husband didn't want to
take the money, because it's sinful money.  But we did.  Because it
was the only way we could get good treatment for Elise.  The state
gives her some, but not enough.  That's when she called.  She'd
been watching out for me.  But she hadn't ever called, because she
knew I was a good strong Christian woman, and she knew I would be
ashamed. . .I felt so sad when I heard that.  Every letter I sent
I tried to get her to turn from Evil and repent.  I know that she
didn't even read most of them. . ."  Tanny's eyes closed and tears
rolled down the careworn, lovely face.  "She was my cousin.  She
was my best friend.  I didn't care."  Soft sobs and tears.  Weeping
and a man's handkerchief from a tiny leather purse.
     Mulder swallowed, felt his own sympathy.  You couldn't ever do
that.  Let their world become your world.  
     But it was his world.  His legs stung with the weight of the
pinching.  Bruises.  There were already bruises enough.
     He hated himself and he hated this woman with her Tanny face
and her Tanny hair and her Tanny body.  Hated her for being strong
like Tanny.  For being gentle, like Tanny.  For telling him that
his Tanny was scarred, that his Tanny. . .he hadn't wanted to know
this.  Oh God, of all the things he hadn't wanted to know, to see
Tanny trapped under the weight of her father. . .

     His stomach and chest hurt.  Mulder blinked at the woman with
her blonde hair and her wildcat green eyes.  He blinked away the
image of a small frame home and a girl trapped inside.  He blinked
away the idea of Tanny's fragility and pain.  
     The woman with her delicate face, with her calm acceptance of
things too unbearable to name sat across from him.  She and Scully
were discussing names and birth certificates and people in Tanny's
life and clue and hints and bank account numbers.  
     Tanny's long fingers rested on the table.  Oh God, what part
of this woman was her father.  If Tanny was this woman's cousin,
they were only a quarter the same blood.  So why did this woman
have to fucking look so much like her cousin?  Where were all those
other genes?  Blonde hair was recessive, even if green eyes
weren't.  And as Mulder well knew, recalling the moist heat of warm
cunny burying his face alive, Tanneka Bonet's blonde hair was not
man made.  The breasts, the body, Mulder did not know what body
types were recessive and which were dominant.  Dominant? 
Everything about Tanneka Bonet had been dominant.  
     "He asked her if she wanted to be a good slave and she said
yes."

     He could not even whisper his apologies as he fled the table.





     "You okay?"  Scully stared at her partner on the ride home,
trying to analyze his tight, white face.  
     "I'm fine."  A fragile, careful voice. 
     "What happened back there?"
     Mulder swallowed, made no response.  
     "Do you think you might need to see a doctor?"
     "I am seeing a doctor.  Don't you remember?"  His voice was
angry and sarcastic.
     "A medical doctor.  A psychiatrist."
     "I'm okay.  You've already roped me into Crane.  Let her deal
with it."
     Scully closed her eyes.  "There are drugs that can help you
deal with these anxiety attacks."
     "I didn't have an anxiety attack."
     "I see."  Stop fucking lying to me.  "Do you want to call
Crane and ask about who you could go see or should I do it for
you?"
     The question was innocently framed and innocuous.  Will you
call her and talk while I'm hovering in the background or will I
have to call her?  No real choice involved.  Mulder pulled the
Taurus off the street and into an alleyway.  Shifted the car into
park.  "Fuck you.  Fuck you!  Stop controlling me.  Stop telling me
the fuck what to do.  I'm okay.  I'm okay.  I don't need fucking
nursemaids or therapists or shrinks prescribing drugs.  I don't
fucking need anything from anyone. You want me to talk and to tell
you everything and just fuck you!  Leave me the fuck alone, I'm not
your child, I'm not your fucking charge.  No one has fucking given
you any papers assigning you as my conservator."  He opened the
door, began sliding out.
     "Mulder, what the hell are you. . ."  Scully was stunned by
his outburst, but not so stunned that she just sat there.
     "You can take the fucking car back to the Bureau.  I'll walk."
     "We're in the worst part of D.C.  You can't. . ."
     "Why the fuck can't I?"  He snarled.  They stood over the car,
staring at one another across a glossy maroon surface.  "You
*don't* tell *me* what to do."
     Scully opened her mouth and closed it.  Right now, right at
this moment, what she had to do was to calm him down.  What she had
to do was to get him back into the car.  Everything after that she
could think of later.  It wasn't about her winning.  It wasn't
about who was right and who was wrong and whether or not Mulder was
willing to see a shrink.  It was about his behavior right this
instant.  The horrible rage and pain and the fact that she had to
get him in this fucking car.  And it didn't matter what she had to
say or had to do, because she could worry about that later. 
     "I won't."  She said quietly.
     Mulder wasn't listening.  He was walking down the length of
the car.
     "Mulder, please.  I won't talk about it again.  I won't."
     He wasn't listening to her.  Tears stood out on his eyes and
Scully got an awful feeling watching him that he was balancing on
some delicate tightrope and that if he could not keep balance
nothing was underneath to catch his fall.
     "Mulder.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I didn't. . .I shouldn't
have tried to control you."
     She dashed out before she could really think about it, and
came to stand in front of him.  "Mulder stop.  Please.  Stop. 
Please.  I'm sorry I treated you like a child.  I'm sorry.  Come
on. Please."
     His hands clenched and unclenched and she could see that his
entire body was stiff and his face was a snarl.  And suddenly she
felt fear.  Felt a cold, paralyzing terror settled into her bones
as if sent there with a thousand stabbing needles.  With the
realization that he was coming very close to simply tossing her
aside, that if he did that it would be because he simply had no
control.  That his control was so fine and thin that at this moment
she could not count on it.
     "Get.  Out.  Of.  My.  Way."  Each word distinct through
angry, clenched teeth.  Each word a separate growl.  
     She was about to step aside, frightened of the fury and the
misery twisting around him like a storm, when a voice at their
backs interrupted the drama.
     "May I help you?"
     Cotton Candy in Hell.  The voice was fresh apples and pumpkin
pie.  
     The shock made her shiver.  She didn't have to turn her head
to see the D.C. Policeman.  Two white people in expensive clothes
in a black district.  Arguing.  The man towered over the woman and
his fists were clenched.
     She watched Mulder swallow.  He was trying terribly hard now. 
Terribly hard.  He did not want. . .what didn't he want?  
     She turned, not frightened of his leaving.  The officer was
very young.  Tall, gawky.  She smiled.  "May I get my credentials?"

She asked, striving for a friendly tone.  It came out in a quaver.
     The officer eyed them both.  "You a cop?"  He asked her.
     "We're FBI agents."  The squawk sounded weak even to her own
ears.  She made a move to her trench pocket.  The patrolman nodded,
eyes on Mulder.
     She drew out her badge and opened it.  Put it to her face. 
The officer held out a hand and she gave him the leather folder. 
He read it carefully.  Glanced at the photo three times.  
     "You got one?"
     Mulder pulled a hand up to his pocket but his hand started
shaking.  Adrenalin.  How much fucking adrenalin was pumping
through his system?  He could not complete the action.
     Scully saw the warning signs.  Oh fuck.  Not here.  Not now. 
Oh fucking hell.  Don't lose it in front of the cop.  
     Mulder jerked his hand up again.  The badge came out.  It
trembled.  It wavered and he tossed it to the cop.
     His breath was fast and his skin was fast gaining the pallor
of a corpse.   
     The cop examined Mulder's badge.  
     "We were. . .having a difference of opinion."  There.  It was
almost normal.  Her stomach was in upheaval.  She was trembling and
she didn't know how much longer Mulder would be vertical.  But her
voice was perfect.  "You must have thought something. . .unusual.
. ."  She smiled.  Conscious of the fact that Mulder was going to
keel over any minute.
     The cop handed Mulder back his credentials.
     "Is anything wrong?"
     "We're on the serial killer task force. . .It can be. . .
stressful."  Scully shrugged.
     Mulder was breathing quietly through his mouth.  He didn't act
like this conversation had anything to do with him. He probably had
no idea what was going on.
     "Are you all right, ma'am?"
     "I'm fine. . .why would anything be wrong?"
     "I saw. . ."
     "You saw us having an argument."  Scully lowered her brows. 
"I can't argue with my partner, officer?"
     "I. . ."  The kid glanced at Mulder.  "He looks sick."
     "He is sick.  With the flu.  And he needs to be in bed.  Now. 
If you'll excuse us."  She did not wait for his dismissal to grab
Mulder by the elbow.
     
     
     She was taking occasional breaths through her mouth, trying to
think.    
     "I'm sorry."  His voice was soft.
     Scully took a glance at her partner, who was slumped in the
seat beside her.
     "Yeah.  Well."  Scully replied, curling and uncurling her
fingers around the steering wheel.  
     "I'll go to your psychiatrist." It was a mewling, defeated
voice.  Like a kitten that knows it is going to die.  
     The words "I think you need to take a leave of absence" were
in her mouth, wanting to come out.  Hard to push into her vocal
cords.  Wanting to come out, but they were dragged back from sound
by the weight and the fear in her stomach.  "I think. . ." She
paused.  Wimp.  Wimp.  Wussy.  "I think. . .I think that's a good
idea.  I can call Crane for you."
     "I'll do it."  He wrapped his hands around his chest.  
     There was not much else to say.
NC-17, do not read if underage.

Usual Disclaimers.

Mistress    8/21
by Amperage  




     "Agent Scully?"  It was a soft, pleasant voice.  
     "Yes?"
     "This is Dr. Crane.  Mulder called.  He said it would be all
right for me to call you."
     "Oh.  Dr. Crane.  How did he sound?"
     "Very sad."  The voice was practiced and even.  "He said that
you wanted him to see a psychiatrist.  Can you tell me a little
more about why?"
     Scully swallowed.  Explained his behavior.  She did not mean
to, she had no intentions of doing so, but she found herself de-
emphasizing the most erratic, most frightening aspects of Mulder's
behavior.  She found herself leaving out the incident with the cop.

". . .it's just those anxiety attacks. . ." She summed up.  Oh God,
it wasn't just anxiety attacks.  ". . .if he had something to calm
him down.  I think he'd be able to function to par. . .I mean, he's
still doing okay.  But, Mulder pushes himself and he's not able to
do that. . .he just needs a little help."  She had made it sound as
though he were having a few problems.  As though he had not nearly
lost it and struck out.
     Would he have hit her?
     If he had hit her, what would she have done?
     If he had hit her, what would he have done to himself?
     How close to the edge had they come?

     Crane's voice was relieved.  "I kind of figured. . .he
thought. . .your partner felt sure that you thought he was losing
it. . .he's got such an extensive psych record for an agent of his
standing that he must sometimes wonder about his stability.  I'll
get a psychiatrist.  We'll get him on some drugs to help him
through this."
     "Good."  Scully closed her eyes.  Mulder had been honest and
she had. . .minimalized.  He had been worried that if he did not
level, that Scully would and it would be much worse.  But she had
covered and now. . now Crane believed he was much better than he
was.  Crane probably thought that Scully herself was
overexagerating, not underreporting.
     Oh fucking hell.
     
     
     His bathroom floor would have to be cleaned.  Mulder closed
his eyes, putting his head against the cold toilet lid.  He'd cut
himself and called Crane and then come back and cut himself again
and the long parallel cuts along his hip, hidden where even his
swimsuit would not reveal them, were deep.  He knew that this
behavior was self-destructive.  He knew that with the blood he felt
trickling down onto his legs, onto his cock and balls, into the
fold of his bottom, with that blood he had crossed lines.  Lines
that he should not have crossed.  
     Scully.  He'd been ready to hit her.  He could see the blood
on her nose if he had.  He could see the way her body would have
landed against the side of a brick building.  He could see her
stumble.  He could see bright red blood.  Scully's blood.  Oh God,
he'd almost hit Scully.  
     Of all people.  Scully.  
     And he couldn't blame this one on drugs or aliens or anything
except his own fragile temper.  He told Crane about his behavior. 
Every detail of his behavior except for the cop, and he didn't know
why he hadn't told her about the cop.  But he hadn't.  She'd been
very calming.  He suspected that she hadn't believed him.  When she
asked to talk to Scully he knew she didn't.
     He wondered when she would call back and tell him that she was
filling out paper work for a psychiatric waiver.  A leave of
absence and his insurance could pay for a hospital.  They could do
a short term psych disability for him.
     Meanwhile the blood spilled onto a towel.  He felt better
seeing the blood.  His own castigation for behavior this afternoon.

     It was not that he felt *good* when it was over.  It was
simply that he could not stand himself if he didn't.


     

     
     "Agent Mulder?"  The voice was strong, measured, precise.  
     "Yes."  He rolled over in the futon, felt his hip stick to the
sheets.
     "This is Agent Dunne.  There's been another murder."




     There was crime tape everywhere.  And a woman screaming. 
Mulder swallowed, reflexively.  There were FBI agents everywhere. 
Of course.  You send out the forces when it's one of your own.  
     He finished pulling on his latex gloves, strode up to the
hedges.  He hadn't needed to show his badge to the cop.  The cop
had an agent by his side, pointing out the family from the
outsiders.
     Through the open door of a tall two story Colonial.  A
hallway.  There was the source of the screams, right there in a
room to his right.  Sitting on formal furniture, knees politely
together.  Her church dress was bunched.  Stained.  Someone else
sat beside her still in a heavy cashmere coat.  Holding the widow
who was sobbing.  Who had two griefs.
     The stairs were beside him and he went up, stopping at a toy
filled landing.  Big Bird and the Pink Ranger were askant in a
corner like dust.  
     You could smell it in here.  Smell blood and death and
     "Agent Mulder."  King was pale.  Mulder nodded.  Swallowed. 
     "Director Martin is in his study." 
     "Has Agent Scully. . ."
     "She's in with him."  Not she's in with the body.  She's in
with him.  
     "Was he a friend?"  Mulder asked.
     King nodded.  "We went back, oh God, 12 years.  We were both
in Los Angeles for years.  Your profile was dead on."
     Mulder swallowed.  Nodded.  I bullshitted that profile.  That
profile was bullshit.  He may fit the fucking profile.  But he's
not. . .
     Was he?  Mulder wondered.  A director would have the money. 
A director would know. . .enough to recommend. . .
     "Hey."  Scully almost smiled.  
     "Hi."  Mulder stared around him at the small room.  An agent
came to him.  
     "I have to check credentials."
     So there was sensitive material in this room. Mulder opened
his badge.  Found out that G-14 was quite high enough to be allowed
access.  But he was one of the few.
     Blood and the smell of blood.  It overwhelmed the air.
     The body.  The organs and the smell.
     He'd had a cinnamon colored carpet.  
     Cinnamon didn't show the blood as much.  A dark, generic stain
mostly.  If you looked closely it was rusty burgundy.  But mostly
it was just a dark stain.  Spreading and crusting on the carpet.
     Scully was discussing the temperature of the body from the
thermometer.  Scully was feeling the fingers and the buttocks for
blood.  Scully's hands were coated in drying blood and she did not
even notice as she made her clinical notations.
     He wanted to leave this room.  This room was Martin's room. 
This room had all the information he would need.  He just had to
find it.
     King was still in the hall.  Mulder could look through an open
door and see a child's room.  Bright.  And posters lining the
walls.  "Do I have clearance to go through everything in the desk?"
     King swallowed.  His brain kicked into gear.  He sighed.  "I
don't know.  I'll call and see.  What are you looking for?"
     "I don't know."
     King nodded, defeated, wandered down the hall, found someone
who could take orders.

     
     
     She undressed him.  Tanny's fingers were soft.  He didn't even
see why she had called him.  Why she had wanted this appointment. 
But he was here and she was undressing him.  His feet were heavy
and hot as she slipped his shoes off.  His pants.  His shirt. 
Finally his cotton boxers.  She put his arms through a heavy
flannel robe, tied it at his waist.  
     "Come on."  The drink was warm and sweet.  Chocolate.  There
had been whipped cream, but she had already stirred it in.  Her
fingers shaped his around the steaming mug.  She put it to his
mouth and he drank mechanically.
     "Why're you being so nice to me?"  His voice was quiet as she
let the mug go and it slid down to rest in both hands, half
dranken.
     "You need to have someone be nice to you.  You're my Secret."
     "I'm your supplicant.  You spank me."
     "I take care of you.  Right now, it's not spankings you want
or need.  Tonight, just let me take care of you.  I'll bathe you
and feed you and put you to bed.  You'll sleep with your head
against my body and when you have nightmares I'll hold you until
you fall into more pleasant dreams.  You don't have to do anything
but be here and let me take care of you."
     He nodded silently.  Closed his eyes.  Felt the tears slip
down his face.


     He wandered through the kitchen.  Stared at the sink.  A nice
stainless steel sink with a middle thingy for vegetables.  You
could see a swingset out the window.  
     Tile floors and tile counters.  A glasstop range.  A breakfast
nook and the Sunday paper lay opened on top.  With a cup of coffee.
     Mulder swallowed, piecing the murder together.  He saw Martin
in his grey sweats and his tee, stumbling down the stairs.  Not a
regular churchgoer.  His wife and child went without him.  
     The Sunday.  He got the Sunday paper and sat down with a cuppa
joe and the Sunday paper.  Not even halfway through.
     The door was open and the killer came in. . .
     Mulder glanced around the kitchen.  There was a backdoor.  His
fingers tried it.  Locked.  Of course. 
     The patio door leading to a postage stamp backyard.  Locked.
     One way in.  One way out.
     Into the hallway.  The door.  Mulder went into the yard. 
Houses were almost stacked on top of one another.  Small yards. 
What was the cost of real estate in this exclusive little suburb? 
He did not know.  But he could guess.
     Where would this guy have gotten cash for Tanny?
     This guy hadn't fucked Tanny.  This guy had simply fit
Mulder's profile to a T.
     Mulder went to the driveway.  It was full and useless now. 
But the killer had parked here.  Here?  Why? Couldn't he have. .
.walked? In this neighborhood?
     Not likely.
     The carefully manicured sidewalk to the house, edged by tiny
little shrubs.  Into the house.  A short trip into the kitchen. 
Martin. . .Martin hadn't been reading.  Mulder saw the bread open. 
The bread was open.  Martin had been making something.  In the
other deaths the victims had known, had seen, had not. . .The
killer had been here, waiting.  Waiting until Martin's back was
turned.  
     Oh fuck.  This guy hadn't been Tanny's.
     The killer never would have waited and surprised the guy.
     Where?  Mulder went to the counter where the bread bag sat
innocently open.  He was making a sandwich or toast. . .need stuff
from the fridge.  Mulder turned around and edged towards the
refrigerator. . .There.  The pantry.  
     The two double doors revealed a shallow space lined with
shelves.  Mulder considered the small space.  His eyes roamed the
kitchen, past the kitchen into the den.  She hadn't been the best
housekeeper in the world.  Okay, but not the best. Not real anal-
retentive or anything.  Sometimes, Mulder bet, sometimes pantry
doors got left open.  The killer had to be in far enough to almost
close the door.  
     There was scarcely enough room.  But enough.
     Oh fuck.
     Mulder went back through the house. 
     Scully was still with the body.  Measuring and photographing.
     It had been laid in a perfect diagonal to corners of the room.

The arms were perfect, palms down, fingers spread.  His legs were
arranged.
     What did you do, you bastard?  Drug him?  Drug him and bring
him here and lay him on the carpet and open him up like a carp?
     What did you do?  He wasn't yours to take.  Tanny never knew
him.
     He fit the profile.
     The killer had gone shopping.  Martin fit the profile.  And
for some reason the killer had chosen Martin.  Mulder had no idea
why.  But this man was not Tanny's.  Tanny never knew him.
     His fingers curled and uncurled, crunching latex under his
fingers.
     

     "This guy wasn't one of Bonet's customers."  Mulder's voice
was soft as he and his partner watched the body being carted out of
the room.
     Scully blinked. "What?"
     "He wasn't one of her customers."
     "He fits your profile."
     Mulder glanced at his partner.  Never mind.
     "Why do you think he wasn't?"  Scully asked, sensing that he
wasn't going to play thrust and parry with her the way he normally
did.
     "The killer had to surprise him.  The UNSUB hid in the pantry.
The moment Martin's back was turned, and he was distracted, the
killer got him.  I'd suspect something wickedly fast acting. 
You'll find it when you do your autopsy."  
     Scully nodded.  "You're sure of this?"
     A tight nod from Mulder.  
     King entered the tiny room.  "You're allowed to go through his
things as long as another agent is present."
     "I don't need to."  Mulder surveyed the office
disinterestedly.  "He wasn't one of Tanneka Bonet's submissives."
     King blinked.  "He was killed in the same. . .hell, he even
fucking fits the profile.  He was my friend, and I hate to admit
it, but he was everything you said."
     Mulder blinked at the shorter man.  "In every other death the
victim wasn't surprised, wasn't startled.  It was almost like the
UNSUB was invited in."
     King's eyes narrowed.
     "Martin was reading the Sunday paper.  He got up, to make a
sandwich or toast.  The moment he did so, the moment Martin turned
his back, the killer attacked.  This guy. . .our UNSUB may have
gotten hold of my profile or just decided to go after the FBI,
because we're on his tail.  So he picked someone similar to the
people he's been killing."  Weak.  It sounded weak, even to Mulder.
     Skinner had told King, in private, unofficially, not to go any
farther:  Mulder was having major problems.  He was seeing a shrink
and the shrink was going to have him in her office three or four
times a week.  Skinner was telling King so King would know if
Mulder was. . .well, not quite with it, to just go with the flow. 
So if Mulder said he couldn't be here or there, it was because he
couldn't.  Because he was going to be busy on a couch. 
     King glanced at Scully.  Who wasn't convinced, but wasn't
unconvinced.
       "Besides, where would Martin get the money?  It's pretty
obvious most of his money is sunk right here and what isn't is
probably going into retirement."
     That much was true.  
     "Bonet didn't strike me as someone who took people in out of
the kindness of her heart."  Mulder added, seeing the way King was
eyeing him.
     King shrugged.  "Maybe."
     Oh fucking shit.  Mulder sighed.  "I'm not crazy." 
     "No.  But what are you basing your information on?"
     "The bread's open downstairs."
     King lifted an eyebrow.
     Right.  Weak.  Real Weak.
NC-17, do not read if underage.

Usual Disclaimers.

Mistress 9/21
by Amperage

     Quantico on New Year's Day.  As you drove in you saw the
jarheads.  But the FBI wasn't here. The cadets.  A few instructors.
. .not many cars at all.
     There was no reason to perform the autopsy today. It could
wait until Tuesday.  But Tuesday she had to be sure Mulder made it
to an emergency appointment with a psychiatrist named Pandya.
     Oh fuck, with everything in his life, she was making him go to
a psychiatrist *now*.  He'd gone psychotic once and she had just
tried to handle it.  Her mother's report of his behavior when she'd
been comatose had been. . .well, frankly, scary.  The months after
their reinstatement to the bureau, they'd each seen therapists, by
Skinner's order.  But that hadn't been. . .that had been one of
those grief things that make human resources feel necessary and
needed when they weren't.
     She knew the area by heart.  Walked in like she still owned
the place.  Teaching at Quantico was supposed to be an honor.  For
Scully, only a year and a half ago, it had been a doghouse.  Still.
She enjoyed the place.  She enjoyed the long wooded drive in, and
she enjoyed the recognition of this place.  The safety.
       Another Autopsy bay.  Everything in order the way she liked
it.  There was that.  The techs here knew her.


     He had been to two different appointments with two different
mental health professionals before he even entered his office. 
When Mulder trudged in at 9, he looked as though he'd already had
a full day.  Scully blinked, staring at her partner.  He looked
like hell.  He looked like fucking hell.  
     "Hey.  Happy New Year."  She said in greeting.  Mulder had a
styrofoam cup of coffee that he unceremoniously dumped into the mug
on his desk.  The white mug that Scully's godson had made for her
in 1st grade.  With the flying saucer and the men from Mars and a
redhead with a power suit.  Mulder had appropriated it from the
first and she knew he appreciated the humour even more than she
did, so she had let him.
     "Hey."  He replied. No discussion of New Year's celebrations. 
Those were for other people.  Their world was the world of the
murders.  Mulder had spent New Year's day here, in the office,
catching up on *other* work so that he could focus completely on
the Martin killing.  "Whatcha' got on the autopsy?"
     Scully sighed.  "Less care was taken than with any other
victim and he was given some kind of injection.  I found it on his
shoulder.
     "Stabbed with a syringe in the back."  Mulder commented.  "I'm
right."
     "I sent the toxicologicals down, but even with the priority of
this case, it's going to be a while before we get anything back."
     "I'd put a good dinner down that he was drugged."
     Scully sighed.  "So he struggled, no one is going to agree
with you.  He matches the profile that you wrote. He was killed in
the same way as the other victims."
     "He was killed sloppily.  The others were killed neatly."
     "Still."  Scully wiped her eyes. "How did your appointments
go?"  She might have been talking about the weather.
     Mulder shrugged. 
     He seemed much too calm, Scully realized.  Entirely too calm.
     "Did you get a prescription?"
     "Prescriptions."  Mulder emphasized the s.  "Crane wants to
see me tomorrow too.  I'm a popular guy.  I don't know why.  We
just sit there and stare at each other."
     "Pandya?"
     "I have to get a blood test on Monday.  He'll see me that
afternoon.  He didn't even have a preamble, he just told me that if
I don't take the anti-depressant he'd see me in a hospital." His
voice was dead when he said it, as though the humiliation of being
told rules and consequences like a small boy did not bother him. 
As though he were reading something that didn't interest or excite
him. As though it weren't important at all to him.  It terrified
Scully and if this was what Crane had seen it was no wonder she
wanted him back.  Mulder was travelling deeper and deeper into the
dark and the thought terrified her.
     "You have a meeting with Skinner."  She said, leaning back in
her chair.  "He wants you up there whenever you're ready."
     Mulder nodded.  "Do you know what background info has been
recovered on Tanny?"
     "Bonet?" 
     "Yeah."
     "No.  There's a team meeting at 11.  You can ask."
     "I think our UNSUB knew Tanny when she was a slave."  
     Scully nodded at this.  "And?"
     "And it wasn't a servant of the house.  It wouldn't be. . ." 
Mulder sighed.  "All these people invited him in.  Why?  Because
was their best buddy?  They *let* him in.  Why?  Think about it. .
.Someone charismatic. . ."  His eyes were focused inward.  This was
why he was on this case, Scully reminded herself.  The high-level
drudge work thus far was good and appreciated, the profiles he had
written were useful and were serving just causes, but this was what
the brass wanted right now.  This was the legend of Spooky.
     And right now it was hard to remember that.  The jolt of
reality came back to her as she realized that this man had to get
a prescription of TofranilPM filled before he went home tonight.  
That despite whatever he was going through, he was still here,
spinning insane theories that turned out to be true.
     
     "But he had a need to dominate Tanny. . .If we put this into
the terms of the sexual dysfunction of Sadism and Maschosim. . ." 
Mulder paused.  
     "Then he's the dominator."  Scully replied.
     "How do we know it's a he?"  Mulder asked craftily.
     "We don't.  It's a safe assumption though."
     "Yeah.  It is.  Not only are most Serial killers men, but the
few that were females are entire kilometers different from our
UNSUB."
     Scully nodded, she knew all this.  She could read.  "So he
dominates by killing?"
     "Possessing maybe."  Mulder replied, absently staring at a
wall.  "Ownership.  He's the master, he can do what he wants with
the slaves. . ."  His voice trailed off into a far distance.  "Why
did he kill Martin?"
     Scully stared at Mulder a long moment.  "To show his power,
his frustration, his. . ." She began the rote answers, trying to
find one that fit.
     "He read my profile.  I know that."
     "How do you know that?  Because Martin fits your profile?"
     "Because Martin didn't see it coming.  Where would Martin get
that kind of money?"
     "I don't know.  Where do you get money for Armani suits?"
     Mulder shot her a glare.   Scully smiled sardonically,
secretly thrilled with this normal behavior.
     "He killed Martin because Martin fit the profile and Martin
was easy."  Mulder's voice was soft.  "I wrote a throw together
profile and the killer. . ."  He turned to stare at his partner. 
Eyes a deep, abiding dark wetness in the uncertain basement light. 
"The killer read it and used it as a shopping list."

     Assistant Director Skinner's office caught the afternoon sun
very well, turning the room a vibrant gold.  However, this also
meant that on cold winter mornings, his office was on the chilly
side, huddled in metropolis shadows, waiting for a glance from the
light.
     "There's a task force meeting in an hour."  Skinner said,
unnecessarily as they both sat.  
     "Yes sir."  Mulder was polite.
     "There are two issues we need to deal with here, Agent Mulder.
The first is that you are advancing the idea the Director Martin
was not a customer of Tanneka Bonet."
     "Yes sir."
     Skinner nodded.  "King doesn't like it and he doesn't know how
to tell you to stop, he's used to stomping on GS-7's, not people
like you.  You wrote a profile and Martin fits the profile."
     "Respectfully sir, so do you."
     Skinner shifted uncomfortably in his leather executive chair. 
"I'm aware of that.  Why do you think King doesn't want you to
advance your idea?"  He stared at Mulder. 
     This was not the usual confrontation with Director Skinner. 
Mulder stared at the man, trying to figure out why he was being
coddled.  He was being coddled, right?  Was he or not?  He didn't
know.  There was a second possibility but Mulder didn't think it
was the case.  King and Skinner were friends.
     "All due respect, if King admits that Martin wasn't a client
he has to deal with that fact.  That the killer read my profile. 
And that the killer isn't following just one populace.
     Skinner nodded.  "This is King's game now, agent Mulder, but
I will not reel you in because it makes him sweat to have too many
variables."
     Ahah.  He wasn't being coddled.  Skinner wasn't questioning
Mulder.  He was questioning *King*.  Friend or no.  
     "If you are right then the killer has access to our
databases?"
     Mulder swallowed. "He has access to something."   The pen. 
Had he written any of the profile when he'd found that fucking
pen?  He thought he had.  Not enough though to kill Martin.  The
UNSUB would have had to come back.  Come back again.
     Skinner leaned back in his chair.  "Do you realize what that
implies, Agent Mulder?"
     "That he knows everything about our investigation, about us
and we know nothing about him?  Yes sir."  This was the
conversation he *should* be having with King.  That fact reflected
in Skinner's eyes.  
     "Due to those security questions, I'll be sitting in on the
task force meeting."  Skinner said.  
     Mulder nodded.  "Yes sir."
     "The second matter I have to discuss with you concerns a short
note from Dr. Crane.  She has sent an unofficial memo."  Skinner
sighed. "She has asked that you be removed from the Bonet case,
that your duties be restricted."
     Mulder swallowed nervously and shifted in his chair.  
     "It's unofficial at this point.  Just a request.  No power to
back it up."
     "Yes sir."
     "Do you think you need to be placed on some kind of light
duties?"
     "No sir."
     Skinner nodded.  "Do you want to continue on the task force?"
     "Yes sir."
     "Very well then, I'll call Dr. Crane and tell her that I'm
terribly sorry, but I don't see that we can spare you."
     "Thank you, sir."
     


     Mulder was quiet, settling into his spot at the long
conference table.  Lesser agents were gathered in leather chairs
pressed against a wall, taking notes on their knees.  Scully was a
coroner and Mulder was the prize analyst.  Spooky and his missus
might be outcasts, but outcasts only in the way that a magic user
might have been outcast in a primitive village.  
     He did not seem to notice anyone as he sat, thumbing through
files, making sure his legal pad had plenty of room for notes.  In
the time she had known him, Scully had never seen her partner
scribble one legitimate note onto an investigative notebook or a
legal pad.  His idea of a note was a silent comment to Scully.  She
wondered sometimes if he had been that annoying in school or if
this was a learned behavior since he had joined the Bureau.  He
seemed so oblivious to the fact that he was the only person in a
room not scribbling furiously at meetings like this that Scully
could only conclude that he'd always just sat, sprawled in his
chair, watching, thinking, punching holes.
     
     King thanked everyone, discussed the passing of Director
Martin.  A report.  Mulder's eyes were glazed and it was painfully
obvious to everyone that he wasn't listening, but he wasn't asking
his usual asinine, unanswerable questions so no one bothered him.
     
     "Did anyone do the background work on Tanneka, following up
Agent Scully and my interview with her cousin?"  Mulder asked as
the speaker sat down.  He looked around at the assemblage, silently
noting the ones who had come up the ladder through politics and
couldn't find a goat if it had been staked out on a hillside
marking them and separating them from the ones who were simply damn
good agents.
     Agent Rebecca Lewis cleared her throat, she was sitting at a
chair against the wall.  "I did."
     Mulder appraised her.  "Did we found out who her first master
was?"
     "No sir.  But I was able to narrow the field to three men who
were wealthy and died in plane crashes around the time Ms. Bonet
would have been starting her. . .services."
     "And did they all have large scale political influence?"
     "Only one did, sir.  Ian Long."
     Mulder nodded at this information as though unimpressed.  
     "What about the story about her father?"
     "That is unverifiable.  But her mother did die when Bonet was
10.  Her father still lives in Missoula Texas.  He's a welder and
he is reported as having been very . . .hostile to the field agents
who visited him."
     Lewis sat down, nervously.  Mulder stared at King.  Scully
cringed.  
     "You seem to have definite theories on this case, Agent
Mulder."  King's voice carried silk.
     "Yes sir."  Mulder replied.  "You know I hold that Director
Martin was not Bonet's client."
     "I'm aware of it."  King's voice was tired now, grating.
     Mulder nodded. 
     "It's possible that the killer knew Bonet when she was in her
master's house or living with her father?"  Someone else at the
table asked.
     Mulder shrugged.  "Why not?  Timing, opportunity, motive. . ."
He shrugged languidly again.  
     The door opened and Skinner slipped in, displacing an agent
from his chair.
     "Director Skinner."  King acknowledged his superior almost
nervously.
     Skinner merely nodded and stared at the back of Mulder's neck.
Mulder did not turn.  
     "Can I get Agent Lewis to come down tomorrow morning?  I'd
like to get a more detailed look at her findings."  Mulder's voice
was easy and territorial.  As though he were a male lion, secure in
the domination of his own territory, as though he had no need to be
defensive because he knew what his claws could do.  
     King blinked.  There was no answer but yes to that question. 
And Mulder knew it.  "That's fine, Agent Mulder."  He tried to make
it dismissive, to make it easy.  Make it nothing, a bone thrown to
the hungry vagabond.
     Mulder and King exchanged glances.  They both felt the
presence of Skinner.  Nothing personal, King's glance said.  I just
can't handle any more variables.
     Mulder gave a half-lidded nod.  Nothing personal, but if you
can't handle the job, get out.
     Under another director, King would be promoted, and thus be
off the force, and Mulder would be reprimanded.  King would be
protected because of his friendships and Mulder would get his due
for not playing the game.  Under yet another director, King would
be taken off the assignment and the title given to Mulder, and both
parties would be punished for their inability to play the game with
each other.  Under Skinner things would be played only to the
benefit of the case.  
     They went to another report.  Analysis of carpets and clothing
and hairs.  DNA analysis.  Everything that was boring and non-
essential. Their morning would be eaten up by this.  Scully had
already teased all the useful information from preliminary copies
of these reports, or from the raw datum itself.  Pointless, a
waste.  Mulder reminded himself of how lucky he was to have a good
partner and not to be stuck with this nonsense on a daily basis.
     Scully's autopsy.
     Mulder watched his partner stand, glance at her careful notes
and delineate the differences between Martin's murder and all the
others.
     "He's getting sloppier."  Someone at the table said casually.
Toady.
     "He was neater with Bonet."  Mulder mused as though it didn't
make much difference.
     "Experience shows us that as Serial killers escalate they get
sloppier."  Another toady.
     Scully smoothed her skirt as she sat down.  So fucking
comfortable doing this.  
     "Since when was it decided that this guy was escalating?" 
Mulder asked, again mild as milktoast.
     Several agents blinked.  "I thought it had been generally
assumed. . ." One began.
     Mulder shrugged.  "It's about 2 or 3 days between all the
various murders.  Admittedly 2 between these most recent.  But no
longer than 4 on any of our murders.  He started out fast and he's
going to keep going fast.  Speed is not escalation.  You have to
start going faster to escalate."
     Uncomfortable silence for just a moment.  Glances at Mulder
and Skinner and King.  Everyone knew that Mulder thought Martin
wasn't one of Tanny's, that he'd been picked like a product off a
market shelf because he fit the description.  Everyone knew that
King didn't agree.  What bugged them was Skinner.  Mulder was one
of Skinner's pet lambs, admittedly, but that was because Mulder
upped Skinner's efficiency ratings--he solved all the nasty cases
that would be otherwise marked unsolvable.  But King was an old
buddy of Skinner's.  
     Mulder didn't really care.  He would say what he thought and
let King respond, and he was almost perfectly certain that he would
provide enough of a case for his viewpoint that Skinner would not
ignore it.  King was glancing at Skinner too.  But he obviously had
not been let into the confidence that Skinner thought King wasn't
quite up to the challenge.  He thought Mulder might be in for a
reaming.  No doubt he'd gone in ranting and raving about Mulder and
expecting Mulder's ass to get kicked and Skinner had merely said
that he'd take care of things.
     "Martin was making toast when he was stabbed in the shoulder
and sedated with Ketamin.  The UNSUB never used Ketamin before. 
Not once.  But he had to have the sedative with this one.  Because
this one didn't belong to Tanneka Bonet."  Mulder began.  "Once the
Ketamin took affect, it was a simple matter for the killer to haul
him to his own study--his study full of sensitive papers from the
FBI--and kill him.  He was sloppy because he didn't care.  Because
Martin didn't mean to him what the others meant to him.  Martin
wasn't the one he was dominating.  This one was a thumbing of his
nose at the FBI.  At us.  He put Martin in the study because that
was as close to the actual building as was safe.  If he'd had his
wet dream, it would be to have done Martin on the seal in the
lobby.  He had my profile.  He thought about all the people who fit
it and who would cause a hole and who would be easy to get and
kill.  And Martin fit the bill all around. 
     "Director Martin had a wife and a baby and a retirement fund. 
No amount of money large enough to pay for the kinds of services
that Tanneka Bonet provided was missing. I wrote a profile and our
killer supplied us with the appropriate victim.  He's laughing at
us.  I wouldn't be surprised if he knew everything that's gone on
in this case thus far."
     Mulder stared around the room at the empty, disbelieving
faces.  He felt a movement behind him.  Skinner was up, putting his
coat on.


end Section II