From: Deirdre Date: Sun, 22 Apr 2001 14:55:42 -0500 (CDT) Subject: Revenge part 1 Source: direct Title: Revenge Author: Lovesfox E-mail: Lovesfox@home.com (Feed me, please) Web site: http://www.geocities.com/sstormc/index.html Rating: NC-17 (violence, consensual M/S sex and strong language) Category: Implied UST then MSR, Angst, Story/X-File Classification: XRA Spoilers: Nothing specific, up to mid-S7 Archive: As long as my name and everything stays attached Please let me know though. Summary: An old case of Mulder's resurfaces seeking revenge Disclaimer: Alas, not mine. They belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions Dedication: To true friendship, through thick and thin. Thanks, T. Warning: This story contains some scenes of violence, a rape attempt, implied character death, references to incest, and graphic sex. Revenge Part 1 of 29 by Lovesfox Prologue Georgetown, D.C. Friday 7:30 am Whir. Click. The man lowered the camera with its heavy telephoto lens and let it rest on his lap, still watching his two subjects. A tall, dark-haired man guiding a slender, red-haired woman in very high heels down the front walk of the apartment building, his hand behind her, apparently resting at the small of her back. Their closeness, their connection, was now so obvious to him, as it hadn't been in the beginning, and had become more so with each subsequent observation. He lifted the camera once again when they neared their vehicle, parked across the street and several spaces away from his van, and made a few minute adjustments for a better focus. The man leaned in close to the woman and said something that made her smile, turning her head to look at him with unmistakable affection and amusement. Whir. Click. Click. Click. Once they were settled in their car, he placed the camera gently down on the passenger seat and started the van. They did not notice him, watching them through his window as they drove past, and after their car had receded in his rear view mirror, he drove away in the opposite direction. He would be back later, this address and others long committed to memory. He had been watching the pair for weeks, individually and together, in various locations around Washington, Georgetown and Alexandria, and something had eventually become crystal clear. The red-haired woman was the one. *** Two Weeks Later Scully's Apartment Building Georgetown, D.C. Friday 6:40 pm Scully pulled her car into the only available parking space near her apartment building, behind a white panel van. She unbuckled and leaned over to grab her briefcase and purse from the passenger seat. She got out of the car with a weary sigh and pressed the lock button down before pushing the door shut with a quick bumping motion of her hip. She glanced at her watch. She hadn't decided yet if she wanted to head to her mother's tonight, or in the morning. Right now all she wanted was a very long, hot soak in the tub. Her eyes skimmed over the van as she approached it to walk just past it to the sidewalk leading to the front entrance of her building. She had a vague impression of partially obscured red lettering painted on the side of the van, a duct cleaning service. She thought briefly to herself that one of the tenants must be employed with the company, for she had seen the van quite a bit lately and had not received notice that there was work being done on the building's ducts. A car screeching its tires down the street had her turning her head back to look, and then two things happened. The side door of the van opened with a grinding sound, and a figure was jumping out close beside her. Her head whipped around and a hand with a cloth was suddenly over her nose and mouth, hard. She instinctively inhaled as her airway was blocked and smelled the distinct odor of chloroform. She felt her muscles loosen, and her grip on her belongings slacken. Blackness descended. *** The figure, a largish man in a white coverall with a breast pocket that bore the same red lettering as the van, 'D.C. Duct Cleaning', glanced quickly up and down the street as he hauled the unconscious woman into the back of the van. He arranged her body carefully on her side before pulling a canvas tarp over her, leaving clearance for air to get at her face. He jumped out of the van again and scooped up the dropped briefcase and purse, tossing them inside beside the tarp-covered body, before sliding the door shut with a bang. He gave the ground in front of the door the once over and caught the glitter of keys. With a small curse he bent and grabbed them, thankful to have spotted them. It was necessary to have her keys, for he needed to get inside her apartment. He could have broken in, he supposed, but that option was much riskier. He returned to the driver's side door and opening it, reached across to the thick envelope lying in the passenger side floor well. He picked it up, tucking it under his arm, and shut and locked the door. He walked calmly and casually up the walk of the apartment building and in the front door. Moments later he was in her apartment. He did what needed to be done, a small smile on his face. As he left, he shut the door, leaving it unlocked. He walked back outside, whistling under his breath, nodding casually at the woman he passed on the sidewalk. He tossed the keys in the air once, caught them and stuffed them inside one of his pockets. He pulled his own keys out of the other pocket and opened the driver's door and climbed inside. He stowed the items he had retrieved from the apartment on the floor, removed the Latex gloves he had been wearing, and started the van. He glanced back at the building once, smiling again, and pulled from the curb, driving away in the twilight of the evening. Lying beneath the curb where it had been lost in the shadows cast by the van, there remained an item that now shone in the light of the street lamp across the street. An Apollo 11 key chain. *** Skinner's Office J. Edgar Hoover Building Monday 8:45 am Mulder glanced at his watch again and tapped the fingers on his other hand on one knee. His foot jiggled every few minutes and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was very unusual for Scully to be late, especially for a meeting with their boss, and Mulder hoped she had a very good excuse when she got here. He had not talked to her since they had said good night on Friday. She had told him she might be spending the weekend at her mother's and would see him on Monday. He had called her Saturday morning, hoping to talk her into coming into the office to go over some interesting files he had unearthed, and had left a message on her machine. She had not called back nor left a message on his, so he assumed she had gone. Across the desk, Walter Skinner was busy signing off on what appeared to be expense reports. Their boss flicked a glance at Mulder, one eyebrow rising slightly in silent inquiry. He looked at his own watch very pointedly and then at the empty chair to Mulder's right. Mulder shrugged his shoulders. He had no idea what was keeping Scully. He knew if she had been delayed or had a problem she would call, and he had tried both her home number and cellular twice. Her answering machine had clicked on at home, and he had left a brief message telling her she was late. Her cellular had rung with no answer. "I can try her cell again, Sir," he said to Skinner, who nodded his assent. Mulder reached in his inner jacket pocket to pull out his cell phone when the sound of voices in the outer office came through the partially closed door. He and Skinner both looked up expectantly, Mulder prepared to greet Scully with the raised eyebrow look she used on him when he was late. Kimberley, Skinner's secretary, came in, carrying a legal-sized envelope in the familiar colors of a courier service. She smiled apologetically at Skinner. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Sir," she said, crossing the floor to hand the envelope to Mulder. "This came for Agent Mulder." Mulder took the envelope from her, studying it with curiosity. The label was written in black ink and read 'AGENT FOX MULDER' in block letters with the FBI Headquarters address beneath it. It was not overly thick, and as he ran his fingers along its stiff cardboard surface he could not tell what the envelope contained. Finally he slid his fingers along the flap, tearing the glued surface open. There was a manila envelope inside, and he pulled it out, seeing his name printed on it in block letters again. Skinner's chair squeaked and Mulder looked up briefly to see that the AD had leaned back with his chin resting on his palm, his elbow propped on the arm of the chair as he watched Mulder opening the package. He tore the flap of the manila envelope open, thinking that the contents felt like photographs, with that do not bend quality. He was correct. He pulled out a handful of 8 x 10 glossies. The first one had his eyebrows rising, a look of puzzlement on his face. It was a black and white picture of he and Scully, the graininess indicating it had more than likely been taken with a telephoto lens. He studied it for a moment and recognized the surroundings as being just outside a local restaurant he and his partner frequented at least a few times each month. They were both dressed in their 'FBI' attire, and he was unable to determine exactly when the photo could have been taken. Skinner cleared his throat, a subtle hint that he was curious. Mulder held the photo up so that the AD could see it, and watched the man's eyebrow rise in puzzlement as well. Mulder leaned forward to slide the glossy across Skinner's desk and then resumed his earlier position to look at the next photograph. He was peripherally aware of Skinner moving forward himself to pick up the picture. The next two photos were the two of them as well. One was outside Scully's building, walking down the path. He knew they must have been taken two weeks ago, for Scully's car had been in the shop for several days and he had been her taxi until it was ready. The other was of him opening her door, taken moments after the previous picture. The fourth photo from the stack was of the two of them yet again. His hand was on Scully's elbow, his head bent down to hers. It appeared as if he had said something to her that had made her laugh. Because the occurrence of Scully laughing was sadly a rarity, he remembered the moment with perfect clarity. They had been returning from a luncheon held in honor of a retiring agent, walking back to the Hoover building, and he had made a quip about the celebration that would happen within the FBI at the occasion of his retirement and her laughter had broke free. It had surprised him, and the resulting delighted grin that had covered his face had been captured in the fifth photo, as Scully had turned her head to reply. The two of them looked, he thought, like a successful, happy couple sharing a private moment in a very public place. He passed each photo to Skinner, who had pulled his chair back to his desk and was studying each one. The furrows on the AD's brow and around his mouth had grown deeper with each subsequent picture, indicating his growing concern. Mulder knew the same lines could probably be seen on his own face. The last photo had been taken just this past Thursday, for Mulder could clearly make out the basketballs that dotted the tie he had worn that day. Again, the two of them were outside, returning from lunch. They were quite close to each other, having that same appearance of a couple, for the crowds had been heavy and he had been pushed into her several times as they made their way back to work. After placing that photo onto Skinner's desk, Mulder peered into the manila envelope, wondering if there was a note or anything that would indicate why he had been sent these photos, or why they had been taken. A small square shaped item had gotten wedged in the bottom corner. He reached inside and plucked it between his fingers, recognizing the feel of it as being that of a Polaroid, pulling it free. He flipped it over and what he saw had his heart stopping in fear. It was a picture of Scully. Her eyes were closed, a strand of her hair falling across her face, and her mouth was open slackly. "Shit!" he exclaimed, jumping up with such force that the chair fell over backwards. He bolted towards the double doors that led out to the hallway, bypassing the outer office, hearing Skinner call out his name, his voice harsh and questioning. Mulder did not pause. He ran down the hallway, uncaring as he careened into and off people, heading for the exit to the stairs. Behind him he heard exclamations and cries of anger, as well as Skinner bellowing his name. He hit the door with the palm of one hand, and it crashed open into the wall. Fortunately no one was on the other side. He took the stairs two at a time, his jacket flaring open with his speed, the Polaroid still clutched in one hand. Two floors down he heard the sound of the door banging into the wall again, and then loud footsteps descending after him. "Mulder!" Skinner called, the sound echoing in the cement confines of the stairwell. "What the hell is going on?" "Scully," he yelled back, not slowing his descent in the least. "Something's happened to her." He reached the parking garage level at last, slamming through the door, Skinner now at his heels. The AD grabbed his shoulder, his sheer size and strength enough to force Mulder to a halt. He spun around and thrust the Polaroid in Skinner's face, the picture trembling in his hand. The AD gaped at the picture and a muttered four -letter word escaped his mouth. Mulder spun around again and resumed his race to his car, Skinner right behind him. He skidded to a halt at the driver's side, digging in his pocket for his keys. Pulling them out, he jabbed the door key into the lock and roughly yanked the door open. Skinner was rounding the car as he leaned over to pop the passenger door's lock and he started the car as the AD climbed inside. He pealed out of the parking spot, the tires squealing, and Skinner slammed his palm against the dashboard to brace himself, as the car almost seemed to go on two wheels. They roared through the garage, Mulder barely slowing as they turned onto the street, heading to Georgetown. *** Scully's Apartment Georgetown, D.C. Monday 9:30 am Mulder ran down the hallway to Scully's apartment with Skinner following. The sight of her car parked at the curb had briefly slowed his footsteps before he raced up the walk. He stopped at her door, hands raised and ready to pound on its surface, when some instinct had him reaching out to grasp the doorknob, turning it gently. It was unlocked. He shot Skinner a glance, and both men reached inside their jackets to draw their weapons. With a nod at Skinner, Mulder opened the door and they burst in, each covering a different direction with their guns. The apartment was silent, and still. Mulder scanned the room, heart still pumping madly, not only from the mad dash from the car, but also from the thought that had been running through his brain since seeing the Polaroid. Over and over. He knew somehow, just as he had known the door was unlocked, that she was not there. His breath panted in and out of his partially opened mouth, and he lowered his gun arm slowly, feeling the adrenaline rush end. His shoulders slumped and one hand went up to wipe the sweat that had beaded on his forehead. A few feet away from him, Skinner too seemed to sense there was no immediate threat in the apartment, his own gun lowering to his side, body uncoiling from the tense crouch he had assumed as his gun swept the room. He opened his mouth; the muscles in his jaw working, and then closed it again, saying nothing. Mulder did not know what to do next, where to begin. Following his instinct yet again, he walked down the hall to Scully's bedroom, aware of Skinner following him. Her door was wide open and he stepped inside. He froze in place, his eyes immediately fixated on her bed. Pictures, 8 x 10 glossies, covered its entire surface. He walked over to the bed, his steps wooden. From what he could see after scanning them quickly, the pictures were all either of he and Scully together, or of Scully alone. He sensed Skinner next to him and they exchanged glances. Mulder shoved his gun in his holster and reached down almost hesitantly to pick up one of the photos. It was a close-up of Scully's face, her lips rising in a slight smile as she looked at something off to the side. He had no idea when it had been taken. "Mulder," Skinner's voice was low. "We need to get a forensics team in here." Mulder nodded absently, staring intently at the picture of Scully, talking silently to her in his mind. Where are you, Scully? "I'm going to call the Bureau, arrange for that team," Skinner said. Mulder did not reply and as the AD reached into his jacket pocket for his phone, he looked around Scully's bedroom. Nothing seemed out of place, the room was neat and tidy, the shades partly down over the window, her closet door slightly ajar. His eyes were drawn to something lying on her dresser. A cellular phone. He moved over to the dresser and stared down at it. Skinner had stopped in mid-dial and came over to stand beside Mulder. "Is it Scully's?" he asked, looking at the phone as well. Mulder shook his head, unable to take his eyes off of the phone. "No," was his quiet response. "It was put here for a reason." He turned his head to look at Skinner again. "There could be prints." He turned and left the room, walking into the bathroom. Scully had a box of Latex gloves beneath her sink. It would probably seem odd to others, but when he thought about the number of crimes committed in her apartment, it actually made a sick kind of sense. He pulled the box out and set it on the counter, removing a pair for himself and one for Skinner. Faintly he could hear Skinner's deep baritone from the other room, probably calling for the forensics team. He went back into the bedroom to see the AD putting his phone back into his inner jacket pocket. He handed the gloves to the AD, who took them with a grimace. Scully's apartment had become a crime scene. Again. A shrill ring had them both jumping. It was the cell phone on Scully's dresser. Mulder quickly pulled on the gloves and picked it up gingerly. He took a deep breath and then pressed send, reluctantly, but knowing he had to. Bringing the phone close to his ear, but not touching, he was about to say his name, when he heard a male voice. "Agent Mulder." The voice was tinny, and there was static. "Did you like the pictures?" What came out of his mouth was not what he had intended. "Where the hell is she, you bastard?" "Careful, Agent Mulder," the voice warned. "You wouldn't want me to get angry, would you?" Cold, numbing fear ran through him. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. He was babbling inside his mind...Where is she?...Did you hurt her?...What do you want? Mulder became aware of Skinner gesturing frantically at him. He nodded at the AD, taking another deep breath. "No, I wouldn't want that," he replied finally. He began to pace, his elbow up in the air as he held the phone awkwardly at his ear. All of his psychologist skills had fled. He could only think of Scully, taken again. "May I talk to her?" he asked, his voice sounding flat in his ears. There was silence for so long, Mulder thought he had lost the connection. "Hello? Are you there?" he said, a little more forcefully. A burst of static, and then, "...Mulder?" A voice he would know anywhere. Scully's voice. "Scully?" he cried, whipping around to stare wild-eyed at Skinner. "Scully, are you alright?" She had sounded so weak, so tired, his name almost slurred. His heart jackhammered in his chest. "SCULLY!" The male voice again, more clearly. "That's enough for now, Agent Mulder." "Wait!" Mulder exclaimed. "Who are you? What do you want?" He bit the next words back, knowing they would not be answered. Where is she? "All in due time, Agent Mulder," the man said. There was another burst of static and then nothing. Mulder pulled the phone away from his ear. "Fuck," he whispered. He wanted to throw the phone across the room, he wanted to kick and punch and scream. He did nothing, just turned and stared at the photographs on her bed, as if the answers were there, waiting to be found. Skinner reached out, making contact with him. "Mulder," he said. The AD's voice was low and controlled, but Mulder could feel the tenseness in the fingers that grasped his forearm. "Who was it? Was it Scully?" "I don't...I didn't recognize the voice," Mulder answered. "But he has Scully. She said my name." He turned to look at their boss. "She sounded...she sounded so weak. So scared." As he said those last words, he was finally admitting to himself that there had been more in her voice than just tiredness. He had heard fear, and confusion. He had listened to Scully's voice for seven years, sometimes it had been all that had kept him sane, and he knew every nuance, every inflection. And that one word, his name, had transmitted everything to him. *** 11:45 am Skinner divided his attention between Mulder, seated at Scully's table sifting through the photographs the agent had painstakingly collected off her bed, over and over, and the fingerprint analyst busy in Scully's bedroom. The cell phone, it had been determined as soon as the team had arrived, had been completely clean of fingerprints, and now sat at Mulder's elbow. It had yet to ring again. Once Scully's bedroom, and most importantly the picture-covered bed, had been photographed, Skinner had allowed Mulder to take them. He had been sitting and staring at each one ever since. He had not spoken since telling Skinner about Scully's voice on the phone, and Skinner knew Mulder was deep inside his own mind, tormenting himself with thoughts of his partner, and what was happening or had happened to her. Skinner also knew he was helpless to stop Mulder from that torment. Skinner stood by the living room window, not far from Mulder, and sighed harshly. His body was tense, coiled tightly. He needed action, to do something. Sitting and waiting had never been his game, although in his position at the Bureau, it was a necessary evil. It just seemed that too many times he had had to do so for Mulder and Scully both. Scully. Skinner felt his mouth go dry. It was frightening how many times this woman had been kidnapped and held hostage. He supposed in the nature of their work they encountered or were exposed to all types of psychotic individuals, but it seemed so...unfair was not a strong enough word, perhaps tragic, that she was so often a target. A victim. He also could not keep one horrifying thought from his head. Would this be the last time? He had been trying to keep his feelings distant, separate from the burgeoning investigation. He was failing miserably. The image of Scully in that Polaroid kept creeping into his consciousness, along with Mulder's words, 'so weak, so scared'. One of the tech's voices pulled him from his thoughts. "Sir?" Skinner turned from his stance at the window to see the blonde, bespectacled agent, Dryer, he thought, standing at the little table by Scully's front door. The agent was gesturing at her answering machine, and as Skinner strode over there, he could see that the red message light was flashing. He had a vague recollection of glancing at the machine as he and Mulder had swept into the apartment. He must not have noticed the red light. He nodded at Dryer, saying, "Thank-you. We'll take care of that." He could see the traces of powder, it had already been dusted for fingerprints. "Mulder," he called. No reaction. He raised his voice. "Mulder." Still nothing. In long strides he was at Mulder's side. He placed his hand on Mulder's shoulder, and felt the jolt go through Mulder's body. His agent looked at him, life slowly creeping back into his eyes, the blank expression changing to one of surprise. "Mulder, we need to check Scully's answering machine, the message light is flashing." The chair scraped noisily as Mulder pushed it back in his haste to rise from the table. He almost raced to the machine, and then stood there, his fists clenched. Skinner joined him and watched Mulder lift his finger slowly and press 'Play'. Beep. "Dana, honey, have you decided if you're going to stay here this weekend? It's eight o'clock now and I'm going out for about an hour, leave me a message and let me know, please, dear." Margaret Scully. Skinner heard Mulder's indrawn hiss of breath. The agent's lips were moving, and he barely caught the muttered words. "Gotta call Mrs. Scully." Beep. "Hey, Scully, it's me. Listen, if you don't have plans, call me on my cell. I found some interesting files I want to go through. Talk to you later." Mulder. Beep. "Dana, it's mom. I guess you got home too late last night to call. I'll be out for a bit this morning. Let me know what you've decided. Talk to you later, honey." Margaret Scully. Beep. "Scully, what's up? We've got a meeting with the Skinner, he's gonna pop a gasket. Get your little feet in gear." Mulder. Beep. There were no more. Skinner's facial muscles had twitched at the last message, his hands going to his hips. Beside him, Mulder was drawn as taut as a wire, his face stony. "Mulder?" Skinner asked. "I think she was...taken...Friday night," was Mulder's whispered response. "She told me she was probably going to her mother's for the weekend. I called her Saturday morning just after seven, so that first call from her mother must have been Friday night." He swallowed noisily. "I don't think she made it." Skinner felt a lump rise in his own throat. Jesus, some psycho's had her for almost three days. He stared at Mulder, who was still standing and staring down at the answering machine. Skinner sensed Mulder was blaming himself, wondering why he hadn't known sooner. How he could have expected himself to know did not matter, he just should have. He knew he was right at Mulder's next words. Words Skinner did not think Mulder was aware he was speaking. "Stupid. Why? Should have known. Why didn't I call again? I should have come by, checked on her. Should have. Stupid." "Mulder." Skinner said the word harshly, to snap Mulder out of his trance, his verbal chastisement of himself. He saw Mulder's shoulders tremor slightly and then his head was up and turning to meet Skinner's gaze. "We need to confirm that Scully did not go to her mother's, try and pinpoint a timeline of sorts." "I'll call Mrs. Scully," Mulder said firmly, but the look in his eyes showed his reluctance. "Would you like me to call her?" Skinner offered, understanding that Mulder was dreading having to inform Mrs. Scully that her daughter was missing yet again. Just as he wondered how Scully could survive so much, Skinner also wondered how her mother did as well. They were both extremely strong women, despite their somewhat fragile appearance. Skinner knew Scully would bristle at being thought of as fragile, but in his eyes, she was. Fragility wrapped around steel. Mulder shook his head. "I'll do it." He took a deep breath and reached for the phone. Skinner walked away, he did not want to hear this conversation. He pulled his cellular out of his pocket again, he needed to arrange for agents to come and canvass the neighborhood, as well as conduct interviews with the tenants of the building. *** 4:30 pm Mulder rose from his seat at the table, running his hands through his hair for the hundredth time. He had been staring at the photographs from Scully's bed for so long, he was starting to see double. His eyes burned and stung, and he was vaguely aware of a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Yet he knew he could not eat, the thought of food made him nauseous. His glance flicked to the cell phone that had not left his sight for a moment. He willed it to ring. He needed to hear her voice, to know that she was still...alive. He shied away from that thought immediately. She was not dead. He would know if she were dead, wouldn't he? He sighed heavily, and began to pace. His path took him past the windows, overlooking the street in front of Scully's building. He stopped at the window and stared down at all the cars. It was easy to spot the bureau sedans, parked sporadically up and down the street. Scully's car. The thought hit him like a lightening bolt. They had forgotten about Scully's car. He turned back to the room and called over to Agent Dryer who was manning Scully's phone, in the off chance her abductor called on her home number. "Have you seen AD Skinner?" The agent replied, "He's with Agent Taylor, conducting interviews on Agent Scully's neighbors." Mulder remembered now the AD coming over and telling him he would be assisting the agents in interviewing the tenants of the building. He went back to the table and picked up the cell phone, tucking it carefully into his pocket. He scooped up his jacket from the back of the chair where he had draped it hours ago and slipped it on, heading to the door. "I'm just going outside to look at Agent Scully's car," he told Dryer. A few minutes later he was on the sidewalk standing in front of Scully's car. He bent and peered inside the driver's side window. The car was empty. He checked the driver's door handle and it was locked. He made a circuit of the car, checking all the doors. The results were the same. There was no sign of disturbance or interference, so it was probably a safe assumption that she had been taken after exiting the car. However, it was undetermined as to whether she had ever made it up to her apartment. The messages on her machine could indicate she had never gone up, but because they did not know exactly what time she had parked her car, the calls could have come after she had been home and taken. He thought back to Friday evening, remembered talking to her as she put on her jacket and gathered her things. She had told him she had to run a couple of errands on the way home, and made a joke about leaving early, looking at her watch with a smirk. It had been not quite 5:30, he recalled, for he had looked at his own watch, and laughed, knowing she had meant it really wasn't early for most people, but for the two of them. He often stayed very late or all night, and she had put in many an extra hour as well. So, if she had left at 5:30, with the evening traffic, and her errands to carry out, the earliest she could have made it home was probably 6:30. If they could pinpoint when Mrs. Scully had phoned, they would be able to narrow down the timeframe in which she could have been taken. Mulder glanced up at the apartment buildings that lined the street. So many windows, so many people. Was there a chance one person could have looked out their window at just the right moment, and seen Scully coming home, seen someone confronting her, seen someone grab her? He hoped like hell that someone had. The space in front of Scully's car was vacant and his keen eyes spotted something on the ground, close to the curb. He walked over and looked down onto the road. It was a small metal circle, like part of a key chain, maybe. His fingers reached out and picked it up, flipping it over. His eyes fluttered shut, and memories flicked past them... Scully's apprehension as she held the small box he had given her in the pub, the teasing about implants, and her surprise as she beheld the Apollo Eleven key chain... A car drove by, and he blinked, startled. The metal circle had broken off its chain. Mulder looked at the curb, and then stood, judging the distance from approximately Scully's waist height to the ground. If she had been grabbed here, and dropped her keys, the key chain could have hit the curb with enough force to break. It was not concrete proof, but it was a start. Mulder turned and headed back towards Scully's building, the metal circle clenched tightly in his fist. The phone, his only connection to Scully, rang in his pocket and he stopped dead in his tracks. He reached in and struggled to pull it out, his heart beat rapidly accelerating. "Mulder." "Agent Mulder. Learn anything interesting?" Mulder strained to hear familiarity in the voice, to recognize the speaker. If he could find out who it was, maybe it would give him an edge, put him in a better position to find Scully. Whole and unharmed. Try and keep him talking, Mulder thought to himself. He wished he were back in the apartment, and had access to a pen and paper. He trusted his memory, but would prefer to have a back up. "What do you mean?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and level. "From Agent Scully's car?" the man asked questioningly. Mulder could hear humor in the voice, an almost taunting, and he tensed. Then the words registered and he whipped around, gaze scanning up and down the street. Was he being watched right now? Was the bastard somewhere nearby, watching him? Was Scully there, bound and helpless? "Don't waste your time looking for me, Agent Mulder. I'm long gone." Mulder caught the use of the pronoun 'I'. Was Scully not with him? He must have her stashed somewhere, while he moved about, obviously watching him, and Scully's apartment building. He inhaled sharply, a terrible thought filling his head. Had he already killed her and dumped her body, and was merely stringing him along for his personal pleasure? The words tumbled out in his fear. "Who are you? Where is she?" "I'm disappointed, Agent Mulder. I thought we had quite a connection, once. I had hoped you would remember me." There was a burst of static, and then noises he did not recognize. He cursed inwardly, wishing there was someway to record these calls, so they could analyze every sound later. The noises cleared and Mulder realized the man had been speaking. "...left you a clue, Agent Mulder. Your skills of intuition, have they slowed with time? I'll leave you to your thoughts, maybe something will come to you." "Wait!" Mulder said into the phone. "May I talk to her?" He hoped his voice did not sound as pleading to the man as it did in his own ears. "Perhaps another time, Agent Mulder." Click. Mulder closed his eyes, the phone still pressed to his ear. His free hand clenched into a fist and then he forced a deep breath into his lungs and out. And again. Opening his eyes, he glanced once more up and down the block before heading back inside. The man had said he left a clue. Mulder was determined to find it. *** end Part 1 of 29 Revenge Part 2 of 29 by Lovesfox Abandoned Warehouse, Dockside Washington, D.C. Monday 7:30 pm Scully blinked her eyes, her vision blurry. Slowly it cleared, but she could see little anyway. Where she lay, and she had yet to determine where that could be, was dimly lit. She struggled awkwardly into a seated position on the lumpy cot, her back slumping wearily into the wall behind her from the effort of rising. Her hands were still bound, rather tightly, with rope. She swung her legs, also tied with rope, down in front of her to partially dangle off the edge, trying to stretch the kinks out. She did not know how long she had been out this time. After the man had shoved a cell phone in her face, telling her it was Mulder, and she had said his name, hearing herself slur the word, she had been gone again. The room she was kept in did not have windows, and always seemed to be in the same stage of light, so it was difficult to judge the time of day. She was not actually sure which day it was either. Her captor, whom she did not recognize, and who made no effort to disguise himself, a fact which disturbed her greatly, brought her water and food, and took her to use the facilities, at odd intervals, so she could not guesstimate the time of day. He also kept her well sedated. Her arm was sore from repeated injections. She had lost count of how many there had been, and not knowing what she was injected with, or the dosage, she could not determine a pattern there either. She was almost sure though, that when she was awake, it was not for very long. Her mind was clearing further. She decided to take advantage of this and try and learn a bit more about her surroundings. The wall against her back was cool, and a bit damp, and she shivered slightly. At least she was no longer in her suit. Some time earlier, and it could have been hours or days ago, her captor had untied first her hands and then after her feet, and thrown a sweatshirt and a pair of track pants, which she recognized as her own, at her to change into. She had been very groggy, her muscles weak, and had been unable to attempt to overcome him, knowing it was futile at the time. He had not turned away, or allowed her to, and she had been forced to disrobe and dress in front of him. She had done so quickly, trying not to let her emotions show on her face. She was not sure if the smile on his face had been at her involuntary strip tease, or the fact that she had failed to disguise her discomfort, but whatever the reason, it had made her feel very uncomfortable. She shook her head slightly. Enough, there was no point in dwelling on that. So far, and she prayed fervently that it would remain that way; he had not touched her except to move her about. She had a vague memory of him jumping out at her from a white van, so she must have been transported here, wherever here was, by the van, and then carried inside. The room she was in was rectangular, and no more than ten feet by perhaps twelve feet. The walls, including the one she leaned against, were cement, probably a light gray, although in the poor lighting, it was difficult to determine positively. She finally noticed where the light was coming from. One bare light bulb in the corner opposite where she rested upon the cot, up in the ceiling, for the scantiest of illumination. There was only one door, and it appeared to be of a heavy wood. She hadn't been able to work up enough energy to try and get to it and see if it was locked yet. The logical side of her brain insisted it was locked, there was little chance he would be so careless as to leave her a means to escape her prison. The small, hopeful part prayed that he had somehow forgotten. She had to try. She straightened from the wall and clumsily shimmied herself forward until her feet were planted on the floor. It took several attempts, but she managed to heave her body into a standing position. She wavered there for a moment, her head spinning nauseously, before she finally felt ready to try to move. With her feet tied together as they were, she was reduced to hopping ignominiously, each landing jarring her head and body. She was thankful her hands were bound in front of her; she did not think she could have kept her balance otherwise. She was panting harshly by the time she got to the door, and had to pause for a moment as she felt her head spin again. Several deep, slow breaths helped a little, and she reached out with her bound hands to grasp the doorknob. There was a scraping noise from the other side, and she gasped sharply. The doorknob turned and then the heavy wood was swinging inwards, knocking her to the ground. She hit hard, her breath whooshing out of her lungs with the impact. Pain sang along her right side and hip and she groaned in reaction, curling into a ball. "Going somewhere?" the man said, standing just above her. Scully heard the anger in the seemingly casual words, and knew she would pay for her escape attempt. Feeling she had nothing more to lose, she tensed all her muscles and with one swift movement, kicked her legs out in a sweeping motion, connecting with his ankles. Either she was weaker than she had thought, or he was far stronger than he appeared. The movement did not knock him to the ground as she had intended, but merely caused him to lose his balance slightly. She could feel his eyes on her, menacing and cold, and a twinge of fear had her heart racing. "That was a very bad idea," he said between gritted teeth. He swooped down suddenly and grabbed her by her upper arms, hauling her to her feet. He shook her hard and the motion woke the dizziness in her head. She tried to contain her moan, but it slid past her lips as he continued to shake her. "Did. You. Think. I. Would. Leave. The. Door. Unlocked? Do. You. Think. I. Am. Stupid?" Each word was punctuated by another shake. Her eyes were rolling, the nausea nearly overwhelming. He must have sensed she was close to passing out, for he stopped shaking her and flung her towards the cot. She landed awkwardly, her ribs colliding with the metal frame, her upper body on the cot, her lower half hanging off of it. She had neither the strength nor the leverage to pull her self completely onto the cot, and tumbled to the floor, with nothing to break her fall but her body, which it did with a bone-jarring thud. Heavy footsteps as he stomped to her side. She cringed, expecting a blow, but he merely grasped her by one of her arms and pulled her upright again. This time when he pushed her, he made sure she landed on the cot, falling onto her rear. As frightened as she was, she was not going to cower before him. She lifted her head, her chin jutting out, to meet his eyes. He frowned at her action, and then his eyes dropped, to her neck, she thought. His frown deepened, and he muttered something that sounded like, "She tried to hang herself." He moved forward, bending over her, and she pressed herself against the wall as his hand came up to touch the flesh at her throat. He ran his fingers over it gently and this time she heard his words clearly. "There's no scar." Scully swallowed suddenly, a nervous reaction that he felt beneath his fingertips, for he blinked and pulled back. He straightened, his eyes returning to hers. "You can't escape. It's useless to try," he said. "If you attempt it again, I will have to restrain you further." He paused and then continued, "It won't be pleasant." "Why..." her voice was hoarse from misuse. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Why am I here?" He turned away from her and started towards the door. She didn't think he was going to answer, but he stopped at the doorway. He did not turn around, but his voice carried. "Agent Mulder took something from me, so I took something from him. You." With that, he left the room, shutting the door behind him. The lock engaging from the other side was loud in the silence of her small prison and Scully slumped tiredly against the wall. Mulder. Oh, God, what was he going through right now? She hadn't really thought about why the man had made her speak Mulder's name into the cell phone, but now she realized the man must be using her to torment Mulder. Did Mulder know who the man was? How was he going to find her? For she knew he would find her, that he would not rest until he did. Tears stung her eyes, and she shut them to stop their flow. She swung her legs up carefully, and lay down on the cot, her bound hands in front of her. Although her head still throbbed a little from the shaking, she was still feeling alert. Just as she was wondering why he had not drugged her again, the door opened with a bang. He moved to her side quickly, bent down and jabbed a needle in her arm, drawing a hiss of pain from her. Her eyelids were heavy by the time he left the room. *** Scully's Apartment Georgetown, D.C. Monday 8:30 pm Skinner entered Scully's apartment wearily, and scanned the living room, not spying Mulder. The pictures were still spread on the table, but the cell phone was gone. He rubbed the back of his neck as he crossed over to Agent Dryer, who was still manning the phone. "Where is Agent Mulder?" he asked gruffly, fighting the urge to yawn. He was also trying not to think of the gnawing hole in his stomach, the coffee he had scarfed down a couple hours ago had done little to appease his appetite. "Sir!" the agent said, his back straightening. Skinner resisted the urge to tell the agent they were not in the Marines and repeated his question, his tone only slightly brisker. "Where is Agent Mulder?" "In Agent Scully's bedroom, Sir," Agent Dryer replied, his face crinkling in confusion. "He went out a while ago to check her car, and then he came rushing back in here, saying he needed to check Agent Scully's bedroom and that he didn't want to be disturbed. He hasn't come out since, Sir." Skinner nodded absent-mindedly at the agent, starting to move away from Dryer. They had forgotten to check her car, but he doubted Mulder had found anything, he would have reported it if he had. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, to conceal the yawn he could no longer contain. He turned back to the agent and said, a little gruffly, "You're relieved for the evening, Agent Dryer. I'd like you back here at 7 am." Agent Dryer stood and nodded, saying, "Thank-you, Sir." He looked down the hallway that led to Scully's bedroom and then at Skinner, but said nothing. Skinner watched as Dryer left the apartment, and then locked the door. He glanced at the pictures on the table once more before heading down the hall to Scully's bedroom. He wondered what Mulder was doing, why he had closeted himself in there. He rapped on the door lightly with his knuckles, and hearing nothing in response, slowly opened the door. The sight that greeted his eyes had him pausing in the doorway. Mulder sat on the floor, his back against one side of Scully's bed, his arms wrapped around his bent legs, staring blankly at the floor. Focused on Mulder as he had been, he had not noticed the condition of Scully's bedroom. He stepped further inside, head swiveling as he scanned the room in shock. Everything was in disarray. Drawers were open, articles of clothing hanging from some, and Skinner almost blushed when he spied a wisp of silk and lace, the bedding in a jumble in the center of the bed, the pillows tossed in one corner. The low dresser that rested under the windows had been shoved out and on an angle, and the items that had graced its surface appeared to have been propelled to one side. Skinner looked back at Mulder, who had not moved in the time he had been standing by the door. The agent had shed his jacket and tie, both of which lay on the floor where they had apparently been flung, and his sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up on his forearms. Skinner crossed the floor and crouched beside Mulder. The agent showed no sign of having heard him approach. He reached out and grasped Mulder's forearm, much as he had earlier. The flesh he touched was chilled and Skinner felt a twinge of alarm. "Mulder?" he questioned. No response. He tightened his grip and shook Mulder lightly, repeating his name. Mulder continued to stare at the floor, barely even blinking, and Skinner shook him again, a little harder. "Mulder, snap out of it, man!" he barked, and was finally rewarded by Mulder's head turning slowly to look at him. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide and tortured, not quite meeting Skinner's own. "He said he left a clue," Mulder said, his voice just above a whisper. "I can't find it." He turned his head away again, eyes sweeping the room. He pulled from Skinner's grasp and stood, shakily. "It has to be here. I have to find it." Skinner got to his feet slowly. "Did he call again, Mulder?" he asked. "What did he say?" When Mulder did not answer, he called the agent's name sharply. Mulder turned to face him. His eyes were filled with confusion, and exhaustion. "What?" he asked. "Mulder, did the man call again?" Skinner asked again. He moved over to Mulder's side and pushed him onto the mussed bed. Mulder sank unresisting, his hands coming up to hold his head. "I went outside. To check Scully's car. I found...I found the key chain I gave her a long time ago. It was broken." Mulder's recital was monotone. "The car was clean, and I was headed back inside, when the phone rang. It was him. He asked if I found anything interesting with Scully's car." His hands slid away from his head and he raised it to look at Skinner. "I think he's watching me, watching Scully's place." The look on his face frightened Skinner. "He said we had a connection, and that he was disappointed. I didn't...I don't recognize his voice. But he said he left a clue. I have to find..." His voice trailed off and he stood and began to wander around Scully's bedroom, stopping occasionally to peer at things closely. Skinner watched Mulder worriedly. He had seen Mulder in distracted, concentrating states before, but this intensity was almost frightening. And at the same time, fascinating to watch. It made him admire Mulder, and Scully for dealing with it on a regular basis, even more. Skinner knew that Mulder would not rest unless forced, and that he would have to be the one to force him. "Mulder, you need to take a break. You'll be no help to Scully if you collapse from hunger or exhaustion," he said, moving to touch Mulder on the shoulder. "A clear head will help you focus." Mulder looked at him, mumbling, "Scully. Help Scully." Skinner was surprised at how docile Mulder was as he led him out of Scully's bedroom and to her kitchen. He pushed him into a chair and set about making Mulder something to eat. It felt awkward to be using Scully's kitchen so freely, but he knew she would approve the usage for Mulder's sake. He listened to Mulder's disjointed ramblings as he made sandwiches for both of them, and poured Mulder some ice tea from the pitcher he found inside the refrigerator. The words 'clue' and 'Scully' were uttered most frequently, and with great sadness. He placed the plate and glass in front of Mulder and watched as Mulder mechanically picked up the glass and drained it completely. He ignored the sandwich, and Skinner said softly, "Mulder, Scully would want you to eat." He was not surprised when Mulder began to eat the sandwich. He picked up his own and ate it in quick, economical bites. His next move was to get Mulder to rest. After clearing the dishes from the table and placing them in the sink to clean later, he placed his hand gently on Mulder's shoulder. He hoped he would not have to undress Mulder, but was prepared to if that was what it took. "You need to get some sleep, Mulder. Come on." He paused and then added, "For Scully." Once again, Scully's name was the magic word. Mulder rose from his chair and headed down the hall to Scully's bedroom, and Skinner followed, slightly bemused. He stood in the doorway and watched as Mulder went to Scully's closet and retrieved a blanket and a pillow, as if he had done this many times before. Perhaps he had, Skinner mused. He had never questioned the closeness between Mulder and Scully, although he had often wondered how deep it went. A small part of him even envied it. He followed Mulder back down the hall and saw him put the bedding on the couch. Mulder stripped off his shoes, shirt and pants, pulling the cell phone out of one of the pockets, and settled onto the couch in his undershirt and boxers, pulling the blanket over his body. The cell phone he held clutched in one hand, resting on his chest. Skinner stood for a moment, uncertainly. Finally he headed back down the hall to use Scully's bathroom. He relieved himself and then turned to the cabinets beneath the sink. A quick search turned up a brand new toothbrush still in its wrapper. He availed himself of it and her toothpaste, and then splashed water over his face, drying off on the hand towel folded neatly to the side of the sink. Removing his tie and shirt, having taken off his suit jacket in the kitchen, he hung them on the hook on the back of the door before heading back to the living room. He kicked off his shoes and sank into the wing chair, propping his sock feet on the coffee table, resigning himself to an uncomfortable night. He could not tell if Mulder was sleeping or not, but remained silent, hoping against all hopes that he was, and that his sleep would be deep and dreamless. He closed his eyes, head falling back to rest on the back of the chair, and let his body relax. His thoughts drifted to the many interviews he had conducted throughout the day, and the lack of any substantial information from Scully's neighbors. He had also spoken briefly to the agent that he had placed in charge of conducting spot checks in the buildings that lined Scully's street, Traci Reynolds. There had been nothing to report. He had instructed her and the other agents to return in the morning to begin again. He took a deep breath, clearing his mind of all thoughts, including those that concerned Scully and her well being, knowing that he badly needed to get some rest in order to continue the investigation into her disappearance. Within moments, he was asleep. *** 11:30 pm Mulder lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, his hand clutching the cell phone, his lifeline to Scully. He could hear Skinner's deep, even breathing as the man slept. He himself could not sleep. His mind was filled with images of Scully, most of them from the pictures he had stared at for so long. It seemed the man had been following them, following her, for quite some time before he had made his move. The thought was disturbing, some of the pictures showed how close he had actually gotten to them at times, and he wondered how it was that they had not noticed. Had they become so complacent in their lives, in their routines, that they no longer saw the unusual around them? He had always prided himself in his keen senses, why had they failed him then? And now? A clue. It could be so many things, but nothing jumped out at him. He had stood in Scully's bedroom after the phone call for what seemed like hours, but in reality had been only minutes, studying it as they had first found it, minus the photos on the bed and the cell phone on the dresser. He hadn't exactly been a regular visitor to Scully's bedroom, but he had been there often enough, he thought, to recognize something out of the ordinary. Her closet door had been slightly ajar, and while that could just have been from Scully not closing it properly, he had gone over to it and looked inside. Shoes neatly arranged on little shoe racks, were any missing? He couldn't tell. Skirts, pants, suit jackets, blazers, somewhat organized by color. Gaps here and there, clothing at the dry cleaners? Her suitcase and carry on bag stowed tidily in the back. He had pulled dresser drawers open next, seeing evidence of Scully's neatness everywhere, rifling through each one. A sweet scent rose from each drawer, and he saw sachets tucked inside. He had hesitated when he discovered her lingerie, feeling like a pervert for invading her privacy that way. At the same time, he had felt no small thrill for touching the silks and satins she wore close to her skin. He also felt shame for that thrill. He had turned then and her bed had loomed before him, the comforter slightly wrinkled from when he had removed the photographs. Other than the cell phone on the dresser, it had been the only other apparent item that had been touched or tampered with. His legs had jerkingly carried him forward and then he was at one side, staring down at it, at the pillows her head graced each night, at the comforter that kept her warm. His hand lifted from his side so slowly, and then suddenly he was grasping one of the pillows and tossing it aside. The other one followed quickly, but they revealed nothing. Cold fingers plucked at the bedding, flipping them down in one swift moment. Still nothing. The low dresser beneath the windows was next. He shoved it out of the way, checking behind it, around it, his movements choppy and frantic. Grabbing at the window shades, lifting them, shaking them. Where was it? Where was the fucking clue? He had begun to pace, back and forth, from the window to the closet. Over and over again, eyes restlessly searching. Then from the bed to the door, until finally he had sank exhaustedly onto the floor, his back against her bed. He drew his knees up to his chest, hugged them tightly to his body. As he lay there on the couch, he remembered Skinner coming into Scully's bedroom, leading him to the kitchen, and making him eat. The sandwich sat like a leaden lump in his stomach still. His fingers clenched spasmodically on the cell phone, and he wondered if Scully had eaten. If she was thirsty, or tired, or hurt. Please don't let her be hurt. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the darkness to overwhelm him. *** Abandoned Warehouse, Dockside Washington, D.C. Tuesday 5:00 am When Scully woke again, he was there. Sitting on a stool he must have brought in, close to the cot, staring at her. She could not control her startled flinch or the widening of her eyes. He smiled at her reaction, but it was an odd smile. A smile that sent a shiver through her entire body. She pushed herself up on the cot awkwardly, grimacing as the motion brought pins and needles to her bound hands, and huddled against the wall, hating her display of weakness, but helpless to stop it. She blinked slowly, her mind still fuzzy, and tried to swallow away the dryness in her mouth and throat. "Thirsty?" he asked, and his concern seemed sincere. She nodded, watching him carefully as he reached down beside him, beyond her range of sight, and straightened, holding a bottle of water. He unscrewed the cap and held the bottle out to her, forcing her to lean forward to grasp it with pained fingers. It was difficult, with her hands tied so tightly, but she managed to bring the bottle to her mouth, tilting her head back to drink deeply. Scully did not close her eyes as she drank, but kept them focused warily on him, watching for any sudden moves. She saw that he was staring at her throat, seemingly fascinated by the motions of her swallows. It made her uncomfortable and she lowered the bottle, holding it carefully in her lap. He had stared at her throat earlier too, and said something about her not having a scar. She saw that he was rocking slightly, and that his eyes were a little glazed. His lips were moving soundlessly, and then the words tumbled out. "Her throat. Her beautiful throat. The scar. Oh, it must have hurt." "Whose throat?" she asked softly. His eyes snapped up to meet hers, and they narrowed in anger. "Shut up!" he hissed. Suddenly he was off the stool and crouching over her, his body pinning hers to the cot, his hands around her neck, squeezing tightly. The water bottle fell to the floor with a small thud. Scully tried to suck in air, her vision going spotty. Her bound hands came up to bat ineffectively at his chest. Fortunately her motions must have distracted him, for he let go, pulling away from her, mumbling, "No, no. Not like this. Mulder must see..." His voice trailed off, and he began to pace. Scully gulped in deep lungfuls, coughing painfully. What must Mulder see? The man's pacing had brought him back the cot, his foot kicking the fallen water bottle. He bent and righted it as she continued to cough. "Don't you try and distract me," he said, shaking his finger at her. "Mulder has to suffer, just as I did." He turned away again. "Just as she did." His steps took him to the door and she thought he was going to leave again. But he turned around and came back to sit on the stool once more, shaking his head. "You're making me confused," he said. "I don't like that." He reached inside the jacket he wore and pulled out a syringe. The low moan rose unbidden in her throat and he looked at her unapologetically. "I don't trust you not to try anything," he said. "This is just a little something to make you...manageable." One hand grasped her by the elbow, lifting her arm up as the other hand injected the syringe's contents into the muscle of her upper arm. His next words were lower, and she heard them only vaguely through the fog that was invading her mind. "They kept her sedated all the time." Scully blinked, a feeling of lassitude swamping her body, and wondered in a far corner of her brain who 'she' was. Her tongue was thick but she managed to mumble, "Who?" The man looked at her in surprise, seemingly unaware he had spoken again, and Scully wanted to remember something, but the thought flew away, blanketed by the fog. Hands were at her feet, and then she was being lifted, to stand waveringly on the floor. A gripping at her elbow, prodding her forward, and she floated across the floor and out the door. She felt the cold, and the dampness, but they were far away feelings, like something she might have been concerned with once upon a time. They did not walk long before they made a turn into another room, the walls of which were tiled in a uniform white. There were door-less bathroom stalls, and off to the side, partitioned shower stalls that may have once had curtains for privacy. He stopped her and stood in front of her to untie her hands, then gestured at the room. "Make yourself at home." Scully stared down at her freed hands, at the redness that circled her wrists and then looked around. The man was sitting on a chair she had not seen a moment ago, blocking the doorway, facing into the room. He did not turn his head or offer her privacy in any way. She walked on weak legs to the farthest stall, the one that was least visible from his perch, still capable of feeling embarrassment and shame through the languor. After she had relieved herself, she made her way to the sink, her shuffling footsteps loud in the quiet of the room. She stared at herself in the long mirror that ran along the wall, distantly noting the pallor of her skin and the lankness of her hair. There was actually a bank of sinks, and she thought for the briefest of seconds that she might be in a locker room of sorts. His voice reached her then. "You should take a shower. There is a towel and soap on the counter." Scully stared at her reflection, wondering if it were possible to get any paler. Despite the drug coursing through her system, that seemed to chase away all her thoughts, she knew she did not want to take a shower in this room. "Refusal really isn't an option," came his voice, and she shivered at the menace. "If you don't take it yourself, I will help you." The tone was enough to have her picking up the aforementioned items and moving, albeit slowly, over to the shower stalls. Again, she chose the one farthest from him, stiffening at the low chuckle that followed her actions. She kept her back to him and resolutely removed her clothing, trying to move as swiftly as possible. Her hands were all thumbs, and as she leaned over to remove her shoes, she felt light-headed for a moment, reaching out one hand to brace herself on the cold tile. She piled her clothes just outside the raised step that led into the stall, along with the towel, shielding her nude body as best she could, and grasping the soap in one hand, reached out with the other to turn the water on. The flow was not very heavy, nor was it very warm, but it still felt good. She stuck her head directly into the water and let it run over her face for a moment before scrubbing one hand over her eyes, although she left them closed. If she couldn't see him, then he couldn't see her. A childish thought, she knew, but one she needed to cling to. She did not want to think of him watching her as she washed herself. He had not provided her with shampoo, just the soap, and as she lathered it in her hands, its fragrance wafted to her nostrils. It was a scented soap that smelled faintly of roses. She ran the soap through her hair, scrubbing at her scalp, and then rinsed it out. She made quick work of the rest of her body and had turned to rinse completely when a sound reached her ears. She opened her eyes fearfully, but he was not there. The sound came again, and she recognized it as the scraping of his chair on the floor. "Turn off the water and get dressed," came his voice, echoing slightly in the tiled room. She hurried as much as she was able, turning the taps off and drying her body quickly before putting her clothes back on. She then used the towel to blot the water from her hair. She made her way to where he was now standing and he spoke again. "Hold out your hands." She did, and he re-tied them. He tugged at her and she stumbled into him. He made a sniffing sound and then whispered, "You smell like Elizabeth." He shook his head, blinking rapidly and pulled at her again, leading her back to her prison. He pushed her inside, saying, "I'll bring you something to eat later. I have to get ready...to torment Mulder." The door slammed behind her, the lock clicking into place. She made her way over to the cot and sat down; surprised that he had not tied her feet up again. She yawned deeply then, her body extremely tired from the exertions of walking and showering, so she lay down on the cot. Her eyes drifted shut, her mind still not quite clear. The words "torment Mulder" rang over and over. What did he mean? And who was Elizabeth? Sleep overtook her. *** 6:00 am Elliot Andercott moved through the silence of the warehouse towards the room where he kept Dana Scully. In his hands he carried his Polaroid camera, ready to proceed with the next stage of his plan of revenge against Fox Mulder. He looked at his watch; saw that he was running a bit behind. The scent that had teased his nostrils when Dana bumped into him, Elizabeth's scent, had thrown him for a loop. His mind had refused to work, he could not get Elizabeth's image out. He missed her so. He had barely been able to leave the room where he was keeping Dana, and he had forgotten to inject her again. He was not overly concerned about not having drugged her further, she had been heavily sedated the night before, and the relaxant he had given her in order for her to shower had probably been enough to knock her out again anyway. Reaching the door, he took a deep breath, trying to focus on the tasks at hand, and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and saw that he was correct. Dana Scully was out cold on the cot. He also saw that he had forgotten to retie her feet. He would have to rectify that for when he went out. He crossed the floor to stand over her. She lay partially on her side, knees drawn up to her chest, facing the door, curling strands of hair falling onto her face. He bent over and reached one hand out slowly to brush the hair away, he needed her face clear. The scent of roses wafted to his nose again and he closed his eyes, letting his fingers sift through the softness of her hair. Just like Elizabeth's. Elizabeth. His eyes popped open and he straightened with an angry jerk. Lifting the camera to his eye, he pointed it at her face, and pressed the button. The camera whirred noisily, but she did not move. He removed the Polaroid and placed it on the stool to dry. He stepped back and pointed it at her again, this time including her body in the shot. He took two that way, laying each picture aside, and then focused the camera on her bound hands, taking one of them as well. Putting the camera aside, he looked around him for the rope to tie her feet. There wasn't any. He must have left it in the shower room. He cursed under his breath. He didn't have any time to waste. He would just have to inject her again. He reached inside his inner pocket and pulled out another syringe. With quick movements, he pressed it into her arm, holding the spent needle carefully in his fingers. The Polaroids were thankfully dry, so he tucked them into his pocket before picking up the camera. He left the room and locked the door. He moved quickly and was soon at a small door that led outside. Out of habit, he glanced around as he made his way to the van, but this area of the docks had been deserted for months. That had been one of the reasons he had decided on this place when he had first began to plot his revenge against Fox Mulder. Thoughts of Mulder's reactions to his 'gift' kept him so occupied, that the drive to Dana Scully's apartment building took no time at all. As he cruised past it slowly, he spied the unmarked vehicles that earmarked them as being Bureau issue. He swore ripely under his breath. His distraction this morning had thrown his timing off. He wouldn't be able to deliver his little package for Mulder himself. He had gotten very excited at the thought of going up the sidewalk of her building, walking down her hallway, leaving his gift for Mulder at her door. Knowing without a doubt that Mulder would be inside. Hoping that he would be the one to find it. Elliot pulled the van up to the curb, about a block away from Dana's building. His hands clenched on the steering wheel as he began to spit out more curses. He needed this, needed to torment Mulder a little more before the next step. Movement outside the passenger side window caught his attention, and he turned his head to see a young boy walking past. An idea flared, and he quickly shifted to the other seat, rolling the window down. "Hey, kid," he called. The boy stopped and turned around slowly, his head swiveling from side to side as he tried to find where the voice had come from. Spying Elliot, beckoning from the van, he moved a little closer, hitching the knapsack on his back a little higher. His eyes were wary and curious at the same time. "Yeah?" he asked, trying for a tough sounding voice, and failing miserably as it cracked. "You want to make twenty bucks?" Elliot asked. The kid took a step back, his eyes narrowing. "Nothing like that, kid," Elliot said quickly, and smiled when the kid did not move away. "I need you to deliver something for me, that's all. I'm running behind, I've got to get moving." He held up the twenty-dollar bill he had pulled from his wallet. "Only take you five minutes." The kid tilted his head, considering, staring at the money in Elliot's hand. He nodded, a grin flashing on his face, and came over to the van. "Where?" Elliot told him the building and apartment number, pointing down the block. He lifted the sealed manila envelope from the floor and passed it out the window. The money was next, which the kid shoved deep into his jeans pocket. "Just drop it off in front of the door, okay?" "Sure," the kid said. "No problem." He waggled the envelope at Elliot and headed off down the sidewalk. Elliot smiled. Plan B would work just as nicely. The kid hadn't even noticed he was wearing Latex gloves. *** Scully's Apartment Georgetown, D.C. Tuesday 7:30 am Walter Skinner leaned one hip against the counter in Scully's kitchen, hands cradling a steaming mug of coffee. The savory aroma wafted up to his nose, stirring his hunger, and helping to clear the last vestiges of sleep from his mind and body. He had awoken twice through the night before finally rising completely just before six a.m. Once with a very painful crick in his neck, which he had rectified by changing his position on the chair, and the second time by Mulder. The agent had done nothing overt, such as speaking to him or shaking him awake. An eerie sensation of being watched had invaded his sleeping thoughts and he had jolted awake to find Mulder sitting upright on the couch, the cell phone clutched in one hand, staring with unblinking intensity at him. After confirming Mulder was all right, or as all right as he could be in this situation, he had forced himself to relax back into the chair. The experience had brought to mind memories of terrifying late night patrols in the jungles of Vietnam, and he had slept uneasily for the remainder of the night. Skinner took a cautious sip of the hot liquid, feeling the burn all the way down to his stomach, which growled in response, still pondering the previous night and his early rising. He was normally up with the dawn by habit, but believed he would have slept a little longer if not for the fact that Mulder had chosen to sit at the table and go through the photographs yet again. Skinner yawned, rubbing his hand over the tenseness in his neck, wanting a hot shower desperately. He flicked a glance at the clock on Scully's stove. He had convinced Mulder to take a shower, and the agent had been in there for quite some time. The image of Mulder, standing hollow-eyed and stubble-cheeked, holding the cell phone he had refused to relinquish even for a moment, before nodding jerkily and shuffling defeatedly down the hall, would remain in Skinner's head for a very long time. The desperation and desolation apparent on Mulder's face was haunting, and Skinner hoped with all he had in him that Scully would be found safely, and soon. For all their sakes. A rapid knocking at the door startled him from his dark thoughts, and he nearly spilt coffee on himself. He placed the cup on the counter and made his way to the door, expecting to find either Agent Dryer or Agent Taylor. He opened the door to reveal another agent, whose name escaped him at the moment, standing with one hand on the shoulder of a young boy. In his other hand he held a manila envelope. Skinner had a very bad feeling about the envelope, and could not control the muscle that began to twitch in his jaw. He resisted the urge to grab it from the agent, and instead asked, "What is it, Agent?" "Sir," the clean-cut, young-looking agent said. "Agent Reynolds had stationed me in the lobby, to check the names of everyone entering and exiting, to make sure we have interviewed everyone, and this young man came in, saying he had to deliver this envelope. When I asked him which apartment number, I realized it was Agent Scully's, so I brought him up. Sir." Skinner looked from the agent to the young boy, who wore an expression he could not quite define. Fear, with a touch of belligerence? He nodded to the agent, saying, "Thank-you. I'll handle this from here. Back to your post." "Yes, sir," the agent said, and nudged the boy forward with the hand on his shoulder. He passed the envelope to Skinner and turned to go back to the lobby. The boy walked inside, and Skinner shut the door behind him. He was torn between wanting to look inside the envelope and questioning the boy. His quick glance showed Mulder's name printed on it in block letters, and he knew he could not open it without Mulder. Which left the boy. Skinner sighed, and rubbed his free hand over his neck again. He had little, if any, contact with children, and hadn't the faintest idea where to begin. He turned to see the boy staring at something off to the side and spied Mulder standing there in a pair of jeans with a towel around his neck. His chest and feet were bare, and for a brief second Skinner wondered where Mulder had gotten the jeans, before he saw that Mulder's eyes were focused on the manila envelope he held. "When did that come?" Mulder asked hoarsely. His hands clenched spasmodically on the ends of the towel, and his face was white. Skinner was sure he had not even noticed the boy standing less than ten feet from him. "Mulder, we just got it. This boy was delivering it." Mulder seemed to come alive then, crossing the floor in rapid strides to stand before the boy, bending at the waist to grasp the kid's shoulders. "Where did you find it?" he asked, nearly spitting the words out. Skinner moved a few steps closer and said Mulder's name warningly. He was relieved when Mulder released the boy's shoulders and straightened. He watched the agent's eyes flick from the boy to the envelope and back, and knew that whatever calmness or peace Mulder may have gotten from his long shower was gone. He held the envelope out, saying, "Mulder, let me talk to him." Mulder's hand shook as he grabbed the envelope, and Skinner watched him head back down the hall, no doubt to Scully's bedroom, before turning back to the boy. He smiled, but it must have looked more like a grimace, for the kid scowled back at him. He gave up on the smile and said, "Sorry about that, son. My name is Walter Skinner, and I'm with the FBI. We're investigating a possible kidnapping, and I really need to know where you found this envelope." "FBI?" the kid repeated. "Cool!" He seemed to relax with the information that Skinner was with the FBI. He shrugged his shoulders, and looked around Scully's apartment. "I didn't find the envelope." Skinner frowned, and resisted the urge to grab the kid's shoulders as Mulder had. He sighed, and perched his butt on the arm of the chair, to be more level with the kid. "If you didn't find it, where did you get it?" "Some guy gave me twenty bucks to bring it up here," the kid said. Jesus Christ. Skinner sprang to his feet, pointing his finger at the kid. "Stay there!" he barked, and raced down the hall, bellowing Mulder's name. Scully's door was closed, but Mulder came out seconds later. He had put on a tee shirt and a pair of running shoes, and his face was paler and starker than ever before. Skinner skidded to a halt, eyes shooting from Mulder's face to his hand, to what looked like Polaroid pictures clutched in his fingers. "Mulder?" he asked, feeling his body go cold. Please don't be pictures of her dead, he repeated over and over in his head. STOP! He told himself. "Mulder, the kid said some guy paid him to bring the envelope up here." Mulder brushed past him to run to stand next to the kid. "What guy?" he asked, bending at the waist to stare into the kid's eyes. "What guy paid you to bring the envelope?" he repeated, louder. The kid shrugged. "Guy in a van. He called me over, asked if I wanted to make some money. Gave me the address and the apartment number." He shuffled back a step, looking down at his sneaker-clad feet, a look of fear crossing his face. "I didn't do anything wrong, did I?" he asked. Skinner had followed on Mulder's heels, and he put one hand out to pat the kid awkwardly on the shoulder. "No, you didn't do anything wrong. Can you tell us about the van?" At those words, Mulder ran over to the door and yanked it open. Skinner could hear the sounds of his footsteps thudding down the hall. He tightened his grip slightly on the kid's shoulder and directed him to sit on the couch. "I need you to wait right here. It's very important. An agent is coming to come in, and I want you to tell him everything you can remember about the man, and the van he was in, okay?" The kid nodded, still looking scared half to death. "It's okay," Skinner said. "You did good, okay?" He tried to smile, but his heart was pounding frantically. He needed to move. "Stay," he repeated and left the apartment, shutting the door behind him. *** 4:30 pm Mulder raked one hand through his hair, uncaring that it was spiked in every direction, and sighed harshly as he stared at the composite sketch of their suspect. His eyes burned, the image blurring, and he blinked several times. The paper shook in his hand, and he finally had to put it down on the table before he dropped it. His chair caught on the Oriental rug as he pushed it back from the table and he kicked at it in frustration, muttering a curse. The chair fell over with a loud bang, and both Skinner and Agent Dryer reacted with surprised exclamations. Mulder shot them a look but did not apologize. He angrily scooped the chair up and slammed it down in place before stalking over to stare out the window. As he stared down at the street, his mind wandered back to earlier that morning, after the envelope of Polaroids arrived. He had raced outside of Scully's apartment building, flying past the two agents stationed in her lobby, vaguely hearing their cries of startlement, to skid to a stop at the edge of the walk. He remembered whipping his head from side to side to look up and down the street. The number of vans had stupefied him, and as he stood there, his breath panting in and out harshly, he had realized he didn't even know what type of van. He had run out of the apartment before the kid had told them. A mini-van had passed slowly, and he had stepped forward, head craning to see inside. A woman had been driving, giving him a narrow-eyed look of suspicion. He had seen a toddler in a car seat in the middle row, and stepped back, shoulders slumping. Skinner had come out then, to bring him back inside. He had gone, unprotesting. The boy, twelve-year old Joshua Hamilton, had been sitting quietly on the couch with Agent Reynolds when they got back to Scully's apartment. Skinner had muttered something about women dealing better with children. Joshua had told them his story while they waited for the sketch artist to arrive. It had been a panel van, and very dirty. He thought it was white, and that it had red lettering on the side. He did not remember reading what it had said. His details of the suspect had been a little better, resulting in a fairly decent composite sketch. Mulder cursed again, turning away from the window to start pacing. The sketch he had been staring at for the better part of the day, in between staring numbly at the new Polaroids of Scully, and at the cell phone, which remained stubbornly silent. He did not recognize the suspect. He ran through the details yet again. Dark brown hair, slightly curly, thick eyebrows over deep-set eyes, that Joshua was fairly sure were brown, a largish nose, a thick mustache over thin lips, and a small goatee. An average face. A fairly pleasant face. Agent Reynolds had astutely asked Joshua about the man's teeth, and he had said they were big and white, not gross at all, which had made everyone smile. Everyone but Mulder. His pacing took him past the table and the Polaroid pictures of Scully caught his eyes. He stopped, the index finger of one hand going out almost involuntarily to trace her features on the top one. He picked it up, bringing it close to his face. He tried to take solace in the fact that she was dressed in different clothing, telling himself that it meant she was still alive, that the pictures were recent. He cringed as he looked at her bound hands, the slackness of her face, the dinginess of the bedding on which she lay. It appeared that she was on a cot of some sort, and he could make out a section of wall behind her, it looked like concrete. Not that these details helped any. She could be in a room anywhere. Someone's basement or garage. An abandoned building. Anywhere. He was not aware that Skinner had been talking to him, until he felt the AD's hand on his shoulder. He turned his head slowly, watching the man's lips move. "What?" he mumbled. Sound rushed in. "Mulder, I want you to take a break. Have something to eat. You're not going to do Scully any good, nor yourself." Skinner's tone was low, but still firm. He shook his head. Skinner didn't understand, and he could not explain, that he could not eat, that the thought of food turned his stomach. "I need to go to the Hoover building. Start going through my files." He swallowed, corrected himself. "Our files." He jutted his chin at the composite sketch lying on the table. "I don't recognize him at all, and that bothers me, because I don't forget faces. Maybe I'll see a picture in one of the files, get a name." "Fine," Skinner said. "I'll come with you, after we eat something." Implacably. His arms were crossed over his chest as he stared Mulder down. Mulder nodded his defeat. Eating could be faked, he had done it many a time when Scully got in one of her over-protective, mothering moods, and insisted he needed sustenance to keep up his strength. Scully. His gut clenched, and then his mind flashed back to one afternoon in their office. She had tried to tempt him with her yogurt and he had accidentally on purpose knocked the container over and then laughed uproariously at the look on her face as she stared down at the mess on the floor. She had been so ticked off, but still unable to keep the smile from lifting the corners of her mouth. She had used his freshly typed report due to Skinner that day to wipe the mess up in retaliation. He closed his eyes as a wave of weariness and pain washed over him, followed by dizziness, and dimly heard Skinner bark his name. Then he was being shoved into the chair he had vacated earlier. He brought his elbows to his knees and propped his head in his hands. Banging and thumping sounds from the kitchen, and then the press of something cold against his hand. A voice telling him to drink. He lifted his head up, seeing a blurred Skinner holding out a glass of what looked like water. He took it with a trembling hand and swallowed several mouthfuls before shaking his head and shoving the glass towards Skinner, feeling the water hitting his empty stomach. He bolted from the chair and down the hall to the bathroom, shuddering with dry heaves. Moments later a cold cloth was rubbing his face and then hands were lifting him and guiding him into Scully's bedroom. He did not fight as the hands pushed him gently onto the bed and covered him with the comforter. He turned his head into the pillow and inhaled her scent, loneliness and despair clutching at his heart. Scully, please be okay. *** end Part 2 of 29 Revenge Part 3 of 29 by Lovesfox Abandoned Warehouse, Dockside Washington, D.C. Tuesday 6:30 pm Elliot Andercott slipped silently through the warehouse towards the room where Dana Scully was kept, a packaged sandwich and a carton of milk in his hands, along with the length of rope that had been around her ankles earlier. He felt like he was floating as he made his way to give his captive her meal, the euphoria from the vision of Mulder running out of her building to search the streets after the delivery of the photographs had lingered throughout the day. He had found himself smiling and singing as he went about his business, laying the groundwork for his next step in his revenge against Fox Mulder. He had surprised himself with his restraint in not calling Mulder right away. He had been so tempted as he sat in his van down the street watching him, but he had also known that there was a slight bit of risk, so he had held back. The cell phone had been in his hand, his finger poised to dial, but he had resisted. Throughout the course of the day, he had found himself picking the phone up, wanting to call Mulder. Then he had thought with a wicked smile that it would be much more fun to let Mulder sit and stew in his own juices all day, waiting for the phone to ring. From what he had been able to research about Mulder, and what he had witnessed during his observations of the man with his lovely partner, he knew that was exactly what Mulder would do. So he had not called, and kept himself amused with his plans for the following night. He got a delicious little chill as he pictured the events in his mind. He came to a stop with a little giggle, thrilling to the thought of Mulder's reactions then, and unlocked the door to Dana's room. He pushed it open slowly and walked inside, taking a deep breath to settle himself down. He brought the stool back over to the cot and sat, placing everything on the floor beside him, and lifted his gaze to his charge. She was still asleep, her breaths slow and even. He watched the rise and fall of her chest, her breasts barely discernible through the material of the sweatshirt. It had ridden up at her waist, revealing the bare skin of her stomach, and he stared entranced at the whiteness of her flesh. He leaned closer, one hand reaching out to touch, to see if it was as soft as it looked, and the rose fragrance was suddenly sweet in his nostrils. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, his hand hovering in mid-air. Memories of Elizabeth assaulted his mind. <> "Elizabeth," he sighed, and the sound of his own voice had his eyes popping open. He looked at the woman on the cot, and she was Elizabeth. Boundless joy filled his lonely heart and he slid off the stool onto his knees, leaning over to bring his face close to hers. He nuzzled at her neck, breathing deeply of her familiar scent, one hand coming up to stroke through the softness of her hair. "Oh, Elizabeth, I've missed you so," he whispered, placing tiny kisses along her neck and jaw line. A part of his mind questioned the flawlessness of her neck, wondering where the scar was, but he was too happy to be with her again after so long, that he pushed the concern aside. Waves of desire swamped his body, and he moaned, moving so that he could press his lips to hers. He felt Elizabeth shift against him and lifted his head, watching her lids flutter open to reveal sleepy blue eyes. Blue? But Elizabeth had brown eyes. *** Scully came awake slowly through the waves of fog blanketing her mind. She became aware of a smothering presence by her face and then lips were pressing on hers. She twitched and the pressure was gone. She dragged her eyes open with effort, for they felt so heavy, to see...him. Her first instincts were to bring her hands up to push him away, and to recoil in disgust, but as she started to move she heard him whisper, "Elizabeth?" His voice was low and rough, and full of confusion. She froze in mid-action, watching as his head tilted to the side, his lips in a slight frown. He said it again, a little louder, the confusion still there. Scully took a chance that in his disoriented state he might answer her, and said very softly, "Who is Elizabeth?" She studied his face as he pulled back from her, blinking rapidly. He did not reply immediately, and she wondered if he had heard her at all. She lifted herself up slowly and carefully into a sitting position, her back coming to rest against the wall, and although his eyes followed her every movement, he still made no sound. She opened her mouth to ask again, but stopped when she saw him do the same. His voice was still low when he finally replied, and his eyes shifted away from hers, as if he could not look at them anymore. "Elizabeth was my...my sister." Her mind might be muddled from drugs, but she could still put two and two together. He had thought she was Elizabeth, and he had been kissing her. Kissing Elizabeth. Oh, God, did they have an incestuous relationship? Sheer force of will was necessary to keep the shock and revulsion from her face, but she looked down at her lap in case she failed. She and Mulder had encountered all walks of life in their years together, and while she might question the choices people made, she tried her best not to judge them. She also knew there could be mitigating circumstances that had led to their relationship, no matter how much the idea disturbed her. It was a struggle not to squirm, her skin felt like it was crawling. The word 'was' finally registered, and she drew a breath in sharply. Was Elizabeth's death the reason for her kidnapping? And what did Mulder have to do with it? The man had said Mulder had taken something from him. Did he mean Elizabeth, and if so, how? She could not recall an Elizabeth from any of their cases, numerous as they were, and although Mulder had often talked of some of his cases from his days in the Violent Crimes Unit, she knew there were many he had not. She would have to try and learn more. If she were allowed to talk to Mulder, maybe she could pass on whatever she could glean from the man. She would also have to be careful. She did not know enough about the man, other than the fact that he was very strong, and that he was not entirely stable mentally. And that for some as yet undetermined reason, he wanted revenge against Mulder. Scully looked up finally. He had raised his head and was watching her. His eyes no longer seemed confused, but the frown was still on his lips. Should she risk asking him more? Before she could say anything, he said rather abruptly, "You must be hungry. I brought a sandwich and some milk." He had slid back onto the stool, and bent down to pick up the rope. Her stomach growled loudly, even as the sight of the rope had it fluttering nervously, and she realized she did not know how long it had been since she had last eaten. She remembered the bottle of water, had that been this morning or yesterday? She nodded, saying, "Yes, please, I am hungry." No need to anger him by not responding. "Can I ask what day it is?" she queried softly. "Put your feet out. I have to tie them so I can untie your hands to eat," he commanded, gesturing at her with the rope in his hands. "And no funny stuff, or I won't bring you food again." When she complied, straightening her legs in front of her, he set to work tying her ankles together. His gaze was focused on his task, and she almost didn't catch his mumbled reply. "It's Tuesday." Tuesday? My God, she'd been taken Friday night. She had only scattered thoughts and images since being grabbed in front of her apartment. It was a frightening and horrifying thing to lose time like when she had been missing after being taken by Duane Barry, even if it was only for a few days. She thought of Mulder, remembering when he had told her how he had been while she had been missing then. She could only imagine his anxiety, his anguish. She hoped that he had someone to keep him grounded, to take care of him while he searched for her. She felt a tugging at her wrists, and looked down to see that he was untying them, and that he had finished restraining her feet. The rope came loose and she huffed out a pained breath as he rubbed the chafed, reddened skin roughly with his hands. He dropped her hands in her lap and she whispered, "Thank-you." If she could stay on his good side... He bent and came up holding a sandwich in a clear cellophane wrapper and a small carton of milk. She began to salivate and had to resist the urge to snatch the food from his hands. He passed her the sandwich and opened the milk carton, which he placed on the cot beside her leg. Scully tore the wrapper off and sank her teeth into the sandwich, chewing enthusiastically. The bread was a little stale, and she really didn't care for cheese with her ham, but it was heaven. She told herself to slow down, she would only make herself sick, but it wasn't working. She still had a lingering feeling that the food could be taken away at any time, and continued to bolt the food down, stopping every few bites to gulp some of the milk. The meal did not take her long, and when she had finished, the man took the garbage from her and put it aside. He stared at her for long moments, and she tried not to squirm, but it was difficult. His eyes seemed to bore into her soul, to strip her bare. She felt a chill and crossed her arms across her chest; relieved he had not re-tied her wrists yet. She tensed as he sat up and reached one hand inside his coverall. His coverall? Her eyes flicked from his face, seeing that his eyes were focused on his hand, to the writing embroidered on the pocket of the white coveralls. D.C. Duct Cleaning. It was like a light bulb going off in her head. That was the name on the van that he had come out of when he grabbed her. If she could somehow tell Mulder, maybe he could trace it. Maybe. She would have to think. The man pulled a cell phone out and her heart leapt in reaction. He had to be planning to call Mulder; maybe he would let her talk to him. There must be something she could tell him. She could feel her breath coming faster, and inhaled deeply, to try and calm herself down. "It's time to call Mulder," he said, smiling slightly. *** Scully's Apartment Georgetown, D.C. Tuesday 7:00 pm Skinner stretched with a small groan after rising from the hard wooden chair where he had been sitting for the last hour or so, and walked stiff-legged over to the window. Night was approaching, the lights from the street lamps casting an amber glow on the sidewalk below. He could barely make out the unmarked Bureau car parked about a block down from Scully's building. On his orders, there were to be two agents watching at all times. Agent Dryer had volunteered for the first shift, along with his partner, Agent Taylor. Dryer was young and eager to prove himself, and Taylor, the senior agent, had over 15 years in the Bureau and was very disturbed at the thought of the kidnapping of an agent he knew and had worked with in the past. Skinner rubbed his hand over his mouth and turned back to look at the table, the surface of which held the stack of photographs they had found on Scully's bed and the preliminary reports on the fingerprint analysis. For the most part, the fingerprints found had been Scully's, a few had belonged to Mulder, and there had been the odd one belonging to Scully's mother. There had been one very smudged partial print lifted off of one of the dresser drawers, which was currently being run through every available database. As for the photographs, he had decided to look at them himself while Mulder was sleeping. Or at least lying down. He was not sure if Mulder was actually sleeping, but Scully's bedroom had been very quiet and as yet Mulder had not come out. He could only imagine the agent's exhaustion, feeling somewhat drained himself. He was thankful to have been able to grab a shower, even if he had been forced to re-dress in the same clothes. He had not noticed anything unusual in the photographs. He had not really expected to, but had hoped there might have been something Mulder missed due to his extreme concern over Scully. It was obvious though that whomever had taken her had been watching the two them very closely, and most likely for quite a while. There was one other item on the table. The cell phone. The one Mulder had not let out of his sight since discovering it yesterday. He had stealthily lifted it from Mulder's pocket when he had brought him into Scully's bedroom. It had been strangely silent, and he had checked a few times to make sure it was still charged. Plenty of power, just no calls. He made his way into the kitchen, to the coffee pot. He picked it up, staring with a grimace at the sludge that remained, and put it back down. He had drunk too much coffee anyway. As he was debating his choices from the refrigerator, he heard a faint knock at the door. He shut the fridge and moved quickly to answer it. Unfortunately he did not move fast enough for the person on the other side, for they decided to knock louder. Skinner yanked the door open to see another eager young agent, Agent Thompson, with his fist raised to knock yet again. "Sir!" the agent exclaimed. "Agent Reynolds wanted you to have these." In his hand was a sheaf of papers. "Notes on the secondary interviews of the tenants of Agent Scully's building, with regards to the sketch of suspect and the white van." He took the papers from the agent's outstretched hands, saying briskly, "Thank-you, Agent. That will be all." He shut the door over the agent's reply, and walked slowly back to the table, glancing through the interview notes. "Where is it?" Skinner looked up at Mulder's harsh voice, to see him standing just inside the living room, his reddened eyes darting around the room. He knew instantly Mulder was referring to the cell phone. "It's here, Mulder," he replied, lifting it up from the table. "Relax, Mulder. It hasn't rang." *** Mulder stalked over and snatched the cell phone from Skinner's hands, and stumbled back, clutching it tightly to his chest. He had awoken with a gasp, disoriented and afraid, blinking furiously in the dark, from a nightmare. He had been in a huge, empty structure, like a warehouse or storage plant, running from room to room in near total blackness, calling Scully's name, hearing it echo over and over, unable to find her. It had taken long moments to shake the feeling of dread the nightmare had left him with. Rising from the bed, hand automatically reaching out for the cell phone, finding nothing. Dropping to his knees, looking under the bed, patting the ground all around him. Turning on the little lamp on Scully's night table, the sudden brightness harsh to his eyes, making him squint and rub at them, before scrambling to his feet to turn in circles, not spying it anywhere. Then hearing the knocking, and running out to hear an unknown voice talking to Skinner. Something about interviews and the van. Seeing Skinner studying a bunch of papers in his hands as he walked toward the table. Wanting to know if they had found or learned anything, but only able to think of the cell phone. If he lost it, he would lose his contact with Scully. Biting out the words 'where is it' and seeing the phone in Skinner's hand. Relief washing through him in waves. Barely hearing as Skinner said it hadn't rang. Mulder blinked, seeing Skinner was watching him, concern clearly written on his features, his jaw muscle twitching wildly and eyes narrowed. Mulder took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, knowing Skinner would pull him off the case if the AD thought he could not handle it. Not that he would listen, nothing short of restraints would keep him from trying to...from finding Scully, but being out of the official investigation would be too difficult. He would not apologize, but he would be civil. "Anything new?" he asked, somewhat surprised at how calm and rational his voice sounded. Skinner regarded him for a moment longer, and then nodded, as if having decided to ignore Mulder's behavior and that Mulder was ready to hear the news. The AD cleared his throat and replied, "Preliminary fingerprint analysis. They found a partial on a dresser drawer that did not match Scully's, her mother's or yours. They're running it through the databases. Priority one." Skinner then held up the papers in his hand. "These just came. Reports on secondary interviews conducted on the building's tenants with the composite of the suspect and the van. I haven't had a chance to read them yet." Mulder moved to the table and pulled out a chair, taking a seat, putting the cell phone down beside him. Skinner sat on the chair to Mulder's left and handed him half of the papers. Silently they began to read. After about ten minutes, the AD asked, "Anything?" Mulder looked up to find Skinner removing his glasses, his weariness evident. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tightly shut for a moment before replacing the glasses. "A lot of maybes on both the suspect and the van," Mulder replied. "But no positive ID's." He picked up the paper he had laid aside and read the name from it. "Suzie Clifford in apartment 302 remembers seeing a man matching the suspect's description leaving the building Friday night, around 6:45 pm. She was certain of the time because her regular workout at the gym ends at 6:00, she changed and came straight home, and the drive usually takes her about half an hour. She is not positive, but she thinks he was wearing a pair of white coveralls and that there had been a white van parked close to the building. She did not see Agent Scully." He finished reading and put the paper down. "I'd like to speak to her myself." Skinner nodded, saying, "Good idea." He glanced at his watch. "We can see if she's home now." He shuffled the papers he had been reading, picking one up. "More maybes on the van and the suspect. A Mrs. Edith Dunbarton in apartment 207 thinks she has seen the van here on a few occasions when she was leaving or returning from her nightly walk. She also thinks it was a cleaning service of some sort, and that the lettering on the van was red." He put the paper aside as well, separate from the others. "We can see if she's home now too, and check with the superintendent, see if there's been any scheduled building maintenance or cleaning in the past few weeks." Mulder nodded and pushing the chair back, rose with a creak of his knees. He reached for the cell phone and felt his heart immediately begin to thud when it rang. Skinner had risen as well, and was reaching for his suit jacket, which was hanging on the back of his chair. He stopped and their eyes met. Mulder let it ring again, and exhaled heavily through his nose before hitting send and bringing it to his ear. "Mulder," he said, glad when his voice did not shake. "Agent Mulder, how are you this evening? Any luck with my clue?" Mulder tilted the phone slightly towards Skinner, who had moved to stand close beside him, so that the AD could hear as well. "I'd like to speak to Agent Scully." Calm, not too demanding. "Very well," the man said, and then there was a shuffling sound, as if the phone were being passed to someone else. Mulder was surprised at the easy acquiescence to his request. Then he was relieved when he heard Scully's voice. "Mulder?" The sound was not the greatest, in fact there was a hollow feeling to it, and her voice was low and almost hesitant. "Mulder, it's me." "Jesus, Scully, are you okay?" he gasped. He groped for the back of the chair with his free hand, and used it to support his suddenly weak body. He felt sweat springing out on his forehead, and the hand clutching the phone was damp as well. He was extremely conscious of Skinner beside him. "I'm...okay, Mulder." There was a pause, and when she spoke again, the words were rushed and breathy, and had him blinking in stupefaction. Skinner tensed and puffed out a rush of air. "Fox, please tell Samantha I'm okay. Please, Fox, tell Samantha, okay?" Mulder's thoughts whirled. Tell Samantha? The only Samantha he was aware Scully knew, or knew of at least, was his Sam. And why had she called him Fox? Was she delirious? Drugged? He shook his head, his concern increased immeasurably. Static followed her words and then the man's voice was in his ear. "That's enough for now. So, Fox, as Dana called you, I let you speak to her. But you didn't answer my question. Did you have any luck with my clue?" Mulder was silent, unsure of how to respond. The man made a tsking sound. "That really disappoints me, Fox. Very much. I think I'll have to punish Dana for that." A gasping sound, followed by a grunt, and then an abrupt click. "NO!" Mulder shouted into the now silent phone. He stumbled into the chair, the phone dropping into his lap. Behind him, Skinner cursed, and Mulder dropped his head into his hands. "Scully," he whispered. *** Abandoned Warehouse, Dockside Washington, D.C. Tuesday 7:40 pm Scully felt almost giddy from hearing Mulder's voice, it seemed so long since the last time, and from passing on the only clue she could think of. She could only hope Mulder would understand what she meant by using his given name, one she hadn't for years after he had half-seriously, half-teasingly told her not to use it, and Samantha's name. Would he make the connection about a brother and sister? Because she had learned so little from the man, it was all she had to pass on, and she hadn't had much time to think. She also knew she had to be careful not to arouse his suspicions, while at the same time, hopefully arousing Mulder's. It was weak, but his quick mind would make the connection, it had to. The man was talking to Mulder, but Scully had been so apprehensive about her attempt that she had not really been paying attention. She blinked, as the man's words registered "have to punish Dana for that." She could not help gasping when the man leaned forward, grabbed her hard by the upper arm, and yanked her towards him. Combined with her lack of balance and the fact that he pulled with such force, she slammed into him, and he grunted loudly in reaction. She heard the beep as the phone was disconnected and then it was falling to the floor with a clatter. Scully squirmed as he pulled her more securely onto his lap and had to control her shudder of unease at his low chuckle. She could feel his burgeoning arousal pressing against her outer thigh and tried to twist her body to pull away from the contact. "That ought to keep Mulder on edge for a while," he said in a voice filled with satisfaction and a touch of excitement. His hands clamped down on her shoulders, keeping her flush against his body. They both seemed to realize at the same instant that her hands were free. She began to flail in his hold, to try and push at his chest to break free from his grasp. His hands slid down her arms, and grabbed her wrists. He squeezed, yanking on her arms, growling, "Settle down," in her ear, and she desisted. "Now, Dana, I want you to tell me about your relationship with Fox," he cooed. Scully heard the particular emphasis he placed on the name Fox, and stiffened slightly, wondering if he had picked up on her attempt to pass on information to Mulder. He hadn't reacted outwardly at the time, and she thought he would have shown anger if he had noticed anything. "Why so tense, Dana?" he asked, oozing insincerity. "You don't like to kiss and tell? Or do you think your relationship is a secret?" He gave her another squeeze, his smile mocking. "It's not. I watched the two of you for several weeks, Dana. I saw your tenderness with each other, your closeness. What little social lives you have revolve around each other." He leaned his face in closer, his breath hot on her neck, and she felt his lips on her earlobe. "Do you love him, Dana?" he whispered. Scully did not reply and felt her body tense further as his lips began to move along her neck. The thought of him dissecting her relationship with Mulder disturbed her almost as much as the news he had been watching them for weeks. Or the feel of his lips on her flesh. There was no way in hell she was going to share her feelings about Mulder, feelings she had not fully explored, with this man. Her silence must have angered him, for he let go of one of her wrists to grab her jaw, his fingers pressing into her skin, and turned her face towards him. He kissed her hard, his lips mashing hers into her teeth. She felt his grip loosen on her other wrist and she used his distractedness to yank her arm free. He pulled back from her when he felt her move, and her elbow smashed into his nose. Blood spurted, and he yowled in pain. His hand grabbed her wrist, tightening almost unbearably, and with an upward surge, he flung her onto the cot, her head striking the cement wall with a small thud. She groaned weakly. Her eyes were rolling, the room spinning, and she barely felt his weight settling on top of her at first. Pain throbbed in her head, and a wave of nausea ran through her body. Her wrists were yanked together and squeezed in a fist, the bones grinding together. His thighs clamped around her arms, holding her wrists up, as he sat on her lower body, effectively pinning her to the cot, and then rough rope was being wrapped around them. She felt something warm and wet splatter on her face and she squinted her eyes open to see blood running freely from his nose, dripping onto her. He tied the rope tightly with one last yank, muttering under his breath. She caught the occasional word, hearing, "...tight... hope...hurts...punish you..." He leaned back slightly, his weight nearly crushing her legs and pelvis, his eyes glaring down at her. His hand rose to his face slowly, and then dabbed at his nose, fingertips coming away stained crimson. "Bitch!" he exclaimed and then his hand flew lightning fast and slapped her hard, twice, one on each cheek, smiling at the whimper that escaped her mouth. He said nothing else, merely reached inside his coverall, now sprinkled with blood droplets, and pulled out a syringe. With another mean smile, he jabbed the needle into her upper arm and depressed the plunger. Scully was already dizzy from the earlier knock to her head and the blows to her face, and felt her head begin to swim almost immediately. She watched, her vision blurring, as he climbed off of her and stomped out of the room. The door slammed with a loud bang, and she flinched, closing her heavy eyes, relieved he was leaving her alone. His anger and his arousal frightened her equally. She had a brief moment of regret that she had been unable to learn anything further, before curling into a ball on her side, her cheeks burning and her head throbbing, and letting the drugs take over. *** 8:00 pm Elliot stood outside the closed door of Dana's cell, his fists clenched, blood still running down his face, although the flow was now much slower than it had been. His heart was pounding from a strange mix of arousal, adrenaline and anger. His initial excitement had stemmed from the thought of the torment Fox Mulder would be going through after his parting statement on the phone about punishing Dana. It had been accelerated by his conversation with Dana about her relationship with Mulder, and the telltale signs her body and expressions had revealed to him about it. Then leaning in to whisper in her ear, inhaling Elizabeth's scent, combined with the feel of a woman's body against his after such a long time, even if it wasn't his sister's, had nearly pushed him over the edge. Once he had began thinking up his plan of revenge, he had been very careful. There had only been that one slip-up, back home, but she had been a drifter. No one had noticed her. Dana's struggles to escape his embrace had amused him and enflamed his raging desires, but her unintentional yet still effective blow to his nose had then lessened them to a degree. The pain and the sight of his blood had enraged him and it was only the thought of what was still to come that had him holding his rage back, settling with some measly slaps to her face, even though his mind screamed out for more. He took a deep breath to calm himself and looked at his watch, seeing that he needed to get moving. He still had many things to do to get ready for tomorrow. The drug had probably already taken hold of Dana, and he had a brief thought about her possible head injury. He had heard the smack as she had hit the wall, and he wondered if he perhaps should have halved the dosage. He shrugged; there was nothing to be done about it now. He would just have to keep a close watch on her after he finished his errands. He giggled to himself for referring to them as 'errands'. He shivered with excitement as his mind began to picture how the events would unfold, and his steps were springy and light as he moved through the darkened warehouse to the old office he had converted for his use while he and his guest were staying here. As he changed from the bloodstained coveralls into casual attire and cleaned himself up, he hummed under his breath. The song was a nursery rhyme Elizabeth had loved. He pictured his sister the last time he had seen her, several weeks before her death, in one of the short visits she had been allowed. He thought that she would be happy with what he was doing-getting revenge on the man whose actions had led to her death. And his loneliness. *** Mulder's Office J. Edgar Hoover Building Wednesday 10:30 am Mulder leaned back in his chair, hearing the leather creak and groan as he lifted his arms up to first rub his hands through his hair and then scrub over his face. He felt the stubble on his cheeks with surprise and realized he could not remember when he had last shaved. In fact, the last few days were a blur. A blur of despair and confusion and raw nerves. The delivery of the package to Skinner's office, with its implied threat to Scully...was it two days ago now?...had sent an adrenaline surge through him that had him moving with unstoppable force. That had quickly changed. From the moment the cell phone on Scully's dresser had rung and he had heard her voice, confirming his worst fears, his worst nightmares, he had been operating on autopilot. Barely functioning, capable of only the most basic of thoughts and actions. With a heavy sigh, he leaned forward, righting his chair, and stared at his desk. It was literally covered in files. Current case files, closed case files, unsolved case files. He had been going through them since arriving at the Bureau at 5:30 am, unable to sleep, unable to do anything but think of Scully. After he and Skinner had re-interviewed Suzie Clifford and Edith Dunbarton, two of the tenants in Scully's building, with nothing new learned, the AD had insisted on taking Mulder to a late night deli and watching him eat. Skinner had then ordered him to go home and get some sleep. Mulder snorted. Sleep. What little he had managed after lying on his couch staring at the lights from his fish tank for who knows how long, had been restless and edgy, and filled with nightmares. Unable to take the tormenting visions of Scully suffering and in pain, he had risen before the dawn, showered, dressed and came into work. A noise at the open door had him looking up. Skinner stood there, two steaming Styrofoam cups in his hands. He walked over to the desk, holding one of the cups out, and Mulder took it gratefully, nodding his thanks at the AD. "Any luck?" Skinner asked, eyes running over the hundreds of files that covered Mulder's desk, and were stacked in piles on the floor. Mulder took a gulp of the coffee, and shook his head, shoulders rising in a defeated shrug. "Nothing yet," he replied. "It's like looking for a needle in a haystack." He tossed the file he had picked up back down and shoved away from the desk. With a violent motion, he rose to his feet, the chair sliding back and banging into the file cabinet, and began to pace. "What did she mean by Fox and Samantha?" he mumbled. "Was she trying to tell me something? She never calls me Fox, so she said it deliberately. And Samantha. My sister." He paused, staring at Skinner, but more through him then at him. "My sister," he repeated. "Fox and Samantha. We were brother and sister." This time when he looked at Skinner, he actually saw him. Mulder's eyes widened, and Skinner tensed, seeming to sense Mulder was working on a theory. "It must have something to do with the man's sister." He started pacing again. "But what?" He began to mentally run through their cases. Nothing jumped out at him. Ring. Mulder looked towards his desk. It wasn't his cell phone. It was the cell phone. He lunged forward, hands sweeping the files out of the way and picked it up with shaking fingers. He pressed send and gasped, "Mulder," into it. "Mulder, it's me." Scully. He flicked a glance at Skinner, who had quickly joined him, his head leaning towards the phone. She was whispering, and he could barely hear her. "Scully..." he started to say, to ask her to speak up. "Mulder, you have to hurry. He...he left the phone here. I don't know how much time I have. We're in a warehouse, Zeus Storage and Warehousing. I don't know where it is. Please hurry, Mulder." His heart was pounding frantically. She sounded funny, almost choked, and very, very frightened. In his mind he repeated the name over and over again. Zeus Storage and Warehousing, Zeus Storage and Warehousing. "Scully, are you alright?" "Just hurry, Mul-..." Click. "FUCK!" Mulder screamed, slamming the phone down. "He left the phone with her, she said they're at a place called Zeus Storage and Warehousing." Energy was humming through him, he could not stay still. He began pacing, still speaking. "She got caught off really quick, I think he came back." Skinner was already grabbing the phone and dialing. The AD's knuckles were white as he gripped the receiver, clutching it to his ear. His voice was brusque as he spoke. "This is AD Skinner, I need you to run a name for me. Zeus Storage and Warehousing. I need the location and address ASAP!" He slammed the phone down and was quickly dialing again. Mulder listened as the AD organized a SWAT team, demanding the team leader to be in his office in fifteen minutes. The phone crashed down with a bang, and then Skinner was running out of the office. Mulder scooped up the cell phone and his jacket, and raced after him. *** Zeus Storage and Warehousing, Dockside Washington, D.C. Wednesday 12:30 pm Mulder could barely sit still as he and Skinner watched over the shoulder of the agent manning the video feeds in the SWAT team's command center van. They could see the gear-laden agents maneuvering into position as they moved in staggered formation on the apparently abandoned warehouse. The headset on their ears allowed them to listen to the various agents, as they got closer to the structure, reporting their locations and status to the team leader. Mulder shifted again, one hand coming up to pluck at the shoulder of his bulletproof vest. The weight was cutting into his skin, and making him more restless. He alternated between hot and cold, his pulse fluctuating wildly. He wanted nothing more than to be inside the warehouse, looking for his partner, not sitting out here doing nothing. Skinner shot him a look, covered the mouthpiece of his headset with one hand, and hissed, "Mulder, take it easy. You know this is necessary. We have no idea what kind of situation we could be going into. As Agent Scully was unable to tell us more, we have to proceed with caution." Mulder nodded, and took a deep breath, trying to settle himself down. He knew Skinner was right; they couldn't go rushing in there, no matter how much he wanted to. He just wished they would move faster, he had to know if Scully was there, if she was all right. Her voice on the phone earlier had scared him, not just because she was whispering to avoid detection, and he worried about that too, had she been caught? But also because she had sounded like she was hurt. He stiffened as the team leader's voice came through the headset, reporting that they were advancing into the warehouse, feeling himself leaning forward to watch the video feed, even though it showed very little. The image was in black and white, and very grainy, showing the entrance to the warehouse that some of the SWAT team had used to go in. Suddenly a male voice over the headset said, "Oh...God." "Report! Report!" The team leader's voice. The male voice again. "Oh, Jesus, we got a body!" Mulder ripped off his headset and ripped the sliding door of the van open. He leaped out and began running towards the warehouse. Body...body...body...ran through his head as his feet pounded on the pavement. Skinner's voice came through his ear, screaming, "Hold fire! Agent coming in! Hold fire!" There followed a muffled curse, and then Mulder could hear pounding feet far behind him. Mulder ran inside the warehouse door into a small hallway, past agents in SWAT gear, some of them regarding him with looks of surprise and sorrow. One of them pointed and Mulder swung slightly to the left, going through an opened set of double doors, into the warehouse proper. He skidded to a halt, almost falling on the slippery floor, his arms pin-wheeling madly to maintain his balance, screaming, "NOOOOO!!!" Perfectly illuminated in the darkness of the warehouse by a patch of sunlight streaming in through a window above was a body hanging by rope from metal racking suspended halfway down from the ceiling. It was swaying softly, the creaking of the rope abnormally loud in the silent warehouse. Mulder moved jerkily, stepping a little closer, unable to take his eyes off the body, which was wearing a beige trench coat, with a black blazer and skirt partially visible beneath it. <> Toes in black suede pumps pointed lifelessly at the ground. <> The sun glinted off reddish-gold locks which fell forward concealing the body's face. <> Mulder staggered towards the body <> on legs that felt made of wood, and then fell to his knees, a few feet away. Thoughts were running full tilt through his head. "I love you, oh, God, I'm so sorry I never told you, Scully, oh, God, please, I'm so sorry." He was unaware he was speaking out loud. *** end Part 3 of 29