SANCTUARY BY: Cheryl Cohen (Alias: The Stinker) and Annie Reed (Alias: FancyKatz) Once in the hall and away from Keith, Melissa ran to her mom's bedroom, went inside and locked the door. Not trusting the flimsy lock, she propped a heavy antique vanity chair under the door knob. Faintly, she heard heavy steps come up the stairs and enter Dana's room. They would find her. No matter how well she hid, sooner or later they would find her. Suddenly Melissa remembered Bill. He would be home soon. She couldn't just let him walk in on this, or worse, be shot as soon as he got out of the car. She had to warn him. But how? A half-remembered question from her childhood ran through her thoughts. What would dad have done, she asked herself calmly. As a child, whenever she'd wondered what the right thing to do was, she'd always asked herself what her dad would have done. It had always worked for her then, and it worked once again for her now. A voice from long ago whispered in her mind and she knew what to do. "Thanks daddy," Melissa mumbled out loud as she opened the closet door and removed the flag from the top shelf. The heavy fabric was still carefully folded, as it had been on the day it had been given to her mom at the funeral. As quietly as possible, Melissa ran across the room to the window and opened it slightly. The snow flurries had picked up considerably, blown about by the wind, and heavy flakes blew in through the open window. The sky was also darker than it should have been for this time of day, an ominous sign, and visibility was already less than a half mile. The storm was moving in more quickly than expected. Maybe Bill wouldn't get back, she thought with dismay. Carefully, she unfolded the flag and hung it upside down out of the window, then closed the window so that the flag was clamped into place between the window pane and the sill. Bill would recognize the universal distress signal. Melissa only hoped that he'd be able to see it through the snow. She used her skirt to mop up the little puddles left on the sill and the floor by the melting snowflakes. Finally she closed the curtains, walked back to the closet and huddled in one dark corner, surrounded by the scent of her mother's perfume that still lingered on her clothes. She pulled her blouse tight around herself, trying not to give in to the shakes. Do what they would expect you to do, Melissa told herself. She waited. She didn't have long to wait. In just a couple of minutes, she heard a crash as the bedroom door gave way. Peeking through the crack around the edge of the closet door, Melissa saw Mitchell Tyler enter the room followed by a limping, disheveled, and bruised Keith. Mitchell carried Dana's black doctor's bag in his hand. Melissa flattened herself flush against the wall of the dark closet and held her breath as Mitchell scanned the room. He immediately headed toward her hiding place. Melissa felt his mind reaching for her and knew that he'd found her. "What *was* he? she asked herself frantically. The mind she sensed was dark and foreboding, awash with conflicting emotions. Rage, fear, hunger, and hatred swirled in confused eddies with sorrow, guilt and an overpowering need for revenge. Evil and good warred with monumental intensity for control of an unnatural and horrifying compulsion. Mitchell felt the woman's mind make contact with him. She knew that he 'sensed' her and knew where she was. Reaching into the closet, he grasped her wrist, and pulled Melissa back into the light. "Now that you two have had your fun," he growled, "I think it's time we all went back to the party." Holding Melissa's wrist tightly, he escorted her from the room and down the stairs. Keith followed behind, quietly subdued with embarrassment. He would never regain Jordan's respect now...he had failed, failed miserably. ******* end part five From xangst@frii.com Wed Oct 23 05:24:40 1996 SANCTUARY BY: CHERYL COHEN (ALIAS-THE STINKER) AND ANNIE REED (ALIAS-FANCYKATZ) Forward ************************************ Annie and I started this story several months ago. In fact we started bouncing around ideas for a sequel right after we finished "Devil's Advocate. Okay, we didn't expect it to take this long or be this long but somehow the characters seemed to take on a life of their own and each insisted that they have their moment in the sun. Hence, what follows is ninety pages of love, sadness, joy, sex, misunderstandings, violence, insanity, aggravation, frustration, humor, death...and life. Please be warned, this tale contains, graphic violence, adult language, and adult situations. Although there is sex involved in several scenes, it is not what I would consider graphic nor is it out of context with the story. I like to leave a little bit to the imagination. DISCLAIMERS ETC. ******************************** This story is based on the characters and situations created by Chris Carter, the Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions. As such, the characters named are the property of those entities and are used without permission, although no copyright infringements are intended. ************************************ CHAPTER SIX Body Work and Unexpected Liaisons The small woman was much stronger than she looked, but after several blows, Jordan finally managed to pry her away from her protective posture, covering the man on the couch. He raised the gun, still clenched lengthwise in his fist, ready to deliver another blow to the focus of his anger. On the couch, the dazed, bleeding young man weakly lifted his arm in a useless attempt to protect himself. "Jordan, NO!!" Mitchell's booming voiced filled the room, demanding immediate and unconditional obedience. Jordan made no move to lower his hand. Shaking with fury, he glared at Mitchell. "Fox Mulder is the one who betrayed me ... took my thoughts and used them against me. He tracked me down like some common criminal. He's the one who recommended that I be put in that hell hole without possibility of reprieve." Jordan's voice turned low and dangerous. "You want your revenge Mitchell, I want mine." Still holding Melissa by the wrist, Mitchell moved next to Jordan. Melissa tried not to shrink back from the anger she felt emanating from these two, and the nearly visible crackling energy that stabbed back and forth between them. "Don't equate your sick revenge with my situation, Jordan," Mitchell sneered. "You chose to be what you were. What you got in the end, was what you asked for. Remember the trail of molested and mutilated childrens' bodies you left behind for him to follow? Agent Mulder is an honorable man -- something you know nothing about. He only did what he felt he was morally obligated to do, so don't kid yourself that we're the least alike. My revenge is directed at a dishonorable man, someone who knowingly made me into something less than human without my knowledge or consent." Mitchell stopped for a moment, struggling to contain the need that burned through his veins at the mere thought of his enemy. "I was transformed into a viscous animal that kills without reason or remorse...whose entire being contradicts the morality of the man I once was. No, I don't think our motives are remotely similar. Stop now, or I'll set the beast free. If you think you can shoot me before I kill you, then go ahead and gamble. You feeling lucky, Jordan?" Jordan stood silently for several minutes, weighing his chances at survival against Mitchell's threat . Mitchell was standing close enough that he could rip his throat out in only a couple of steps, probably before Jordan could even aim the gun. Now was not the time, he reasoned. Reluctantly Jordan lowered his hand to his side and stepped away from the couch, glaring explosively at Mulder in the process. Holding Melissa by her forearm, Mitchell slowly lowered her to a sitting position on the floor by the couch, then reached over and deftly removed the gun from Jordan's hand. Melissa sat silently rubbing her arm, her face pale from the mental shock of their argument. They want to kill each other, Melissa thought, but something was holding them back. She wondered how much longer her family could stay safe in the face of such madness and rage. Dana had seen her sister's torn clothing, the white and pasty look of shock on her face. At least she was still alive, Dana thought with some measure of relief. Melissa could wait -- Mulder couldn't. Taking the black bag that Mitchell proffered to her, Dana pulled out several lethal looking syringes. Her action elicited the expected reactions from Mulder, including the familiar cringe. Damn, she'd thought he'd be dazed enough not to notice. "Come on Mulder, don't act like a baby...especially around these guys," she whispered urgently. Thankfully, a soft whimper was his only reply. With Jordan temporarily subdued, Mitchell walked over to the couch, observing Dana as she worked. Dana watched in fascinated dread as Mitchell reached out and dreamily ran his finger down Mulder's bloodied face, bringing the fresh blood to his mouth, and removing it in a suckling manner. The thick, sticky substance was sweet and slightly salty to his taste and he felt the blood fever surge within his veins once more. "What's in the needles?" he asked Dana, eyes glowing with an unearthly light. "Just pain killers and a wide range antibiotic," she stammered, returning her gaze to Mulder who was in obvious distress. "What pain killer...specifically?" Mitchell pressed. "Demerol," Dana answered, confused by Mitchell's sudden interest in Mulder's medication. Without warning, Mitchell snatched the syringes from her hand and injected himself. Dana saw the tension in his features slowly ease until his face was almost normal in appearance. "Why did you do that?" Dana cried. "Mulder needs that medicine, and I don't have any more." Mulder grasped Dana's arm and gently squeezed it. "It's probably my guess that he needs it worse than I do," Mulder wheezed tiredly, glancing at Mitchell with a look that conveyed his understanding. "You...are a very perceptive man, Agent Mulder," Mitchell sighed, feeling his beast recede to a drug-induced shadow of its former self. He turned his head to look at Dana, and she was struck by the fact that Mitchell now looked no different than most of the agents she and Mulder worked with at the Bureau. "Please believe me," Mitchell told her, "his pain is nothing compared to what I'd become without this 'medication.' It's not a pretty sight." Mitchell motioned to Keith toward Margaret. "Untie her and see what she can cook up in the kitchen. I'm hungry." With a furtive glance at Jordan, Keith moved over to the couch and did what he was told. Once loose, Margaret reached down to Melissa, sitting on the floor at her feet, and stroked her hair, eyeing her with a mother's worried stare. Melissa tried to smile back at her mom, to reassure her that she was okay. Still smarting from the blow he'd received from Melissa, Keith broke them apart, pulling Margaret up from the couch and into the kitchen. Mitchell drew back the living room curtains, looking at the snowstorm raging outside. His eyes narrowed in though. Either we leave here now or we're gonna have to stay here until the storm breaks," Mitchell grumbled. He stared down at Mulder. "I don't think this one can travel so it looks like we're gonna stay awhile. We might as well get 'comfy.'" Dana took her suture kit out of her bag and noticed Mulder grimace in anticipation. "I'm sorry Fox. This is going to hurt like hell," she informed him while biting her lower lip. "Doesn't your mom have any Scotch Whiskey? Even the cowboys had whiskey or a bullet to bite , or a really cute horse to get their minds off things," he smirked, though the effect was dampened by the pain reflected in his eyes. Dana got up, eyes riveted by turns on Mitchell and then Jordan, waiting to see if either man would try and stop her. Apparently they knew what her intentions were because they allowed her to cross the room without interfering. Dana stopped in front of an antique liquor cabinet that had been her dad's pride and joy. Wherever he was stationed, this liquor cabinet went with him. She hoped her mom still kept the key in the same place. Reaching up to the top of the cabinet, she breathed a sigh of relief as her fingers touched the small brass key that opened the cabinet. She opened the doors to reveal a large selection of spirits -- the alcoholic type, she thought with an inappropriate giggle. God, the stress must be really getting to her. Stress, what stress? she argued with herself. I'm only about to stitch up the man I love with only a little alcohol to dull the pain. Piece of cake. Choosing a tall dark bottle, she returned to the couch and handed Mulder an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. "I was kidding," Mulder mumbled feebly. "I wasn't," Dana confided. "Drink it," she ordered. "I can't afford being drunk at a time like this," he said, disbelieving that she would actually make the suggestion. "Why not? I have no more painkillers to give you, Mulder. So you pass out from pain, or I reduce you to a drunken stupor. Either way the results will be the same, so shut up and drink it." There was no arguing with that woman once she'd made up her mind and he was just too worn out to fight with her about it. Reluctantly, Mulder took the bottle from her hand, fumbled awkwardly with the top, stubbornly refusing Dana's help to get the damn thing open. The first swig made his throat burn and set his stomach on fire. Fox Mulder was not much of a drinker. Cousin Katie had teased him often enough about that. The second swig made him feel light headed and dizzy and the third pushed him over the edge of sobriety. Oh, this was embarrassing. He was of Scottish decent and totally unable to handle 3 large swigs of American whiskey without getting looped. "Daaana," Mulder slurred, "don't tell...shhhhhsh," he shushed, trying to put his forefinger to his lips and missing comically. The way his head was wobbling, she was amazed that he even came close to finding his lips. His eyelids drooped slightly then snapped back open as an errant neuron decided to kick in and remind him that he was trying to say something. " Oh...yeah, Dooon't tell cousin Katie bout this...okay. Sheee'd never... lemme forget what a luuush I am," he burped none too gracefully. "Oops..." His eyes took on a semi - vacant glaze, as he gesture haphazardly through the air with the half empty bottle. "Mulder, I think you've had enough." Dana reached for the bottle several times before finally snatching it from his hand as it passed by her nose. Carefully, she set the whiskey down on the end table, next to Mulder's still full ashtray, and somehow she managed to fight back the bile that waited at the back of her throat as the pile of sunflower seeds attacked her senses once more. If this kept up, she thought ruefully, Mulder was gonna have to find a new favorite snack food, at least for a while anyway. She'd be damned if she was gonna hug the toilet every time he decided to indulge in bird seed. "Hey, hey...Scuuullllyyy," Mulder sang under his breath, his eyes mimicking those of a child who'd been contemplating forbidden thoughts. "Um...you...like....ah...lim..lim....limerks..limmerrs.." He paused momentarily, trying to get his tongue unstuck from behind his teeth. He gave up and found a different word that didn't require extensive tongue manipulations. "poems?" he finally blurted out. "Yes, I like poems very much," Dana said, humoring him. At least he'd forgotten about the needles. "Ya wanna hear one?" Mulder asked in a conspiring tone, his hand cupped around his mouth as he whispered into her ear.. "I jusss heard it the o--ther day...really...issa goood one. Agent..uh....wassis name told me...ya knoow Aggent wassis name, doon't you?" "Yes, Mulder, I do seem to recall an Agent Wassis name, but I don't want to hear a poem now, Okay? You need stitches...again," Dana explained patiently. "so hold still and be quiet." "Aaahhh come on, Daaana. Juss one? " he pleaded. She could see the puppy dog eyes being put on standby. "Okay, Mulder...just one. Then you promise to be good...right?" "Uh huh... Here is it is," he said proudly with one of the most uncoordinated smiles she'd ever seen grace his handsome face. "Theerrre once was a...man...um...he was fromm uh...Kent, Ah....wait a minnute...yeah...I remember. Whose....dick was increbdib..incredbid...encribdibly..." "Incredibly!!!" Dana yelled out, unable to endure the wait. Jesus, at this rate they were all gonna usher in the new century with this awful piece of rhyming Americana. "Thass it, Dana...you know him?" he asked with a voice cracking like an adolescent teenager. He stupidly arched one eyebrow and muttered incoherently for several seconds, then pouted childishly. "Oh, now I haave to start oover." "No...Mulder, just start from where you left off," she suggested forcefully. "Wheerre's that?" "Incredibly," she offered. "Thas right, Um....bent. .. To stay outta troouble, He um...stuck it in double..and ...uh.. Shit, what waas it....Oh yeah, and instead of cooming... he...ah.....Went!!!! Ahhhh hahaha, Daaana....goood one huh????" he giggled as he reached up without warning and playfully pinched her right breast. "Mulder!!!" She lightly slapped his misbehaving hand back down to his side, attempting an unsuccessful glare. Any other time she would have welcomed his attentions but he sure picked one hell of time to get amorous. "Uh oh...I've beeen a baadd boy, hmmm??" "Yes...very bad," she agreed with a slight smile. " But I'll forgive you if you just put your arms down, lie still, and be quiet." Dana firmly grasped Mulder's shoulders and gently helped him lower himself back down to a prone position on the couch. He hadn't exactly passed out but hopefully he was thoroughly ripped enough not to feel too much pain. Dana felt the color flush to her cheeks. Holy Christ Almighty, she thought, unbelievingly. Only Mulder could have the audacity to tell her a blue limerick and totally embarrass her in front of not one, but two fricking criminally insane killers who just happened to be holding them hostage. She put her face in her hands and slowly shook her head. God, she loved this idiot. Dana raised her eyes to Mitchell who stood towering above her like a fortress wall. She expected the worst but was totally unprepared by what she thought she saw. Was that tormented demon of a man....did she actually see him...smile? Unable to decide exactly what she saw, she decided to let it drop and moved on to more immediate concerns. Dana motioned toward her sister who still sat at the foot of the couch, clutching her blouse tightly across her chest. Melissa still looked like she was in shock, but Dana had no alternatives. "I need her help to hold Mulder still," she explained to Mitchell. Melissa's head shot up immediately at her sister's words. "I ...can't do that," she uttered with frightened uncertainty. The thought of restraining another human being for the express purpose of inflicting pain made her physically ill. She knew it would be for Mulder's own good, but that fact really did little to alleviate her anxiety in the matter. Her sister's request was even more upsetting due to the fact that this wasn't just *any* human being. This was someone she cared about. The vision of Mulder writhing in pain beneath her hands was too horrible to contemplate. Melissa slowly shook her head 'no'. "Dana, I...just can't do it." she cried mournfully. Melissa's felt her face grow hot even though the room had chilled. She felt like a coward. Dana needed her help. Fox needed her help and what was her response? Sorry, no can do. Grow up, Melissa, she thought angrily. This is the real world, about as real as it gets. And in the real world just wishing for something won't make it so. Sometimes you have to do things you think you aren't capable of. You have to draw on an inner strength you never knew you had, just to get by. Look at Dana, she was doing that. Melissa knew the last thing Dana ever wanted to do was to hurt Fox, but she also knew that her sister loved him enough to do whatever she had to in order to help him, regardless of how she felt about it. Perhaps that's why Dana was with him and she wasn't, Melissa mused, shamefully surprised at the slight tinge of latent jealousy that accompanied her train of thought. She bowed her head humbly and purged that thought from her mind. "Please, Melissa," Dana pleaded, "I need you. You don't even have to look, just hold him down." Stiffly nodding her head, Melissa slowly got up from the floor and positioned herself by Mulder's head, gently placing her hands on the side of his face. At her touch, he opened one drowsy eye and grinned at her. She stroked his cheek, careful to avoid the blood on his face, and he closed his eye again, drifting off into a whiskey induced slumber. Dana began carefully cleaning the blood from around his head wound and Melissa felt her stomach turn over. She couldn't watch this. She closed her eyes as she carefully applied enough pressure to immobilize him. Satisfied that the wound was as clean as it was going to get, Dana pulled out what looked like a tiny upholstery needle threaded with suture that resembled the wispy silk of a spider's web. She took her time and painstakingly placed each suture through the soft fine skin, drawing the edges of the cut into a fine, thin line. Melissa did well holding Mulder's head in place, and to his credit he did little more than whimper and try to flinch away from the pain. Still, when she finished with his head wound, she was fighting back hot tears. Not now, she told herself. You're not done yet. She moved methodically down his body, repairing what she could. His temporary acquiescence to Mitchell long forgotten, Jordan stormed through the room, anger, and hatred, leaping from his eyes like a static charge. "Why in the hell are you allowing this, Mitchell? You say you need him alive for *your* mission...Okay, I'll buy that. But I'm telling you, it's a waste of time to fix him up and make him pretty cause when you're done with him...I'm gonna tear him apart. You got that, Mitchell?" Mitchell didn't bother to answer Jordan. All his ranting and raving had become tiresome. He looked down at Agent Fox Mulder and suddenly realized how difficult it would be to kill him. In a strange sort of way, he was quite certain that he like the man...he was also quite certain that he did *not* like Jordan. With his drugged beast out of the way for now, feelings that he had not expected to encountered were making once clear objectives more difficult to justify. Taking advantage of the opportunity Jordan had inadvertently given her by distracting Mitchell, Melissa leaned forward as she braced herself down on Mulder's shoulders. "I have your gun," she whispered nervously to her sister. "What?" Dana silently motioned with her lips. "I have your gun. It's in my skirt pocket," Melissa whispered, allowing hope to shine from her eyes. She repositioned herself closer to Dana and as her sister reached down to the black bag on the floor, Dana slid her hand skillfully into Melissa's pocket, retrieving the weapon and placing it under the sofa cushion. "It was a good try," Dana quietly sighed, "but the clip is in the night stand on the other side of the bed....the children...I couldn't leave it loaded." "What are you two whispering about," Jordan asked with a sharpness in his voice that set Dana's teeth on edge. "We were just saying that we thought a nice sweater would feel pretty good right now. It's getting a little chilly in here," Dana explained warily, pointing to the goose flesh that suddenly appeared on Mulder's bare chest. Nice timing, Sherlock, she thought affectionately as she pulled the blanket up and tucked it protectively around him. Mulder groaned slightly and hugged the blanket to his chest. He'd finally passed out, either from the pain or the whiskey. One thing was certain -- he was going to have one hell of a hangover. Jordan considered her statement. He had to agree that it did seem to be a few degrees cooler than it was even just a few minutes before. The temperature must be dropping quickly outside, he reasoned. "So, Doc, where do you keep your winter 'attire,' " Jordan asked in a sarcastic tone. "Upstairs. I could get a couple of sweaters for you. Mulder has some that I know ...Keith, that's his name, right...Keith can wear and maybe you. My father's might fit him," she said, gesturing toward Mitchell. "Speaking of Keith. What the hell is taking so long in there?" Jordan turned toward the kitchen. "Move your ass, Keith! A man could starve to death ..." he bellowed impatiently. Margaret winced at the sound of Jordan's voice. She was surprised to see the same reaction on Keith's face. He's afraid of this man, she thought to herself. So afraid, yet he admires him, wants to be like him. This poor soul, in his somewhat demented logic, must have erroneously picked that man as a role model or maybe even a father figure. Perhaps if she could talk to him, she could make him see that he was being used. It couldn't hurt to try. "Does that man frighten you, dear?" she asked Keith in her most motherly voice. She didn't challenge him by staring at him. Instead she kept her eyes on the sandwiches she was cutting in half and placing on the plate. Keith was startled that this woman would start a conversation with him. She must know what he'd tried to do to her daughter. Maybe, unlike his own mother, she understood sanctuary too. Understood the kindness and selflessness of what he'd tried to do, understood that he was trying to offer salvation to her daughter. Surely that was something a mother would want for her child. Keith responded to something in her voice, a tone that made him feel warm and safe just like he used to feel a long, long time ago. "Oh, nooo ma'am," Keith replied with enthusiasm, "Jordan doesn't scare me. He's my savior...Jordan knows everything. He'll take us to sanctuary and we'll be safe. You know, he can take your sins into himself and make you clean, prepare you for salvation. Yes he can." Keith smiled reassuringly, his face transformed with the fanatically glazed look of a religious zealot. "And how does he do that?" Margaret asked, returning the leftover sandwich makings to the refrigerator. To her amazement, Keith blushed. "Oh, ma'am, I don't know if I can tell you that, at least not specifically. But Jordan has to be...ah..'joined' ... with the person he's cleansing when they die. That way their sins pass into his body and they can leave this world pure and clean." Keith's implication was clear. Margaret had no trouble imagining exactly how Jordan performed these 'cleansings', and she tried not to let her disgust show on her face. Maybe she could reason with Keith. Surely he couldn't really believe in such a thing. Margaret touched the top of his hand and patted it lightly. "No mortal being can atone for the sins of another, Keith. That is something each person must come to terms with, within themselves." "That's blasphemy!" Keith uttered in a harsh gasp, his eyes hardening into two dark empty pits. She didn't understand after all. Just like his mother -- just like everyone else. She didn't understand, didn't believe. She'd tried to trick him. He should have known better than to listen to her soothing tones. "Hurry up, Jordans waiting." Keith roughly pushed her through the doorway nearly making her spill the plate's contents on the floor. Barely managing to keep her balance, she passed the food out to Jordan and Mitchell. Staring down at Mulder, she concluded that he wasn't in any shape to eat as passed him by. She offered a sandwich to Melissa, who politely refused. After holding Mulder down and watching her sister stitch him up, Melissa didn't think she'd ever get her appetite back. Dana also shook her head 'no' to the food. Dana quietly told her mother that she was sick to her stomach and needed her antacid in the night stand on the *right* side of the bed, should she find herself in a position to get it. Margaret read her daughter well. Dana wanted something in the night stand but she knew that whatever it was it most certainly wasn't an antacid. "Jordan, I'm cold," Keith complained like a whining child. "We were just discussing that," Jordan replied. He looked over to Dana and came to a decision. "The bitch says there are sweaters upstairs. I vote we go get em'" Dana started to move toward the stairs but Jordan raised his hand, effectively stopping her forward motion. "No, not you, Florence Nightingale. I don't trust you. We already know Keith can't handle that one," he added, pointing at Melissa. Keith's cheeks burned bright with the memory of his humiliation. "No, I want her to go," Jordan motioned with a flourish of his hand at Margaret, indicating that she was to go upstairs with Keith. Keith, however, showed a reluctance to go with her. He couldn't usher this one into paradise. She was too much like what he'd wished his own mother could be. She frightened him. "What the hell's the matter with you?" Jordan demanded, noticing Keith's apprehension. Take grandma there upstairs and pick out a few nice warm sweaters. Or would you rather stand there and freeze your ass off?" Jordan stood glaring at Keith. He didn't like having to repeat himself and he sure as hell never thought he'd have any trouble with Keith, of all people. Keith shook his head "no" and turned toward the stairs. In the end Keith Reese feared Jordan more than Margaret Scully. With Margaret leading the way, they slowly climbed the stairs and entered Dana's bedroom. Margaret crossed the room to the closet where she spied Dana and Mulder's things hanging up neatly side by side, all mixed in together. That simple fact spoke volumes to Margaret of just how close her daughter was to this shy, often quiet and cerebral young man. She found herself briefly wondering why they didn't make their obvious commitment to each other official. Maybe once they all got out of this mess, she would have time to talk to Dana about that. Giving herself a mental shake, she pulled out two of Mulder's sweaters. They smelled clean and fresh with just a hint of musk that she recognized as Mulder's own warm, unique scent. It was strangely reassuring. Draping the sweaters over one arm, she bent over the night stand. "Dana wanted me to get her antacid," she explained to Keith as she pulled open the drawer. Thankfully he stayed on the other side of the room, so she was able to use her body to partially block her actions. She held up the roll of tablets with one hand to show Keith, briefly wondering to herself why her daughter had started taking these things. Maybe their adventure on the cruise ship had left Dana with lingering physical problems. Margaret hoped it was nothing serious. She deftly slipped the ammo clip from the drawer into her other hand which was conveniently covered with sweaters. Keith kept glancing out the bedroom door, half afraid that Jordan or even worse, Mitchell, would come bounding up the stairs telling him that he was taking too long. In his haste to complete his assignment and leave with his dignity intact, Keith hadn't noticed Margaret's extra little movement. Margaret handed Keith one of the sweaters as they passed through the doorway and back down the hall. She watched as he slipped it on, trying desperately to think of a plan. Margaret knew that soon she would have to relinquish the other sweater to Jordan Chambers and in doing so, reveal the 9mm clip that she held in the palm of her left hand. She had no pockets. Now what? "Wait," Keith said abruptly, grabbing her shoulder. "What about Mitchell? We need one for him too, remember?" He looked at the other closed doors leading off the hallway. "Which room, grandma?" Margaret stopped in her tracks. The idea of one of these animals wearing anything that had belonged to her husband was repugnant, but she knew Mulder's clothes would never fit Mitchell and the last thing she wanted to do was get something of Bill's and alert them that another man was supposed to be here. The Captain would want us to survive, she reasoned, and he'd have given these thugs the shirt off his own back if he'd thought that it would help. Margaret nodded to her own bedroom door. "In there," she said. "I couldn't bring myself to give away all of my husband's things after he died. I think I still have a few of his sweaters in my closet." Moving through the doorway to her bedroom, Margaret noticed the broken door frame and the heel marks on her door. Melissa must have locked herself in here, she thought. But why? Margaret kept no weapons in her bedroom. Surely Melissa must have known that. She opened her closet door and began rummaging around on the top shelf for the sweaters. She knew there were a couple up here someplace. Margaret frowned up at the shelf. Something was missing. It took her a second before it registered...the Captain's flag was gone. It must have been Melissa, but what in the world had she done with it? Margaret resisted the urge to look around the room for the flag, concentrating instead on bringing a sweater down from the shelf. Slowly closing the closet door, Margaret noticed the drapes by her window moving slightly. Now that she thought about it, the room did seem to have a bit of a draft. Looking closely through the sheer inner drapes that covered her window, she caught just a glimpse of dark red in between the window pane and the sill. Good girl, Margaret thought with an inner smile. She turned and walked briskly out of the room before Keith could notice the draft. Walking down the stairs, Margaret focused on her own dilemma.. She frantically searched for a convenient yet accessible spot to ditch the item that could possibly save their lives. The solution to her problem loomed ahead of her like a neon sign screaming, 'deposit clip here.' As she neared the bottom of the stairs, Margaret slowed her steps to an annoying snail's pace which prompted Keith to shove her forward roughly. Feigning a misstep, she bumped into the plant at the foot of the stairs and a gray metallic object silently dropped into the pot of dirt. ***** end part six From xangst@frii.com Thu Oct 24 02:29:08 1996 SANCTUARY BY: CHERYL COHEN (ALIAS-THE STINKER) AND ANNIE REED (ALIAS-FANCYKATZ) Forward ************************************ Annie and I started this story several months ago. In fact we started bouncing around ideas for a sequel right after we finished "Devil's Advocate. Okay, we didn't expect it to take this long or be this long but somehow the characters seemed to take on a life of their own and each insisted that they have their moment in the sun. Hence, what follows is ninety pages of love, sadness, joy, sex, misunderstandings, violence, insanity, aggravation, frustration, humor, death...and life. Please be warned, this tale contains, graphic violence, adult language, and adult situations. Although there is sex involved in several scenes, it is not what I would consider graphic nor is it out of context with the story. I like to leave a little bit to the imagination. DISCLAIMERS ETC. ******************************** This story is based on the characters and situations created by Chris Carter, the Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions. As such, the characters named are the property of those entities and are used without permission, although no copyright infringements are intended. ************************************ CHAPTER SEVEN Revelations Bill Scully glanced at his watch anxiously one more time. He couldn't believe how much time he'd spent on a simple little grocery expedition. But then again the drive into town had been hazardous and it had taken him nearly an hour just to get to the store. Now he'd already spent another two hours in the grocery store trying to find all the items on the list his mom had given him. Well hell, it wasn't his fault this excursion was taking so long. He hardly ever did the grocery shopping -- his wife usually handled that chore -- and after all these years he still found it nearly impossible to decipher his mom's handwriting into anything remotely legible. The Scully children had probably been the only ones who'd never been able to fake a note from their parents to get out of school. None of them had ever been able to come even close to his mom's scrawl. Bill never had known how his teachers were able to decipher what his mom had written. He held the paper sideways and upside-down before irrationally tossing the note into the cart. "Might as well be Egyptian hieroglyphics," he complained irritably. Finally giving up, he pushed the cart enthusiastically toward the far end of the store. "Pretzels and beer" he muttered happily. Okay, it wasn't on the list--at least he didn't think it was-- but then again, who knew? That last entry kinda looked a little like pretzels and beer if you held it at just the right angle. He knew where to find those particular items and he had a sneaking suspicion that his new pal, Mulder, would appreciate his creative inspirational interpretation of his mom's written word. In fact, if he knew his mom and sisters as well as he thought he did, the poor guy would probably *need* a cold beer by the time Bill got back. When he got right down to it, he felt just a little guilty for deserting Mulder and leaving him in the 'enemy' camp, but as long as they were bothering Mulder, they wouldn't be pestering him. He shuddered, remembering the few times that he'd been sick. Jesus, he grinned to himself, they've probably mothered the poor bastard to death by now. Scully women were notoriously annoying that way. Although he didn't really know Mulder that well, he still felt a genuine affection for the man. Mulder was a kindred spirit, someone he felt comfortable with. From some of the stories he'd heard, he hadn't been exactly sure what to expect. He was pleasantly surprised and relieved, however, to find that aside from an odd professional specialization and a few off beat ideas, Mulder was a fairly normal, likable fellow. Bill grinned and shook his head. Reaching what he considered to be his favorite part of the grocery store, Bill grabbed two 'party pak ' size pretzel bags and a case of beer, snatched an extra large bag of David's sunflower seeds off the rack, and put them all in the cart with the rest of the groceries, then went off in search of the shortest check out line he could find. Damn, if a short check out line was a wild animal, they'd be on the endangered species list. The snow was really coming down. Bill had to scrape at least four inches of the heavy white stuff off the back of the car just to get the trunk open, and the sparse traffic in front of the store was moving along the street at a snail's pace. It looks like we're gonna be in for a good one, he thought. For once the weatherman seemed to be on target. While loading the bags into the car, he decided that perhaps he should stock up on a few extra household supplies, just in case. Anyway, none of the frozen stuff was going to melt out here if he took a few extra minutes. Closing the trunk, he walked back to the shopping center and into a hardware store a couple of doors down from the supermarket. Hardware stores fascinated him...always had. There were always so many interesting things to discover and he had always been a tinkerer at heart. His dad had been much the same way, always setting up a little workshop no matter where the family had been stationed. He'd spent a lot of hours with the Captain, at least when he wasn't away on assignment, learning the proper way to use the proper tool for the proper job. And they were always coming out with new little gadgets. Bill pushed a cart up and down the aisles, snagging a few things he thought he might need, but mostly just looking at what was available, mentally filing the information away for future reference. When he finally looked at his watch, he gasped in surprise at the time. Oh shit! It was after 3:00 o' clock. He hadn't meant to spend nearly an hour walking the aisles. Mom was gonna kill him. Belay that...she was gonna tongue lash him , skin him alive, and then kill him. He remembered how hard the snow was falling. He'd be lucky if he made it back before dinner. What was he thinking? Tonight's dinner was in the back seat of his car. Oh boy, he'd really screwed up this time. His hardware purchases paid for, Bill headed toward the shopping center's main exit, walking quickly and muttering under his breath. As he passed by a TV repair shop, something on one of the TV sets in the window caught his eye. The bright blue logo of a local network affiliate shown in the corner of the screen next to the words "Special Bulletin." But that wasn't what first attracted his attention. It was the picture of the car that filled the frame. He'd seen that car somewhere... he was sure of it...and recently, too. Bill stopped and stared at the screen, racking his brain for a memory that eluded him. He'd nearly given up when a sudden revelation brought the recollection into focus. He'd seen that cart just a few hours ago on his way to town, parked by the lake on the Old Mill Road not more than a quarter of a mile from his house. Running inside the store, Bill turned up the volume on the first TV set he encountered, much to the chagrin of the shopkeeper. He listened intently as the local anchorman spun the tale of horror that surrounded that particular vehicle. As he listened, a series of involuntary shakes raced through Bill's body. Though he'd never been one to subscribe wholeheartedly to his mom and sister's 'talents,' there was no getting around what he was experiencing. He had a bad feeling about this, a very bad feeling indeed. Using the store's phone, Bill immediately phoned his mom's house. The line was dead. His stomach tied in knots. He tried Dana's cellphone number--ditto. As a last resort, he finally called the police, who in turn notified the FBI. Local police and FBI agents assigned to the case descended on the sleepy little shopping center in a matter of minutes. Bill's morale had deteriorated quickly but not as quickly as the weather outside. From the time he'd called the police and the time they'd arrived, the wind had grown into a monstrous howl, blowing snow across the ground in great white sheets. The storm had finally hit with all its fury. Bill could barely glimpse his car in the parking lot, and what he did manage to see made his heart sink. The car was now buried in a good foot of snow, and it was still coming down fast and furious. The roads in town must be nearly impassable by now, and there was no way anyone would be able to get out to his family tonight. Bill's first instinct was to find the nearest snowmobile and head out to his mom's, snow or no damn snow. But a calmer part of his brain insisted that once he left town, he would lose his bearings in all that blowing whiteness. There was no choice but to wait for a break in the storm. Bill joined the officers and FBI agents when they retreated to a local precinct. Even with tire chains, the patrol cars skidded and slid along the streets which were now all but deserted of traffic. Bill saw a snow plow pass his patrol car, the yellow warning lights reflecting dully off the falling snow. The plow was barely keeping up. Whatever was going on at mom's, no one was going in or out in all this mess. He muttered a long forgotten prayer asking for their safety, hoping that God was still listening to him after all these years. Once at the precinct, Agents Hestor and McGuire led Bill to a small warm room and offered him a hot cup of coffee, then began the task of trying to sort out exactly what they were up against. Agent Hestor watched Bill Scully bring his coffee cup up to his mouth, noticing the tremor in the man's hands and the haunted look in his eyes. This guy is really upset, Hestor thought. Maybe this time they had a solid lead. He walked slowly across the room and placed his hand gently on Bill's shoulder in an attempt to comfort him. "I know you've probably gone through this once already, Mr. Scully, but I want you to start again from the beginning," Hestor told him calmly. "Nobody's going anywhere tonight, so take your time and tell us what you saw." Bill put his coffee cup down and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay," he said, blowing out an unsteady breath while he tried to organize his thoughts. "I heard about this storm heading in, and I'd used up all the eggs this morning, so I told mom that I'd go to town for supplies just in case we got snowed in." "Who's we?" McGuire asked. "Me, my two kids, my mom, my two sisters, and my sister's partner," Bill replied. "A family reunion?" Hestor inquired. Underneath his bland question, aimed mainly at getting the guy calmed down enough to remember details that would be helpful to them, Hestor was keeping a mental count of the males and females stuck alone out in that house, not to mention little kids. Depending on the sex of this 'partner,' the odds didn't look too good right about now. A house full of women and little children alone in a snowstorm, and somewhere out there in all that snow were three monsters who preyed on women and children. Shit. "No, no, nothing like that. Just a chance for mom to get most of her kids in one spot at one time. Sometimes things just work out that way." Geez, Bill thought, I hope I don't sound as stupid to these guys as I sound in my own head. He had a sudden image of Matt and Meredith, alone and frightened, and suddenly he didn't care how stupid he sounded. God, just help my kids, he prayed. "Okay, so I was on my way into town," Bill continued. "I had just gone about a quarter mile down the road when I saw the car parked near the lake. I really didn't think too much about it at the time. I mean, people park their cars there and go fishing all the time, so I thought it was just some diehard who didn't want to leave the ice even with a storm blowing in." "Anybody in the car?" McGuire asked. Bill shook his head. "No. I didn't see anyone." When McGuire didn't ask anything else, Bill continued on with his story. "I did my shopping and I was going by the TV shop when I saw that same car in the news bulletin, so I rushed inside and listened to the news report. I tried to call home but the lines were dead and my sister's cell phone wasn't working, so I called the police." "Mr. Scully, how did you know that it was the same car?" ask McGuire, genuine curiosity crossing her face. "Oh, that's easy, I remember the license plate. My sister has been lecturing me for years about being more observant. She's an FBI agent too. She's at the house along with her partner. He was hurt pretty bad on their last case and well, he's not a very good patient so they sent him home with her. She's a doctor. If these men are there...they could be in real trouble." "What's your sisters name?" asked Agent McGuire. "Dana Scully. Her partner's name is Fox Mulder," Bill added. They hadn't asked about Mulder, but Bill figured that was going to be the next question, and he was trying to be as helpful as he could. "Shit!," exclaimed Hestor. "Get on the phone to Washington. I want every record they have on Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. You better put in a call to Assistant Director Skinner too." "You believe him?" McGuire asked softly, skeptical after all the false leads they'd investigated all day. "You bet your ass I do," Hestor replied crossly. "I went to the academy with Spooky Mulder. He's a little out in left field, but dedicated, a decent guy, and one hell of an agent. I heard they stuck him with a partner a few years ago to keep an eye on him but I couldn't remember who. Now I remember. Anybody who can keep up with Mulder has to be a damn good agent in her own right, and if that's her brother," Hestor added, nodding toward Bill, "yeah, I believe him when he says he saw the license plate." McGuire left the room. Hestor poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and began pacing, counting off the seconds that ticked by at a maddeningly slow rate and glaring at the snowflakes that blew by the room's small window. Bill Scully sat staring morosely into his coffee cup, not seeing the muddy brown contents but a mental movie of the life and times of the Scully family, the birth of his children and their bright, happy faces as they ran out to play in the snow only that morning. Both men looked up when McGuire returned about a half hour later looking grim. "We've got a potentially explosive situation here if these men are in that house, Hestor." Bill, overhearing their conversation, got up so quickly he almost knocked over his coffee. "What potentially explosive situation?" he demanded. McGuire stared at Bill Scully, trying to make up her mind whether to include him in the conversation. What the hell, she thought. It's his family -- he's got a right to know. "We already knew that all of the escaped prisoners are violently psychopathic, and as if that's not bad enough, we have a new problem now. One of the escapees was originally apprehended and put away due to information provided in a profile created by Agent Fox Mulder, Ph.D.. He was witness to and signed the commitment papers for one..." McGuire paused to look at the printout, "Jordan Chambers. Hestor, this animal was a real sicko back then, and I don't place much stock in the state's efforts at rehabilitation" She turned her head slightly and lowered her voice. "Hestor, this one could get real messy, real fast," she murmured, trying to keep Bill Scully from overhearing her last remark. Hestor nodded imperceptibly, agreeing with her assessment. "Did Mulder testify against this guy?" he asked. "No," McGuire replied. "That's one thing we have going for us. Chambers never actually saw him. But if Chambers discovers that Mulder's written affidavits were instrumental in his sentencing..." McGuire didn't have to finish her sentence. None of them had any trouble visualizing what would happen to the Scully family if Chambers found out it was Mulder who had put him away. Walter Skinner finished his last file review for the day, removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes while trying to remove the endless clutter of carefully typewritten words from his brain. It didn't help. He placed the last file neatly on top of the others in his out basket and unconsciously straightened the few personal items that adorned his desk.. Some days this job with its endless bureaucratic bullshit could really wear a person down. Had he known long ago that accepting advancement would mean greater, not lesser, frustration he might have opted to remain a field agent. At least then he could feel like he was doing something meaningful, instead of constantly walking a tightrope over an endless shark-filled sea with no safety net to catch him if he fell. His mouth quirked in a small, fatalistic grin -- getting fanciful in your old age, Walter, he chided himself. Actually his situation at the Bureau felt more like getting caught in the jungle with snipers behind every tree and no one to cover your back. Well, pondering 'what if's' certainly is getting me nowhere fast, he thought. At least he'd managed to avoid any major crisis today...big jungle, small bullets, and today none had found their mark. A quick workout in the gym would clear his head, even though at the moment working out was the last thing in the world he really wanted to do. Skinner sighed tiredly as he got up to retrieve his suit coat from the back of the chair when the phone rang. Don't answer it, his inner voice tempted him. He paused, staring at the phone, then quieted the temptation just to leave with a muttered, "shut up." He picked up the receiver and listened for several minutes. ******* continued in 7b From xangst@frii.com Thu Oct 24 02:29:44 1996 Sanctuary part seven continues.... "Shit!!!" Skinner rumbled angrily, hanging up the phone. He stared out his office window at the dark D.C. night, absently rubbing his lower lip as he pondered what he'd just been told. What was it with his wayward pair of agents. Why in the hell did every crisis always seem to involve them and why did he care. Well that's a stupid question, his inner voice ragged at him. In fact, that's probably the dumbest question you've asked yourself in longer than you can remember. Those two particular agents remind you a lot of yourself before all of this bureaucratic nonsense and political manipulation took over your life. He stood silently, looking about his office...all neat, tidy and official, and more than likely... bugged. The answer to the world's stupidest question was that Walter Skinner cared because he had a lot more in common with Fox Mulder than he'd ever like to admit to anyone, especially himself. Now an old case had come back to haunt him...and Mulder. A particularly unsavory case. A brief memory passed through his mind, a memory of a new, young agent hell bent on saving the world. He was idealistic, incredibly naive, unrelentingly stubborn, and undeniably...brilliant. Skinner had watched as this young man threw everything he had, mind, body, and soul, into his work. In fact, he seemed to use his work as conduit to alleviate some vague feeling of guilt that haunted an otherwise enlightened spirit. Whatever his motivation, there was no question that this kid got results. Along with others both in and outside the Bureau, Skinner had admired Fox Mulder. At that time Walter Skinner had just been appointed Assistant Director, the youngest ever to hold the position. One of his first administrative decisions had been to put this young agent in the Violent Crimes Section because of his uncanny ability to get inside the heads of these monsters who created the bulk of the work in the VCS. Skinner didn't understand how it worked, but it did work, and most importantly, it got those miserable excuses for humanity off the streets. Skinner had been content to let Agent Mulder do his job in his own unique way, but he'd neglected the human side of the equation, concentrating instead on the numbers, that high 'case solved' ratio that would reflect well on Skinner's own ability to do *his* job. Skinner and Mulder -- they'd both been on the fast track within the Bureau. With twenty-twenty hindsight, Skinner now knew that he'd neglected to see the pain each new case inflicted upon Mulder's own psyche..until the unforgettable case of Jordan Chambers. Somehow Mulder had gotten so empathetically wound up in this ogre's head that before he'd finally managed to capture the fiend, the man's mind had physically made the agent ill. Still Mulder had hung on, refusing to quit, refusing to sleep, nearly refusing to eat until Chambers had been caught and placed behind bars. When Skinner had gone to personally congratulate his shining star agent, he'd been shocked by the young man's appearance. Finally realizing that each case had become too personal for Mulder, that he felt each death was his responsibility, Skinner decided to pull Mulder out of violent crimes and assign him to the x-files that he'd requested the month before. He'd almost made that decision too late. In the time since, however, he'd begun to wonder if serial killers would have been a safer bet. At least with them, you knew who your enemies were. Now, one of Mulder's own personal horrors, Jordan Chambers, was loose and quite possibly with Mulder at this moment. Skinner decided that storm or no storm, he'd make the trip himself. It was the least he could do. Margaret pushed herself awkwardly away from the dark green elephant ear house plant at the foot of the stairs, brushing dirt off of her hands and reassuring her worried daughters that she was okay. Regaining her balance, she offered the remaining sweater to Jordan, reverting back into her timid, subservient grandmother mode. If they wanted to think of her as a helpless, frightened female...let them. Perhaps they wouldn't perceive her as a threat. That would be *their* mistake. Jordan grabbed the sweater out of her arms, his disgust at her clumsiness written plainly on his face. Margaret's mask of submissive acceptance slipped only briefly as her eyes flashed, revealing the anger that she'd kept so carefully hidden. Her rage welled up within her as the images of what these men had done to her family flooded her mind -- her grandchildren huddled fearfully against the living room wall, Melissa's haunted look of shock, Dana's injured shoulder, and Fox, poor Fox, unconscious and bleeding on the hallway floor. So much violence...how could anyone deal with so much violence, especially within the sanctity of your own home? The visions playing in her head at an ever-increasing speed threatened to overwhelm her sanity. No, she berated herself gently, no, you can't afford the luxury of 'losing it' now. Holding it together could possibly be their only chance for survival here and she wasn't going to blow it by falling apart at the seams. The mask fell back into place as Margaret moved over to the couch and placed a trembling hand lightly on Dana's shoulder. Wincing slightly at her mother's touch, Dana didn't cry out but lifted her worried eyes toward her mother's face, then turned her attention back to Mulder as she continued to gently probe the darkening discoloration that was expanding over Mulder's right 7th and 8th ribs. On her cursory examination of him earlier, she had checked his lungs, heart, and bowel sounds and found everything fairly normal, considering what he'd been through. The slight bruising she'd detected was to be expected for someone who'd been slammed to the floor with such force as he had, so she had disregarded it as just a bruise and let it go. But it wasn't just a bruise. When she'd sutured his reopened wounds, she'd noticed the light bruise had begun to blacken and spread. Now it seemed to cover most of the right side of his chest. Well, she finally had an inkling as to where the blood in his mouth had probably originated. Evidently, when Mitchell had driven his knee into Mulder's kidney, he'd also driven a fractured lower rib against his liver as well. A laceration of the liver could be a serious thing and without x-rays it would be difficult to assess the injury. However, she noted with relief, that the bleeding had been minimal and had already stopped. Chances were pretty good that the damage to Mulder's liver was relatively superficial and would remain so, as long as she could keep his cute little buns firmly planted on the couch. In any case, vigorous movement would be out of the question. Luckily, he was in such a sorry state that she couldn't foresee him moving much of *anything* in the near future. Still..a little ice wouldn't hurt to keep the swelling down. Dana felt her mother's hand move away from her sore shoulder. Surprise registered briefly on Dana's face as she watched her mom stroke that damn uncooperative strand of hair from Mulder's eyes and softly kiss his forehead. Margaret slowly turned her head toward Dana and away from Keith and Jordan. Locking eyes with her daughter, Margaret mouthed the words, 'clip...plant.' Thanks mom, Dana thought. Well she didn't have to belong to MENSA to figure that one out. Now, the $64 million question was how in the world was she going to get to the damn clip, take it out of the plant, and get it into her gun without anybody seeing her. Perhaps a diversion of some kind... This would be a good time for an appearance from David Copperfield or Houdini's ghost. Hell, she'd even settle for one of Mulder's little gray men but the chances of any of them showing up were about even, so she set her mind to work on an alternative plan of action. "Mom, I could use some ice here," Dana hinted in a low voice. Jordan grunted with disgust as he watched the two women hovered over Mulder. What a waste of time and effort. Mitchell had saved Mr. FBI's ass so far, but it would be a long wait for the storm to lift and he wasn't in a hurry. There would be plenty of time for fun and games later. He grinned as his imagination conjured up images of the type of fun and games he had in mind. Jordan's thoughts were interrupted by a rumbling in his belly, and the smile fled from his face as his body forced him back to the present. He was hungry, pretty damn hungry as a matter of fact. His stomach was growling, reminding him that he'd waited way too long between meals. He was Jordan Chambers...he didn't have to wait for anything or anyone. Time to make another command decision. Jordan pointed at Margaret and screamed, "Get that bitch in the kitchen to make some real food. I don't want any fucking sandwiches this time." He was gratified to see Melissa and the children jump at his sudden outburst, although the old lady and the doc just stiffened. They'll learn, he thought to himself. "If she can't handle it, take the doc but somebody better make something good," he sneered at Keith. Margaret got up suddenly. "I can handle it. What would you like?" She'd be damned if she'd leave another one of these animals alone with one of her children again if she could help it. Hopefully they would send Keith with her again. She knew he was just as dangerous as the others but she also instinctively knew how to intimidate him. Her apron had big pockets and perhaps she could get the ice Dana had asked for as well. She began to walk toward Keith. To her dismay, Jordan shoved Keith backward and moved toward her instead, pulling her away from the edge of the couch. "Last time I sent you with Keith, he let you make those damn sandwiches," Jordan grumbled. "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself." "Hey, Jordan," Mitchell called from the other side of the room. "Guess you'll be needing this," he snarled sarcastically as he tossed the gun to Jordan. "Women and children can be really dangerous you know," Mitchell added. Jordan caught the gun in mid-air and once more contemplated using it on Mitchell. One of these days his disrespectful taunting was going to go just too far. He pushed Margaret through the open doorway, barking orders to her as he went, Mitchell's mocking laugh following him through the door. Mitchell might have to be taught a lesson. Jordan Chambers was in command here, and he would not have his authority usurped again. Shaking his head, Mitchell lowered himself to a chair across from the sofa and stretched his legs. Even though he'd been laughing just a moment earlier, Dana noted that no humor seemed to have reached his eyes...strange, flat, watchful eyes of a predator. Now that he was sitting down, Dana noticed a slight twitch in the muscles of his body, a tension that would not ease, even with the aid of the drugs he'd taken earlier. She wondered how long the drug's effects would keep Mitchell civil and what would happen when their effects wore off. If his attack on Mulder was any indication... Dana shook her own head and turned once again back to Mulder. She couldn't afford to think about that right now. She had too many other concrete things to worry about besides nebulous 'what if's'. She needed to get the damn clip out of the plant, she needed to get Mulder some proper medical care, hell, *she* needed some proper medical care herself. Whatever changes Mitchell would undergo would happen with or without her worrying about them. Perhaps by the time it finally happened, they would be able to find a way to help themselves out of this predicament. Listening to the howling wind beating against the windows, combined with the soft shush of the blowing snow, Dana realized that they would have to help themselves. Any help from the outside would be slow in coming...maybe too slow and too late. Keith followed Mitchell's example and plopped down in the chair opposite Mitchell, unconsciously adopting the older man's posture. Keith continued to stare at Melissa, reveling in the sense of power he felt when she trembled under his unrelenting gaze. He then shifted his eyes to Dana who only returned his stare with a defiant glare of her own. That was not good. He needed their fear. Fear was necessary for the cleansing of these rancid souls. This woman refused to fear him. Why? Didn't she know he had power over her? He would have to make her feel his power, make her afraid of him. As he turned the problem over and over in his mind, Dana Scully became Keith Reese's new obsession. Mulder stirred and slowly opened his eyes. Oh God, he knew he'd felt sicker, but at the moment he couldn't exactly remember when. At Mulder's movement, Dana disregarded Keith's leering stare and focused her attention on the awakening man beneath her fingertips. "Try not to move around too much," she ordered affectionately, using one hand to cradle his face, her thumb gently caressing his cheek. Mulder blinked slowly and swallowed several times before deciding to see whether he still had a voice. "I hadn't planned on it," he finally croaked out with a wry half smile. He felt like he was trying to speak with a mouth full of peanut butter and by the look on Dana's face, it probably sounded that way too. As the fog lifted from his brain, Mulder took a quick look around the room, noting the continued presence of Mitchell and Keith. "I see our party guests are still here. Why is it that I'm always the one who gets the hangover?" he muttered under his breath as he struggled to sit up. "I told you not to move around," Dana implored, making an effort to push him back down. "Dana...I have to go," he replied in a breathy whisper. "Go where?" she asked. "There's no place *to* go. We have a blizzard outside and armed criminals inside. So tell me, where are you going to go?" she lectured him. "I seem to remember drinking nearly a half a bottle of Jack Daniels several hours ago. Do you have to ask?" His eyes crinkled with exasperation. "But...Mulder...you can't go," Dana stammered. Mulder eyes widened in surprise. Something was going on here. Okay... what exactly was she trying to tell him with that absurd statement? Was this some sort of tactical restriction insisted upon by their captors or a medical diagnostic observation" Mulder's gaze drifted toward Mitchell, then Keith. They both appeared disinterested in their hostages at the moment so why the moratorium on bodily functions? "What do you mean, I can't?" Mulder asked in a cracked whisper. One eyebrow suddenly climbed upward, disappearing beneath a stray shock of hair that stubbornly drooped over one eye. "Dana, there's only so much room in there. I don't think I have much of a choice in the matter," he replied, squirming uneasily to stress his point. Wasn't it enough that he hurt all over and felt like someone had set a firecracker off inside his head. Now he was being told to 'hold it'? He felt like a kid again, and an unpleasant memory barged its way into his brain. He was riding in the back seat of the family car on the way to his Aunt Carol's house. His dad had refused to stop no matter how much he'd begged. They'd gotten off to a late start, and his dad, nothing if not punctual, was bound and determined to still get there on time. Mulder's pleas for a pit stop had gone unanswered and the human body had its limitations, even for a thirteen year old boy. When they finally did pull over, it had been too late and his dad had beat the shit out of him for embarrassing him. The memory was as clear as the day it happened. The pain and shame pulled at him even now with 21 years worth of distance to separate him from the memory. Dana recognized the haunted shadow that crossed his face. He was remembering something and she could tell it wasn't pleasant. The shadow always accompanied the sad and painful emptiness that shone from his eyes when his mind played back what his special memory wouldn't let him forget. Sometimes he would tell her what had caused the shadow, sometimes he wouldn't. She never pressed him for she knew that whenever he worked it out, eventually he'd always confess his soul to her. Dana brushed her fingers lightly over his cheek and he came back to her. "All I meant was that you shouldn't move," she explained, "and that you should wait until Mom can help us move you." He eyed Melissa. "But Melissa..." he started. Dana raised her finger to his lips, " is with the kids and can't help us," Dana finished. Mulder took in Melissa's torn clothing and the tight way she held herself, and he remembered what had happened to her. "Is...she all right?" he asked worriedly. "Did they hurt her?" "She'll be fine," Dana comforted him. "But you have to wait for mom. Either that or..." she looked toward the half empty whiskey bottle on the end table. Mulder followed her gaze and sighed. "Or piss in a bottle. Yeah, I get the message. I really wouldn't mind so much as long as I could get one of those Bozos to drink it," he grinned. Dana's eyes sparkled with mischief as her hand covered the smile that threatened to erupt across her face. How he could make jokes at a time like this was beyond her. How she could laugh at them was even more amazing. Okay, so he couldn't go pee, but he was damned sure not going to stay flat on his back. Pushing up with his arms, ignoring the disapproval on Dana's face, Mulder straightened up into a semi-sitting position on the couch. It hurt like hell to move, and the pain wiped the grin off Mulder's face. A quick glance at Mitchell told him that the big man had not moved. Apparently he didn't believe Mulder was too big of a threat, and Mulder had to admit that he was probably right. Mulder trained his gaze on Keith and studied him for several seconds, then glanced at Melissa who had taken her place with the children during Margaret's absence. ******** continued in part 7c From xangst@frii.com Thu Oct 24 02:30:19 1996 Sanctuary part seven continues.... Melissa suddenly looked frail and vulnerable to him. He had never considered Melissa vulnerable before, and she certainly was not frail. If anything, she had as much spark and fire within her as Dana, if not more. The sight of her in that condition fueled the flames of his protective nature, prompting him to ask a question. "Why?" he sighed softly, turning his face toward Keith. Keith brought his head up and momentarily stared into space, seemingly unaware that a question had been directed at him. Mulder nodded toward Melissa and repeated his question more boldly, eliminating any doubt as to who he was talking to. "Why do you want to hurt her?" Keith stared at Mulder but didn't answer. Dana closed her eyes and fervently wished Mulder would learn when to shut up. She understood that out of all their captors, Mulder felt Keith was the weak link, that perhaps by trying to understand him, Mulder could reason with him. At least, as much as you could possibly hope to reason with a deranged man. She also knew, however, that Keith was extremely unstable. If Mulder, decided to pursue this line of questioning, he would be navigating some seriously treacherous ground. Not that she was any better qualified to deal with the likes of Keith. Med school classes and academy training never really prepared a person for facing a lunatic out in the field. When you were in a situation, you did your best, tried to say the right things, and hoped like hell it would all turn out right in the end. The best tool a field agent had was instinct, and the only one she'd ever met with instincts equal to, if not better than her own, was Fox Mulder. She trusted Mulder with every fiber of her soul, and in spite of all the flack most people at the Bureau dumped on his shoulders, she couldn't help but admire him. There had been a time when she wouldn't have been able to admit this to herself that she could admire a man like Mulder, but that time was long passed and now she was scared. Dana Scully was scared and she didn't feel ashamed of that fact. Mulder had taught her that it was all right to be scared. She'd made a crack to him once, long ago, about him being a hero. He'd calmly stated that he'd been scared shitless--and that 'heroes' were no different than anyone else. "Heroes" were just normal people placed in abnormal situations who, in spite of their 'fear,' managed to survive and possibly take some one else with them. He'd called her *his* hero that day, informing her that she was the best thing that'd ever happened to him since he'd discovered peanut butter. She'd hoped that was a compliment. "Just tell me why, Keith. I really want to know," Mulder continued, his voice deceptively calm and steady, yet quietly insistent. The object of Mulder's interest slowly arose from his chair. Melissa flinched back against the wall at Keith's movement, but he ignored her. Instead, he strode across the small room, stopping only when he'd reached a position that placed him directly above the couple on the couch. Mulder felt Dana's grip tighten on his arm as Keith stood looking down at them, his brown eyes dark and unreadable. Sensing her apprehension, Mulder nudged her away from his side under the pretense of getting a better look at Keith. In reality he'd been vaguely aware of her being hurt earlier when she'd tried to protect him from Jordan's wrath. He wasn't an experienced clinical psychoanalyst and he'd just as soon have Dana out of reach in case he made a mistake in his conversation with Keith. He wasn't about to let her get injured on his account, not again. Banishing what emotions he could from his face, Mulder concentrated on the few positive feelings he could find within himself, getting his mind ready to deal with Keith. He didn't like doing this. It drained him and gave him headaches but it was a necessary form of communication of sorts. It worked for him when he was in the VCS. Hopefully, even though he didn't understand it, it might work for him now as well. He considered it 'meditation'...a clearing of the clutter in his mind to allow him to consider the possibilities... to understand the motives of another human being. Mulder knew some people considered this ability a gift, but he was more critical of himself than anyone else could possibly be. He refused to think of himself as gifted, choosing instead to think of his 'spooky' ability as nothing more than another useful investigative technique. Keith locked his suspicious, troubled eyes on Mulder's. Seeing only sincere questions in their smoky depths, not he revulsion or ridicule he was used to, Keith relaxed visibly. Maybe this man really did want to understand, and for some reason Keith found himself wanting to explain and justify his actions. Somehow he knew he'd be understood. " I...I d...d... don't really want to hurt her," Keith stuttered, his face reddening as he realized that was not quite the truth. He didn't want to hurt, but he *did* need her to be afraid of him, to be afraid that he would hurt her, otherwise he couldn't complete the task. But he couldn't tell this man that, not yet. What he really needed to tell him was about salvation...and Sanctuary. "She's so beautiful, I want to save her soul from eternal damnation. I *have* to save her, and if you knew how you'd want to save her, too. "But how can hurting her save her, Keith?" Mulder asked, still in the same calm, reassuring voice. Keep him talking, Mulder told himself, and stay calm and focused, no matter what he says. Keith tilted his head and looked at the man on the couch like he was a small child you had to explain everything to. He could see by Mulder's expression that he wanted to understand, but he just didn't get it yet. "The evil in her soul has to be purified before she can have sanctuary, Keith explained patiently. "I don't want to hurt her, but I have to be joined with her for the evil to be removed. That way I can take her evil into myself and her pure soul can be freed to join those in sanctuary. It's the only way," he said reasonably. "Who told you this," Mulder inquired, "Jordan? Did Jordan tell you this?" "Of course Jordan told me," Keith said with a grin and a slight roll of his eyes. Had this been any other circumstance, Keith might have resembled the stereotype teenager saying 'no duh!' to a parent's stupid question, but Mulder didn't need to remind himself that this was deadly serious. One wrong move and this 'teenager' would issue all their souls into sanctuary. "Jordan knows everything," Keith continued. "He takes care of me, loves me. He's the only one who ever has. My parents didn't understand me, you know," Keith said, his face clouding over at the memory. "They hate me, I know it. They think I'm a monster. They've always hated me. They told me I was evil. Everyone told me I was evil until Jordan found me and showed me that what I did was righteous." Keith's face lit up again at the mere mention of Jordan. That son of a bitch, Mulder told himself. He found a poor, love-starved, delusional boy and turned him into a disciple. Mulder knew what he had to do. Somehow he had to make Keith see that whatever halo Keith saw on Jordan's head, there were horns underneath holding it up. But knocking Jordan off the pedestal Keith had set him on had to be done delicately, and Mulder was beginning to get one hell of a headache. "He told me that I was right to save my girlfriend, Jenny, before she was defiled," Keith was saying, nodding his head up and down as he began to pace excitedly in front of the man on the couch. "But to do it right, to really cleanse a soul, there must be a joining first to remove the sin. Then I must destroy all the temptations of the flesh and the soul will be free to enter Paradise. There's evil everywhere, in everyone. There are so many souls to save. You know, Jordan said that it was the evil in my dad that made him beat me and that it was my right and duty to slay that evil and I did," Keith added proudly. "Keith, how can you know if someone is evil? Do you just look at them and know? Or does Jordan decide that for you as well?" Mulder asked. "Everyone has evil in them," Keith replied. "Everyone except those who accept Sanctuary, like I have, like Jordan has." "How can little children be evil, Keith? Jordan has molested and murdered children. Keith...how much 'evil' can a 4 year old girl have?" Mulder pleaded, his eyes wet with emotion as his damnable memory showed him an internal slide show of every crime scene photograph, every tiny mutilated body. "*Everyone* is evil!" Keith insisted. "It even says so in the Bible, my mother told me so! Everyone is born with original sin, and you have to accept your savior before you can be free from that sin. My mother made me pray every night until my knees hurt and my back ached asking God to relieve me of my sin, but he never did. The only one who ever did that was Jordan. He was my savior, and he's your savior, too. You have to accept Jordan and Sanctuary before you can be clean, or we have to cleanse you ourselves to make you pure and ready for salvation." Mulder suppressed a shudder. Keith's mind had taken religious dogma deeply ingrained into him by his mother and twisted it into a fanatical obsession with Chambers. The only way to combat that was with a little religious dogma of his own, and Mulder wracked his brain for an appropriate response. Finally coming up with something he thought might work, he took a deep breath before beginning to speak. "Keith, my family was never too religious, but I do remember something I read in the Bible. It says not to put false prophets before God, doesn't it, Keith?" Mulder waited as Keith stopped pacing, clearly trying to remember. Finally, Keith nodded slowly. So far, so good, Mulder thought. " Jordan tells you he rapes, murders, defiles, and mutilates to save his victims' souls from evil, Mulder continued cautiously. "A savior doesn't kill, Keith. A savior lays down his life for others, he doesn't take lives. Keith, Jordan Chambers is a false prophet, the very evil that you seek to destroy. He has tricked you, he has lied to you. He told you that all of this is for the salvation of souls from eternal damnation. People like Jordan Chambers are what the Bible warned us about." Keith held himself very still in front of Mulder, his brown eyes dark and unreadable. Mulder wished he knew what was going on in Keith's mind, but he didn't have a clue. When Keith didn't say anything, Mulder took that as his cue to keep on talking, and he decided to try and push the point home. "Keith, anyone can make a mistake. Everyone wants to be loved and accepted for who they are, and when people we love don't accept us, we look around for someone who will. But it has to be the right kind of love and acceptance, not the kind that Jordan has taught you. Mistreatment by those you love is not an excuse to pass that sorry family tradition to other innocent people, and it's definitely not an excuse for torture and murder." A synapse finally fired in Keith's brain, and a single thought broke through -- this man had just insulted Jordan. Although he tried hard, Keith didn't understand a lot of the rest of the stuff the FBI man had talked about, but he did understand that he said Jordan was wrong, that *he* had been wrong. How could he possibly know what Jordan had saved him from? "Wh..what would y...you know!!" Keith screamed into Mulder's upturned face, his hands balled into fists by his side.. Mulder's eyes shone with a remembrance of his own private hell. "What do I know??!! I'll tell you what I know," his voice shook with the force of emotion that he could no longer control. "I know the pain of loss of part of my soul and the agony of guilt and blame for something beyond my control. I know the disappointment of rejection by a father who damned me to hell on more than one occasion and the indifference of a mother who'd given up trying; the feel of a lighted cigarette on a young boys flesh, the blood in my mouth as punishment when I'd cried; the embarrassment of explaining to doctors how I fell down the stairs five times in two months; the anguish of wanting to tell someone --anyone -- and the agony of not knowing how... And most of all, the fear that maybe it was all my fault. The list goes on. But one thing is certain. I will never raise my hand to any child of mine in anger--never. The abuse stops here with me and I will not allow it to ever go further. Your decisions are yours alone...not your parents, not Jordan's, and not mine. When all is said and done, what you become is *your* responsibility, Keith...*Yours*." Exhausted, Mulder leaned back against the couch as a single tear ran down his cheek. Dana's mouth fell open in shock. She'd known that there'd been problems in Mulder's family, especially after his sister's disappearance but she'd refused to speculate on the severity of the dysfunction until now. Suddenly a lot of things were much clearer to her. This revelation explained a lot about Mulder's behavior and his obsessions. The signs had always been there, she'd just refused to acknowledge them. How could she have been so blind? Dana had always known that Mulder was a mentally strong person. He had to be, putting up with the 'Spooky Mulder' nickname and reputation and not flying off the handle at someone. But the simple fact that he'd been able to handle the weight of all that emotional baggage he'd just unloaded for all those years and not wig out totally said volumes about the kind of man he had become. She had never been more proud of him or more protective. Though she knew it was illogical, she prayed silently that if she could help it, no one would ever hurt him again. She wanted to reach for him, to hold him, comfort him...but she knew why Mulder had pushed her away and touching him wasn't necessary. He knew how she felt. "Just know this, Keith, Mulder added after a long pause, "Jordan Chambers doesn't kill and maim for the sake of salvation. Jordan Chambers kills because he likes it." Keith had taken a small step backward in reaction to Mulder's outburst, realizing that the hurt he perceived in the Agent's eyes reflected his own pain and emptiness. Agent Mulder understood, yet he still called Jordan evil. How could Jordan be evil? Jordan Chambers gave Keith's life meaning and his work validated Keith's existence. Jordan wouldn't mislead him...Keith had always believed that. But this man's eyes revealed only sincerity and truth, and he said Jordan had lied, that Jordan was a false prophet and Keith had been misled. If Jordan had lied to him, then his parents had been right -- He *was* devil's spawn and the souls that he had freed, all the work he had done, it was all in vain. But no, it couldn't be....no, no, on...because if that was true, then his own life was forfeit . He had sinned, had followed a false god, and he knew the punishment for that, oh yes he did, and he heard his mother's voice inside his head berating him once again for being an evil child. Keith's uncertainty fed his confusion and a dim flicker of conscience appeared to glimmer within his dark soul. But Keith was unprepared to bear that kind of guilt and he was certainly not willing to pay the price of his sins, and the fragile spark of conscience died. No, Jordan would never lie to him!!! He believed in Jordan's truth and his faith would not be shaken by this man who would try to trick him. Not willing to listen any more, Keith turned and stalked away, opting to sit on the stairs rather than return to his own chair. Mulder closed his eyes. He could almost hear the door slam shut in Keith's mind. He just refuses to see the truth, Mulder thought. He felt Dana's hand squeeze his arm gently, and he opened his eyes to look into hers. Although she didn't say a word, Mulder knew she believed he had given it his best try. Too bad the best hadn't been quite enough. He closed his eyes again, trying to get a little rest for whatever the next crisis would be. Mitchell had observed the exchange between the two men with interest. No wonder the Black Ops had considered Agent Mulder such a threat. Anyone who could even remotely sway Keith's fanatical allegiance to the all powerful, all knowing Jordan Chambers, had to be one persuasive son of a bitch. An honest, intelligent man with a sense of purpose was one to be feared by an oppressive, manipulative authority in any society. That was a historical constant. Feeling a familiar stirring inside himself, Mitchell frowned. The man-made demon was pressing his sanity once more, the need to kill pounding at the dam in his brain like a river in flash flood. He knew that soon his control would be gone and someone else would have to die. In a way, he envied Keith, for that poor demented soul had no awareness of his insanity. He fully and totally believed that the horrors he committed were righteous and justified and in his heart and mind he held no remorse or regret. Mitchell had only told a half truth when he'd said that he'd turned into something that killed without conscience. The animal demon within him that destroyed and maimed, that creature reveled in the act. But to his sorrow and anguish, the man that he still was, the man trapped by the demon's fury, was aware of the demon's actions and remembered every deplorable and horrifying scene with perfect clarity. His superior had not seen fit to remove his conscience when they'd destroyed his humanity and for that...he would pay, and dearly. ****** end part seven From xangst@frii.com Fri Oct 25 17:17:27 1996 SANCTUARY BY: CHERYL COHEN (ALIAS-THE STINKER) AND ANNIE REED (ALIAS-FANCYKATZ) Forward ************************************ Annie and I started this story several months ago. In fact we started bouncing around ideas for a sequel right after we finished "Devil's Advocate. Okay, we didn't expect it to take this long or be this long but somehow the characters seemed to take on a life of their own and each insisted that they have their moment in the sun. Hence, what follows is ninety pages of love, sadness, joy, sex, misunderstandings, violence, insanity, aggravation, frustration, humor, death...and life. Please be warned, this tale contains, graphic violence, adult language, and adult situations. Although there is sex involved in several scenes, it is not what I would consider graphic nor is it out of context with the story. I like to leave a little bit to the imagination. DISCLAIMERS ETC. ******************************** This story is based on the characters and situations created by Chris Carter, the Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions. As such, the characters named are the property of those entities and are used without permission, although no copyright infringements are intended. ************************************ CHAPTER EIGHT Mind Games Smoke curled up to the ceiling, unnoticed by the room's only occupant. He'd quit caring about his smoking long ago, quit caring about much of anything, as a matter of fact. Maybe if he ended up speaking through a hole in his neck, his body ravaged by cancer, he might care then, but he doubted it. Regret was not a luxury he allowed himself to feel. He had a job to do, a necessary and often thankless job, and regret just didn't figure into the picture. Even when things didn't turn out exactly as planned, he never regretted his actions. He just cleaned up the mess and moved on. He took a long swig of beer as he watched the action on his new television. He'd had to move from his last apartment rather suddenly and had been forced to leave his meager possessions behind. Another late night visit from a certain troublesome FBI agent was something he wished to avoid, and the simplest way had been just to disappear into the urban sprawl that surrounded the nation's capital. If it had been any other agent, he would have stayed in his old apartment and the agent would have disappeared. But for reasons known to only a select few, this particular agent could not be directly eliminated. If he managed to get himself killed on the job, well, that was just one of those things. Picking up the channel changer, he set his beer down on the end table next to the report that had been faxed to him earlier. Terse and to the point, the report informed him of the escape of three criminally insane convicts. Mitchell Tyler was one of the escapees. Mitchell Tyler -- a mess he thought he had dealt with years ago, but one that had reappeared like some magician's disappearing/reappearing ink. Only Mitchell Tyler wasn't some magician's slight of hand. Tyler was real, flesh and blood, and was no doubt headed back to D.C. to even the score. Sitting there in the darkened room, letting the smoke escape through his parted lips, he felt the first glimmer of fear he had felt in a long, long time. I'll be damned, he thought to himself. There was something left to care about after all. The wind howled outside the tiny precinct building like a rabid wolf, blowing a nearly solid curtain of white across the empty streets, giving the town the eerie, deserted feel of a ghost town. Anyone with any smarts at all was inside patiently waiting out the storm, gearing themselves up for the inevitable hard work of digging out from under Mother Nature's latest blast. Agent Hestor was not a patient man. He nodded and grunted intermittently as he paced the floor, phone in hand. He'd never been fond of waiting, especially when he knew time wasn't on his side. Now he had to contend with the impending arrival of Assistant Director Skinner, of all people. Why would the Assistant Director of the FBI directly involve himself with two field agents? Spooky Mulder must be a whole lot more important than he gave him credit for. Well, Skinner might be on his way but he sure as hell wasn't gonna get here tonight...at least not in this weather. Hestor had a half dozen snow plows on standby, nearly the town's entire fleet, ready to clear the roads as soon as the storm let up. He'd done everything he could in the way of preparations for a raid on the Scully house, up to and including, having emergency medical backup on standby. He snorted once, frowned, and slammed the phone receiver into its cradle with a resounding crack. "Careful Hestor," McGuire intoned patiently, "Don't mistreat the equipment just because you didn't like the message. I'm getting fed up with having to fill out all those damn requisition forms for all the damaged equipment that you've destroyed." Hestor ignored her, not that she really expected a reply. Waiting was grating on all their nerves. Agent McGuire studied the young man sitting on the edge of the cot on the other side of the office window. He wrung his hands anxiously, shoulders tense and drawn tight as he leaned tiredly over his knees. She wished she had some good news to tell him but unfortunately, he'd just have to wait along with everybody else. The phone interrupted her thoughts with its obnoxious, infernal buzzing. Someday she was gonna have them put a real 'ringer' on that goddamn thing. "Yeah, McGuire," she answered with the monotony of routine. Her posture suddenly straightened and her tone grew formal, prompting Hestor to give her his undivided attention. "Yes, Sir...I'll tell him, sir. If the weather clears before you arrive...go without you. She paused to listen, and her eyes grew wide. Oh, God. Goodbye Sir...." McGuire didn't bother to hang up the phone, but turned and threw it against the wall. "Shit!!!" she shouted at the top of her lungs as the phone hit the cinderblock with a crash. Hestor stared at her open mouthed. "Jesus, McGuire," he breathed. "Now who's gonna have to fill out the goddamn forms? What the hell happened? Who was that?" "That, dear partner, was Assistant Director Skinner with some very disturbing information." McGuire's eyes bored into her partner. "It seems that not only are we dealing with some full fledged psychotic loony tunes but one of them is some weird unusual case study. It appears that this guy kills in some kind of frenzy. He doesn't need a weapon, Hestor. He rips people apart with his bare hands like a rabid animal. They had him drugged to control his 'seizures' and what they'd given him will wear off soon if it hasn't already. God, I hate this," she said, beginning to pace to try and work out her frustration. "We're running out of time and there's not a damn thing we can do about it. I'm afraid we're not gonna find much left when we finally get through. Better prepare that poor man in there for the worst." Skinner drove along the snow covered roads, his face a study in concentration. Motorpool had tried to talk him out of going, even in the Bureau's best equipped four wheel drive, but one look from him had silenced their protests. In spite of the reports he'd heard earlier, the roads were not quite as bad as he'd expected. Even though the tail end of the vehicle had slid sickeningly several times, he'd managed to keep it under control. He'd been through worse weather and he was determined to get as close as he could to his destination before giving up for the night. Damn you, Mulder, he cursed silently. What the hell is it with you and fucking trouble?? Answer me that. But there was no one to answer him except his own inner voice, and for some unknown reason, it had decided to take a more reasonable tone tonight. It reminded him that in all fairness, this time Mulder hadn't done anything to elicit the trouble he and the Scullys were in. Trouble just seemed to seek him out like ants to sugar. Skinner had always thought Mulder was special and he did the best he could to keep the young man's ass out of hot water whenever possible. But lately keeping Mulder's body and soul intact was becoming a full time job. Weird shit just kept gravitating in Mulder's direction no matter what he did. "Shit, Mulder," Skinner mumbled out loud, "Why couldn't you just attract a normal psychotic serial killer like everybody else?" Walter cringed at the fact that he'd just entertained such an absurd thought. He feared he might be contracting a severe case of Mulderitis and with his luck there probably wasn't a damn cure. Keith stood motionless on the stairs, silent and brooding, watching while Mulder shifted his weight, uncomfortably trying to find a position that didn't seem to press his bladder into his kidneys. This wasn't an easy feat since he felt like the entire liquid volume of the Potomac had been bottled up and deposited into the organs in question. "Dana," Mulder groaned softly, "I sure hope your mom is an expert in microwave cuisine because if she doesn't get out here real soon, I'm not going to be responsible for the ensuing flood." His lower back throbbed with a dull, pounding ache and a sharp, scraping sensation beneath his lower ribs made him wince in pain whenever he tried to move. Needless to say, the extra water pressure didn't help matters much either. This was ridiculous. Didn't anybody else have to go besides him? Hell, Dana was always in the bathroom lately but now all of the sudden she was the pillar of control. 'Wait for mom,' yeah, right... Dana hated to see him suffer so, but she wasn't exactly without discomfort either. She just wasn't as caustically vocal about it as Mulder. Looking over at Melissa and the kids, she noticed that Meredith was squirming around, and even Matthew was looking like he was trying to find a comfortable position. It was obvious that they'd all need a break...and soon. Perhaps she could arrange something when her mom returned to the room. Keith got up and looked at them, then walked back over to his chair. "Feeling a little 'backed up', huh, Agent Mulder?" Keith laughed scornfully. Dana stifled her smoldering anger and bit back an angry reply. No sense making their situation any worse than it was by antagonizing this asshole. Dana wondered just how much Keith had heard of her conversation with Fox. She hadn't thought that he'd been listening since he'd exhibited no reaction or sign of interest. Evidently she'd been wrong. They'd have to be a lot more careful of what they said to one another in the future. It wouldn't be beyond these spitefully deranged men to deny their hostages the dignity of attending to their basic needs. Jordan Chambers, for one, seemed to thrive on the humiliation, intimidation, and degradation of others. Mulder, however, was not inclined to let Keith's acid question stand without a challenge. He'd given it his best shot but had been unable to break through the barriers of this man's psychosis. Now he was just plain fed up with this little creep deciding when he could and couldn't go pee. He was just about ready to cut this little bastard down to size with a biting retort of his own when he caught the all too familiar 'shut up, Mulder' grimace on Dana's lovely face. Granted, even though half of Mulder's brain was on auto pilot, he could still sit here all night trading barbs with this malevolent, maladjusted Miscreant and not even break a sweat, but for once he took the time to consider what repercussions might be directed at his adoptive family should he give in to his impulses. Letting out a deep breath, he slowly closed his eyes, settled back and quietly accepted Keith's taunts without comment or expression. A little indignation was a small price to pay to keep this moron happy and unfocused. Above all, Mulder didn't want to risk a repeat of another Jordan Chambers-type incident with Keith. They'd all endured enough suffering for one day and he'd be damned if he'd incite any further occurrences by way of his temper and big mouth if he could help it. Of course that wasn't his only motivation for backing off. He'd already exceeded his allotted quota for butt kickings in a 24 hour period. If he managed to get himself pummeled one more time tonight, Dana would probably save everyone the trouble and just kill him herself. Dana had tensed and braced herself for what she thought would be the inevitable Mulder reaction to Keith's jeers but to her surprise, no responding remarks were forthcoming. This was not Mulder's normal behavior pattern at all. Dana knew he'd been tempted to indulge in a verbal fencing match with this lunatic. She could tell by the slight telltale shift of his shoulders, the determined set of his jaw, not to mention the cant of one brow and the undeniable flash of challenge that had flickered through his eyes. She'd sent Mulder her customary glare of warning that usually preceded one of their spats about him refusing to heed her 'warnings.' This time, however, he'd acknowledged her unspoken concern with a covert nod. Deferring to her judgment in this instance without argument or objection, Dana had watched Mulder bite back his impulses and settle back into an uncharacteristic reticence. Now he projected a calm, quiet acceptance that she was finding extremely disturbing...abnormal, at least for him. She was beginning to worry. What the hell was he up to, she wondered anxiously. The bland facial expression he presented to Keith was a far cry from the anger and humiliation that she *knew* boiled just under the surface. She'd been with him long enough to recognize when he was overcompensating the control over his emotions and right now she could almost hear the gate slam shut and the drawbridge raise as he clamped down on all expression with an iron will. The answer appeared in her head, and she knew it was true almost the instant she thought it. He's afraid, she realized, afraid to do or say anything that might result in retaliation against my family...*our* family, she amended. Keith, meanwhile, seized the opportunity that Mulder's silence offered and continued his relentless verbal attack on Mulder with a vengeance. His tirade covered a wide variety of topics that ranged from questioning the legitimacy of his lineage to insinuations concerning his sexual preferences. Mulder stoically endured the abuse, refusing Keith the satisfaction of a reaction. After all, he wasn't totally unfamiliar with this type of treatment, he thought with a strange sense of deja vu. Keith's face suddenly wavered from view and was replaced by the tormenting features of Mulder's father. 'Tune out and turn off,' Mulder told himself with practiced skill. Funny how defense mechanisms work, he pondered objectively. It was the only useful thing that his relationship with his father had taught him and somehow the knowledge of that tragedy, though painful and sad, reinforced his vow to never, ever, inflict that kind of experience on his own children...should he ever have any, that is. Mulder may have been able to tune Keith out, but Dana had just about had enough. Her eyes blazing, she opened her mouth to give Keith a piece of her mind when she felt Mulder's grip tighten on her arm. He slowly shook his head and smiled, ever so slightly. "It's not worth it, Dana," he murmured in a voice that only she could hear. She locked eyes with him. Knowing that he was speaking from experience, she had to admit that perhaps he was right and she let her anger dissipate. Instead she reached out and lightly caressed the side of his face, making him wince. She noticed with sympathy that his face had swollen considerably, nearly closing one eye. >From the kitchen, Dana could hear the clanging of pots and pans and an occasional muttered curse. Soon the warm, friendly aroma of spaghetti sauce filled the house and belied the turmoil and danger that harbored itself within its sturdy walls. The speed with which the aroma filled the air told Dana that it definitely wasn't her mom's homemade sauce, but to these guys, Ragu was probably a gourmet treat so it really didn't matter. A new scent made Dana's empty stomach rumble loudly. Garlic bread... just the thought made her mouth water. She began to wonder if their captors would allow them to eat or force them to watch in suffering silence. Though it would be uncomfortable, especially with her appetite as out of hand as it had been lately, she knew she could survive missing a couple of meals without any ill effects. Just think of it as a diet, she told herself convincingly. Your clothes have gotten a little tight lately. Mulder, on the other hand, was prone to bouts of hypoglycemia, which he would deny if asked, so he tended to snack on a continual basis to compensate for it - namely those blasted seeds. The fact that he'd had nothing to eat since early this morning gave her cause for concern. His blood sugar levels had to be bottoming out by now, she figured with forced medical objectivity, yet he failed to mention having any difficulties with it to her. Small wonder. Between his pre-existing injuries, the beatings, and a lingering hangover, the headache, dizziness, and nausea that usually accompanied missed meals probably blended in with everything else. She also worried about the children, especially Matt. Even though he'd been squirming a little, along with the rest of them, he still continued to be withdrawn and unresponsive. He'd only eaten his lunch earlier today after Melissa had fed him like a baby. Physical wounds she could handle. They were concrete -- black and white -- like her beloved science, but this kind of emotional trauma was vague and shadowy, not unlike Mulder's unexplained phenomena. Where she excelled in the scientific method and the certainty of fact and proof, he rejoiced in the pursuit of unknown possibilities and the discovery of spiritual truths. Mulder was one of the few adults that she'd ever known who could consistently view the world with awe through the wondering eyes of a child. Lord knows, she didn't know what to do for Matt, but she had absolute faith that Mulder could help him. If not now, then later, when everything was over. He had trained, for God's sake, at one of the most prestigious universities in the world. That training, added to his natural compassion, empathy, and seemingly unending patience, seemed to evoke a feeling of comfort and trust, especially with children. If anyone could get through to Matt, it would be Fox. Perhaps someday, when Mulder found his truth and the X-Files were behind him, he would use his rare gifts to help purge other young victims of their demons and in doing so, exorcise some of his own. For now... for now, Dana Scully would work on the more immediate physical problems. First and foremost among those was getting everyone who needed to go, to a bathroom and everyone who was hungry, fed. ****** continued in 8b From xangst@frii.com Fri Oct 25 17:18:04 1996 Sanctuary part eight continues.... Dana got to her feet slowly, ignoring Mulder's pull on her arm. Someone had to get things rolling here. Sparing only a glance toward Keith, she approached Mitchell cautiously. When he wasn't having one of his violently strange seizure-like episodes, he seemed to be the most rational of the three criminals. Trying to find an inner strength, she positioned herself In her most demanding stance, standing above Mitchell as he sat in the chair. Forcing herself to be calm, she made her request. "Look," she said fiercely, "you people have been to the bathroom several times since you've been here and we haven't been allowed to go once. If you don't want this place to start smelling like a urinal, somebody better make some arrangements -- and fast." Shit! She hadn't meant for it to come out quite that way, but she was just so damn pissed... literally, she thought with a silent giggle. Oh God, Mulder cringed. Sometimes Dana could still surprise the hell out of him and scare him to death at the same time. Fearing the worst, he tensed and readied himself to move, regardless of how much it hurt. But an unexpected bemused expression appeared on Mitchell's face instead of the anger that Mulder had feared, and Mulder let himself relax a little. Mitchell looked up at this tiny little sprite of a woman, her eyes bright with indignation, her hair wildly framing her face in a mass of flame as fiery as her temper. She sort of reminded him of a pixie... a very angry pixie. A slight smile crept onto his lips. That's twice now, he thought with some alarm. He hadn't smiled in years. Sure, he'd had no reason to smile for longer than he could remember, but today he'd caught himself indulging in that expression not once, but twice. Mitchell shook his head slowly. What was it with these people? he wondered. In his long and varied career he'd had experience with more than a few hostage situations, but never in all his years had any hostages acted like this one little family. He got up from the chair, thinking that his height would intimidate this woman, but the stubborn little nymph refused to back down and obstinately stood her ground, even though her head barely reached his chin. Her head was tilted back, and he could still see the fire in her eyes. "Oh, all right," Mitchell growled, giving in. He didn't like being bullied, particularly not by someone this small. Something inside him, however, insisted that he accommodate her. "One at a time... and leave the door open," he demanded. "Open?!!?" she sputtered with undisguised disgust. "Yeah, open," Mitchell repeated. "I don't want to take any chances of getting another door slammed in my face. If you have a problem with that, we can forget the whole thing." He glared back at her, waiting to see if she would back down a little. "Fine," she conceded reluctantly, dropping her eyes from his. Turning in a huff, she marched over to the far wall to Melissa and the children. Keith began to protest, but one look at Mitchell silenced any comments he might have had. Jordan didn't say they could do this. Oh, he was gonna be mad when he found out, yes he would be. No one made decisions but Jordan, no siree. Keith sure wouldn't want to be in Mitchell's shoes when Jordan found out. One by one they took turns in the bathroom relieving themselves, while the others stood guard with their backs to the doorway in and effort to preserve modesty. Dana didn't think anything had ever felt so damn good in her whole life. Well.... maybe *one* thing felt better, she thought with a sardonic smirk. Dana was the last of the women and children to take advantage of the bathroom break. She was just emerging from behind the others when Jordan strode into the room, dragging Margaret roughly behind him. He took in the small group huddled by the bathroom in a single glance, and the anger practically jumped off his face. "What the hell is going on here, Mitchell?" he screamed. The big man turned his head slowly towards Jordan, seeming to barely register his presence even though Jordan's scream had made the rest of them jump. He motioned lazily with his hand as he addressed Jordan's strident voice. "Head call," Mitchell said with a nonchalant air, "and if you don't want the place smelling like a fucking latrine, you'll let em' finish," he continued with a sly look at Dana. Jordan thought for a minute and decided that, no, he wouldn't like that at all. He'd had enough of that smell in prison and he certainly didn't want to smell it here if he didn't have to. He shoved Margaret toward the group. "Go on, do what you gotta do and be quick about it," he instructed her with a condescending tone of voice. When they'd all finished, Dana and Margaret went to the couch to try and help Fox to his feet. Well, so he'll be a little embarrassed, Dana thought with a small grin. It'd still be better than the alternative. "What do you two think you're doing?" Jordan snarled as he walked over and pulled the two woman roughly away from Mulder. "He hasn't been yet," Dana pleaded while Mulder tiredly slumped back into the cushions. "Time's up," Jordan laughed harshly. He grabbed Mulder's swollen face tightly just below his cheekbones with one hand, squeezing the tender flesh within his grip until his victim's eyes watered in agony. Margaret and Dana looked on, helpless to do anything, for in Jordan's other hand he held the gun. Jordan slowly rotated Mulder's face from one side to the other as if he were appraising a prize piece of livestock. "What do you think, Keith?" Jordan asked his protÇgÇ', turning Mulder's head toward the young man who now held Dana and her mother by their arms. Jordan was asking *his* opinion. Keith was overwhelmed with joy, but then a thought struck him. What if he said the wrong thing? Jordan's question hadn't exactly told him what he expected for an answer. Keith finally decided that since he wasn't exactly sure what Jordan was asking him, the best thing would be just to nod and say the first noncommittal thing that he could think of. "I think he's kinda pretty to be FBI," Keith hedged expectantly. Jordan took another look at his captive and smiled. "Too pretty to waste," he leered suggestively. Mulder gagged with revulsion, the meaning behind Jordan's comment more than apparent. "Fuck you!" he managed to whisper hoarsely through clenched teeth. "Exactly," Jordan hissed as his eyes bore into Mulder's with hideous intent. He brought his face down to within inches of Mulder's. "I have ushered many souls into heaven's sanctuary, Mr. FBI man. God has no sexual preferences, you know." He laughed harshly at Mulder's expression, then shoved Mulder violently back down on the couch, bouncing his head off its wooden armrest Mulder's stomach wretched -- there was nothing he could do to stop it. Between the innuendo in that last little exchange, added to the almost palpable evil he felt emanating from that man, his stomach simply rebelled. If there had actually been anything in it, he would have thrown up as well. As it was, he simply gagged, coughed, and endured a nasty bout of dry heaves. Satisfied that he'd gotten the desired reaction, Jordan walked away and headed back to the kitchen. "Time to eat. Everyone into the kitchen... except *you* of course," he announced as he pointed at Mulder's ashen face. "I'll stay here, too," Dana informed him as she broke away from Keith's hold on her arm. "You don't understand h...." Jordan interrupted her. "That wasn't a request," he snarled. "I said *everyone* but him, and that means you, too. Leave him," he ordered as they all filed into the kitchen. Everyone, that is, except... Mitchell. "You coming, Mitchell?" Jordan turned to ask him, slightly annoyed that once again Mitchell had managed to disobey a direct order. "I'll eat later. Someone has to stay here and watch this guy if your gonna leave him here, or did that ever occur to you?" Mitchell commented sarcastically. Fucking brain donor. Jordan chose to ignore that last remark, mainly because he knew he thought better on a full stomach than an empty one. He'd figure out what to do about Mitchell *after* he ate. Mulder lay back on the couch, exhausted from his last exchange with Jordan. The room was empty except for Mitchell and himself. Jesus Christ, he really felt like shit. Mitchell's eyes were closed, but he couldn't trust the man to be asleep. Mulder was amazed that he'd finally discovered someone who actually slept less than he did. He didn't waste too much brain power on Mitchell. Right now he had his own problems. His bladder had gone from uncomfortably full to downright painful. If he didn't get relief soon, he would simply burst... not a pleasant thought. He looked at the bottle on the end table. Originally he'd joked about alternate uses for said bottle, but now... now that damn thing was looking better and better. So this was Jordan's version of 'fun and games', huh? Humiliate the hostages, a variation on the dog pack theory -- brow beat everyone until they accepted that you were top dog and everyone else was shit, and then no one would give you any trouble. It was a time-honored way of intimidating people. Mulder had no doubt that sooner or later it would get worse than this, but for now at least it was just humiliation. Okay, he'd play along. There were, however, just a couple of things that Jordan didn't know about him. He hated to lose and he wasn't above cheating to avoid it. Fuck the rules, he decided. If Jordan wants to play dirty... he could stoop to his level, even if he had to cut his legs of to do it. How did that saying go again??? How low can you go? When he was this angry? Pretty damn low. He took another look at Mitchell, eyes still closed... steady breathing. Well, Mulder, it's now or never. Fox reached over and grasped the whiskey bottle in one hand. No sense wasting good booze, he rationalized as he took several hefty swigs from the remaining liquid before pouring out what was left between the couch and the table, leaving about a third in the bottle. Besides, if Jordan fell for it, Mulder was almost certain that having a good buzz would be a definite plus in his favor. Damn, he really enjoyed it when he allowed his mind to be devious and underhanded. The whiskey hit his empty stomach like a bomb, and its effects on his mind were practically instantaneous. Sneaking another look at the apparently-asleep Mitchell, Mulder's face screwed up into a 'little boy with his hand in the cookie jar' grin. So what's the big deal here anyway? he thought belligerently to himself. He'd had to suffer the humiliation of randomly pissing in a fucking cup for the government's benefit on a regular basis, so a bottle was just a little bigger that's all, although the neck of the bottle was a little narrower than what he was used to. Hell, now that he thought about it, he bet the government doctors couldn't even identify half the stuff floating around in his pee anyway. What a waste of taxpayer's money. The near empty whiskey bottle disappeared under the blanket, and after a few seconds' worth of fumbling and adjusting, a look of pure ecstasy and relief covered his features. All right, so it wasn't as good as sex, but he'd sure rate it a close second. A few seconds later a nearly full whiskey bottle took its place back on the end table and a much happier Fox Mulder contentedly waited for Jordan's return. Mitchell Tyler peeked out from beneath a heavy lidded eye and allowed just one more covert smile to grace his lips. He'd seen the whole thing, of course. It was amazing what people would do when they thought no one was watching, although he knew that in this instance Mulder had little choice. Under different circumstances, he could really learn to like this guy. That was a surprising thought. In his line of work -- back when he had been working and before he became an unwilling science experiment -- he'd gone out of his way not to like anyone, to avoid making friends. Keeping himself free of friendships and emotional entanglements had been just one more way of ensuring that his soul was his and his alone. If the bastards he worked for -- and against, at times -- had discovered anything or anyone that Mitchell cared about, they would have used that information to control him. But in the end they'd found another way to control him, and his soul had been lost in the process anyway. Now feeling that budding spark of kinship, maybe even friendship, glowing faintly within himself, Mitchell wondered if the price he'd paid all these years was too high. This unusual thought was abruptly interrupted as he found himself needing to rally his control against the escalating pressure of his mutated evil. Mulder looked up suddenly as something penetrated the fuzzy blanket the whiskey had created in his brain. A dark mind reached into his consciousness, groping for a ray of light to sustain its sanity. He nearly succumbed to its black depths before realizing it was Mitchell's struggling human essence that was searching his mind for order and stability. Mulder trembled at the unfamiliar contact. Whatever demon possessed this man must be regaining control once more, and for Mitchell to seek strength from *his* mind, the situation must be grave indeed. Mulder had never considered himself psychic or telepathic in any way. Instead, he'd always written off occurrences of that nature, in regard to himself, as hunches, luck, or coincidence. Although he was eager to accept extreme possibilities in others, he had never been able to consider them in connection with himself. Now, however, denial became more difficult. He felt Mitchell's inner battle explode within his own mind just as clearly as he'd heard the voices in his head those many ears ago that told him not to be afraid. But now he was taxed way beyond his own limits. Exhaustion, hunger, and pain consumed whatever strength he'd had, and Mulder wasn't sure he had any left to give or if he should even try. This man had tried to kill him and threatened his family. Why on earth should he help sustain him at the risk of his own life and of those he loved? Mitchell sensed the conflict, anger, and vulnerability raging within this outwardly calm man laying before him. Mitchell knew he needed a little push, something to demonstrate that no matter how bad he thought things were, they could get infinitely worse. Gathering up the control he had left, Mitchell dropped a small portion of his mental barrier, allowing a vestige of the rampaging evil to penetrate Mulder's unprepared mental defenses. Mulder reeled with horror at the unbridled power of darkness that momentarily assaulted his senses and he understood. This could not be set loose here or they could *all* die -- sadistically, with a prolonged agony that would only serve to feed this monster's insatiable hunger. He stared up at Mitchell, his mouth partially open in an involuntary gasp. As Mitchell withdrew the unwanted visions from Mulder's unprotected psyche, another image took its place. An all too familiar silhouette reclined in the shadows, rings of white smoke circling the figure's smug, uncaring face. 'Cancer Man,' Mulder's brain registered without conscious effort. The scene changed abruptly and Cancer Man now lay before him, sprawled on the floor in an almost unidentifiable heap of bloody pulp. Waves and waves of violent loathing and hatred mixed with an unparalleled lust for revenge permeated his being like a saturated sponge. Mulder felt sick in mind and body as he realized that some of these 'thoughts' could very well have been his own. Mitchell nodded as if sensing Mulder's unspoken fears. "The thoughts were *mine,* Agent Mulder," Mitchell uttered contemptuously. Mulder appeared startled and confused by the answer to the question that he'd only 'thought.' Telepathy...?? Is that possible? Mitchell focused his unwavering gaze on Mulder and answered the young man's questioning eyes. "Just another side effect of yet another unsuccessful government experiment," Mitchell explained sourly. "You wanted to kill that scum. I felt it... yet you didn't. Why? Perhaps our missions are much more similar than you realize. Maybe you'd like another chance." Mitchell raised his brow in inquiry. "No!" Mulder replied hoarsely, with barely leashed emotion. "I can't murder another human being in cold blood, not even if the bastard deserves to burn in hell. I don't have that right." "That sir, is your weakness... and possibly, your strength," Mitchell sighed. "I, on the other hand, am no longer quite human, as you can see, and am no longer bound to your lofty, ethical ideals." "What happened to you?" Mulder asked softly. "Someone somewhere decided they needed a more efficient killing machine, Agent Mulder," Mitchell said, his strange eyes flat and emotionless, yet Mulder knew there was enormous anger bottled up inside. "They decided to use someone already trained to kill, and trained very well. I was never told, never asked if this was what I wanted. Just one more injection in a series of injections for diseases with names I couldn't pronounce. Only the experiment failed, and they never had a backup plan, a way to bring me back to what I was. The man you call 'Cancer Man' was my superior. What was done to me couldn't have been done without his authorization. You've been to his home, you know where he lives. You will help me find him, Agent Mulder." "I don't know where he is now," Mulder replied truthfully. Mitchell shrugged. "Maybe not, but he knows how to find you and when he does... he'll find me, too. That's why you have to help me to control this horror in my soul. My last mission -- my *only* mission -- is to find him and show him exactly what he's created and what it's capable of. If the animal wins and I kill you and the others, I may never be able to complete that mission. And *that*, Agent Mulder, is the only thing left that has any meaning for me now." Mulder studied the man intently. "I feel you're losing the battle," he replied softly. He wriggled his hand into the pocket of his jeans and withdrew a handful of the tiny white tranquilizer pills that he'd confiscated from the bathroom that morning and offered them to Mitchell. "Here, they're tranquilizers... take them. Maybe they'll help for a little while." Where there is life, there is hope, Mulder thought to himself. If Mitchell's maniac impulses went unchecked, life would most certainly cease and hope along with it. Mitchell took the pills from Mulder's outstretched hand and swallowed them all in one giant gulp. As the medication hit his bloodstream, he felt the urge to kill recede and his vision clear. He had no way of knowing how long the medication would last, but for now they would be spared. ****** end part eight From xangst@frii.com Sat Oct 26 06:27:52 1996 SANCTUARY BY: CHERYL COHEN (ALIAS-THE STINKER) AND ANNIE REED (ALIAS- FANCYKATZ) Forward ************************************ Annie and I started this story several months ago. In fact we started bouncing around ideas for a sequel right after we finished "Devil's Advocate. Okay, we didn't expect it to take this long or be this long but somehow the characters seemed to take on a life of their own and each insisted that they have their moment in the sun. Hence, what follows is ninety pages of love, sadness, joy, sex, misunderstandings, violence, insanity, aggravation, frustration, humor, death...and life. Please be warned, this tale contains, graphic violence, adult language, and adult situations. Although there is sex involved in several scenes, it is not what I would consider graphic nor is it out of context with the story. I like to leave a little bit to the imagination. DISCLAIMERS ETC. ******************************** This story is based on the characters and situations created by Chris Carter, the Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions. As such, the characters named are the property of those entities and are used without permission, although no copyright infringements are intended. ************************************ CHAPTER NINE Revenge is Sweet The black government issue four-wheel drive pressed onward through the blowing snow, traveling much too fast for the prevailing weather conditions, even with the on-the-fly four-wheel drive engaged. Walter Skinner gave up trying to see the road and just aimed the car toward the glowing lights of the small town in the distance, trying to stay somewhere in between the trees that lined each side of what he hoped was the road. What the hell was he doing driving in a snowstorm anyway? "I must be out of my fucking mind," he grumbled belligerently. Why did Mulder always affect him this way? He wasn't Fox Mulder's legal guardian, damn it, so why was it that he felt so... so... responsible for him? Skinner tried to be optimistic about the outcome of this situation but it didn't help knowing that Mulder had the survival instincts of a fucking lemming. All right, so he'd broken the ultimate unwritten rule and allowed himself to become attached to this stubborn pain in the ass. In a weird sort of way, Skinner realized that sometimes he felt an almost fatherly pride in both of his troublesome agents. They continually crossed that line, the one he was afraid to step over, and they managed to do their job with precious little support from the Bureau. Yes, he was proud of them, although he'd damn sure never let them know it. Skinner's car finally slid to a stop in front of the local precinct building. Cursing softly, he forced the car door open against the wind and snow. Muttering to himself again about what kind of an idiot would be out in weather like this, he made his way to the front door and trudged inside, shaking snow off his topcoat and stamping it off his feet. A sputtering desk sergeant told Skinner where to find the special agents in charge of this case and he headed back toward the interrogation rooms. Amusement flickered across Skinner's features as surprised field agents snapped to attention when he walked by. It was somehow comforting knowing that his position could still evoke a little intimidation in his subordinates. Lord knows, he'd never get that kind of reaction from Mulder. Position and power never had made much of an impression on that one. In fact, now that he thought about it, unlike the ever present horde of back stabbing, ladder climbing wannabes, Mulder was one of the few people in the Bureau who actually felt his work took priority over making the necessary, correct, butt kissing, career moves. Skinner knew that Mulder could have made that ladder-climb to power rather quickly if he'd been so inclined. He'd had the connections, the intelligence, and the talent, but unfortunately, he also had a conscience. Perhaps that partly explained Mulder's unusual knack for accumulating the support of some pretty powerful people. They knew he had no interest in ousting them from their precious positions and had no ulterior motives other than his own unrelenting search for the truth. Mulder was a rare treat for these people... someone they could actually trust. Skinner's introspection was interrupted when he reached the small, warm room that had become 'home' to Agents Hestor and McGuire while they searched for three insidious killers. He opened the door without knocking. McGuire stood up suddenly, seeing Skinner's figure filling the doorway behind Hestor, who'd had his back to the door. "Good evening, Sir," McGuire said respectfully. Few field agents ever really got to see the Assistant Director in person and she felt just a little nervous. Hestor took a quick glance over his shoulder at the sound of her greeting, mumbled a quick hello, and returned his gaze to the printout he was studying. He'd met the Assistant Director before and wasn't nearly as nervous as his partner. Besides, he wanted to finish what he was reading. This could be important to the operation... very important. "Oh, really?" Skinner intoned crankily. "What's so good about it, Agent McGuire? I missed dinner. My workout's canceled. I had to drive out here in the worst snowstorm of the year. And two of my best agents are more than likely holed up with three serial killers, one of whom would like nothing better than to skewer one of the aforementioned agents like a shish-ka-bob and burn him at the stake. And you say it's a 'good evening'?" Assistant Director or no Assistant Director, she didn't have to put up with that kind of attitude, McGuire fumed. "Excuse me for asking, *sir,*" she replied testily. Skinner took a deep breath, held it, and slowly let it out. She had a right to be annoyed, he thought. "I apologize, Agent McGuire. I'm tired, frustrated, and more than a little concerned. How about starting over?" he conceded. McGuire pulled her lips into a slight grin. "Sure," she answered, willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. She'd heard about Bulldog Skinner, and she'd just experienced his bark first-hand. Luckily, he'd stopped there. This time. She had no doubt that if she ever screwed up, she would experience much more than she just had, and that was something she seriously hoped to avoid. "What do you have so far?" Skinner asked, slipping back into his usual clipped, voice of authority mode. McGuire proceeded to fill him in on the situation that they suspected was going down at Margaret Scully's house, as well as the counter-measures they were implementing. Hestor looked up occasionally to comment but directed most of his attention to the printouts on his lap and the information that glowed eerily on his computer screen. "The National Weather Service predicts about a three or four hour window of calm between the fronts around eight o' clock tonight," Hestor commented with a hopeful expression. "Do you think it's feasible that we could get in and out of there in three hours? I checked with the snow plow drivers and they tell me the plows can handle it." "I suppose it just depends on what we find when we get there," Skinner theorized. "Are you reasonably sure these men are actually in the house?" Hestor pointed to the man in the other room who sat at a desk, intently drawing something on a large piece of paper. "*He* thinks so, and so far all of the evidence we could gather seems to support that suspicion. I've got him drawing a floor plan of the house for us, not that we really need it. I had a full set of blueprints sent over here from the county recorder's office. It's just that giving him something concrete to do seemed to help calm him down." "Scully's brother?" Skinner inquired. He thought he could see a family resemblance. Hestor nodded. "Yeah, his two little kids are stuck in that house, not to mention his mom and his two sisters. I think he's taking it pretty well. If it were *my* family stuck out there, I'd probably be throwing things by now." Hestor looked over at McGuire and then turned his attention back to Skinner. "Sir," Hestor began tentatively, "may I ask what would prompt the Assistant Director of the FBI to take such a special interest in a field agent like Spooky Mulder?" "You can ask," Skinner told him with a sigh. " *Agent* Mulder's not just a field agent, he's the supervisor of his own department and as such, answers directly to me. I was responsible for assigning him to the Chambers case in the first place, so it's only right that I should be here now." There were other reasons for his presence, of course, but this was all these people needed to know, and all he was going to tell them. Skinner's mouth drew into a hard thin line. "I want all your manpower and equipment ready to go by eight o' clock just in case for once, the blasted weather service is right and we do get that three hour window." Skinner glanced at his watch. "That gives us about two hours to come up with some kind of plan. I suggest that we use our time wisely." To the casual observer, they would have appeared to be the essence of a perfect family portrait. It could have bee a scene right out of Norman Rockwell's American Dream, a quiet family dinner in a cozy kitchen, warm and safe from the blizzard howling outside. It could have been had it not been for the fact that the men seated at the kitchen table were violently insane, and the women and children were hostages to the madness of their unwelcome guests.. Jordan and Keith served themselves first, if you could call diving into the spaghetti like a couple of hunger crazed hyenas,'serving themselves.' Margaret was hesitant to interfere in their feeding frenzy by venturing to ask about food for the children, so she settled for placing a plate in front of each daughter and grandchild, then set an extra one aside just in case they changed their minds about Fox. She waited patiently for some sign that would indicate Jordan's willingness to let them eat, but after being soundly ignored for several minutes, Margaret took the initiative and began to serve the spaghetti and bread to her family. Dana thought that perhaps she could somehow palm a piece of bread during the meal to give to Mulder later, but the two men watched her too closely. She also noticed the same attention being paid to her mom and sister so, any chance of getting food to him died with the thought. Dana hated the tight, anxious feeling that festered in the pit of her stomach. She hated the rage she felt at what was being done to her family, especially to Mulder. Jordan would kill him if he could, of that she had no doubt. Her only hope lay in the agony of knowing that Jordan would prolong his suffering for as long as possible before he did. It was ironic that Mulder's pain might actually be the instrument that would buy him time, time enough to get out of this mess in one piece. Meredith watched the grownups eat dinner. The bad men paid absolutely no attention to her. Good, she thought. She took a small bite out of her bread and skillfully slid the remainder into her palm and then up into the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Feeding Kelly from the table had honed her ability to pilfer just about anything from her plate, even under the watchful eyes of well meaning adults, and this time no one was even watching. Uncle Fox was hungry, she could tell, and the tall man with the cold blue eyes had been really mean to him, had hurt him and made him sick. Maybe some bread would make him feel better. Food always made *her* feel better. Margaret was the last one to be seated and she knew that she'd be the last one to get up. Going through the motions, she wasn't even certain that she was really even hungry anymore. Quietly she watched Dana push the food around her plate and stare off into space... a far cry from her joyous eating binge at breakfast, Margaret thought despondently. Next to her, Melissa was trying to get an indifferent Matt to taste some of his spaghetti. While he wouldn't serve himself, if she actually fed him he would eat. The sight brought tears to Margaret's eyes and she had to turn away. She'd be damned if she'd cry in front of these animals. Picking at the pasta on her dish, Dana suddenly felt nauseous. What if this was to be her 'last meal'? She'd always pictured her last entree' enjoyed in this life as something just a little more exotic than Ragu and Bahama Bread with garlic. She twisted another forkful of spaghetti and forced herself to eat it in spite of her upset stomach. You might not get another chance, she convinced herself as she swallowed with difficulty. Melissa was relieved that the meal was proceeding so far without incident ... a lull in an angry sea of fear, her intuition echoed through her mind. She didn't have to be psychic to know it would not last. It was nearly 8 o' clock when Jordan scarfed down the last piece of bread after sopping up the remaining sauce on his plate with it. He arose from the table and stretched languidly while rubbing his stomach with one hand. "Dinner's over," he announced in a commanding tone. This had been a long, eventful day and he was getting tired. Slowly, he wandered over to the counter and started rummaging through the drawers until he found what he was looking for. "Heads up," Jordan yelled at Keith as he tossed the roll of duck tape across the room. Keith expertly snatch the roll from the air, immediately deducing Jordan's intentions. "Tape em' up, Keith," Jordan instructed, "all except for grandma and the kids, and our favorite FBI agent out there. I'll take care of him myself." Keith nodded and began tearing off long, dangling pieces of tape. He stuck each piece to the edge of the table until he had the correct number of strips he thought would be needed to complete his task. Oh shit, duck tape, Dana thought desperately. She despised duck tape. It was too damn efficient. She'd been tied up with a number of materials but duck tape was the worst. Unlike rope or cord, duck tape had no loose ends to work at, very little space to get anything between, no knots to work free, or rough edges to catch on anything. And on top of everything else, when and if you finally got someone to take the damn stuff off, it quite effectively removed all of your hair and a good part of your skin with it. Melissa cringed at the sensation of Keith's touch as he lifted her from her chair. She shuddered involuntarily as he purposely traced his fingers down the length of her bare arms before grasping her wrists, jerking them behind her back and securing them with tape. Making sure the tape was secure, he pushed Melissa forcefully back down in her chair, then reach out his hand to grab Dana and repeat the procedure. "I don't need your *help*, " Dana told him as she stood up on her own and positioned her hands behind her back. Keith stared at her suspiciously. She was being much too cooperative and it put him on edge. He pulled her arms back tightly and wrapped the tape around her wrists a few more times than he'd originally intended, trailing the tape halfway up her forearms. With her arms pulled together unnaturally tight behind her back, Dana was forced into an awkward posture which had the net effect of stretching her shirt tight against her chest. Jordan stood back from the table and leered in appreciation at the sight of Dana's full breasts straining against the soft fabric of her shirt. Dana knew damn well what he was looking at and glared back at him, but deep inside she experienced a glimmer of fear. She didn't like feeling helpless, and having her arms taped up behind her back left her very few options if anyone decided to take advantage of her. Keith followed Jordan's gaze and began to feel the familiar tingle he'd experienced hours before as a result of his fear. And something more. For the first time, he thought he sensed fear in this woman, and that only added to his excitement. Jordan, mindful of Keith's reactions, smiled knowingly. "Not yet, Keith," he purred. "Not just yet." Agent Hestor paced the room and looked out the window one more time. The snow had piled up in drifts against the buildings but the gale force winds had abated, at least temporarily, and the snow wasn't falling nearly as heavily as before. He turned around abruptly, nearly bowling over McGuire who had come up behind him to look over his shoulder. "I say we go for it," Hestor announced rapidly. "The winds have died down and even though I've never had the utmost faith in the National Weather Service, it appears that they're right on the money this time." He walked across the room to stand in front of Skinner. "I'd say it's now or never sir, your call." Hestor stepped back and held his breath, waiting impatiently for a reply. A shadow of indecision crossed Skinner's face briefly, then disappeared. Right or wrong, there was no time and he had to act. He shook his head once then looked directly into Hestor's eyes. "Do it," Skinner stated decisively. The quiet of the office suddenly erupted with a flurry of activity. "It's a GO!! It's a GO!! " McGuire shouted almost simultaneously over the radio and telephone. Bill Scully stood amid the ensuing activity clutching the floor plan he'd drawn in his right hand, and looking every bit like a little boy who'd suddenly found himself lost at the fair. Skinner noticed Bill's look of confusion and made another command decision. He just hoped it wasn't the wrong one. He crossed the room and grabbed the young man by the elbow. "Put your coat on," Skinner said as he lifted Bill's jacket off the back of the chair. He guided Bill toward the front door and into the street. "Come on, you can ride with me." Skinner opened the door and gently shoved Bill into the back seat of his four-wheel drive. "Must be getting soft in my old age," Walter mumbled grudgingly under his breath as he reached out to attach the bubble light on the vehicle's hood. The powerful sound of the snowplows' engines pierced the silent night as they rumbled into action. Lined up in a diagonal row across the snow-covered street, their solemn parade of flashing lights made an eerie sight in the otherwise still night as they headed out of town. It would still take about an hour or more for this strange caravan to reach their destination, but at least now they were doing *something.* Keep telling yourself that, Walter, Skinner thought as he followed the trailing snowplow at a maddenly slow pace. Keith ran his fingertips down the side of Dana's neck and lightly across her collar bone before dipping down to unfasten the first button on her shirt. "There, that looks more... comfortable," he whispered behind her ear, licking his lips. Dana closed her eyes, trying to shut out the revulsion she felt at Keith's obscene caress. She told herself to ignore the body that was behind her, pressing up against her, making its intentions clear. Instead, in her mind she pictured Mulder's laughing eyes, the strong yet gentle arms that held her so tenderly, the long elegant fingers that sent tingles down her spine, the way his soft, full lips felt on her own, his breath in her hair. Keith may touch her physically but there was only one person who touched her mind, her soul, and her heart as well, and he was on a couch in the living room, waiting for her. Margaret wasn't about to watch her baby girl be molested right in front of her eyes. She moved forward to grab Keith's hand but she wasn't quick enough to avoid being backhanded by Jordan's blow to her face. She fell heavily to the floor only to be jerked roughly upward by her arm and plopped unceremoniously into a kitchen chair. Her hands flew to mouth which was already beginning to swell, and reluctant tears fell from her eyes. "Like I said, Keith... later," Jordan said, pulling Dana away to stand behind her sister. "Good things come to those who wait, my son. Rest before recreation," Jordan sneered as he gathered up the cowering children, Margaret, and the two sisters, herding them back into the living room. The first thing that met Dana's gaze as she entered through the doorway was Mulder's relaxed form still keeping the couch company. She sighed with relief. He was still there and still in one piece, relatively speaking. Leaving him behind with Mitchell had weighed heavy on her mind for she had sensed a violence in the man that went far beyond anything that she could attribute to insanity. The second thing Dana noticed was the fire in the fireplace. Mitchell must have started it. It gave the living room a warm glow. No, more than that, she realized. Mitchell hadn't shut the glass doors that covered the fireplace, and even the screen wasn't pulled shut all the way, so the warmth of the fire itself spread out across the room. Under different circumstances, the fire would have given the living room a romantic look. But right now romance was the last thing on Dana's mind. She just hoped they all got out of this situation in one piece. Before they could stop her, Meredith broke free, ran to the couch, and knelt beside her adopted uncle. She placed one hand on his forehead and held his hand with the other. Mulder opened his eyes wide with surprise and smiled shyly, then wryly as he felt the young girl press the piece of bread into his palm. "Thank you," he whispered, touched that she had taken such a risk for him. Even through a whiskey haze, he'd recognized the potential sacrifice she'd made by giving it to him. "Any time, Uncle Fox," she whispered back into his ear as she lightly kissed his cheek. ****** continued in part 9b From xangst@frii.com Sat Oct 26 06:28:30 1996 Sanctuary part nine continues... Margaret moved quickly to the couch to pull Meredith away. Whatever Jordan had planned, it most certainly would involve Fox and she didn't want her granddaughter anywhere near Jordan. She gently pulled Meredith away with one hand and deftly removed the gun from beneath the sofa cushion with the other, placing it in the oversized pocket of the apron that she still wore. She exchanged a solemn look with Fox and knew that he had seen what she had done and he had regretted that she felt she had to do it. Margaret didn't. The captain had always said to 'always take advantage of your opportunities...' Who was she to argue with sound advice? Well, so far the weather was holding off, thought Skinner as he watched the white countryside go slowly by through the artificial illumination of his headlights. Not that the snowplows weren't doing their jobs... they were actually making good time considering the conditions. It was the urgency of the situation that made the seconds tick by agonizingly slow. Fifteen, perhaps twenty more minutes until they would arrive. A lot could happen in fifteen or twenty minutes. He thought of the man that Mulder referred to as 'Cancer Man' and his mood suddenly soured. Dammit, he helped when he could. Mulder certainly didn't make it easy for him. At least this time he didn't have to rage against orders he didn't agree with and couldn't understand. At least this time he wasn't losing his balance trying to stay on that fine line. Dana and Melissa were dropped to the floor against the opposite wall near the fireplace, facing the couch. Mitchell took notice of Magaret's swollen and bruised mouth and Dana's unbuttoned shirt. These people didn't deserve this, he thought angrily. He'd only hooked up with Jordan and his asshole sidekick Keith to get out of prison and get where he needed to go. Well, he didn't need them anymore now that he had Mulder. It was just about time to lighten the load. He felt the monster within him begin to stir even with the help of the pills Mulder had given him. Anger was his demon's natural state, and his anger at Keith and Jordan was fueling its fire. This was a losing battle, he knew that. He would kill again just as sure as the sun rose and the Marly smoking bastard wouldn't die of cancer. Soon it would only be a question of who, and Mitchell prayed that when the demon finally did break free, he would have enough control left to determine who lived and who died. Dana's gaze drifted back to Mulder, noticing the uncharacteristic glaze in his eyes, and the unsteadiness of motion when he moved. He should have been unbelievably stressed by now but he appeared almost jovial... and by the looks of his blanket, still 'dry.' The man must have kidneys of steel. She knew this behavior. He was, at the very least, semi-polluted again, but how? Looking at the whiskey bottle, she noticed that it was nearly full... too full... She looked back at him, then back at the bottle, then back again at him. He caught her questioning stare and just winked at her goofily with his good eye. She would never underestimate him again. Stifling a laugh, she lowered her eyes to the floor for the simple reason that she couldn't look at him and maintain a straight face. Why was Dana staring at him? What'd she want? Mulder knew what he wanted and tried to wink at her with the wrong eye and rediscovered that it was already closed. Then his alcohol soaked brain remembered the bottle and whined amid the crackle of misfiring synapses, 'but I didn't drink that much,' to which the minority of sober neurons replied, 'empty stomach, stupid.' It's really difficult to be suave and debonair when all the components of your brain are in the midst of a civil war. Mulder thought he was turning his head. Whoa.... he watched the room sway at an odd angle. How'd it do that? Must be an earthquake, he reasoned with all the logic that Jack Daniels would allow. He winced and groaned audibly as his head bounced off the wooden floor. He found himself looking up into the rather angry face of Jordan Chambers just before Chambers grabbed his arm and hauled him upward at what felt like the speed of light. Shit, no one told him he was going to experience gee force training on top of everything else. Some things you just don't do to people who are prone to motion sickness and that was one of them. He didn't know why Mr. Serial Killer Asshole was so upset with him. So he puked on his fucking shoes. Big deal. There'd been nothing in his stomach except some sour booze. He suddenly wished he'd eaten a lot of something really gross ...like sushi, or chili, or even better... sushi and chili. He grinned at the thought. Jordan cursed and threw Mulder back on the couch, violently jerking his arms behind him as he wrapped the duck tape agonizingly tight around his wrists. Mulder gasped as he felt something tear low, inside his ribcage. Even through the haze, he'd felt *that*. He was sobering up fast. Dana strained at her bonds uselessly. The look in Jordan's eyes suggested that he was tired of playing games and meant business, and suddenly she was very afraid for Mulder. Throwing up on Jordan's shoes was definitely *not* the way to keep yourself in one piece. "What's the matter, Jordan?" Mitchell jeered, a rusty laugh forcing its way out from his tortured soul. "Can't handle a few women and an injured drunk without throwing your weight around?" "Shut up!" Jordan screamed at him. "Shut UP!!" "Mr. Big Man," Mitchell continued, egging Jordan on. "Why don't you come try to tape *me* up?" Jordan glared at Mitchell, almost ready to take him up on his offer. Then he saw the glint in Mitchell's eye, the familiar bunching of his muscles under his clothes, and felt the comforting weight of the gun in his pocket. No, now was not the time. He turned his attention back to Mulder. "No more booze for you, Mr. FBI," Jordan snarled. "Torture's no fun when the subject can't feel it," he laughed, reaching for the whiskey bottle. "I'll just take care of this for you, remove the temptation, shall we say." "You don't want that," Mulder slurred, wrinkling up his nose. Jordan narrowed his eyes as he spoke. "How would you know what *I'd* want?" Mulder tried his damnedest to squint with his good eye. "Oh, I juss thought you'd go for those sissy drinks... like daquirs... daqueras..., you know thooose stupid little drinks with the umbrella thingees in em', or shirrlllyy timples...temples. Whiskey's a *man's* drink," he managed to blurt out. Jordan scowled, somewhat taken aback that given the predicament he was in, this guy had the audacity to taunt him. Jordan raised the whiskey bottle to his lips. "I'm tellin' you...don't ddrinnnk that..." Mulder stated with as much emphasis as he could muster. He knew there was a reason he liked that story. Dana exchanged glances with her mom and sister, sighed heavily, then rolled her eyes heavenward. "Mom, when this is over, lock up the liquor cabinet and throw away the key. I don't want him anywhere near the stuff," she muttered. Jordan's features took on the appearance of superiority as he raised the bottle to his lips, and he chugged down half the contents of the bottle before the taste hit him. "Shit!!!!!" he screamed, gagging on the remaining liquid he was spraying from his mouth onto the floor. "This tastes like piss!!!" "I told you not to drink it," Mulder said with an innocent smile. "Juss call it home-brew," he snickered drunkenly. "Mulder, 1960...it was a verry good year." He didn't immediately register the backhand that split his bottom lip, but he could taste the blood in his mouth, uncertain of exactly where it came from. Funny, he didn't remember being able to see stars in the living room before. The weather must be clearing up, his fuzzy brain reasoned. They'd finally passed the abandoned car... Lucy's car. Bill Scully had been correct. The snowplows had almost hit it when they plowed by it. Now it was buried in the dirty snow the plows had thrown off the road. Skinner wondered how much hard evidence would be left in the car by the time they dug it out and the snow thawed. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Skinner could make out the lights of the Scully house in the distance. If the men were in there, he hoped they weren't too late. They came closer and closer to the lights until the outline of the house stood out against the blackness of the night and the pristine whiteness of the snow. "How in the hell are we going to know if those monsters are really in there?" Skinner wondered out loud. "Oh, they're in there alright," Bill Scully said with conviction. Skinner gave him a questioning look, then followed Bill's pointing finger toward the house. Skinner didn't have to ask twice. He was well aware of the meaning of an inverted flag. "Hestor, get your men in position," Skinner spoke into the communications link. "But don't do anything until I give the word." Skinner turned back to Bill Scully. "Mr. Scully, where in the house would your family most likely be? " Skinner asked. Bill ran his hand through his hair, trying to second guess his family. Skinner had no idea of what he was asking. "I had to help Mulder downstairs this morning and I don't think he'd be able to get back upstairs without my help. If he's downstairs, chances are so is Dana, and if Dana's downstairs, mom and Melissa are with her. I guess, they'd either be in the kitchen or the living room. At this time of night... I'd say living room." Bill looked back toward the house and saw the faint puffs of smoke rising from the chimney. "They've got the fireplace going. So I'd say the living room's the best bet." Jordan glared at Mulder with an intense hatred. He wanted to hurt him, he wanted to hurt him more than physical pain would allow. He wanted to rip every shred of humanity from this man, rip out his heart and hand it to him, and have him know that Jordan Chambers was the one who destroyed *his* life. And he knew just how to do it. Jordan slowly allowed his gaze to fall on the petite redhead who'd been such a pain in the ass. He smiled with demonic pleasure. Mulder followed Jordan's eyes and his heart froze in panic. The man knew his weakness, what he feared most. He knew and he was going to deliver a punishment that Mulder knew was worse than death. "Keith," Jordan began slowly, "I have decided to give you a second chance to achieve sanctuary for a wayward soul. Not many people get a second chance, Keith, but I have faith in you." Mitchell wrestled with his demon. He was losing the battle, and he didn't like the direction this situation was taking. He had tried to taunt Jordan into attacking him before, knowing that his demon would be satisfied, at least for the moment, with Jordan's death and no doubt Keith's shortly following, but Jordan had failed to take the bait. He knew from experience what Jordan had in mind for this young woman and he also knew that Fox Mulder did, too. He sensed the young man's terror in his own mind. The thoughts were fragmented and confused, possibly because of his alcoholic ingestion but he was aware enough to deduce Jordan's intentions and frightened enough for the woman to act irrationally. Mulder would die to protect this woman, and Mitchell could not allow Mulder to be killed, no matter what Jordan wanted. He hadn't come all this way to abandon his mission now. Mitchell felt the adrenaline shoot into his veins, along with the strange substance that loosed his demon, and he noticed the color leaving his eyesight. His blood boiled. Jordan walked away from the couch and over to the women sitting against the wall. He paced in a line before them, stopping in front of each one to stare in silence. He turned and pulled Dana to her feet, separated her from the others, and threw her to the floor in front of the fireplace, directly in Mulder's line of vision. So intent on his revenge, Jordan didn't notice the transformation taking place in the corner chair. Instead, he motioned for Keith to come stand next to him. "Here is a soul for you to save, Keith... a candidate for sanctuary," he stated with evangelical zeal. "This is your final chance to prove yourself, Keith." Dana's eyes grew wide as the full meaning of Jordan's words struck home. Even death row inmates get a better last meal than Ragu', she thought disjointedly. Keith sensed her fear and his body responded hungrily. This would be better than the last one, he thought, and he threw himself on top of her, ramming one leg up between her thighs. Melissa sensed her sister's fear and helplessness, and her own experience came rushing back at her. Overlaying everything was a heavy, putrid odor of evil that was almost more than she could bear, and she began to cry. "NOOOOO....." Mulder cried as Keith began to rip away Dana's clothes and fumble with his own. "You bastard," Fox gasped, raising himself from the cushions in an attempt to throw himself at Keith's form. But the alcohol prevented him from moving with his normal grace, and he was unable to push himself up with his hands. He landed instead on his knees, pushing himself along the floor with his legs and drowning in a red sea of pain. The only thing that kept him moving was the pain and terror he saw in Dana's eyes and the insane hunger on Keith's face. He never even heard Jordan's laughter. "I have to be joined with you," Keith muttered, more to himself than to the terrified woman under him. "I have to join you, then remove your temptation to sin again, and then you'll be ready for sanctuary." The last shred of clothing holding him back was gone, and he rested one arm on the woman's collarbone to hold her down while he used his other hand to guide himself towards the goal that was squirming underneath him. He had never been so ready in his entire life. Mulder wasn't going to make it in time, he could see that, and ice settled around his heart as he realized he was going to let Dana down. He wasn't go to be able to protect her. He couldn't believe it when she turned her head to look at him, letting him know with one glance that it was okay, she didn't blame him. Then she cried out in pain as Keith slapped her face, turning her head back toward him. "Look at *me*," he hissed. "I have to see your fear." The next cry Mulder heard was an unearthly scream that set his teeth on edge and sent a shiver through his soul. The dark fury that had once been Mitchell Tyler slashed at Keith from behind, lifting the lighter man into the air. The momentum of the blow sent him rolling across the floor and into the open fireplace. Keith screamed as his hair caught on fire and he began batting at his head with his hands. Mitchell followed Keith with blinding speed and savagely removed the only part of his anatomy that he had seen fit to expose on his attempted attack on Dana. Mitchell held the detached member in his hand high above his head and howled. "May you find sanctuary, you son of a bitch," he yelled, "and may you *never* be tempted again." With that, he reached down and with one final swipe, ripped out most of Keith's neck. The resulting spray of blood effectively doused the fire that had burned Keith's hair, and Keith's body collapsed weakly on the floor. Mulder rolled on top of Dana, using his body as a protective cocoon, and turned his head away from the gory scene. He'd never witnessed anything like *that* before and just the thought of it made his lower regions burn. Mulder had just turned back toward Mitchell when gunshots rang out in rapid succession. Spurts of red blossomed on Mitchell's upper body. The big man took two steps before he fell forward and crashed to the floor next to Margaret, Melissa, and the children. They were huddled together with the childrens' faces buried into their grandmother's side, all weeping softly. Mulder shuddered as he felt the man's psyche reach out to him one final time, and then it was gone. Jordan stuffed the weapon back into his pants, stooped and pulled Mulder away from Dana by his bound wrists. The pain he felt was nearly unbearable and he cried out as Jordan threw him against the wall. Laughing insanely, Jordan bent over him and pressed the cold steel of the gun against Mulder's temple, his finger tightening on the trigger. A gunshot rang out into the frigid night and Skinner gave the word to rush the house. There was no more time, and he feared he'd waited too long as it was. As the agents and local officers reached the front porch, another shot echoed through the house followed by silence and the muffled sound of a child crying. They rammed the front door open in a dynamic entry but stopped dead in their tracks, stunned by the scene of mayhem that met their eyes. The stench of death assaulted their senses. Bodies covered the living room floor and blood splattered in random patterns on the floor and part of the wall. The smell of burned flesh permeated the air. A single, small women stood alone, trembling at the foot of the stairs as the gun slowly slid from her hand and fell to floor with a thud. Clinging to her apron, a young boy sobbed uncontrollably. What the hell happened here? It was only after the intial shock that Skinner realized that some of the bodies were moving. Skinner quickly located his wayward agents, and while he was relieved that they were among those who were still alive, he was shocked by their appearance. Agent McGuire knelt beside Scully and gently cut away the duck tape binding her wrists. Skinner draped his jacket over Dana's shoulders to cover what the shreds of her shirt did not, and he tried to avert his eyes from the remainder of her torn clothing. Recovering her senses, Dana looked over at Mulder who was sprawled in an unnatural position about two feet away from her. "Mulder??" she asked hesitantly. Skinner nodded in understanding and turned his attention to the slowly moving form behind him, carefully cutting away the tape around wrists and hands that had nearly turned purple with lack of circulation. He also took note of the agent's condition, opting to leave him in the position he was in until the paramedics got to him. Skinner looked over his shoulder and nodded to Scully. "Relax, he's alive. Paramedics are here to take care of him." Reaching over toward the couch, Skinner retrieved an empty whiskey bottle and studied it with curiosity. He took one whiff and nearly dropped the bottle. He leaned over Mulder, placing his hand gently on his bare shoulder, and stared into his slightly dazed, dilated pupils. "What happened here, Agent Mulder?" Skinner asked in mock sterness. Mulder allowed one corner of his mouth to quirk up in an attempted grin. "Gee, I guess he was pissed off cause I watered down the drinks," Mulder whispered hoarsely before unconsciousness claimed him. "Always a smartass," Skinner grinned, patting the shoulder gently before leaving him to the paramedic who'd begun to treat him. Margaret sat on the couch wrapped in a blanket that the EMTs had given her. She was shivering violently, but not from the cold. Skinner carefully sat down beside her, silent for several minutes before venturing to speak. "That was some shot, Mrs. Scully," he complimented with genuine admiration. "Margaret," she corrected him. "My name is Margaret." She stopped as another shiver overtook her, and Skinner noticed that underneath the far-away look in her eyes, there burned a bright, angry fire, the same fire he'd seen in Scully's eyes from time to time. Now he knew where she got it, not to mention the courage that seemed to run in this family. "The Captain was away a lot," Margaret continued. "He thought it was a good idea for me to learn how to use a weapon. I did." she stated matter of factly. "Yes ma'am, you most certainly did," Skinner replied with a heartfelt smile. He put the phone down and lit another cigarette, drawing the smoke down deeply into his lungs. Mitchell Tyler was dead, killed by one of the lunatics he'd escaped with. The autopsy would be botched, of course. No one would ever know the truth about Mitchell Tyler, but then again, no one needed to know. The experiment would not be repeated, at least not the same exact experiment. The right people knew not to try again. As for the rest of the world... what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. He wondered if Mulder knew Mitchell Tyler's significance. Maybe the man had talked, had been coherent long enough to peek Mulder's interest. He'd find out soon enough, of that he had no doubt. He knew more about Mulder's movements than the man did himself. Strangely enough, he found he didn't care one way or the other whether Mulder investigated Mitchell Tyler. Even if Mulder was interested enough to look into it, he would find no proof, no answers to his questions. And now there would be no one to help him. He got up to get another beer from the fridge and allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction. Mitchell Tyler. One more mess effectively, if not efficiently, disposed of. No regrets. ******* end part nine From xangst@frii.com Sun Oct 27 05:07:11 1996 SANCTUARY BY: CHERYL COHEN (ALIAS-THE STINKER) AND ANNIE REED (ALIAS-FANCYKATZ) Forward ************************************ Annie and I started this story several months ago. In fact we started bouncing around ideas for a sequel right after we finished "Devil's Advocate. Okay, we didn't expect it to take this long or be this long but somehow the characters seemed to take on a life of their own and each insisted that they have their moment in the sun. Hence, what follows is ninety pages of love, sadness, joy, sex, misunderstandings, violence, insanity, aggravation, frustration, humor, death...and life. Please be warned, this tale contains, graphic violence, adult language, and adult situations. Although there is sex involved in several scenes, it is not what I would consider graphic nor is it out of context with the story. I like to leave a little bit to the imagination. DISCLAIMERS ETC. ******************************** This story is based on the characters and situations created by Chris Carter, the Fox Network and Ten Thirteen Productions. As such, the characters named are the property of those entities and are used without permission, although no copyright infringements are intended. ************************************ CHAPTER 10 Special Dispensation EPILOGUE "Oh, come on, Dana," Fox whined for the umpteenth time. "Everybody's out of here except me. I've been stuck in this bed for three days with all this crap hooked up to me. I feel fine. I am fine. Can I go now???" Dana didn't respond, just stood there gazing at him with those calm blue/grey eyes of hers. Well, I've got nothing to lose, he thought. Might as well keep going. "And one other question..." He lifted his right arm up slightly until the clanging of metal on metal halted his motion. "Who in the hell handcuffed me to the goddamn bed?" "His eyebrow rose in suspicion as he looked at her. "Halloween's over, Dana. Give me the key, okay?" he pleaded. Dana calmly walked around the bed and sat down on its edge. "First of all, you're the only one of us who needed surgery. Second, all that *crap* is necessary to keep an eye on you or your doctor wouldn't have ordered it. And third," she said, fingering the handcuff on his wrist, "I didn't cuff you to the bed, although it's one hell of a good idea. Let's just say that the cuffer was a very tall distinguished man with a bald head and glasses." "Skinner????!!!" Mulder squeaked. "Skinner," she confirmed. "He muttered something about being tired of you interfering with his workout schedule and for at least a few days, he'd have some peace and quiet without having to wonder where in the hell you were and what hospital to send all the damn insurance forms to," Dana said with humor in her eyes. She waited for Mulder to reply, but he was still in shock at the idea that his *boss,* of all people, had chained him to the bed. How humiliating! She was about to say something calculated to soothe his battered male ego when she suddenly had that unsettling feeling of being watched. "I really didn't expect to see you again quite so soon, my dear," a now familiar voice admonished. Startled by the unexpected visitor, Dana snapped her head up suddenly to find that strange little man leaning nonchalantly against the hospital green of the doorway. For some reason she couldn't quite identify, he always reminded her of a leprechaun in search of his pot o' gold... a very wise leprechaun. "Madam!!" he looked at her indignantly. "I have never been, nor shall I ever be that mythological creature you so vividly picture in your very vast imagination. I may, however, audition for a part in Finnian's Rainbow, should one ever become available. Delightful play, don't you think?" Dana snorted with amusement. Where on earth did he come from? She didn't hear him arrive, but then, of course, she never did. That particular penchant of the man really irked Mulder, she thought with certain glee. Their visitor strolled over to the bed and stopped, crossed his arms in a judgmental manner, and moved one finger up to his chin. "Oh, what now?" Dr. Jay shook his head in disbelief, taking in the bruised and battered young man occupying the bed in front of him. Mulder rolled his eyes upward, and squirmed uncomfortably under Dr. Jay's piercing gaze. "It's not as bad as it looks," Mulder tried to explain. "They're just over-reacting. I don't know why they insisted on hooking up this damn EKG thing anyway. I'm fine," he insisted. "Oh, stop complaining, they'll disconnect it and send you packing tomorrow, so just try and be civil in the meantime," Dana lectured him. A playful grin danced over Dr. Jay's face as he turned to Dana. "Can't you even keep him out of trouble long enough for his wounds to heal properly?" he inquired lightly. "I'm going to have to invest in Bioepidermal rejuvenator stock just to keep him supplied." Dr. Jay pointed an accusing finger at Mulder. Caught again, Mulder thought, and he could only shrug apologetically. "Bio what?" Dana asked, her voice laced with curiosity. "'Green Goo', to you, dear girl," Dr. Jay replied, slightly amused by the fact that he had inadvertently made one of those ridiculous rhymes. "Thank the heavens this little escapade will only require a minor sliming," he added with an exaggerated sigh as he walked gingerly over to the side of the bed and seated himself on its edge. Pulling his hands from his pockets, he produced a small bottle with one hand and a capsule filled with green powder with the other. Mulder eyed the substances with apprehension. "What is that stuff and who exactly are you? How did you get in here? Where are you from and what's your interest in me?" Mulder had stopped momentarily to catch his breath and open his mouth to begin yet another flurry of questions when Dr. Jay raised one hand in a halting motion, physically silencing Mulder's voice. Mulder looked at Dana and back at Dr. Jay, surprise written plainly on his face. One hand went to his neck, rubbing his throat in a vain attempt to bring his voice back. Dr. Jay tilted his head back toward Dana, who was staring at him in open-mouthed shock. How in the hell did he do that to Mulder? And could he teach her that little trick? He raised one eyebrow in contention, then looked back at Mulder. "My dear boy, some questions are best left unanswered, at least for the time being. You just can't let sleeping dogs lie can you?" Dr. Jay said with a smile. Mulder's eyebrows furrowed, betraying his irritability at not being able to respond vocally. Before Mulder could protest, Dr. Jay emptied the small capsule of powder over the sutured gash in Mulder's head, then added several drops of liquid from the bottle to the powder. Dana watched in amazement as the substance took on the slimy 'living' quality that she remembered from the last time she'd seen it. The goo attached itself to the injury on Mulder's head and split, slowly sending green slimy tendrils inching their way down his face and neck. Finally they oozed beneath his hospital gown and targeted his other wounds, binding themselves to the painful areas like a living green band aide. Mulder gasped as his pain eased and a tingling sensation took its place, making him itch. Dr. Jay, noticing the distinct annoyance plastered all over Mulder's face, stared directly into the young man's dark eyes and raised his hand once more. "Don't call me 'dear boy'. I'm 34 years old for crying out loud!" Mulder blurted out, astonished at the sound of his own voice. Dr. Jay smirked. "In comparison to me, you *are* a 'dear boy.' Of course, I could always just call you Fox," he threatened. "How did you do that?" Mulder mumbled, his curiosity winning out over the frustration he felt at being so efficiently silenced. "Merely a simple useful technique," Dr. Jay informed him with a distinctively sly expression. Dana's gaze drifted over to Mulder and mischief filled her clear bright eyes. "Dr. Jay, can you teach me how to do that?" she asked with a chuckle. "Ha, ha, Dana. Very funny," Mulder replied with a full pout registering on those very sexy lips. Dr. Jay looked slightly confused. "I should think that under the circumstances, Fox...excuse me, Mulder... you would be inclined to be a little more cautious. A great deal of responsibility will soon rest upon your shoulders, young man." Mulder stared at him in confusion before sending a questioning look to Dana. What responsibility? She answered him with a shrug of her shoulders. "What the hell are you talking about, now?" Mulder asked, clearly puzzled. Dr. Jay turned to Dana. "You haven't told him?" he asked bluntly. "Told him (me) what?" Dana and Mulder questioned as one. Dr. Jay was astounded. "For the life of me, I cannot comprehend how your species could be so... out of touch," he grumbled under his breath as he turned to leave. "Of course, *I* knew immediately when your..." Dr. Jay broke off his train of thought, realizing that he nearly had said too much. Again. A huge smile lit his distinguished features. "Fox Mulder... Dana Scully. Be good to each other. You're all that you have---for now." "Now what's that supposed to mean?" Mulder snickered, looking up to find himself talking to thin air. "I wonder if he realizes how annoying that is," Mulder grumbled. Unable to resist a sudden urge, Dana reached out and stuck her finger in the living green mass that throbbed on the side of Mulder's head. One corner of Fox's mouth drew slowly upward, his face a study in patient tolerance. "Dana..." Mulder's soft voice entreated her. "What?" Dana asked absently, preoccupied by the green substance that had yet to disintegrate from her finger. That's odd, she thought. Last time it disappeared immediately. Finally she looked up to meet his eyes. "Get your fingers out of my goo," Mulder chuckled softly. "There are a lot more interesting things to finger than green goo," he added with a lustful leer. "Ooooo, you must be feeling better," Dana purred. She walked over to the curtain that separated Mulder's bed from the rest of the room. "Show me... if you're up to an inspection," she leered back while slowly pulling the curtain closed. Mulder leaned back and closed his eyes, gasping when he felt her touch. "Uh, Dana? Those aren't your fingers," he panted heatedly a few moments later. "So now you're an anatomy expert?" came the muffled response. "Oh, Lord, far be it for me to instruct a doctor in the fine points of anatomy," he gasped. A shrill, high pitch tone sounded throughout the room. Worried faces studied monitors, looking for the source of the sound. "Flatline in room 402!!!" yelled the nurse at her station. Crepe-soled shoes hit the floor at a dead run. Frantic whispers emanated from behind the sterile white curtain. "Uh, oh," Mulder cringed. "It was an accident, Mulder." "Put it back, maybe they won't notice." "Of course, they'll notice. You just flatlined!!" "But I'm not dead -- in heaven maybe --" he winked. "But definitely not dead." "Believe me, Mulder," she let her gaze drop. "I am very well aware of the fact that you're not dead." "Yeah, but they don't know that. Is this it?" he asked, picking up the remains of the diode from the bed. "Give it here, Mulder." "You don't have to get nasty." "Oops!" "What do you mean...oops?" "I dropped it on the floor..." "Shit!!" "Dana......" he chided with feigned shock. "Sorry. Let me do the talking." "Think I'll let you do the talking. This is one explanation I've got to hear." "Shut up, Mulder." Medical personnel rushed through the door, crash cart in tow just as Dana stepped out from behind the curtain. "False alarm," she yelled. "Everything's under control," she added quickly. "He just rolled over and accidentally pulled the wires off." Orderlies and technicians slowly left the room, all except for one nurse who'd noticed the flush reddening Dana's cheeks and who'd taken the time to peek behind the curtain. "Dr. Scully," she whispered in a conspiring tone, "perhaps you should finish what you started before that poor man in there explodes," she giggled loudly. "I'll consider any further 'alarms' as null and void. Have fun." The nurse's laughter could be heard echoing all the way down the hall. Dana stepped back inside the privacy of the curtain. She couldn't be certain, but a rough estimate told her that the tent he'd pitched could probably house a family of five, along with a couple of dogs, a cat, and a two car garage. She smiled to herself. Let's see what she could do to break camp.... "Mulder? Oh, my...." she sighed as she pulled back the sheets. "Sorry..." he grinned sheepishly. "For what?" "Embarrassing you?" "Mulder, do I look embarrassed?" she eyed him seductively. Nope, he knew a wide variety of Dana Scully expressions and there was definitely no embarrassment here. Her mood was obvious. It was as obvious as the soft pair of lips that slowly caressed their way down his chest. She trailed her tongue lightly around his scars as if she could kiss away the pain, and she didn't even notice when a tendril of green entered her mouth and slid softly down her throat. Mulder's body trembled with anticipation. He felt wonderful, invincible, contented, and unbelievably happy. Total euphoria exploded all at once in mind, body, and soul as his love for this beautiful woman expressed itself in physical terms as well. "Mulder, are you all right?" she gasped, still trembling. "Oh... boy!!!" he managed in a breathy moan. Trying to watch out for all the wires still attached to his body, not to mention the damn handcuffs, he moved to pull her into a tender embrace. The night nurse coming on duty pointed frantically at the monitor. "Nurse Walden, there's a flatline in 402!!!" Nurse Walden calmly looked at the screen and smiled. "At it again, are we?" she murmured. She turned to the night nurse. "Don't worry about it, hon. Believe me, that man is very much alive. Besides, his personal physician is there to jump start him if he needs it and she's extremely... competent." Nurse Walden giggled in spite of herself as she turned down the monitor's volume and left for the night. Dr. Jay felt their encounter in his mind and smiled. Fox Mulder had finally chosen wisely. Dr. Jay wished that he could tell him more. But for all his searching for the truth, Dr. Jay did not think that, in the end, Fox could handle what the truth actually was. It could possibly destroy the young man's gentle spirit and faith in his beliefs. Dr. Jay would willing give his life to prevent that from ever happening again. Was this the feeling known as... love? It was an extremely enlightening emotion. No wonder most humans spent an inordinate amount of time in search of it. He congratulated himself on having introduced the adaptogen to Dana without her knowledge. It would help and protect her with what was to come. Hopefully it would make things... normal. They were all his responsibility now. FINE