MERCURY FALLING by cslatton (c) 1999 Disclaimer: Title: "Mercury Falling" Author: cslatton. Yeah. Sure. Whatever. You'll never take me alive... Flames and such to: cslatton17@yahoo.com Summary: It's 1988 and Wheeling, West Virginia has serial killer on the loose. One who kills to attract the attention of a very exclusive audience: a young, hotshot profiler named Fox Mulder. But that's not Mulder's only problem for the moment. In fact, the killer may just have to get in line... Category: Case File, Angst, Romance, Humor--did I leave anything out? Rating: Definite R. Language, violence, adult situations--did I leave anything out here, either? Warning: Rape is mentioned: NOT described. The majority of the violence described is after the fact, the effects are described but not in any effort to glorify the situation. If you are easily offended, turn back now. This is a case involving violent crime including murder. If this presents a problem, I invite you not to read. But then, how are you managing to watch this show to begin with...? Spoilers: None, unless you're really paying attention. If you catch them then you've seen the episodes they're winking at so they don't count as spoilers, do they? Disclaimers: Mulder and company including Purdue, Patterson, Skinner, Fowley, Henderson, and Nurse Owens, belong to Chris Carter and Company, 1013 Productions and Twentieth Century Fox. Everybody else is mine all mine and if you decide they're worth playing with, please treat them gently: God knows I'm putting them through enough hell as it is. James Wright is quoted with credit and without intentional infringement of copyright, as is Irving Feldman. Ditto, kiddo for John Ashbery, who is quoted exclusively from his book "A Wave", copyright 1985, by Penguin Books. Great stuff... Apologies are sincerely lavished upon Dashiell Hammett for references in chapter one. The film being viewed in Chapter 21 is Howard Hawk's "To Have and Have Not", a marvelous screenplay co-written by William Faulkner and based on a short story by Ernest Hemmingway. Can you spell "a favorite film," children? Musical interludes are courtesy of Ella Fitzgerald from Rogers and Hart's "Boys from Syracuse", 1938 and Phil Collins, "Two Hearts," 1987. Special thanks to Salvador Dali for his extraordinary "Burning Giraffes". As you can see, I'm trying to blame this on as many people as possible-- that way, I won't be so lonely when they lock me away. Now that I'm done apologizing to all the people I might be offending, I would like say "thank you" to some of the fine people who have helped birth this monster. You didn't think it was all my fault, did you? Cheryl V of FWMW for her fine efforts as my first editor, putting up with my flailing attempts to come up with an actual, viable plot and helping me make sense of all my ideas. It's amazing how you managed to work with the crap I gave you, Cheryl... LuvMulder for continuing the effort, encouraging me to flesh out the story and actually say something with it instead of just telling it. Words fail me. Time and again, dear, you've helped me to keep my focus-- and my sanity not just on this book but in real life, too. You're a candidate for Sainthood, and your friendship has been a gift from God. Oh, and you're an excellent editor. Anyone and everyone is invited to LuvMulder's site and check out her writing.. Then you'll see what kind of talent I'm up against and maybe cut me some slack... Kristina Johannson, beta reader extraordinaire and surely the greatest fan of Mulder!Angst I have ever met-- the man gets a hang nail and she's on the edge of her chair waiting for the blood, folks! Just kidding, Kristina. No, actually, I'm not kidding... Maureen for her encouragement and her tremendous chapter by chapter reviews-- you continue to amaze me with the depth of your perceptions and the graciousness of your responses. Ali P for her fine artwork. You have an incredible talent and a generous heart. Both rare commodities in this world. If this story has done nothing else, it has brought wonderful people like you into my life. And I am intensely grateful. DJ for taking on additional burdens of beta-reading/editing when you're plate is already so full. It's a pleasure having you involved in this project-- and an even greater pleasure being your friend. I appreciate all you do for me. I don't know *how* you manage to do it, but I appreciate it all the same. Last Gasp Note: This is considerably darker than my first piece, Domination of Lies, but hope you enjoy it anyway. Bear with me, folks, I promise the next one will have Scully in spades... maybe. Or maybe not. Anyway, on with the show: Dedication: Okay, Pat and DJ, for what it's worth this one's for you. Emerex, for all your encouragement and your kind notes, you can have your share, too-- Too bad we're not making any money off this, huh? And, Connie, well-- Connie knows. I love you, doll. Thank you. Part 1 of 27: Prologue: Maintenance Agreement Friday, April 1, 1988, 9:46 PM. Seattle, Washington. Something was in the air. Jake Beckett could feel it. Hell, no private eye, on or off the job, could miss it. Something was brewing at The Red Dust Bar 'N Grill and it didn't come from behind the bar. Jake took a deep breath and blew it out slow, watching from his quiet corner booth. At the table near the door Bennie the Crutch sat rubbing elbows with Rags Richmond and Big Eddie Manahan. Outside the door, Big Eddie's muscle boys were keeping their eyes peeled for trouble while trying to make out like they were just getting some air. They weren't selling anybody on the routine, though: this time of year Chicago smog was so thick a man could develop lung cancer just taking out the dog. At the table Rags laughed and Beckett felt himself start to sweat. Jake had seen Rags laugh twice in two years. Both times someone very much alive wound up very much dead. Something was definitely going down in Detroit and it wasn't the price of Buicks. Beckett edged his way to the pay phone and tried to keep his bulky frame in the shadows. He popped a coin in the slot and dialed headquarters------- "Hell's bells!" Purdue barked as his pen went flying from his hand. "Damned potholes--" Reggie Purdue grimaced in his effort to retrieve the Bic from the floorboard of the cab. The streetlights in this area of town were few and far between and he searched blindly, probing hand encountering gum and candy wrappers, a bit of orange peel. An empty bottle of Schlitz Malt Liqueur rolled against his foot and he kicked at it in his aggravation. It wobbled obediently under the front seat as the cab jerked to a halt-- betraying the prodigal ballpoint in its flight. Purdue retrieved the Bic with a rumbling sigh and scrambled for a more dignified position in his seat. He held his legal pad up to the ruby glow of the traffic light and tried to assess the damage the street had wrought upon his hasty scribble. Aside from a long shaky line tearing through the bottom of the page, every word seemed present and accounted for, relatively legible despite the darkness. Still, he shook his head mournfully. *Reggie, you're a damn fool.* And the dull yellow tablet was mute testament to the fact, glowing its accusations in the passing lights of Seattle street life: page upon page of scribbled notes and doodles-- mostly doodles-- the work of months of stolen moments, here a paragraph penned in a taxi in Grand Rapids, there a page crafted on the red-eye from Syracuse to DC. On his better days, Purdue could convince himself that this was the next great American mystery novel in its infancy. Except that he could never seem to come up with a viable plot. Or even a halfway decent gumshoe. Today, however, was not one of his better days. Purdue swallowed at the bitterness in his mouth, recognizing the flavor all too well: the acrid taste of disgust. After all, he kept telling himself, hadn't he finally achieved everything he'd ever wanted? Sure he had. Twenty-four years with the FBI and he'd finally made ASAC for one of the Bureau's toughest units: Violent Crime. Purdue's reputation was solid, his solution rate high and he had all the commendations that went with it. Behind his back, agents had labeled him Mr. Cut-the-Crap-- but they pronounced the words with a certain level of pride, and a heavy emphasis on the *Mister.* Yeah. So, where did that and a buck eighty get him now? Well, specifically, Mr. Cut-the-Crap was in the back of a cab writing juvenile drivel Dashiell Hammett wouldn't wipe his shoes with. It didn't get much more pathetic. Purdue shook his head as the cab rolled through the shadow of an overpass. He should give it up, he knew; he had given it up any number of times through the years. But somehow his wife had always managed to scavenge the bits of paper he'd wadded into the trash. She'd gather the pages back out and press them-- press the damn things with a steam iron, for crying out loud-- and he'd come home to find them laying on his desk with a fresh pad of paper and a new pen for encouragement. And he didn't have the heart to do anything but try again. But there was no one to press the pages anymore. Hadn't been for eleven months now. Eleven months and twelve days. If Purdue looked at his watch, he could calculate the hours pretty quick, too. He didn't look; it didn't matter. Cancer, unreasoning and unyielding, had finally beaten Olivia Purdue. And it'd taken most of Reginald Purdue with it when she'd left. The pages before him were his last defense, his one source of comfort. The one activity that allowed him to step outside his own intolerable life and pretend all was well once more. Purdue swore as he ripped the pages loose, balled them up and flung them at the floorboard. Peace, compassion, comprehension: what right did he have to seek such trivial comforts? It meant nothing now-- The ball of crumpled yellow wobbled forlornly amongst the candy wrappers and soda stains. Headlights of a passing car washed across the cab's deep blue upholstery and his mind's eye caught a glimpse of Olivia's favorite summer dress: a little navy number with spaghetti straps and a bow that highlighted her waist and hips and never failed to set his heart to racing. He heard her laugh; God help him but he did. The papers were snatched up off the floor in an instant. Purdue swore himself a fool again, but dutifully pressed the pages open against his pants leg. A simple enough action, odd that it should assuage so much pain. He swore a few more times, just for reassurance; the driver never even glanced at the rearview. Purdue had paper, legal pad and trusty Bic pen tucked tidily into his bag when the cab slowed and turned into a parking lot. Motel 6. Well, what do you know? They really did leave the light on. It looked like someone was having a keg party at the far end of the parking lot. The Mariners must have won a championship. Hell, he couldn't keep track anymore. Purdue paid the fare, shouldered his bag, and stared up at the building. What was that room number Mulder had given dispatch when he'd checked in? Purdue found the slip of paper in his jacket pocket: "Room 212." Halfway up the stairs, the ASAC paused. Odd, he could have sworn he'd heard a muffled scream-- *Too long on the job, Reg, give it up, just the kids goofing off in the parking lot.* But by the time he reached room 204 Purdue had stopped again. There it was: a distinct wail, low and muffled. And abruptly silenced. He reached instinctively for his weapon but didn't pull it. Hand on the familiar grip, Purdue twisted, back to the wall, crab-walking up the hall, seeking the source of that inhuman moan. There were few occupied rooms in this area but a light snapped on as he passed a window. Apparently he wasn't the only one alerted by the cry of pain. Through the thin walls, Purdue heard the distinct click of an ordnance, the slide of a semi-automatic slipping a bullet into the firing chamber. The ASAC noted the door number. Room 212. What the hell--? A bump on the door from the inside and Purdue danced back on reflex. Behind the door were more muffled sounds: breaking glass, a man swearing frantically, more stumbling. Purdue frowned. He prided his team on efficiency; if this was the agent he'd flown out to see, they'd be having a serious discussion about lapses in Bureau procedure. Hell, if the man couldn't even navigate his own motel room-- The dull click of the room lock and the turn of the knob and Purdue stepped forward, gun level, safety off, as the door slammed open. "Federal agent. Freeze!" Special Agent Leonardo Sauceda complied with the request instantly. His eyes went wide and he was stuttering but he had the presence of mind to handle his weapon surrender fashion, finger well off the trigger. "Shit. Sir. Ah, I--" Sauceda's vision flickered up the hall, back to Purdue in such a total panic Reggie almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Purdue lowered his weapon and the pathologist did the same, if a bit nonplused. Sauceda even got enough on the ball to cover his potbelly and his boxers, belting the worn out terrycloth robe. His graying hair, still enviously dark for a man of sixty-three, stuck out at odd angles; his slippers were on the wrong feet. "What the hell's going on, Lenny?" Purdue demanded. "Ah. I heard a noise. Ahm. Yeah. That's all." The ASAC frowned. Despite his valiant attempt at nonchalance, Sauceda was twitching anxiously, shooting furtive glances further up the hall. "You hear what room it was coming from?" "Uh, nope," the pathologist tried a hollow grin on for size and shrugged. "Hell, it was probably nothing." Purdue glowered and Sauceda swallowed hard. "Oh, I see," the ASAC sneered, "you always pack your Smith and Wesson to check out 'nothing'? Or maybe you just need it to fight the women off when you go for a stroll in your skivvies?" Sauceda didn't do sarcasm very well this late in the day. He glared, looking away vaguely to avoid a charge of insubordination, and slipped his weapon into the pocket of his robe. "Where's your partner?" Purdue growled. "In his room," Sauceda nodded encouragingly. "Sleeping," he insisted. Purdue shook his head. The man could lose a fortune playing poker. "I thought *this* was Mulder's room. It's the number he gave dispatch." Sauceda rolled his eyes peevishly. "Yeah, well. Why should he give dispatch his number and have the brass calling *him* at all hours when he can just as easily give them mine? Thoughtful, he ain't, the little prick." The kids in the parking lot whooped a bit louder and Sauceda was back to the nervous shifting routine. "You wanna come in, sir?" Sauceda offered a little too eagerly. "No sense waking the kid, I mean, anything you need to tell Marty, you can tell me and-- " "You know, Hot Sauce, if I didn't know better, I'd say you just didn't want me talking to him." Sauceda managed to look scandalized. "Oh, no sir. That's not--" "You know how I know you're lying, Lenny?" Sauceda blanched again and shook his head reluctantly. "Your lips are moving." It was more sarcasm and the pathologist winced. Purdue sighed. "Look, if the kid's got a woman in his room, fine. Shit, it's not the Bureau's business what he does on his own time, but I've flown clear across the country for this little chat. Now, where the hell is he? "He's sick," Sauceda offered, confusing the situation even further. "I'm his doctor and I don't want you bothering him. Sir." Purdue swore and decided it was time to cut the crap. He noted the line of Sauceda's anxious glance, and stepped for room 214. Sauceda bit his lip and followed. Purdue knocked and identified himself. Waited. Repeated the procedure. "Your partner a sound sleeper, Hot Sauce?" "Oh, yeah. Very sound." "Uh huh. His partner *ever* tell the truth?" Sauceda took a minute to digest that, time enough for Purdue to get the door kicked open. Room 214 was dark, lit only by the flickering glow of the television, volume muted. The bed was empty. A gun gleamed darkly on the dresser: Sig- Saur, Bureau issue. Next to the badge. Retching noises were immediately all too audible through the open bathroom door. Purdue flipped on the light and crossed the room. Special Agent Mulder was kneeling over the john, pulling at his hair in the violence of his vomiting. He was bathed in sweat and shaking convulsively even between the spasms from his gut. Sauceda gave Purdue a pleading look as he brushed past and the ASAC stood a moment, watching Sauceda wet a cloth and blot it at the profiler's forehead. Mulder slapped him away, trying to be sick in peace. Purdue grimaced. Olivia had made that noise a lot those last few months. He'd hated it then and had developed no fondness for it since. But he certainly hadn't found much he could do about it. He sat down in the chair near the door, just out of view of the goings-on the bathroom and concentrated on not thinking, not remembering. Beside him was a table, beyond that another chair. Polaroid prints littered both and Purdue collected several up for closer inspection: corpses in various stages of decomposition. None of the victims appeared older than eight years of age. None of them looked like they'd died easily. Sauceda peered around the doorjamb presently, frowning to find Purdue so comfortable. The noises continued behind him. Purdue dropped the snapshots back on the table and nodded at the bathroom. "What's this about, Hot Sauce?" The pathologist shrugged but didn't make eye contact. "Something he ate?" Purdue closed his eyes and tried to push the tension from his shoulders. The little Hispanic was starting to get on that last nerve... "Sauceda, I've talked with you. I've talked with Lamana. God knows I've had long and too-long discussions with Patterson. Hell, I instigated Mulder's last psych evaluation, myself." He looked up; Sauceda was watching him hollowly. "I know about the dreams, Lenny. I know about the mood swings. I know *all* about the so-called psychotic behavior. And I know he's the best damn profiler the Bureau's ever likely to see. A ninety-eight point-nine case solve rate covers a multitude of sins. So what the hell is this?" Sauceda dragged fingers through his graying curls. "Well, some of his dreams get pretty vivid." Purdue frowned. He'd been in Shreveport when Mulder had closed the Baby Killer case. Watched him cracking jokes with the locals while standing in a morgue he'd shipped twenty-seven small bodies to. Watched him eat Chinese while examining photos of three-week-old corpses-- And the man puked on his dreams? Purdue rubbed at the ache at the base of his skull. "Jeezus-- Hell, isn't there anything you can give him? He can't be passing anything but bile by now." "Nothing he can keep down," Sauceda grimaced. "And you don't mention the word suppository to Marty if you want to retire with the use of both arms. Besides, the man hallucinates on Dramamine for Chrissake." He glanced to the bathroom. "Anyway, he's past the bile stage. Nothing but dry heaves now. He'll stop soon." Purdue chewed his cheek. "So what you boys chasing out here? Another serial killer?" Sauceda grunted. "Since Patterson got Marty in his harem, I figured serials were the only thing BSU covered anymore." The retching had finally ground down to an angry moan and Sauceda returned to the little room. Purdue kept to his chair, listening to Sauceda's soft cooing and Mulder's harsh profanity in response. "Aw, Marty--" Sauceda whined. "Damn you." Despite his frustration, Mulder's graveled tenor was little more than a hiss. "I don't need to talk about it. He didn't touch me. It didn't happen to me." "Marty, listen. I keep telling you, you can't just shove this stuff down into some kind of subconscious hole and expect it to stay there, kid. One of these days it's all going to start coming back up--" Purdue could hear Mulder gasping for breath. "Not today," the profiler rasped. "It's not coming back up today." "But Marty--" The pathologist was ejected abruptly backwards into the bedroom, the door slamming in his face and locking. Water began running in the shower. Sauceda re-belted his robe indignantly, and gave Purdue a shrug as he sat on the end of the bed. "He'll be a while," he assured pleasantly. "Sexual molestation cases keep him in the shower for hours. Say, you want some coffee?" Purdue nodded slowly, still trying to digest all this. "Yeah, sure. This place got a coffee shop downstairs?" Sauceda frowned. "Nah. Let's just, like, order some up. Okay?" "Order some up? Since when does Motel 6 have room service?" Sauceda grinned. "It's okay. I got an inside with the kid working the desk." He called down and placed his order. Purdue could smell a situation at seven yards and this room wasn't that wide. "Look, Sauceda, unless there's some medical reason for us hanging out in Mulder's room, I'd prefer to give the man a little time to get himself together--" "You don't leave Marty alone when he gets like this." Sauceda's voice was sullen. "Not unless you want to play serious catch-up later. Hell, he's usually already far enough ahead as it is." He jerked his head in the general direction of the bathroom. "This is part of the spook, sir." Purdue felt like he needed to spit. "Spook, my ass. Don't start that crap, Sauceda--" Sauceda shrugged. "You said you talked to Patterson. I know you talked to the shrink. It's Marty's gift. It's who he is." Purdue was still frowning. Mr. Cut-the-Crap was a long way from buying all this "spooky" nonsense, but the psych work-up had managed to open his mind to some extreme possibilities. "Is that what this is about then? Mulder getting into the killer's head and poking around? Gaining insight--" "God Almighty," Sauceda almost spat on him. "Spook or no spook, I think you need to get this much straight, sir: when Marty walks into this monster's world, he goes in as the victim. Not the killer." He jerked his head at the photos on the table. "You seen what this bastard does to those kids before he kills them? Well, the son of a bitch does it to Marty, too. In his dreams." Sauceda let that one soak. Purdue knew Sauceda's reputation, of course. The man's sadistic streak was a good mile wide and his role as resident mole in Mulder's life was common knowledge. Sauceda was beyond a snitch as far as Purdue was concerned-- the man had walked into this partnership as a damned spy, Patterson's edge to keep the maverick profiler in hand. Somehow, Purdue couldn't imagine Fox Mulder, one paper shy of an Oxford psychiatric doctorate, sharing his dreams with anyone--least of all Sauceda. And he told him so. Sauceda grimaced. "No, indeed. Eight months with this kid, dragging through half the backwater morgues in America and I have to get information like that from that three-hundred dollar-an-hour shrink you had them send out to Shreveport. Thank you, *sir*." Coffee arrived, accompanied by honey buns as fresh as any vending machine can belch. Purdue settled on the coffee, cream, no sugar. He checked his watch. The shower was still roaring away. Sauceda piled up against Mulder's headboard, plowing through the honey buns, vision roaming wistfully from Purdue to the TV. But Purdue would be damned before he'd play second fiddle to reruns of "Alf." He grinned maliciously and Sauceda sat up a little straighter, dropping the remote control without turning up the sound. You didn't get to be an ASAC without developing a sadistic streak of your own. Purdue sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. "So, Patterson let you read Baez's psychiatric evaluation?" Sauceda nodded, "The kid's my partner. I'm entitled, doncha think?" "Baez listed symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress. He was careful to note the ones that Mulder *didn't* exhibit. At least he didn't then. Compulsive disorders, eating disorders, drug and alcohol abuse, fascination with suicide, self-mutilation. How about you, Hot Sauce? You seen evidence of that kind of thing with Mulder?" Sauceda shoved a wad of pastry into his cheek, washed some coffee past it. "Nah. Marty just doesn't sleep so hot. He eats sporadically, but he's a good eater when everything's quiet. He likes to run. Keeps to himself but he's not a recluse or anything. Just doesn't like to be crowded, you know? Baez knew his stuff, all right. Not like those yahoos in Personnel Services." Sauceda grinned proudly, "Hell, Marty could eat two of them for breakfast and not even work up a sweat." The shower died in the next room and Sauceda lowered his voice, balancing the styrofoam cup precariously as he leaned forward. He reminded Purdue of some old shrew gossiping over a fence. "That's why the Bureau brought Baez in for that evaluation, isn't it, Reg? Somebody high enough up the psychological food chain that Marty couldn't fool too long if he tried. Right?" Purdue was careful not to answer. Sauceda nodded anyway. "Yeah. I hear the bill was somewhere on the order of eight grand. And approved at the highest level." Sauceda grinned. "Ever thought about investigating who signed what for that little invoice? And why?" "Anybody ever tell you you're a sadistic little cuss, Lenny?" Again the grin. "Why do you think Patterson sicced me on Marty?" The bathroom door clicked open and Sauceda jerked up guiltily, a light splatter of coffee unnoticed on the thigh of his robe. The pathologist kept his lips locked down tight, offering a nervous smile to his partner as Mulder emerged from his little refuge. The silence was abrupt and contagious. Purdue found himself unaccountably speechless, mute in the presence of Patterson's hellacious protege: New Hampshire's Mind Hunter, the assassin of Baytown's Butcher. Shreveport's Death Angel. Right now, aforementioned Angel was clutching a bathrobe for warmth, dark hair plastered to his forehead from the shower. He stood, framed in the door as if planted there, staring soundlessly at his partner, body tensed like he expected to be tackled. Purdue saw a young man about six-foot, slender, with a choir boy face too young even for twenty-six. The face was all planes and angles, the nose too large, bottom lip too large, chin too short, but combined the features had a distinct beauty. The thought surprised him; Purdue was unaccustomed to such aesthetic speculations. He supposed it was Mulder's eyes that intrigued him though. The Bureau paid this man to look into hell, after all, and not blink until he'd found what he'd come for. And Mulder'd never failed to do just that. The eyes were intelligent, deep set, hazel, much too human and vulnerable. For all the youth and passion of the face that framed them, Mulder's eyes were somehow tired, old, beyond old, ancient, present at the discovery of fire and the wheel-- Purdue shook his head; he must be suffering from jetlag or something. Still, it had not escaped his notice that Mulder's eyes were dilated right now, his face a pasty white. And Purdue didn't think the room was cold enough to warrant that kind of shivering. The profiler swung briefly from Sauceda to Purdue then away, scarcely acknowledging the ASAC's presence. He gave no response to Sauceda's nervous "Hey, Marty!" before disappearing into the closet. The ASAC kept his mouth shut, watching the scene play out, gauging the two men involved in this little drama. Sauceda seemed to be in familiar territory, nervous but expectant, resigned to what would come. The pathologist kept his attention glued to the television but it was obvious he wasn't watching it. Instead, he sat like a man caught in an electric current: rigid, panicked, and ready to flee at the first opportunity. He was chewing on his lip, too, knuckles whitening in their grip on the coffee cup. He jerked as a pair of sneakers erupted from the closet, followed closely by Mulder in sweat pants, yanking a T-shirt over his head. The profiler scooped the shoes from their respective landing zones and sat in the chair at the little table across from Purdue. Purdue watched him work the shoelaces viciously, fighting the trembling in his fingers with a concentration that should have been comical. Purdue grimaced in pain. Sauceda was watching the young man, too. Sauceda's eyes were big, about the size they'd gotten when he'd run into Purdue's gun up the hall. The pathologist glanced up at Purdue's quizzical stare and turned abruptly back to the silently mouthing muppet on the television screen. *Well, Reg, that's why you get paid the big bucks...* Purdue pulled his cigarettes from his pocket, fished one out of the box. "Going somewhere, Agent Mulder?" "I'm going for a run." The dark head bobbed up. "Sir." The profiler stood. "Sit down." Purdue ordered. Mulder stood there, like he had options or something. Purdue blinked slowly, waiting. And finally, Mulder sat. He looked like it took every nerve in his body to remain there, but he made no protest. Downstairs, the kids in the parking lot were briefly louder; a car peeled away down the frontage road. Purdue leaned over and rasped his match on the underside of the table. He froze when Mulder flinched at the motion. The two men regarded one another across the table. Mulder's eyes were large in the sudden quiet, his breathing ragged, the shivering just barely masked. His face went from ghost white to soft pink but he didn't break that breathless gaze. Over his shoulder, Sauceda was sweating, fuzzy television aliens forgotten. Purdue gauged his own breathing, kept it calm as he lit his cigarette and shook the flame out of the match. Mulder watched him, a cold glint in his eye. Mulder was notorious for using attitude like a switchblade: show him a soft underbelly and he was libel to cut first and ask questions later. Word was there was only one type of person he seemed to have any regard for: the man who just didn't give a damn. It seemed to be something the young man could relate to. Thankfully, that type of man described Purdue perfectly this evening. The ASAC tossed the spent match at the ashtray on Mulder's side of the table. The action was willful and deliberately orchestrated, suspiciously resembling the tossing of a gauntlet. It was an illusion he was certain Mulder would not fail to interpret correctly. Mulder didn't disappoint him and didn't flinch at the action. His focus never wavered. Purdue dragged blissfully at his cigarette. "Tell me," he commanded. Great green eyes flickered from the ASAC to Sauceda, frowned, flicked back to Purdue. "I'm tired. I want to go for a run." Purdue raised a sardonic brow. "Most people want to go back to bed when they're tired, Agent." Mulder spared another glance at Sauceda. A nerve in his jaw twitched. There was a studied lightness in his voice that didn't reach his eyes. "But Papa Bear, someone's in my bed already." He turned back to the ASAC. "And he's not quite my type, thank you." Purdue leaned to tap his ashes at the already half-filled ashtray. So many games, so little time... "I can understand *why* you're tired, Mulder," he answered reasonably. "Patterson's slapping you on this case set a record. Even for you. Just four hours between investigations involving multiple homicides. That's a severe breach of Bureau policy. Besides the fact that you're already averaging less than twelve hours between major cases." The eyes watching him remained unyielding. "Skinner send you?" "Did you report this to Skinner?" "I report to Patterson. Sir." He didn't add the word "exclusively" but it hung there in the air with the smoke anyway. Purdue sighed. "Look. Let's just drop the crap, Mulder. I'm here to help you, not to get on your case again. Okay?" "Help me?" Mulder's face was incredulous. "You ordered a psychological work up on me that could have landed my butt in an institution. Baez followed me through three of our toughest cases. One right after the other. No break. You wanted me to fail, you son of a bitch." "Marty--" Sauceda's fearful hiss was ignored. Purdue didn't bother to acknowledge the eyes pleading for mercy across the room. Mulder had remained seated but adrenaline was pouring off the man like sweat. He held his hands on either side of the chair awkwardly, apparently believing them hidden from the ASAC's view: they were trembling violently. The sight made Purdue's gut knot up and grieve. It took all of his training to keep himself smoking calmly in the chair. "It was not a question of fail or succeed, Agent Mulder. There were serious concerns for your health. Baez was there to evaluate and assist if necessary. If you were going to have problems, you'd have done it then, and in the presence of a sufficiently trained doctor who could give you the help you needed--" Mulder bolted to his feet, swearing as he paced to the bed and back to Purdue again. Sauceda made a dive for the opposite side of the mattress just in case Mulder decided to make the trip a second time. Purdue continued, raising his voice to be heard but keeping the tone neutral. "I've read Baez' evaluation, Mulder. He says that as long as you're telling the rest of us to go jerk ourselves, you're sane. And he has the credentials to make sure I believe him." The profiler paused mid-step and Purdue shrugged. "You have unusual methods. I don't pretend to understand them but they don't interfere too frequently with Bureau procedure. And they work. I just intend to make sure the Bureau leaves enough of you intact to let you retire someday. And not get your butt locked up in some wet-brain ward your second year out of the Academy." "Why?" Mulder demanded. "Excuse me?" "Why? What the hell do you care?" Purdue exhaled smoke in an impatient huff. "Why shouldn't I?" Mulder put his hands on his hips to keep them from shaking, dropped his head and shook it instead. "Don't bullshit me, Purdue. I'm so goddam tired of the crap--" "I'm not bullshitting you, Mulder." Purdue was tired and he allowed the fact creep into his voice. He'd done nothing but sit in this chair since he'd gotten here and he felt like he'd gone two rounds with Holyfield. "Point of fact, Agent, I'm here to call a truce. You think I'm trying to keep you from doing your job. I think Patterson's been trying to run you in the ground. I think you think that too but don't bother saying one way or the other--" Mulder looked like he was anything but convinced. He watched Purdue smother his cigarette with brutal efficiency. "Personally, Mulder, I think it's time me, Skinner and Blevins stopped whining and got off the pot and let you do your job." "I'm sure," Mulder growled, "Patterson will be thrilled to hear it." "Patterson isn't being asked." Purdue flicked a stray bit of ash off his trouser leg. "Bureau policy, Mr. Mulder. You abuse, you lose. Patterson was warned to cut back on your cases, vary the types of cases you were assigned--" He looked up, saw realization already dawning, and nodded. "Welcome to ViCap, Agent Mulder. Good to have you aboard. Skinner signed the transfer this afternoon." Mulder's voice was soft, thoughts escaping on a betraying breath. "Patterson said he'd die and rot in hell before he'd allow my transfer--" "Then consider yourself kidnapped. Permanently. Trust me, Agent, Patterson can't afford the ransom. You have friends in the Bureau, Mulder. Friends you're apparently not aware of." Purdue frowned. "A few even I don't recognize." "And just like that." "Just like that." "Just that easy." Purdue laughed and allowed himself the luxury of enjoying it. "You're the highly lauded genius in this room, son, so you tell me how easy you think this was. I damned near sold my soul for the privilege." Mulder sized him up there in the chair, his face poker flat. Purdue was an old hand at that game, too. "Don't call me son," was Mulder's only response. Purdue nodded reasonably, allowed Mulder time to digest reality while he extended the welcome aboard schpiel to the wide-eyed physician on the bed. "Whoa, here," Sauceda sputtered, "Just hold the damned bus. How did I rate a transfer? 'Cause I make such a good Spookster-sitter?" He winced, glancing at this partner, "Sorry, Marty." Mulder didn't hear him; he was busy staring at the ashtray. Purdue squinted at the profiler. An uncertain alarm was ringing in his gut, but nothing he could put his finger on. He turned away reluctantly to address Sauceda. "Relax, Lenny. Every one knows your record. Patterson lost two good agents in this transfer. I lost one of my field pathologists to maternity leave. You want to be reassigned within ViCap, fine. You want to remain with your current partner, I have no problem with that either. Consider it a feather in your cap when you retire." Sauceda considered all of three seconds before shrugging and wiping honey bun off his chin. Purdue glanced quickly at Mulder, expecting some objection. The young agent had to know Sauceda was writing reports on him; now would be as good a time as any to end the relationship. Mulder's expression was distant, however, apparently unconcerned with the status of his partnership. "ViCap," Mulder whispered, more thinking aloud. "Shit." Purdue frowned. Well, hell, Mulder didn't sound exactly ecstatic about the idea. And there was something wrong with his eyes suddenly-- Something else hit the front of the young man's brain just then, too, and he jerked with the impact. "The case--" "You're still on this case, Agent. The transfer isn't effective until May first. You've got a month of Patterson driving your butt into the ground then you're mine, all mine. And your first order of business at that point will be a week's vacation. For both of you." Sauceda grinned gleefully. Mulder's eyes dropped into dark slits, his attention back on the ashtray. Purdue glared. "Hell's bells, Mulder," he growled. "You got a problem with a week off with pay, deal with it. It's not a damned punishment, you know?" Mulder hadn't moved, sneakered feet flat on the floor, hands forgotten on his narrow hips, focus unwavering on the curl of smoke rising from Purdue's mutilated cigarette. His breathing was rapid. Purdue softened his voice, careful to keep it out of the "coddle" range; he'd managed not to get swung at so far and intended to keep it that way. "Listen, Fox, I want your head clear when you walk into ViCap--" "Don't call me Fox." The voice was distant, the response a habit. "Yeah. Whatever. I want your head clear and I don't want any repeat performances of what I just walked in on tonight. You listening?" Purdue sighed, gauging the profiler. Jeezus, but he was hard to read. He tried another tactic and grinned. "Hey. You got anything else I'm not supposed to call you? Never mind." Purdue held up his hands, surrender fashion. "I'll just keep everything longer than three letters and that should cover it." But Mulder wasn't even listening. That wall-eyed stare had burned clean through the ashtray and still hadn't managed to focus. He was breathing through his mouth. Purdue knew his own eyes were heading for saucer-size in the silence. Something was definitely wrong. Purdue backtracked his short-term memory, trying to determine at what point Mulder had stepped off into the Not-So- Wonderful Land of Oz. "Sauceda?" The pathologist was already padding over. He kept a respectful distance between himself and the profiler, making no sudden movements. Purdue followed his cue and remained in his chair, carefully uncrossing his legs. Mulder's lips moved but no sound emitted. Sauceda looked at Purdue. Mouthed the hated word "spook" but kept his face solemn as he baited his partner for the benefit of his new ASAC. "In your dream, Marty, you see the killer's face?" If he had seen any such horror, Mulder wasn't telling. And from the look on his face, Purdue imagined what he was seeing now was beyond telling. "Marty--" "Sauceda," Purdue warned, sotto voce, "leave him alone." Sauceda shrugged. "Weirdest thing. He sees all this crap about the victim. Everything to the last detail. Zilch on the killer. And he still manages to catch the sons of bitches." He addressed Mulder again, voice level, droning, honeyed with counterfeit concern. "Marty, I know it's hard, but you've got to talk about this. You gotta let it out--" Mulder's silent dialogue continued and Purdue's mouth tasted like he'd choked down acid. "Sauceda, shut up." Sauceda took a hesitant step forward. "Come on, Marty--" Purdue exploded from the chair. "I said leave him the hell alone." Sauceda retreated several steps, complied. "I just though you'd want to see--" "I want a goddam show, I pay for the ticket just like everyone else. Patterson's head games stop here, understand?" Sauceda swallowed hard as Mulder gasped suddenly. "Look, Marty gets manic when he's like this. Baez prescribed a few things. To keep him calm--" "Calm? You bait him like he's in a freaking sideshow and now you want him calm--" Purdue bit back the rest. *Jeezus, Reg. And you asked for this- -* Mulder was watching him, reason not so far away now, the trembling subsiding. Deep green eyes swung carefully between the two men. Sauceda took a second step back from the gaze, like a man caught in the track of a cobra. Mulder focused on Purdue. Purdue kept to his official Assistant Special Agent in Charge stance, kept his voice neutral. "Baez specifically stated the drugs were to be held until requested. By you, Mulder. And--" The ASAC squinted at Mulder's eyes, stopped breathing momentarily with the realization that they were changing color: deep green bleeding off back to hazel. Purdue swallowed, kept talking. "You know the score, Agent, as well or better than Baez. You sure as hell know it better than I do. You know when you're headed for trouble, right? Mulder?" "Yes, sir." The voice was quiet but steady. "Then I trust you have the maturity and good sense to say so. You let us know what you need and when. Once you're on a decent work schedule, Baez says you probably won't need them anyway. Meanwhile, don't over-reach yourself. You do, and I'll slap you clear back to Washington and save the taxpayers the airfare." He softened his gaze a little as the eyes finally picked a color and stuck with it. "You okay?" Sauceda opened his mouth, thought better of it as Mulder glanced back over at him. The pathologist got his warning choked down with a hiccup. Mulder turned back to Purdue. "I'm fine. Really." His jaw clenched. "You need anything to keep you that way for the night?" "No." Purdue stood patiently, waiting as the profiler's mind churned just four feet away. Somehow, he sensed the importance of Mulder being allowed to get his bearings. Sauceda chewed his lip some more, watching the two men warily, waiting for a clue. It took a long while before Mulder's shoulders loosened. He was still breathing through his mouth. "He's dumped the kid," he said finally. "The body's not far. I'll take you." Purdue spared a glance at Sauceda's "told you so" face and turned back to Mulder. The profiler had thrown his own gauntlet now. And the field he'd chosen for the duel would be the bloody body of a child-- his serial's new victim. The cold-bloodedness of the gesture was not lost on the ASAC, but Mulder's son-of-a-bitch bravado didn't reach the young man's eyes; Purdue noted the pain there before Mulder could look away. Purdue nodded solemnly. "Locals gullible enough to trust you two clowns with a car?" Sauceda bobbed his head. "Then get your gear, Hot Sauce." Several minutes later the car's console clock blinked out the date in the dark. Purdue paused with his hand on the gearshift. Good Friday. The night spent by Jesus in hell. Only tonight He'd had company. Beside him, Mulder ordered a left turn. Again. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Part 2 of 27: Purdue Passes the Pop Quiz Interoffice Memorandum From: Assistant Director Walter Skinner To: ASAC Reginald Purdue, ViCap CC: Personnel-- Confidential Date: April 27, 1988 Re: SA Fox Mulder-- Stress Analysis Rating Thank you for forwarding Agent Mulder's recent stress analysis to my attention. As I'm sure you are aware, the Bureau has limited resources to offer this agent in the area of counseling. ASAC Patterson's abuse of the Social Services, particularly in respect to Agent Mulder, is a matter of record. Agent Mulder's subsequent distrust of our counselors is equally a matter of record and, in my opinion, understandable given the circumstances. While I sympathize with your concerns regarding Agent Mulder's mental condition, I am unwilling to remove him from full duty status at this time. Such an action would reflect poorly on an otherwise exemplary record and would, in my opinion, be premature. Agent Mulder's previous analyses have indicated that he is remarkably resilient and I am certain you will find he has his own singular methods of dealing with the stresses inherent in this job. I would advise that you follow your original course of action: allow Agent Mulder to report to you for assignment as scheduled on Monday, May 9, following one week of vacation time. As his ASAC, Agent Mulder's work level is entirely under your control; the content of his caseload is at your discretion. And, of course, with his return to duty, you will yourself be able to maintain a close watch on him. Should you require further assistance or have questions concerning this decision, please do not hesitate to call my office. Walter Skinner Addendum: As per our agreement, any change in Agent Mulder's condition is to be reported directly to me. No exceptions. -- WS XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Sunday, May 8, 1988, 5:13 AM. Suburb of Fredricksburg, VA. Purdue slowed his Ford to a crawl as he approached the empty corner lot. Beyond the line of curious neighbors and news crews, the Crime Scene Investigative Unit was hard at work, portable halogens and flashlights spotlighting their efforts. Purdue scanned the busy figures in the light of early dawn: some were kneeling or standing in shallow pits of recently dug earth. Driving past, he counted four shallow graves and two, maybe three more being dug. A group of local officers stood together in the middle of it all, looking away to the opposite end of the lot, talking and staring. Purdue noted their line of sight and drove on around the corner. A typical suburban neighborhood wound out before him, modest frame houses roosting in neat little rows, vehicles of various denominations huddled in the drives, worshippers before their respective shrines. A cherry red Monte Carlo sat alone in the street, parked at the curb bordering the far end of the vacant lot. Purdue recognized the solitary figure perched on the hood. Mulder sat there quietly, arms at rest across his knees, a pair of latex gloves dangling from one hand, a half-smoked cigarette in the other. His eyes were closed like he might be asleep. Purdue parked across the street and approached. He hadn't seen Mulder since Seattle. And, except for Seattle, he'd never seen the agent when he wasn't all business. Even on stakeout, Mulder had always managed to look like he was bucking for young executive of the year. But the man on the car hood was obviously operating on too little sleep. He'd dressed hastily, too: jeans and a rumpled pullover, hair unkempt. Untied work boots rested on the bumper. He hadn't shaved. "Hey," Purdue tapped the hood of the car and smiled an apology when Mulder jerked his head up. "Don't get up," Purdue ordered lightly. "Finish your cigarette." Mulder blinked down at the little white stick and left it hanging there, mind apparently elsewhere, lost in thoughts he seemed reluctant to let go. Purdue lit a smoke of his own and prepared to wait out the silence. He resisted the urge to frown as he studied the younger man. A week's vacation and Mulder still evidenced the strain of the past few months: still ten pounds too light, and two shades too pale. The cigarette between his fingers trembled now and again; the motion was slight but quite involuntary. Mulder seemed completely unaware of the sporadic tremors; apparently the condition had existed so long his mind had ceased to find it noteworthy. *Damn Bill Patterson,* Purdue bit his cheek to keep from speaking the words aloud. *If there's a God, someday all this'll come back to haunt that sorry bastard.* His own cigarette was suddenly bitter; Purdue spat and flung the stub into the street. The profiler watched it bounce twice and roll, still smoking itself, into the gutter. Purdue waited until those patient eyes returned regard to him. "Alright," Purdue demanded. "Tell me." "You're not going to believe me." It wasn't a challenge or even a veiled insult. Mulder spoke the words as quiet resignation, a fact settled beyond debate. The ASAC's stomach was grinding. Mulder was just way too young to have eyes that looked like that. Purdue pocketed his hands and concentrated on a yellow Pinto parked up the street. It was easier to smile, to feign indifference when he wasn't looking at that earnest, wounded face. "Let me detail the finer points of my morning for you, Agent Mulder," Purdue drawled amicably. "Four o'clock in the A M, I get a call telling me I've got some rookie out here terrorizing the locals. I tell dispatch to go to hell. At four oh seven, they call back. Say it's you. Suggest that I should sort of expect these things. And strongly suggest I get my fuzzy butt out here. So do us both a favor and don't presume to tell me what the hell it is I will and will not believe." Purdue's voice had remained light, but Mulder didn't smile. Instead, he lowered his head and rotated his neck, pulling the tension from his shoulders. Purdue bided his time. One way or another Mulder would surrender to the inevitable need to explain; it wasn't like he had a hell of a lot of options here. "Okay," Mulder conceded. "I had a dream." Purdue scanned the profiler's face; Mulder was waiting to gauge his reaction. Purdue didn't give him one. "And?" Purdue prompted patiently. "And... There was a little girl. In the dream. She came and sat on the end of my bed and... suggested I get my fuzzy butt out here." Mulder frowned at his own hollow attempt at levity and then shrugged it off. "So here I am." Purdue kept his facial muscles still and tried not to think about Seattle. Seattle had just been him and Mulder and Hot Sauce. *Then* they'd called out the investigative unit. After they were certain. After they'd actually found the body. Now Mulder'd hauled himself a hundred miles just to check out a hunch, calling out law enforcement himself-- The kid must have balls the size of the Chrysler Building. Purdue'd been doing some research since Seattle, trying to comprehend the unfathomable. Doctor Baez had proclaimed Mulder's singular talent a gift. Doctor Sauceda, of course, contended that it was the "spook"-- something akin to the "shine" in a Stephen King novel. Neither answer satisfied the ASAC, however: Baez's report was filled with psychobabble and technospeak, and Purdue just wasn't big on Stephen King. For his part, Mulder had flatly refused an explanation. If Purdue doubted his sanity, the profiler insisted, then maybe the ASAC should pull his personnel file. Purdue tugged his coat a bit tighter. The morning air was misty and unusually chill for early May. "I know you're not a Freudian, Mulder," he acknowledged warily. "And I've looked into some of Jung's stuff myself. I've seen some of his better theories played out in the field, in actual cases." He shrugged. "His dream analysis is kind of new to me, though, and I'm not real swank with the terminology. Was this girl you dreamed, uh, what does he call it... the figure that men dream about that connects them to their unconscious mind--?" "The Anima?" Mulder's little smile had no hint of condescension. "No, she was no Anima. She was just a little kid. She was..." He nodded his head toward the grassy lot. "She looked like a few of them. The more recent ones anyway." "The bodies?" Purdue found himself re-assessing the situation suddenly. His mind tried vainly to wrap itself around the image of a half-decomposed corpse engaging in a friendly chat... Purdue knew Mulder walked in a different world than most but-- the ASAC frowned savagely. Patterson had never mentioned this kind of thing. Extreme leaps in logic, okay, frighteningly accurate insight, sure. Precognitive dreams, well, yeah. But-- It occurred to Purdue suddenly that perhaps Mulder was just jerking his chain, that this was simply some kind of warped test. The kid was trying to see how his new ASAC handled the spook routine. Yeah, that was it-- Purdue felt better for the realization; it was something he could understand and appreciate. One glance at the activity on the lot, however, and his resolve wavered. Hell of a test. The silence ran too long and Mulder pushed at his forelock nervously. There it was again. That golden band on the third finger of the left hand. Mulder's personnel file said "Single." There was a story on that finger but Purdue'd be damned if he'd ask. In the morning mist, his own wedding band was suddenly heavy with warmth and comfort. He sighed and came to a decision. "Mulder, tell you what, there's an IHOP a couple of blocks up. I want you to go get some coffee and order us some breakfast. I'll handle things here and join you in a few." Mulder's disappointment was evident. "But they haven't..." He recovered himself and looked away. "Haven't what?" "Haven't found her yet." He said the words and watched Purdue's closely. The ASAC spared another brief glance toward the field. "Mulder, I've talked to the Fredricksburg PD. They don't feel they need the Bureau's assist on this one. We're not on this case." Mulder shrugged. "I just want to see her. That's all." Purdue studied that impassive face and decided to accept the subdued tone in the eyes as sincerity. The kid had no Messiah complex, at least; most young agents would be trying to argue the point to distraction. But murder was simply not a Federal jurisdiction and the Bureau could not force their services if they were not wanted. Mulder, of course, had worked enough cases to know the political minefield of law enforcement first hand. Probably why he was out here on his car instead gleaning clues on the lot. "Okay," Purdue agreed. "We'll wait. Then we'll go eat." He grinned. "And then you can call your mom." Mulder's eyebrows scrolled up on that one and he choked on a lungful of smoke. "It's Mother's Day, Agent Mulder," Purdue winked. "Hell, if I'd ever forgotten, my mother would have killed me." Mulder raised sardonic brows, nodding at the activity in the lot. "With all due respect, sir, I think I've disturbed enough mothers this morning as it is." "Sir!" Both men jerked around at the shout. A young officer was trotting toward them across the grass. Obviously a rookie, and anticipating a lot more footwork and shit detail before he'd be the one giving orders to fetch the wacko on the car hood. "Agent Mulder? Sir, they found another body." The agent was off the car before the sentence was half completed. He tossed the cigarette in the road and donned his gloves, fast-walking behind the officer. Purdue followed more slowly, as befitted an ASAC. He paused near the grove of local law enforcement; they nodded warily, watching as he clipped his ID to his coat collar. Mulder squatted by the freshly dug grave, a scant three feet deep. Purdue approached and stood resolutely behind his agent, steeling himself for the view of the open pit. The corpse was that of a young girl, some side or the other of eight years of age. Mud matted the dark hair, smeared the ash gray face and blinded open eyes. Rigor mortis had relaxed its claim, surrendering the body to its inevitable decay; the jaw had loosened, opening the mouth slightly, as children's mouths will do in sleep. Purdue blinked briefly against the stinging in his eyes, the weakness that often hit his knees with the smell. The outdoor killings were the worst to him, the exposure to the elements, the unpitied soul dumped like trash in a hole, were a final slap that never failed to reawaken him to the reality of what he did for a living and why. Mulder, co-worker in this quest, steadied himself with a hand on the pile of turned earth and reached in to the half-buried child. A gentle hand probed the shoulder, fingers tapping cautiously on the blistered skin as they ran the length of her collarbone, seeking Purdue knew not what. Mulder's face was tense and hard with grief; a tinge of relief crossed his eyes and mingled with other emotions as he lifted his hand from that shoulder and laid it briefly on the swollen chest. Purdue's heart clinched. Mulder's compassionate hand looked like the touch of benediction: something holy lain upon the profaned, sanctifying, restoring dignity. Purdue turned away, an intruder upon intimate things to which he had no part. Mulder's whisper made him look back once more. Mulder didn't seem to be speaking to the living gathered at the edge of the grave, however. The profiler's lips moved, now soundlessly, dark eyes staring down upon the mud streaked face. Purdue frowned and concentrated on his breathing. He suddenly realized he didn't trust himself to think. Nothing, no words, seemed adequate to the silent grief, the elaborately masked rage he was witnessing in the young man's face. And then, without warning, the display was over; pity and passion subsided together beneath the surface of Mulder's dark tranquil eyes. Apparently appeased, Mulder stood to leave, pausing only to nod his thanks to the two investigators watching him across the grave. Turning, however, he found Purdue at his shoulder. Mulder abruptly froze. Purdue took a single step back, just outside the young man's personal space. "That her?" the ASAC asked, his voice quiet. Mulder shook his head quickly and looked away. "Are you sure you'd know when you saw her?" Mulder didn't look back at him but he didn't look like he'd focused on anything else, either. "Yeah," his answer was almost reluctant. "She broke her collarbone falling from a swing. This one's not her." Purdue frowned again. "You got all that from a dream?" Mulder's vision swung back to the ASAC and he blinked rapidly. A slow flush of comprehension washed his face. "Oh. No." He shook his head like he was trying to flinch something off. "It is her. The one in my dream. I thought--" He shifted nervously, shoving his hands into his overcoat but not before Purdue noticed they were trembling again. "Look," Mulder shrugged, "how about that breakfast?" The profiler's voice was agreeable enough but Purdue knew only that a wall had dropped between them suddenly. The barrier was so solid, so abruptly *there* the ASAC would have sworn he'd felt the concussion when it connected with the ground. Mulder, sheltered on the opposite side, had the look of a man accustomed to defending his battlements. Purdue left it alone, conscious once more of the eavesdropping officers to his right. He nodded to his profiler by way of salute and raised his voice to be easily heard. "Good job, Agent. Come on, breakfast is on me this morning." He jerked his head toward their waiting cars and Mulder fell into step beside him. Purdue's steps were sure and confident, Mulder's gate nonchalant as always. The ASAC grinned in spite of himself. Let the locals chew on that for a while, he mused. Damn Feds have to come out in the middle of the night to tell the local yokels they've missed a serial killer in their own backyard. Damn Feds acts like they do this sort of thing every day. Before breakfast. And, dammit, one of them acts like they were digging up the corpse of his own sister or something.... XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Part 3 of 27: No Deposit. No Return. Tuesday, May 10, 1988. 11:27 AM. Wheeling-Ohio County Airport, Wheeling, West Virginia. When the departure light hit green, Purdue barely restrained himself from skipping off the plane to kiss the ground. Three hours of Leonardo Sauceda praising the technological advances of oscillating tissue slicers was a new definition of hell as far as the ASAC was concerned. Mulder had been no help at all, sprawled in his window seat, practically unconscious, and shielded shrewdly beneath his headphones. And now that they were blissfully grounded, Sauceda's luggage had gone AWOL. Purdue remained dutifully at the pathologist's side through this trauma, listlessly watching a leopard-spotted overnight bag make its way around the baggage carrousel for the third time. There was a thump behind the flaps to the loading area and Sauceda steeled himself to see what popped out next. Purdue resisted the urge to let loose another sigh and stepped back to get a better view of the lobby, instead. Mulder, not feigning the slightest interest in his partner's little dilemma, had wandered off early on, leaving Purdue to play concerned friend. It was not one of the ASAC's better roles, to be certain-- he'd had far too little practice-- and Reg had a vaguely uneasy feeling about letting the young man out of his sight for long. He couldn't account for the sensation-- hell, Mulder was grown and packing a nine- millimeter handgun. Still, it was a gut reaction Purdue hadn't been able to shake since Fredricksburg, and the ASAC had spent too many years learning to trust his instincts to start turning the alarms off now. Mulder had slept most of the flight, a string of catnaps, waking frequently and jerking violently as he did so. The profiler then sat with his arms tight across his chest, locked in anxious silence until sleep attacked him once more and the process would begin all over again. "I'm fine, really" was his answer each time Purdue asked, and the private wall was an almost visible companion between them. Purdue had wondered if he'd be calling Fredricksburg when they landed, but Mulder had remained practically mute and the ASAC didn't press it. Sauceda had made no comments about Mulder's behavior either, but Purdue doubted that was anything to rely on. Mulder, of course, had a reputation for mercurial mood swings-- Patterson had always chalked it up as a by-product of what made him function so well as a profiler: the ability to view so many sides of events at once. The problem was, Mulder could apparently see each side so clearly he could even empathize with it; the resulting emotional confusion had to be tough-- something the young man would have to learn how to control as he matured. Baez had confirmed this assessment months ago when he'd presented his findings, commenting that Mulder would either learn to deal with it or go mad. The quack even had the gall to shrug when he said it. Never in his life had Reg come so close to flat out decking a man in anger. Purdue turned back to the baggage carousel and found the pathologist leaning too far over the conveyor belt, trying to squint through the flaps into the loading area. He laid a steadying hand on the older man's shoulder. "Okay, Hot Sauce. What gives?" "Huh?" "Mulder, dammit. There something going on I should know about?" "Ah," Sauceda shrugged, distracted. "Well, I don't know. I mean, since when does an ASAC go traipsing around the country working cases with his agents? Hum?" Sauceda nodded as the blush spread across Purdue's face. "Hell, Purdue, put yourself in Marty's shoes. If your CO suddenly took to following you across the country, wouldn't you get a little... " "Paranoid?" Purdue sighed. Sauceda chuckled and shook his head. "Marty was born paranoid. Patterson says the kid's a natural born sociopath that's just too damned smart to get caught. 'Course," Sauceda winked conspiratorially, "Marty's response to that was to remind Patterson he knew where he lived." Purdue grunted, watching a matched set of American Tourister slide through the flaps. "Is Mulder hard to work with?" he asked. "Or is it just authority he has a problem with?" "No more a problem than authority has with him." Sauceda sighed. "Look, Purdue, you've got a year of Patterson's crap to plow through with that kid. It's all he ever got out of that old man and it's all he expects out of you. And it doesn't do any good to tell him otherwise. I've tried." Purdue blew air out from his cheeks. Great. Here he'd thought he'd made the big time only to find he had to prove himself to a damned rookie. He noted the gleam in Sauceda's eye and frowned. "Is this something Mulder's told you?" "Shit," Sauceda grunted. "Marty wouldn't tell me the time of day if he thought I'd share it with someone." He shrugged again. "It's not your fault, Purdue. Marty's just not one to let people too close, you know?" "No, I don't know. Why?" "I dunno. He's never let me close enough to ask." Sauceda's grimace dissipated as a battered brown suitcase slid through the flaps. "Hey! What the hell--?" Sauceda's bag looked like it had made the trip to Wheeling strapped to the outside of the plane. The old brown hard-shell had seen an awful lot of wear in its time and now, apparently, the antique latches had failed. Somewhere between the cargo hold and the baggage lane, some merciful soul had sealed the ratty case with nylon strapping. Newly adorned, the suitcase bumped forlornly down the conveyor belt, bright orange disclaimer tag flapping on the handle. Sauceda retrieved his treasure with a moan, hugging the oversized case like a mother in mourning. He carted the bag off to a counter to access the damage, remonstrating the powers that be in both English and Spanish. Purdue decided it was probably best to let the man grieve in private and stepped to the door looking into the lobby. He lost no time homing in on his profiler. Mulder was seated across the expansive room on a bench near the ticket counter. A little girl in a bright blue pinafore had also singled him out from the crowd. She stood before the agent, hugging a little plastic doll and staring as small children will. Mulder wriggled his eyebrows at her Groucho Marx fashion and was rewarded for his efforts with a huge, breathless smile. A few more elaborate faces had the girl in giggles. Purdue bit his lip to keep from laughing aloud himself: Mr. I-Don't-Give-a-Shit making a fool out of himself for a toddler... Another thought, however and the smile on Purdue's face froze painfully: he was watching a man less than a decade out of his own childhood, a man who dreamed of children's corpses, delighting a three year old without saying a word. Purdue cursed himself quietly. Morbid thinking was an occupational hazard in VCU, just part of the job. But like the rest of the job, it spilled its bloody mess into the facts of routine life. Reg frequently found himself comparing people's faces to the grimacing skulls his agents were called in to catalog. And kids were the worst. Purdue's last trip to the zoo had become an exercise in endurance: all those children, their faces full of promise-- His wife's barrenness had been a guilty comfort to him more than once. And Mulder had worked nothing but child homicides for months now. Purdue wondered if he, too, was assessing the skull beneath that creamy skin. Something sad and distant behind the profiler's smile said he was. Purdue took no comfort in the thought. Mulder, his face as unlined as the child's before him, was far too young for such work. The fact that he was so damned good at it was surely one of God's inside jokes. And one punch line that would need a hell of a lot of explanation-- Purdue turned abruptly back to the luggage area. Sauceda was approaching dejectedly, the re-strapped suitcase, thumping against his leg. "Anything missing, Lenny?" "Nah. I don't think it can be fixed though. Damn. My Dad gave me this thing when I left for college." He gave the case one more loving pat and shuffled after the ASAC into the lobby. The little girl with the doll had her foot stuck out, a picture of three-year old patience as Mulder, bent double, tied her shoe. Completing the job to her satisfaction, the agent gave the little foot a reassuring pat and she skipped away to rejoin her mother at the entrance of the terminal. Midway to the outstretched hand of her parent, however, the child spun back. Her mother's calls were ignored as the little figure raced back to the young man on the bench. She dropped her doll and reached up on tiptoe to give him a hug, spun once more to catch up the toy and danced off, waving back to him so hard she stumbled. Mulder's delighted smile vanished as Purdue and Sauceda's footsteps rang out beside him. Purdue looked after the child trotting beside her mother, still waving. "You like kids, Agent Mulder?" Mulder sprawled deeper into the bench and shrugged, promptly finding a blonde at the ticket counter to leer at. "They're okay, I guess." Sauceda gave Purdue a grin and pointed out a poster on the wall advertising the local chamber of commerce: some little dog looking earnestly out and adjuring: "Wheeling: Get that Feeling." Sauceda patted Mulder on the shoulder and wriggled his eyebrows at the blonde. "Yep, someone's gettin' that Wheelin' Feelin', alright." Mulder shook off the hand and scooted over on the bench without comment. Sauceda, undeterred, plopped down beside him. "So, Marty, how come you're sleeping on the plane, huh? You got a girl? Maybe I need to call her up and tell her to let you get some sleep now and then." Sauceda gave Purdue a few "got-it?" winks. Mulder didn't look over at either of them. "Go to hell, Len," he advised distractedly. Sauceda leered, "Uh huh. Afraid I'll steal her away from you, aren't you?" "It's been tried before," Mulder gave him a sidelong look too brief to be clearly translated. Sauceda's face darkened. "I did not and you know it." Mulder didn't answer one way or the other, crossing his long legs to slap a bit of invisible lint from his shoe. Sauceda had a reputation for knowing how to dish it without taking it too well; Mulder's silence had the pathologist quickly spewing. "You little shit," he barked. "You're gonna forget and spout off like that in front of my wife one of these days and I'm gonna have your balls in a sling." "Always knew you were hot to get your hands on them." Mulder turned back to his partner and, without a hint of a smile, fluttered his eyelashes provocatively. Sauceda choked and swore, retreating to his corner of the bench to sulk. "Screw you, Marty." "Not even on your best day, Hot Sauce," Mulder promised serenely. "Well damn my bad luck-- it's Reggie Purdue!" All three men turned to the booming voice approaching across the lobby. The speaker was somewhere around Mulder's height with a good twenty pounds and a tough fifteen years over the agent. Obviously former military and probably all business when he didn't have Reggie Purdue pounding his back with joy. "Nat!" Purdue's grin couldn't get much bigger and Nat's infections laugh wasn't helping any. The curiosity on the faces of the men on the bench got the ASAC settled quickly, though, and Purdue made introductions. The old friend was Detective Nathan Harris, senior investigator for the West Wheeling PD. Harris had agreed to be their host for the next few days and said he had a few files for Mulder to review. Some older cases, a few recent ones he'd picked up off his desk. Stuff he'd been thinking about faxing the Feds and never gotten round to. Purdue noted Mulder's impassive face and suddenly realized how all this must look to the young man. In Patterson's harem, Mulder had been the best thing since sliced toast and hauled out from his desk-- and out from under Patterson's thumb-- only for the unsolvable. And here Purdue had hauled him three hundred miles to work on the kind of cases Mulder routinely profiled in minutes on the phone. And the ASAC had accompanied him on the trip like Mulder couldn't be trusted to do the job unsupervised. Purdue bit his lip to keep from swearing aloud. It didn't help that Mulder didn't comment, merely nodding in all the appropriate pauses. "Actually," the ASAC was looking at Harris but talking to Mulder, "Mulder here is a profiling genius. He's just out here humoring me while I get a feel for his methods. The Bureau is looking to expand his repertoire so to speak, expose him to a variety of case types." Sauceda looked away innocently. Mulder was frowning; the expression was not so much a change in expression as an ominous darkening of the eyes. Harris, oblivious to all this, took Mulder's reticence in stride. "Well, it's good to have you guys here," he assured, then eyed the youngest man. "I'll try not to bore you." He flashed Purdue a wicked grin and winked. Purdue felt himself cringe reflexively. Harris was an honest cop and a good man, a reliable friend both in the field and off, but he didn't give his trust easily. Purdue had lauded Mulder, praising him for weeks to the detective. But it was obvious that in spite of everything Purdue had said, Harris was going to make the young agent prove himself. Purdue shrugged in resignation, wondering why this should come as such a shock to him. Hell, it wasn't anything personal, just Harris' nature and couldn't be helped. Mulder watched the subtle emotional interplay without comment, meeting the ASAC's eyes, his face revealing nothing. Purdue was speechless within that solemn gaze. The profiler bent to collect his bag and Harris herded his guests out to find his car. Purdue and Harris preceded the two less senior agents and Sauceda turned his volume up just enough to make certain he was overheard, but low enough to at least pretend he was talking to Mulder alone. Mulder, apparently too guileless for his own good, was the only one of the group who didn't immediately catch on to the tactic. "You know, Marty, Purdue thinks you don't like him." Purdue cringed. Leave it to Len Sauceda to make a bad situation worse. He rolled eyes at Harris' grin and made a mental note to refine his sadistic streak for Sauceda's sake. They heard Mulder hiss, "Shit." Then in a quiet, suddenly unconcerned voice: "Where would he get that idea?" "You." Purdue could pictureSauceda's innocent face even without turning his head to look. Mulder's grunt was untranslatable. "And I suppose one of us is supposed to be concerned about it?" he asked disinterestedly. Purdue quickly tired of Harris' grin and mouthed a few expletives at him silently. Harris barely managed not to burst out laughing. "Come on, Marty," Sauceda taunted. "You care and you know it." Mulder's only answer was the rasp of his lighter as he lit a cigarette. Harris kept his voice low. "So, that's you rookie, huh?" "That's him," Purdue groaned. "Word of warning, Nat. Don't let him catch you trying to be nice to him. He'll slam your hood just for having the audacity." "You're suggesting I get tough with him, then?" Harris grinned mischievously. "Then he'll definitely slam it." Purdue found himself grinning at the thought of Harris getting his comeuppance. "It's a matter of principle with Mulder." Harris shook his head. "And of all the gin joints in the world, you toss him into mine. Gee, thanks, Reg." Purdue laughed, keeping his voice quiet. "But no kidding, Nat. The kid really is the genuine article. His profiling is downright-- well, spooky." Purdue choked on the hated word, shrugged. "And, like I said on the phone, I appreciate your help on this one." The detective nodded solemnly "Well, I appreciated your call, and that you chose to come out here of all places. Hell, I know how tough burnout can get in this line of work. A man can get desperate and do himself a lot of damage. It's why I left LA. Like I said, I've got enough cases to keep you boys looking busy and keep the brass off your butts, but I won't be tossing the kid any of the pressure-cooker stuff." He glanced back at the man with the cigarette. "Still, I wasn't expecting him to be so young. If your bunch has burned him down that hard this fast, maybe you need to reassess some policy-- or some supervisors." Purdue had more than he cared to say on that subject so he didn't bother, taking comfort in companionable silence. Harris knew better than to pressure for answers he didn't have. They found Harris's blue Ford and the detective popped the trunk for their luggage while on his way to the driver's side. He swung an arm to the agents behind him, waving at the back seat. "Get in the car, kids," he called playfully. He paused and pointed to Mulder. "Dump the weed, son, no smoking in the car. Policy." His voice had been friendly enough and Mulder dropped the offending cigarette and ground it under his shoe without comment. And a little too thoroughly. Purdue noted the overly solicitous hand Sauceda laid on Mulder's arm. Mulder shook it off and donned his shades: mirrored gold Ray Bans that made you look back at yourself when you looked at the wearer. Mulder tossed his bag in the trunk and crawled into the backseat behind the ASAC. Sauceda settled his case in carefully, lingering a minute more before joining them. Harris started the car and shuffled through some papers on the dash. "Heads up," he called, tossing a manila envelope over his shoulder to the only vaguely alerted profiler. Mulder just managed to catch the file and Purdue caught his expression in the mirror on his visor. Even through the shades, Mulder looked like he was trying to determine where he could aim a bullet and keep the blood from splattering on his suit. Purdue kept his own expression neutral as Sauceda settled into the back seat. The ASAC was actually disappointed that Mulder hadn't responded to Harris' baiting. Instead, Purdue realized, Mulder was busy watching *him* in Purdue's vanity mirror, spying on Purdue spying on him-- The ASAC snapped the visor back up with a guilty thump. The quartet sailed down Highway 5 toward downtown Wheeling, listening to the rustle of papers in the back seat. Purdue and Harris shared small talk and jokes with Sauceda. The slightest bit of interest from the pathologist set Harris into performance mode and the detective started in on his repertoire of gritty anecdotes, beginning with the one titled "The Last Time I Embarrassed the Hell out of Reggie Purdue." Harris told this same tired story to everybody, in pointless detail, and it never failed to make Purdue squirm-- which was, of course, just what Harris told it for. Purdue noted Sauceda was lapping it up like cream. Midway through his sordid tale, with Purdue gritting his teeth audibly, Harris jerked into silence. Mulder's file, reassembled, had suddenly plopped down over the front seat, landing precariously across the gearshift. Harris eyed the rearview mirror. "So," he mused, "done already?" "This is the case we flew out to profile?" Mulder sounded sleepy. "You have a problem with it, Agent?" "Well, you did promise not to bore me." Purdue twisted in his seat so Mulder could catch his grin. Maybe, finally, Harris wouldn't be the only one with an embarrassing story to tell. The ASAC helped himself to the file. "What is this, Nat?" Harris shrugged. "The Reader's Digest version? A rape homicide. The victim was a young woman, bludgeoned to death, tossed in the River. Body washed up across the bridge in Bridgeport, Ohio. No prints, no nothing. Coroner thinks the murder weapon was some kind of bottle." Harris glanced back in the rearview at the shades. "Your boss here tells me you know your stuff, son. So what've we got?" Mulder sat sideways to stretch his long legs and Sauceda, frowning, slid his feet over to accommodate. "The rape was a crime of opportunity," the profiler stifled a yawn. "The killer is local, known to the victim but not a boyfriend. You'd have closed the case by now if it had been that obvious." Harris nodded; Mulder continued. "The killing was the focus, the rape was an afterthought, but the plan itself was fairly spontaneous. The killer was improvising, getting a feel for the event. He was obviously panicked and overplayed it-- mostly due to adrenaline-- but he enjoyed it and performed the murder itself thoroughly. Very thoroughly--" Purdue grimaced at the photos in his hand. Autopsy found forty-six separate blows to the body, more than half of them hard enough to fracture bone. He flipped his visor down quietly, watching as the profiler continued. "He's young, late teens, early twenties, not much upper body strength-- " "She was beaten to death," Harris was watching for his exit. "You don't think that takes much upper body strength?" Mulder shrugged, leaning back against his door. "She was already wounded, in shock. One well-placed or just plain lucky blow low along the base of the skull," he pointed out such a spot on his own skull, "she's history. The rest is just working out frustration. From the look of it, he wasn't too sure of what he was supposed to do when it came down to the actual rape; that probably frustrated him even more." Mulder tapped his foot against Sauceda's shoe just for spite like some kid on a too-long car trip. "I'd look through the local misfit file," Mulder winked at Sauceda's glare. "Punk wannabe's still living with Momma and walking because Dad won't let them borrow the station wagon. Psychopath in infancy. Right now he's biding his time and seeing how the police work their angle before he tries it again." Harris frowned. "You can't be serious." "Okay, official profile," Mulder sighed. "Perpetrator is an asocial offender with an average to below-average intelligence and a disorganized presentation. He's socially and sexually inadequate, and has probably revisited the crime scene to relive fond memories. Consistent with most of the Holmes Typology of obsessive-compulsives, he'll have a hiding place at his house, probably under his mattress where he keeps the Hustlers. He's kept something from the kill. Your file doesn't mention anything missing off the victim so he's probably saved an article of his own clothing. Maybe his shirt. The little shit'll pull it out late at night when Mom's asleep, bury his face in it, get an erection off the smell of his sweat and her blood. It's better in memory than reality. It always is." Harris had slowed the car and was staring a bit too hard at the Mulder's reflection. Purdue knew what was going through his head, comparing the words to that milquetoast face. This was standard profiling but Mulder's voice was just too damned flat somehow. It was beyond professional distance; it was downright cold-blooded. "How do you explain the bow?" Harris demanded. Purdue consulted the photos again: a mess of flesh that was only just distinguishable as human, a big ribbon bow, torn from the victim's dress, tied up around the neck like the wrapping on a gift that wouldn't quite fit in a box. "Staging," Mulder explained blandly, staring out at the passing billboards. "Little dweeb had a brain-storm and wanted to make you think you had some tight-ass killer on the loose in Whoville. He's managed to keep his mouth shut only because he hasn't got any friends to tell, but by now he's fancying himself a somebody. The next FBI's Most Wanted. Just dying to let everyone know how important he is. He's probably been calling your boys up, offering assistance. Wanting to be Mr. Helpful. Mr. Neighborhood Spy who may or may not have seen something significant on the night in question. That kind of crap." Harris bit his lip. "Well, interestingly enough, Mr. G-man, we've got someone matching at least part of your profile. One Albert Graves. Neighborhood kid. Plagued with acne and a history of bad haircuts. Beyond that, he's got no criminal record." "Hasn't had much time to build one at his age. Pick him up. Interrogate him." "Hell, good old Al was sitting in the public hall when I left the precinct. He'd heard one of the uniforms mention the fibbies had called in and the kid just couldn't wait to see you guys. You know, just in case you boys couldn't find your butts without his assist." "He's got you made to order then, doesn't he?" "Shit," Harris was more than a little annoyed; the blank mirrored stare in the back seat looked suspiciously delighted. Purdue bit his lip and kept his face impassive. "Look, son," Harris scanned the curb in front of the precinct for a parking space. "We've taken a statement from this kid every three days for two weeks. He's got nothing left to say." "Sure he does," Mulder insisted. "He's guilty. But he's not stupid enough to just pop out with a confession until you confront him with some evidence." "Evidence which we *don't* have." The detective slammed the vehicle into park. Mulder sighed again, one hand working at the muscles at the base of his neck. "And on the eighth day God created search warrants. Look, Detective, its all a game to this kid now. You ignore him so he tweaks your nose with it. He's laughing at you. He's sitting out in your public hall laughing his ass off. And planning his next kill. Just so he can rub that one in your face, too." Harris spared a quick glare for Purdue, and shifted in his seat to get a better look at those shades. "Okay, Mr. G-man," he purred, "how about we go in and *you* interview the kid. Eyeball to eyeball." The shades betrayed nothing. "What's wrong, Harris, can't your department handle a punk-ass kid?" Harris winked savagely at Purdue. "Well, I don't seem to be doing too well right now," he answered. Mulder opened his mouth and Harris waved him quiet. "You make a good sell, kid; all that psychobabble sounds real good. But you obviously have no idea what you're talking about in the real world. Trust me, it's a little different when you get out from behind a desk." Mulder's face in the rearview flushed about as deep as Purdue felt his own doing. Neither reaction was lost on Harris and the look he gave his friend was a flat out challenge. He gave the same expression to Mulder. "I mean it, son. You look that kid in his beady little doe's eyes and accuse him of this shit. I want to see the cold son of a bitch that can do it." Mulder grinned his delight. "Sounds like a plan." Harris swore again. He looked like he wanted to spit. "Do you even hear what you're saying? We're not talking gangs and hardened criminals, here. You're saying some nineteen-year-old boy raped and beat a girl to death. Think about that. Think about what that takes. Have *you* ever hit a man hard enough to kill him? It's not that easy." "No, I haven't," the profiler admitted. "But I've thought about it." "Well, remind me to stay on your good side, son." "I don't have a good side," Mulder growled. "And I'm not your goddam son." Mulder leaned into the front seat and Harris flinched. The profiler ignored him, snatching the file from Purdue and bailing out of the car. Sauceda grinned broadly, popped his door open and trotted after him. Harris and Purdue were playing catch up, following the profiler's rapid stride into the precinct, donning badges out of habit. Harris was hard on Mulder's heels when the young man swung through the doors. Mulder pocketed his shades and stepped toward the public hall. The room was full: yuppies in power suits rubbing elbows with janitors and working girls. There were even a few kids present. But Mulder obviously had no problem finding what he'd come for. "You," he barked so roughly Purdue jerked along with most of the people in the room. The profiler pointed to a young pimple-faced man with eyes big as plums. Mulder spoke like the kid had been the only one to respond. "Yeah, you. Get your butt over here." The boy hopped up, obviously pleased to have been singled out and impressed with his own sudden fame. The other occupants in the room shrank from him as he passed, wary of guilt by association. Mulder swung on Harris. "You got a room we can work him over in?" The detective's answer was a silent glare; he spared an apologetic smile for the kid as he came trotting up. "Hey, Albert. Look, these gentlemen--" "I'll handle the introductions," Mulder rumbled, putting a not too- friendly hand on the back of the boy's neck. "You handle the accommodations." Harris raked a steely glance over profiler and punctuated it with a growl at Purdue. Mulder had the detective's self-righteous indignation working overtime; it fairly rolled off the man's shoulders as he led the way down the hall. Several passing officers gave them a wider berth. Harris slammed open the door of a standard police interrogation room: stained wooden table, three chairs, one-way mirror and bad linoleum. Mulder smiled sweetly and thanked him. The detective sputtered, trying to form a reply but Mulder pushed past him, propelling Albert through the door. Inside, Mulder released the boy suddenly, like their suspect was suddenly of little consequence. The profiler stepped through the room instantly taking possession of it, tossing the file on the table, spilling victim photos onto the scratched and cigarette-burned wood. Harris perused the staging, chewing his cheek and eyeballing the ASAC. Purdue raised a noncommittal brow and kept his attention on his profiler. Mulder moved deliberately, rapidly, with the attitude of a man who had a lifetime of plans and a short time to live. Grabbing a chair from the mirrored wall, he plopped it down at the table, glancing up as he did so. He froze suddenly, attention riveted on the wall across the table. Purdue felt Sauceda stop breathing beside him. Purdue followed Mulder's line of sight and studied the bulletin boards that filled the wall. Harris had been complaining that the precinct was running low on space; the presence of the boards indicated this room was used for more than just interrogation. The cork was covered with diagrams and autopsy reports, crime scene photos and chemistry work-ups. The looser pages danced occasionally from the breeze of an oscillating fan. A Disney calendar fluttered quietly next to full color enlargements of dismemberments. Purdue noted the reluctant fascination on Harris' face as the detective studied Mulder's profile. "Something wrong, Agent Mulder?" Harris' voice was cold but the eyes he turned on Purdue were uncertain, questioning. Mulder shook his head without turning. Another few seconds of this and Harris' mouth opened again. Mulder, however, spun abruptly to face Albert and introduced himself. *Special* Agent Fox Mulder. With the EFF-BE-EYE. Purdue smiled. Mulder had Harris read the kid his rights. Harris did so, out of courtesy to his training, but it was obvious he didn't like it much. Purdue was impressed; this Albert kid had must have done a real number on the detective to be afforded so much consideration. Right now, though, Albert was far from suave: his eyes were wide and he seemed to be having trouble collecting enough spit to even stutter. Mulder planted himself in a chair, pushing it back and balancing himself nonchalantly on the rear legs. "Sit." He commanded. Albert obeyed, taking the chair situated as far from the profiler as possible. It put him facing the mirror and Mulder, his back to the bulletin boards filled with photos. Mulder regarded the wall over the kid's shoulder like he couldn't be bothered with the interview suddenly. Harris frowned. "You got a lawyer?" Mulder asked absently. "Sir?" "Are you deaf?" Mulder was looking at him now, but his voice remained disinterested. The kid didn't answer, turning to look at Harris. Mulder looked at Harris, too. "I think that's a yes," he quipped. The kid blushed and turned back to the agent. "No. No, sir. I'm not deaf." "Then do you have a law-yer." Mulder said it slower this time. Albert squinted uneasily. "I don't need one." "The hell you don't." The boy swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively. Mulder leaned forward, allowing his chair to slam back down on all fours. "Did you even listen to your rights when they were read to you, Albert? I'm not stupid. Detective Harris here's not stupid. Don't fucking act like we're stupid. You're going to sit there and tell me you don't watch *LA Law* or *Miami Vice*? Yeah? Then you know that when you make a confession you're entitled to the presence of legal counsel." The boy's eyes swung wildly from the hostile agent to his old buddy Harris. Harris was too busy glaring at the interrogator. Mulder stood and indulged in a luxurious stretch, working his shoulders loosely as he removed his jacket and tossed it into the abandoned chair. Albert surveyed the profiler, cautious as a cat. "Hey," he stuttered, his voice little more than a high-pitched whine. "You guys've got it all wrong." He managed a half laugh, trying to shrug away the contempt rolling off Mulder from across the table. "I got nothing to confess. I just came in 'cause I thought--" "You thought you remembered something else," Mulder mocked. "Something that might be useful. Yeah. Been there, heard that. You little shit. Sitting here, wasting my goddam time." Albert recoiled into his chair as the agent came around to his side of the table. Harris shifted uneasily but kept his place as Mulder folded his arms and sat on the tabletop, settling himself just within reach of the kid. Mulder didn't even look at Albert, though, busy staring at the bulletin boards again. "So, you're waving your right to legal counsel?" Mulder insisted on clarification of the point. "I ain't done nothing," Albert mewled. "I don't need a lawyer." He risked a pleading look at Harris. Harris was watching Mulder carefully. The kid turned back to the profiler, pleading hopefully, "Look, I told you, man-- Hey, I'm as innocent as you are." Albert smiled, turning on as much charm as his tense facial muscles would allow. The profiler didn't seem too impressed. "Hate to tell you this, Al," Mulder grimaced bitterly, "but that pretty much makes you guilty as hell." The agent sighed, rotating his shoulders wearily. "Okay, that's how you want to play it. I'll tell you how you did it. You interrupt me if I get something wrong." Mulder raised a quizzical brow. "Hell, screw that," he decided. "I'm not going to be wrong. I've solved more difficult cases in my sleep." Once more dropping the irritating Albert for the photos on the wall, Mulder's voice took on a flat quality like he was speculating aloud, simply talking to himself. Albert sat silent, apparently aware that he was no longer required, listening intently, eyes wide, shoulders progressively sinking. "It was her fault, of course," Mulder reflected. "That much is obvious. That short skirt, laughing at you when you stopped to stare at her. Teasing you, rolling that bottle of soda around all slick in her hands. Then ignoring you for the inconsequential little shit you are. Hell, she did everything but just come out and ask for it, right?" Mulder was playing the interrogator's least favored role: projecting blame on the victim. It was a necessary tactic in investigative work and one that never failed to leave a bad taste in Purdue's mouth. The fact that Mulder made it look easy didn't sit too well in the ASAC's gut, but this was what the agent was trained for. And Mulder had never been faulted for his grasp of procedure. Purdue frowned, though, as Mulder leaned forward to peek at one of the more tantalizing photos fluttering on the board. The profiler's voice was increasingly distant as if he were functioning on automatic. "You planned the assault," Mulder insisted blandly, "planned the killing, but only after she was already in reach and the opportunity was there. You just didn't plan the logistics too well." Albert fidgeted silently beside him. "Having shit for brains, you just hadn't thought things out and didn't know what else to do. So there goes a charge of Murder One right out the window, dammit." Albert twisted his hands together painfully, squinting at the agent who seemed intent on both terrorizing him and ignoring him. He opened his mouth and anxiously snapped it shut again as Mulder straightened to scan another set of photos on the wall. The agent's voice remained flat. "You think you had us all screwed with that bow business, don't you, Al? What? You stay up and watch reruns of *The Boston Strangler* on the late show or something?" Mulder looked back down at the squirming kid and the laugh that escaped him was genuine. Purdue resisted the chill that ran down his spine. "Albert DeSalvo and Albert the Screwup," Mulder grinned, "side by side in the annals of crime." The agent shook his head and Albert went white. "You know what the problem with that is, Albert?" Mulder critiqued solicitously. "The problem is you don't have the balls it takes to actually kill someone by strangling them." Mulder, without turning, spoke over his shoulder. "How about you, Detective Harris? You ever strangle anybody?" Purdue gulped air and cursed Sauceda's Cheshire cat grin. Harris' voice was amiable enough though, it almost concealed the razor- edge of contempt as he moved to take a solid stand behind Albert. "About as many times as you've beat a man to death, Mr. G-man," Harris mocked. "How about it, Agent? Why don't you give us the benefit of your *vast* experience?" Mulder smiled softly, eyes on Harris disarmingly agreeable. He held up his hands for inspection and Albert stared, caught up in that sure and steady voice. "It's an amazing sensation, really," Mulder assured them. "The feel of that soft skin against your palms, the feel of tendons tightening against your fingertips." He leaned toward Albert slightly, his voice suddenly inviting and seductive. "The scent of perfume getting stronger from the heat of the friction as you start squeezing." He sat back, flexing his hands slowly and Purdue felt his testicles draw up. "And then the tendons start moving," Mulder intoned, beguiling, enticing, "and she's struggling, begging you for her life. Her body moving against yours. She's moving against you and moaning, pushing at you, tearing at you. Feels like you're having sex. Really intense sex. Not that you'd know, Al." Harris glanced back at Purdue, his face twisted with confusion. Purdue's response was a half shrug. Damned if he knew where Mulder got all this crap. It was obviously having the desired effect on Harris, though. There was just the barest edge of fear in the man's eyes. Purdue hadn't seen Nat getting personal with that particular emotion in years. Beside the ASAC, Sauceda's grin was positively wicked. Mulder wasn't finished yet. His smile never wavered and the eyes he focused on Harris were deep green, unblinking as a cobra's. "Real world analysis, out from behind the desk, Detective: your boy Al is the 'blunt-force-trauma' type. Can't get it up enough to kill her clean, he's gotta beat her to death." He turned back to Albert and the kid cringed in his chair. "What's the matter, Al, couldn't you make her enjoy it?" Mulder's smile was so sincere it hurt and the boy winced. "Of course you couldn't. And that's the beauty of putting some planning into these little ventures, Albert. You see, it's a simple fact: you can't kill someone by blunt-force-trauma without getting blood everywhere. Just... everywhere." The kid looked green. Mulder propped a foot against the wall under the photo collection and leaned his elbow on his knee. "Blood on her," he mused. "Blood on the ground. Blood on you. Can't take that home to mommy to wash, huh? Only you can't walk home naked. Somebody might laugh. And that's where we got you. Your semen matches and you can claim consensual sex. That the killer came along after you left. But her blood on your clothes-- that pretty much nails it, doesn't it?" In lieu of any response from his suspect, Mulder nodded to himself. "Here's how it works, Al. My profile gets Detective Harris here a search warrant, we find your dirty laundry, and you go to prison. No confession necessary. Its just that simple." Mulder reached a hand out and pulled up the kid's chin. Albert flinched as Mulder eyed him critically. "Still, you know, you're not *that* bad looking." The profiler dropped his hand, wiped it on his knee. "You'll get that ass of yours raped the first shower you take. The rest of the inmates will figure you're into that kind of thing, anyway. Not that it'd matter. And all because some little split tail wiggled it at you and said you couldn't have it. See what women are, Albert? All the trouble they cause?" Harris had finally had enough. "Goddam," he exploded and the hands he slammed on the back of Albert's chair had the kid cringing from both men. "Goddam," Harris repeated, almost howling the word at Mulder, "look at him! He's just a kid. Just a few years younger than you, you little bastard!" Mulder's smile was surprised but genuine. "Why Detective Harris. I do admire the intensity of your good-cop/bad-cop routine," the smile disappeared abruptly, "but this is *my* interrogation, as I recall." Harris stepped back, speechless and Purdue advanced to lay a steadying hand on his friend's arm. Mulder ignored them, reptile eyes back on his suspect. "Sure, Al's just a baby. The apple of your momma's eye, aren't you Al? Well, Albert, I think Detective Harris needs to take another look at his photo album, don't you?" Mulder nodded his head at the collection littering the table and his eyes dropped to hard slits. "Because, Albert, your momma's stone fucking blind. You're good, Al. You got a police detective patting you on the head and thinking the worst thing he could charge you with is truancy. But we know the truth, don't we, Al? You and I, we know what kind of hate it takes to do that to a woman." Mulder stood, leaning over the kid and Purdue got a better grip on Harris' swinging arm. Mulder slammed his fist into to the table and watched as Albert bounced in his chair. "Tell him, Al," Mulder demanded. "Tell him what it's like in the real world. In your world. You *want* him to know, don't you? Aren't you just dying to tell the world how wrong they are about poor pathetic little Al?" Albert had stopped shaking, lost somewhere in Mulder's cold eyes. Mulder smiled. "Better yet, don't tell us. Then your lawyer can't get your confession thrown out of evidence because you were obviously too damned stupid to understand your rights to counsel." Albert shifted in his seat and worked his jaw. Mulder raised an admonishing finger and the boy locked his lips down tight, eyes wide like the agent had pulled a weapon on him or something. "Not a word, Al," Mulder warned softly. "Let me explain it. Let me invite you're badge-toting pal here into your universe." Mulder didn't break his gaze from Albert's tense face. Purdue could feel the muscles straining in Harris' arm. "Real world," Mulder's face darkened, "you hit a man that hard you feel it. You feel the concussion of the blow clean up your arm. You feel like your goddam teeth are shattering in your head. Forty-six blows. At least twenty of them enough to rattle your own teeth and you just kept hitting her. She was dead by the fourth swing, you little bastard. You had to have noticed by the tenth. And you didn't stop. You just kept at it until you couldn't lift your arm anymore. That's not just evidence of murder, Al. That's evidence of a murderer's soul. A hateful heart." He slapped one of the victim's photos at the kid's chest. Albert caught it on instinct. "Here, Al," Mulder growled. "Have a good look. It's your self-portrait." Albert complied, grimacing down at the photo in his hands. Mulder glared up at Harris, trembling in anger beside Purdue. "Now, Detective, you get that warrant, get this little shit in a cell and let's get on to some real work. And quit wasting my time." Harris swung his enraged gaze from Mulder to Purdue, back again. And then gasped when he looked down at Albert. The kid was watching him, grinning maniacally, dry-eyed in the chair. It was everything Al could do to keep from laughing. The detective stood as though frozen in place, jaw working silently. Words just didn't seem to want to form. It hurt to watch the man as he put it all together, standing there staring into that vapid, acne-plagued face. Purdue gave Mulder a sour look but the young man didn't notice, intent once more on his bulletin boards. The ASAC felt Sauceda shift beside him and glanced over. Sauceda slipped both hands in his back pockets and sighed contentedly; his grin was so wide he looked like he was in pain. Harris took a deep breath and shrugged off Purdue's grasp. Vision focused warily on Mulder's face, Harris nodded slowly at the bulletin boards. "So, Mr. Mulder," he asked carefully, "you ever knife anybody?" XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Part 4 of 27: Be It Ever So Humble... Tuesday, May 10, 1988. Wheeling, West Virginia. West Wheeling Precinct, Interrogation Room Two. "Two vagrants and a prostitute. In the wrong place at the wrong time," Harris grimaced at the table full of files. "That's what we thought at first, anyway." "Then you found victim number four," Mulder mused. He didn't look up from the pile of reports and photos, copies and then some of what hung on the bulletin boards above. "Yeah," Harris frowned. "Well, you picked up on that, quick enough." Purdue adjusted his butt against the old wooden office chair he'd claimed for himself and indulged in a told-you-so wink at his friend. Harris gave him a resigned shrug and a cup of coffee, cream, no sugar. Once Albert had been hauled to Holding, the detective had tried to make his guests comfortable in the cramped quarters of the interrogation room: rookies trotted in coffee, sodas and-- "God help us," Purdue'd whispered -- donuts as quickly as Harris could snap fingers. Harris himself had disappeared into the office behind the one-way mirror and returned with stacks of files. They watched patiently as he culled out various items as unworthy, finally settling on the sordid mess they were looking at now: four apparently separate homicides perpetrated in the past few months. Sauceda peered over Mulder's arm at the file his partner was perusing. "So what's the story on victim four, then?" he asked. "Different MO?" "The three others were killed on the streets. The victims were indigents," Harris explained. "We figured it was some kind of hate crime or someone stumbling into the wrong gang turf, maybe drugs. But Four was a businessman, family man with no priors. He made regular stops here in Wheeling. Always the same hotel. Manager got so used to the schedule he usually kept the same room available for him. He was killed in that hotel room." Harris shook his head. "It was a slow night, not many people registered. No witnesses and no security cameras." Harris set an ashtray in easy reach of both Purdue and Mulder. Reg noted it favored Mulder's side. Harris shrugged at the profiler's raised brows. "Policy says you can't smoke in the car, son. It don't say jack about the office." Mulder glanced away from the act of kindness, apparently not quite certain what to do with it. Purdue didn't really need a smoke just yet, but he fished out his cigarettes anyway. Tapping one out for himself, he offered the pack to the profiler; the agent accepted hesitantly. The ritual of lighting accomplished, Mulder took a few cursory puffs, and availed himself of the ashtray, scooting the little glass dish closer to Purdue in the process. The action was furtive, designed to look completely accidental, Mulder's attention clearly riveted on the folder in front of him. Mulder's covert peace offering, however, did not escape the ASAC's notice. Harris had finally stopped fussing with his arrangements and took a seat across the table. "So what links your victims?" Purdue asked him. "Nothing. Except Ballistics says they were all killed with the same .22 semi-automatic. One shot, skin-touch range, through the back, through the heart--" Purdue shrugged, eyeing Mulder as the profiler shuffled through the reports; he'd seen men less excited over nude women. "A number of professional killers favor a .22 Ruger at that range," the ASAC noted. "The weapon is easy to obtain, easy to dispose of. Then there's that nice messy ricochet damage the bullet leaves inside the body. Maybe there's a drug angle--" "Drug killings don't usually involve mutilations," Mulder dissented. "Especially not this extensive." Sauceda looked up from his collection of autopsy reports. "What's the perp using, a hunting knife?" Harris nodded, swallowing a mouthful of coffee. "Looks like." Mulder's brows were furrowed as he flipped through photographs. "No sign of sexual assault, no necrophilia, no cannibalism, no fetishism, at least not of body parts. Yet all the victims have been gutted with the intensity and brutality of lust murder." He shook his head, looking up at Harris. "All postmortem." "You sound disappointed, Mr. G-man." It was Harris's turn to wink at Purdue. Mulder frowned. "Amazed, actually," he admitted. "With most serials, mutilations of this intensity are done prior to the killing. It's a sexual thrill, a means of degrading and subjugating the victim. The fantasy role being played out to its logical conclusion." "So what's the significance when it's postmortem?" Mulder sat back and chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. "That the killer feels so little control over the situation the victim must be killed immediately. Yet, he's in control well enough that he can get within several feet of his target, get him to turn his back, and then fire point blank." Sauceda shrugged. "Hey, if a guy walks up to me in an alley, points a gun and tells me to turn around, I'm turning around, muchacho." "Maybe," Mulder brought the cigarette to his mouth but didn't bother to complete the action, his attention absorbed by the photos collected before him. "These gunshot wounds are all clean shots, right? All pretty much in the exact same location..." Mulder balanced his chair on its rear legs, rocking. "And your businessman here had a gun on his nightstand, leaves it sitting to let our killer in?" "So, maybe he knew the guy, Marty. I don't see the big deal." Sauceda shrugged at Harris. "You've checked the victim's local contacts, someone who might have known he knew someone, that kind of thing? Get any leads?" Harris sighed. "Straight arrow police work, all the way. We've checked every contact, right down to the pharmacy on the corner. And all we've got is zip." Harris waved at the photo in Mulder's hand. "Mr. Businessman's so squeaky clean he makes me look like the Marquis de Sade." Reggie was watching the struggle on the profiler's face. "Mulder." The agent's head remained bowed over the evidence, but he lifted his eyes to the ASAC. "You're working up a theory," Purdue noted. "It's what we're here for. Tell us what you've got so far." Mulder regarded him, looked away to a bare spot on the wall and back again. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. "Okay. Where were the bodies found?" he demanded. "Other than Four, I mean." Harris shrugged. "On the streets--" "No, specifically. Were these locations strongly associated with the victims?" "You mean did they hang out there?" "Sleep there." "Well," Harris searched through his notes. "Rene Reynolds' pimp had dumped her and a witness said she'd been living in the alley she was found in." He flipped back a few pages. "The first victim was killed under an underpass where he'd apparently taken up housekeeping. The second was found in a cardboard box. Probably called it home from the look of the lot it was in." He looked up at the profiler expectantly. Mulder was nodding. "I think that if these people were not transient you'd be calling these home invasions. And that includes Mr. Business in his home-away- from-home hotel room." Mulder tapped vacantly on a file, watching his diet soda sweat a ring of water onto the table. "How far apart are the murders?" "They average about one a month since the second one," the detective answered. "The first was November 26. The second, January 4. Then February 27, and March 29. It's been quiet since." Sauceda was looking from Purdue to his partner. "Look, Marty, if you're speculating a serial killer, the guy's gone overdue, don't you think?" "Or, he's gone to less frequently visited housing locations." "Meaning there's a body waiting to be found somewhere?" Harris frowned. "It won't be on a street or in an alley," Mulder advised. "Not a hotel room, either." "Maybe someone's actual bonafide home?" Purdue suggested quietly. Mulder nodded. "I think that's the next step in the progression. I also think the mutilations will be worse." He was staring at that bare spot on the wall again, his vision distant and unfocused. "The hotel victim's carving is more... intricate. The killer took his time. The position of the body, the face uncovered... He enjoyed this one more than the others. Probably because he felt no pressure to hurry." The eyes refocused and he glanced from his ASAC to the detective. "These are not hate crimes. They're not drug killings. And they're not random. And your victim profile is about to take a dramatic turn. Our guy's moving from the fringes and freaks. And into the heartland, into the home. Mr. and Mrs. America are next on the entree. Then it's going to get messy because Mr. and Mrs. America have relatives and friends; you don't find him quick, you're going to have a political hot button on your hands." "Great," Harris sighed. There was a tap at the door. A uniformed officer popped his head in and Harris waved him frantically back out the door, rising to join him in the hall. The detective held the door partly closed and Purdue caught only muffled voices. Sauceda finished scanning the last of the autopsy reports and tossed it on the table. He gave the ASAC a rueful smirk. "Well, hell, Reg," he quipped, sotto voice. "Not here four hours and you've found us another serial killer. So much for expanding the kid's repertoire." Purdue didn't answer, taking his frustrations out on his cigarette, mashing it methodically into the ashtray. Mulder stared at the violence the ASAC wrought, stared without focusing, lost in thoughts Purdue would have paid good money to hear. Mulder glanced up though as the door rattled. Harris stood there a minute, the officer behind him straining to see over his shoulder. The detective stepped in, however, and slammed the door in the man's face, oblivious to all else but the profiler across the table. Mulder frowned at Harris' sudden interest and glanced away, momentarily intrigued by the nutritional disclosure of his soda can. Purdue was more interested in the paper sack Harris was carrying. The detective's eyes were too bright, too cold and too damned hungry; Purdue licked his lips nervously. Harris caught the look in his friend's eye and grinned. The expression managed to be both genuine and begrudged. "Well, well, Reggie," he quipped, nodding his head in Mulder's direction. "Just what *did* you bring me here?" Purdue assumed his accustomed mask of deliberate calm. "Just what you deserve, Nat," he replied. "A round trip ticket to hell." Harris swung a coolly delighted face to the profiler. "I bet he is, too," he mused. Mulder shifted uncomfortably but said nothing; a nerve in his jaw twitched angrily. Harris' grin broadened at the reaction and he turned back to the ASAC. "So where were we? We've got four victims found and a fifth hypothetical victim unaccounted for. Don't suppose your criminal virtuoso over here can tell me where this missing body might be?" Purdue shrugged off the challenge, irritated that Harris felt like he had some kind of right to talk about his agent like the man wasn't even there. "Look, Nat, like I told you, we'll be staying a few days--" "I'll let you know in the morning," Mulder said quietly. Harris and Purdue eyed the profiler with identical expressions. Sauceda took a sudden interest in the linoleum. Mulder's eyes never waved from Harris' face; they were cold and hard and piercingly green under the flickering fluorescent bulb above him. "Excuse me?" Harris glanced from the young agent to the ASAC like he'd missed the punch line of a long joke. "You see something else in those photos I didn't?" "No," Purdue barked. Mulder opened his mouth, closed it again under his ASAC's glare and instead, busied himself straightening evidence back into folders. Purdue leveled an equally uncompromising squint at Harris. "We'll let you know how long we'll be staying by morning." Purdue said it like it was the obvious explanation. Said it like he'd cut Harris' throat if the man had the balls to question it. Harris didn't take him up on the threat. Purdue continued. "In any event, you'll have a workable profile before we head back to Washington. Meantime, it's getting late--" Purdue stood and the detective looked around the room: Sauceda and Mulder had the table in order and the younger man was doodling on an empty Styrofoam cup. Harris' attention roamed back to the ASAC. Purdue's face said, *Yeah, this is how we're playing it.* "Fine," Harris nodded reasonably. He smiled at Mulder and called out "Heads up, kiddo," tossing the paper sack to the profiler before the warning was halfway out. Mulder didn't disappoint by missing the catch. The look he gave Harris bespoke crimes way beyond misdemeanor and Harris shrugged a relatively sincere apology. The detective nodded at the bag. "A gift from your pal Albert," he said. Mulder unrolled the top of the sack and dumped the contents onto the table: a white button down shirt, long sleeved. Soaked in blood. Harris grinned at Purdue. "I'll look forward to seeing you guys in the morning." For once, Harris sounded sincere. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Part 5 of 27: Cannibals in the Cafe 5:15PM. It's still Tuesday. We're still in Wheeling. Harris extended the courtesy of an unmarked unit and Purdue got his team registered at the Fort Henry Motor Lodge: no room service, but free-- imagine that-- cable TV and hot and cold running highway traffic just outside your bedroom window. Mulder had remained silent through the proceedings. The wall was back up and as impenetrable as those mirrored shades he'd slipped on when they'd left the precinct station. Mulder had made no effort to remove them in the dim confines of the motel office, either. Purdue honored the self-imposed solitude; Sauceda was chattering away enough for the three of them anyway. In fact, Purdue got the impression Hot Sauce was trying to cover for his partner's silence, maybe hoping the ASAC wouldn't notice. Purdue allowed the man his little delusions and doggedly took care of business. He'd requested a block of three motel rooms when Mulder finally spoke: a request for one of the rooms to be several doors away from the others. Mulder was looking at the desk clerk when he made the pronouncement but Purdue had Mulder enough in profile to detect the uneasy shift of his eyes as the words tumbled out. Purdue nodded his agreement to the clerk and told Sauceda to shut his yap when the pathologist began squawking about it. Purdue felt Mulder's wall slip just a bit as the ASAC signed for the rooms; the profiler even managed a quick "thank you" when Purdue handed him his key. It was far more than the ASAC had expected. Fort Henry's was conveniently flanked by a twenty-four hour Wal-Mart and a diner calling itself Chris' Cafe. Purdue gave his little flock just enough time to dump their luggage before gathering them up again. They descended on the cafe for dinner. As they walked across the parking lot, Sauceda simply picked up where he'd left off, yammering away about this and that; Purdue wondered where the hell he was managing to find so much of nothing to talk about. Mulder, still within his sanctuary of silence, remained doggedly unaffected by his partner's ramblings. Chris' was one of those Norman Rockwell places idolized by "American Graffiti": soda bar, retro chairs, booths leathered in teal and pink, waitresses crowned with little Florence Nightingale hats and sporting round ruffled aprons tinted to match the leather. The pastels reflected brightly in the mirror of Mulder's shades; the profiler seemed determined to retain his eyewear even here. Purdue sighed. *Well, what the hell ever.* The cafe was obviously popular; the place was packed, but Mulder surprised the ASAC by wordlessly blazing a trail to a vacant booth. The profiler waited patiently as Sauceda claimed the first seat, scooting down the bench to make room for the younger man. Purdue accepted the opposite bench as his own and stretched his legs wearily. He told himself that he really needed to stop worrying so much and start sleeping better. The jukebox was hopping to the Fine Young Cannibals. Purdue chuckled silently as Mulder began drumming along with the tune unconsciously. Sauceda, propped comfortably against the wall, gave his partner man a playful slap on the arm. "You know, Marty, if you need to work off some excess energy, we can take you cruising later and pick you up a redhead or something," Sauceda winked at Purdue. "Women love a man with a badge. I'm sure you find one willing to flop on her back for love of Mulder and country." "Screw you, Lenny," Mulder answered absently; it was obviously a tired joke between them. "Forget that," Sauceda wriggled his brows dramatically, "I ain't floppin' for you for nobody's country." Mulder ignored him as one of the pink waitresses came over and automatically began pouring coffee. It was a beverage requirement, apparently, but she flashed them a smile that was pleasantly more than just obligatory. "You boys in town for some greyhound racing?" Purdue returned the smile perfunctorily and inspected his cup. If the coffee were any darker it could have saved her the trip and walked itself to the table. Sauceda was grinning, though, a sure sign of impending mischief. "My friend here's looking for a little different kind of action. You know, kinda expanding his love life. Know anyone that could help him out?" Mulder shot Sauceda a look they could see even through the shades. "Oh," the woman fell easily into the game, regarding the profiler thoughtfully, one hand on her hip. "And how does that wife of yours feel about that, honey?" Mulder glanced up. Even Purdue could see she was checking out the ring. The profiler turned a shade of pink not quite as garish as her apron and stared into his empty cup, looking like he was trying to find the nerve to swear. "There isn't a wife," he said. "She know that?" she asked. Purdue busied himself with his menu. "Yeah," Mulder admitted quietly. Her voice was just a tad softer. "You know that?" Mulder's head dropped so far down Purdue could see the trembling of the man's lashes as he squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't speak. Sauceda was choking with laughter, oblivious to the desolation beside him. Over top of his menu, Purdue glared at him to little effect. Sauceda didn't seem to notice the angry glint in Pinkie's eye either. She tried for a more direct approach, though, leaning past Mulder to ask sweetly, "You want some more coffee, pal?" She was holding the pot over the pathologist's lap. Sauceda recovered quickly and declined. Pinkie looked back to the profiler. Her sudden proximity seemed to have exorcised his heartache at least temporarily; his blush was gone and he looked like he was reassessing initial impressions. Purdue watched the couple discreetly, careful to keep the menu between himself and Sauceda. The woman was cute. Not overly pretty, but she carried herself well. A dainty little brunette, maybe five foot nothing, maybe five or six years older than Mulder. Steel blue eyes and perfect teeth that must have set mom and dad back on her college fund. No ring on the appropriate finger. She straightened and poured Mulder's coffee slowly, letting him get a better look. She must have felt the man's eyes through the shades because she smiled softly. The expression seemed to hit Mulder like a blow, however; the young man actually caught his breath. Purdue blinked and re-inspected his menu but Mulder recovered quickly enough, concentrating on upending the sugar dispenser into his coffee. Pinkie relented her flirtations, flipped open her pad and took their orders: specials all around, salad, no baked potato for the man in the shades. Business handled, she flipped another page and got that smile again, readying her pencil. "Well, now," she purred to the profiler, "if I'm supposed to get you set up with someone, honey, I'll need to know what it is you like." Mulder choked on his coffee and Sauceda howled. "Oh, I know just his type!" he offered, slapping Mulder on the back solicitously. "Uh huh. And that would be...?" Pinkie requested. "Breathing," Sauceda threw the punch line and twisted on the bench in a fit of giggles. "Oh, come on," Mulder deadpanned. "I can't afford to be *that* choosy." Sauceda totally lost it and even Purdue and Pinkie had to smile. The jukebox reset for the Bangles. "You got a name, honey?" she asked the profiler. She managed to ask the question like it was no big deal. "Mulder." She raised critical brows and his lips twitched ruefully. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you the first name," he explained. "Try me." Deep sigh. "Fox." Pinkie paused, skeptical gaze swinging to Purdue, then back to Mulder. "You got ID to back that, angel?" It was clear Sauceda would never recover. Mulder fished out his badge with the air of a man donning his blindfold before a firing squad. "Well, well, Fox," she smiled, "your parents must have been psychic." Mulder's blush was pure scarlet this time and Purdue shook his head. So, this was the man Patterson had tried to pass off as the son of the Antichrist... Hell, maybe the Bureau needed to bring Baez back in to analyze Bill Patterson. Pinkie let the profiler recover before reaching to shake his hand. "Hi, Fox. Welcome to Wheeling." "Hi yourself," he squinted over his shades at her name tag, "Kay." She winked lightly. "I'll be back with your orders, boys. Sit tight." Sauceda watched her walk back to the next table before leaning over to his partner. "Yep, someone's got that Wheeling feeling--" "Shut up, Lenny." Mulder's voice was suddenly tired. "Uh, huh. Now I know what the big deal was about getting a room away from mine or Purdue's. You don't want any embarrassing interruptions in case she turns out to be a squealer--" "No, I just get tired of your headboard ramming into my wall every time you call your wife." "Why, you little prick--" "Jeezus. Are you two always at it like this?" Purdue demanded. "Continually," Mulder assured him. "You might have warned me." The agent shrugged. "You didn't ask." And finally the wall had broken down just that much more, just enough, perhaps for the question Purdue had been strangling since they left Harris' office. "Yeah," the ASAC nodded, keeping his voice neutral. "Well, apparently I haven't asked quite a few things--" Mulder swore silently and retreated back against the bench, head turning abruptly away. In profile, the eyes behind the shades were unyielding. "You're going to make me ask, aren't you?" The ASAC sighed. "Jeezus, Mulder, why do you have to make everything so damned hard--" "Is that your question?" Mulder demanded. Sauceda made a noise and Purdue told him to shut the hell up. "Allow me to quote, Mr. Mulder," Purdue's voice was calm, but clipped and harder than he'd intended, "'I'll let you know in the morning.' Just what the hell was that all about?" "What did you think it was about?" "I'll be damned-- Don't start that shit with me, Mister. I ask you a question, you give me a straight answer. Jeezus, answering a question with a freaking question-- You were willing to answer to a homicide detective who doesn't know you from your maiden aunt, you can answer to me, dammit." Mulder sat up straighter but didn't look particularly contrite. Cornered, but not contrite. He distracted himself, swirling patterns in the sweat of his water glass as he answered. "I'll know where the other victim is by morning. That's all," Mulder shook his head, his voice softer. "It was a stupid thing to say," he conceded. His hand slipped around the glass, knuckles white, clinched as tight as his jaw. He leveled a look at Purdue. "But it's true," he seethed. "What's the matter, Purdue? Isn't that what you brought me out here for? So you could show off your wacko profiler to your friends? Or maybe I'm just here to perform a few tricks to up the Bureau's PR with the locals? You know: sit, roll over. Retrieve the dead?" The surprise on Purdue's face must have been answer enough. Mulder glanced away and Purdue was left with that revealing profile; again, the lashes fluttered behind the shades. "Look," Mulder mumbled, "forget it. I don't want to fight with you--" "The hell you don't." Purdue made the statement but didn't elaborate. He was giving Mulder room and an opening to lay some cards out on the table if he chose to do so. He didn't figure the odds were high, though. Mulder's hand slipped from the glass and flattened out beside it, long fingers pressed against the table, seeking the assurance of something solid. His head was back up, his voice fiercely composed. "I *said* I don't want to fight with you. And I *won't*. I just don't want to discuss this... stuff. And I won't. Everything I had to say about it is on record." Purdue snorted. "A record we both know was written by Patterson and quotes you only twice--" "That's all I had to say to him, either." "Have you even read the report, Mulder?" "No." "Aren't you curious--" "No." "Well, I am." Purdue waited for a reply that was apparently not forthcoming. "Look, Mulder, I can appreciate that you get a little tired of the Amazing Wunderkind routine but you have to see this thing from my side. I'm not the type of man who can have a quiet chat with a corpse then enjoy a smoke on the hood of my car while the locals dig up thirteen bodies. That's not generally part of my routine. Until now." He sighed. "I don't want to pick your brain, Mulder. I woud just like a few answers." Mulder had studied him intently during the speech, and in the pause the ASAC realized suddenly that his words, his actions, his whole freaking life was being weighed in a balance, assessed. The possibility Mulder might find him somehow unworthy was oddly disturbing. The profiler looked away after a minute, picking absently at the edging on his napkin. He hadn't responded one way or the other on the issue, though and Purdue decided to take the silence as permission to continue. He chose his words carefully, keeping his voice level and unassuming. "Do you always know when these insights are going to... come to you?" Mulder startled him by actually answering. "Not always." He apparently didn't intend to elaborate and Purdue sighed. This was like pulling teeth. "But you know this time," Purdue prompted. Mulder nodded. Purdue raised questioning brows at Sauceda. The pathologist shrugged and resumed his scrutiny of the label on the ketchup bottle. "How is it you know this time," Purdue asked patiently, "and maybe not the next time?" Mulder grimaced. "I just know," he said. "So tell me now," Purdue invited. "Where's the body?" "I don't know right now." Mulder was back to solemnly swirling patterns on his glass. "Do you have to be asleep for it to come to you? Like the thing in Fredricksburg?" The young man chewed his lip a moment. "Yeah." Sauceda squirmed at the answer and Mulder shot him a look that sent Sauceda scooting for the far corner of the bench. Purdue raised interested brows. "You have something to contribute to this discussion, Agent Sauceda?" Sauceda blinked painfully. "No, sir." Purdue swore. "That's a lie," he growled. "And I won't tolerate it." He pointed a stern finger at Mulder. "From either of you, is that clear?" He glanced around the dining room and lowered his voice when he focused on his profiler again. "Look, Mulder, I've heard the so-called 'spooky' routine and I don't buy it. I don't think you buy it, either. You've damn near wound up in the loony bin twice because too many people *do* buy it. Then you waltz into Wheeling and start this spook shit with Harris. What do you want? You want him thinking you're some kind of psychic crackpot with a badge?" Mulder shifted uncomfortably. "No. I just thought--" "No, you little bastard, you just thought you had me pegged as Patterson Part Two, didn't you? Figured you could jerk me off just like you did him-- and like he did you, too," Purdue conceded as Mulder sank back against his seat. The ASAC sighed irritably. He was just a little too tired for this conversation. He hadn't had much sleep since Sunday and that never failed to make him grumpy. "Okay, I'll lay it out for you, Agent: I think you're a good investigator. I think you can get in people's heads sometimes. That's fine. I can buy that. I've seen your work. Some of your insights have been downright frightening. Shreveport. Seattle. Saint Paul. Solving four-year old cases stone blind. I don't pretend to know where you get half this stuff you come up with. And I don't care. But damn you, don't ever make the mistake of lying to me." He turned to Sauceda, "And don't you sit there and back him on it, you little shit." Mulder looked over at his partner. Sauceda was watching Mulder warily. Mulder took the shades off, but didn't look at the ASAC directly. "Sometimes," he said quietly, "I see things wide awake. Like I'm dreaming. It's like a film being played out against a wall. You know, like family movies and somebody gets up and the images play across their face, their body... That's what it's like sometimes. But that's... a bad case. Like Shreveport. Twenty-seven kids dead. That kind of case. This isn't that kind of case." "You can dream this stuff on demand?" "No." Mulder rubbed at his face wearily. Purdue recalled Mulder's violent nap on the plane and wondered how much sleep *he'd* had since Sunday. "I can't just *make* it happen," the profiler admitted. "But, my mind gets focused on something sometimes and just, I don't know, works it out subconsciously for me. And I see it in a dream. Or in the back of my mind." Purdue nodded, kept his face a mask. There was just too much Mulder wasn't saying. Watching Mulder's eyes, Purdue realized suddenly that the young man might not even know the rest of the explanation. That thought was more than a little frightening. "So," the ASAC asked reasonably, "you think your subconscious is working on the location of this victim?" "I don't-- Hell," Mulder hissed. "Look, it's not with every case. And I could be wrong; it might not even be with this one. But it's not some kind of weird hocus-pocus. It's sure as hell not hallucinations. I don't care what Patterson told you. Or Sauceda over here--" "Hey, Marty--" Mulder waved off the pathologist's protest. "I *am* a good investigator, dammit. My investigative technique is in the top ratings; I've never been faulted on it. I'll give you my best on any case you put me on. But some cases... I can give more than just that. Somehow--" Mulder wouldn't meet Purdue's eyes again. His voice was soft. "It's like... It's like someone walking up behind you and not quite touching you. You can feel them standing there, but... Then, when everything is quiet, they reach out." Salads arrived and Kay didn't take long picking up the fact that the table had gone solemn. She opened Mulder a fresh bottle of blue cheese dressing and made herself scarce. The men ate in silence a few minutes, lost in the sound of crackers and croutons. Mulder drowned his lettuce with the dressing and pushed around more on his fork than he managed to chew. He kept his head down, risking furtive glances at Purdue when he thought the ASAC wasn't noticing. Across the table, though, Purdue's mind was churning. "In Shreveport," Purdue muttered around his saltine, "you told them where to find the victims. Things about them, too. Their age, sex. How they would be laid out." He swallowed. "Sauceda says that you're not so much in tune to the crimes through the killer as much as through the victim. Okay, I've got no problem with that. I mean, if we believe profilers can get the skinny on a killer, why not the victim? But if you're seeing through the victim's perspective, how did you know what the killer was doing postmortem? It's not like these kids would have been aware of that kind of information. They're dead. Right?" The profiler was looking at him over his salad. His face was suddenly very pale. Purdue frowned. Mulder ducked his head abruptly, staring down at the fork in his hand; it trembled slightly. He speared a cherry tomato, waiting patiently for the seeds and juice to settle into the soup of blue cheese. His voice was quiet, his head stayed bowed. "Sometimes. Most times. Maybe because they're not expecting death when it comes... The soul exits the body. But it still feels a sense of obligation to it, somehow. Sometimes they stay for a while, and watch. Like they're not certain what's expected of them. Or maybe just out of curiosity. Or confusion. Until someone comes for them." Purdue sat his fork down quietly. "Sacred Heart of Jesus," Sauceda whispered. "Who comes, Marty?" Mulder shook his head, staring at the tomato. "Someone," he said. "I don't know. I can't see." He slipped the tomato off his fork. "It's not me they're coming for." Kay was back. She dealt out the chicken fried steaks with gracious finesse, generally making a friendly fuss. Assured everyone was just pleased as punch with the service, she took few extra seconds filling Mulder's tea glass. He wouldn't look up at her, though, busy eyeing his steak. He looked a little odd just then. She bit her lip, considering. "Honey," she said softly, "let me take that beef back to the kitchen. Gosh, a Band-Aid and that thing would be back out grazing." Mulder looked up gratefully and nodded. "I'll bring you a baked potato, okay, angel? No butter, lots of sour cream." "Thank you." Purdue busied himself cutting up his chicken-fried and Sauceda followed his cue. There hadn't been anything wrong with Mulder's steak but neither man mentioned the fact. Kay was back quickly with the potato and making a fuss about whether there was enough sour cream, and dammit if they hadn't gone and put the butter on it anyway-- Mulder protested meekly as she sputtered. Sauceda used the opportunity to scratch a note on his empty sweet-n-low packet and slip it to Purdue. The ASAC read: "The 'someone walking up behind' is getting closer." Kay got things situated to her satisfaction and finally left the men in peace. No one spoke for a bit. Purdue kept the younger man in his peripheral vision, watching him trying to not eat a potato while making at least part of it disappear somewhere. Purdue bet the kid had given his momma hell eating his vegetables. Mulder's inoffensive steak never grazed itself back to the table and no one mentioned that either. Kay returned shortly with more coffee, and, of all things, hot tea for Fox. Mulder accepted the cup, comically stunned but grateful and downed fully half the liquid straight off. There was a faint whiff of alcohol to the steam and Purdue wondered if there wasn't a little honey and whiskey swirling around in there. Like his granny's home remedy. Purdue ordered pie he didn't want and played with it, ordered more coffee he wasn't drinking, waiting for Mulder's tea to settle. Purdue had scooped out and squashed four cherries flat before he noticed the agent staring at him. "Just say it," Mulder's voice was harsh. Purdue set the pie aside and watched as Sauceda begin scooping out cherries for himself. "I'm telling you this as a friend, Mulder. Hell, I'm telling you as your ASAC. And I just want you to think it through. Spooky is cool in DC. Spooky's expected. At least as far as *you're* concerned. But this is Middle America and they don't know your stats from Dallas. Don't interrupt. Please." He held out his hands, surrender fashion and Mulder relented. "Don't do this to me. Don't do it to yourself. Even if you *can* do this crap, even if it works... You just gotta find a better way to deal with it in the real world." Sauceda was nodding, cherry juice on his chin. Mulder's face over the tea was dark. "You want me to lie on an investigation? To withhold evidence--" "First off, your impressions, even if they're from the lips of God, are not legally evidence. Second off, say you *do* know where the body is, you go popping this pertinent piece of information off on Harris, he'll pick us up for obstruction, thinking we got an inside somehow and were holding out on him. All I'm saying is this: you know something, you let *me* know. Let me handle it. That's my job, to take some of the crap off you so you can do your job. You're a profiler. So, profile. Let me fade the heat. Let me figure the angles on the locals." Mulder was quiet, staring hard at the cooling dregs of his tea. "You're not sending me back to DC?" he asked finally. Purdue frowned. "Do you want to go back to DC?" "No." "Mulder, let's get this straight. If you didn't have the highest solve rate in the Bureau, no one but no one would put up with your crap. If you didn't have the highest solve rate in the Bureau I wouldn't have kicked so much ass to get my grimy hands on you. But I don't expect miracles. Just good investigative work. And you're right, you're one of the finest investigators we've got. Even without the spook. I want to solve this case. More importantly, *you* want to solve this case. So do it. You do your part, whatever the hell you think that entails and you let me do mine. We'll let Sauceda here poke around on the bodies and let Harris make the arrests." He smiled. "See, that's not so hard." Sauceda pursed his lips. "That's easy for you to say, I'm the one that has to put up with the smell in the autopsy room." Purdue waved for the check. Mulder's troubled smile took a sudden turn south and he blanched, teacup rattling. He excused himself and made his way to the men's room. Not all his steps were steady. Kay was hot on his heels and got the door slammed in her face for her trouble. She hovered outside the locked door, her questions apparently ignored. Sauceda sighed and followed Purdue into the little hall. Behind the door, the faucet sounded like it was running full blast. The sound almost covered the retching noises. "Just how much whiskey did you put in that tea?" Purdue demanded. "A couple of teaspoons," Kay protested, "as God is my witness." Sauceda shrugged. "It's not the tea, I tell you. Hell. If I had a corpse walking up behind me, you wouldn't see me keeping anything down either." Kay eyed the pathologist warily and he took pity. "Your Fox in there is a profiler--" "Sauceda--" He waved Purdue off. "We show the kid photos of murder victims and he tells us what the killer is like. Then the local PD goes out and finds the bastard." Her face was thoughtful. "And this is his chosen career? Or did he just luck out in dog catcher school?" Sauceda grinned. "No kidding. He's good at it. Really." He called out as the water stopped: "Aren't you, Marty?" "I'm good at a few things too," she said, "but if I did them for a living they'd lock me up." Mulder got the door open on that one, his head down to conceal the slightly dilated pupils. "They threaten to lock me up now and then, too." He managed a smile of sorts for Kay, quickly lost it as he shoved past Purdue and Sauceda and stalked out of the diner. Purdue shoved the check to Sauceda and followed. The ASAC had to trot to cover the ground of Mulder's stride. They were halfway to the hotel before Purdue caught up and spun the profiler around. "Look, Mulder--" Mulder exploded, "Don't ask me anymore, dammit!" Purdue released the man's arm, watching open mouthed as Mulder's entire body shivered violently. "Patterson's had me jumping through hoops for a fucking year and now you want to start it all over again--" The profiler gasped and jerked away several yards distance. Purdue followed slowly, giving him room. Mulder pulled his jacket tight, hugging himself as he paced the length of shadow cast by a parked van. He swore softly all the while. Purdue did not interrupt. He'd seen enough in Seattle to identify the symptoms. After a minute or so, Mulder seemed better-- still hugging himself, still pacing-- but his shivering had eased to infrequent shudders and he registered Purdue's presence again. Purdue watched him swallow hard and look away. Realization finally struck the ASAC. *Jeezus, Reg. The kid is terrified of you.* Purdue did some hard swallowing of his own, choosing his words, his tone, even the stance of his body, very carefully. "Do you know what I dislike most about you, Mulder?" he asked across the silence of the lot. Mulder stopped mid-stride, eyes wide but steady finally. Purdue smiled. "The way you're always interrupting me. I *hate* that." Mulder's expression of numbed surprise was priceless but Purdue couldn't find the will to laugh. The agent remained speechless, wary. Purdue studied his scuffed shoes. "I know, Mulder, you're used to being out here on your own more or less. But that's not how I operate. My being here is no slight on you or your work. Or of my respect for you. I know it may be difficult for you to accept that. But it's true." He frowned, "And I'm sure as hell not looking for some kind of circus act." Mulder stared away across the parking lot, not focusing on much of anything. When he answered, his voice was distant and hesitant. "Half the time," he said, "Sauceda's scared shitless for me. Or of me-- " He grimaced. "And one's just as bad as the other." He shifted uncomfortable, rubbing his left arm before finally focusing on Purdue. "Do you know that when Lenny gets stressed, he shaves three, four," he shook his head, "eight times a day? Breaks out in a rash of razor burn. I have to hide the batteries on the Norelco or he'd rip off his entire epidermal layer-- I'm not kidding!" Purdue was chuckling in spite of himself. Mulder finally grinned, looking about half embarrassed at the absurdity of his conversation. He watched Purdue, his voice becoming lighter. "But *me*, now," he mused, awaiting the ASAC's reaction, "I have a few bad dreams after studying half a dozen corpses, and they call *me* the nut." Purdue was still smiling. "You know, Mulder, you need to find the son of a bitch that told you life was fair and beat the crap out of him. It'd make you feel a whole lot better." "No doubt," Mulder smirked ruefully, setting his hands on his hips as Sauceda came trotting up to hand him his shades. He managed to look almost relaxed, slipping the shades on, finally safe behind his bit of armour. Purdue felt the wall dropping back in place, too, but slowly, now, brick by brick. It didn't seem as high this time, either. Mulder bobbed his head at his partner. "Moocher," he accused. "Making time with my girl, I see." Sauceda grinned. "Just getting her warmed up for you, kid. That's why they call me the Hot Sauce." Purdue shook his head. "Look, you guys stay out here and shoot the shit if you want, I'm going to bed. I've had a tough week." He looked pointedly at Mulder. "And I get a phone call in the morning, it had better be from you with some info. Or a 'Good morning, Mr. Purdue.' Not Harris telling me where I can pick you up and how much your bail is." He didn't turn until Mulder gave him a grudging nod. Sauceda grinned at his partner and gave him another playful slap before following Purdue off toward the motel. Purdue turned at Sauceda's approach, kept walking as he glanced back at Mulder. The profiler remained there in the gathering darkness, staring across the parking lot toward the highway. His face was suddenly deadly serious. "It's a woman," Mulder announced. Purdue paused and spun around, gravel sliding beneath the soles of his dress shoes. Mulder turned back to face him, shades reflecting black pavement and burning red sky. "The victim," Mulder explained, dispassionate as a weather report. "And it's bad. Worse than the others." He frowned. "The killer found this one a bit of a challenge..." He bit the inside of his cheek, his voice husky and soft, like he was talking to himself. "There's something... Something's off. Something odd about all this. Somehow..." "What's odd, Marty?" Sauceda's voice was a little too high-pitched. The profiler scanned the parking lot like he expected to find the answer parked there on the blacktop. He shrugged and pocketed his hands. "Hell, I don't know. I'm not the freaking Amazing Kreskin." Purdue sighed, "You know, you don't have to struggle to turn the world over, Mulder. Just give it twenty-four hours, it'll roll over all by itself." Mulder grimaced, still staring across the parking lot. "Yeah," he whispered. "You hope." XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Part 6 of 27: Ollie North, Apple Pie, and American Dreamscapes Tuesday evening. Wheeling. Fort Henry Motor Lodge. Room 37. 8:17 PM. "And I see once more how everything Must be up to me: here a calamity to be smoothed away Like ringlets, there the luck of uncoding This singular cipher of primary And secondary colors, and the animals With us in the ark, happy to be there as it settles Into an always more violent sea." Mulder flipped the little book of poetry across the bed and watched it skid over the blanket. Such tremendous stuff in so slim a volume: the clockworks of a heart exposed and laid bare to the world... It took guts for a man to do that. Mulder briefly entertained the idea of writing Ashbery a letter-- an honest to God fan letter no less-- thanking him for his courage and explaining how so many of his poems fit the pattern of life in Mulderville. Yep. Great idea, Fox. Could get a little complicated though: "Dear John, hey, you don't know me, but I chase serial killers for a living and your poems really speak to me..." Hell, the man would probably hire a bodyguard and give up writing altogether-- Well, saved *that* stamp. Mulder rotated his head against the back of his chair and surveyed his situation: another third rate motel room-- bed, chair, TV, end table with it's obligatory Gideon Bible and equally obligatory listing of local, ah, entertainment outlets. The bed was empty. The room was empty. Except for him, of course, but he couldn't very well count himself, could he? What was the old story about the tree falling in a forest? If no one sees, does the tree exist? If a man blows his brains out in a motel room and no one sees... Mulder tore his eyes away from the gun on the nightstand and stared dutifully at the television screen. He'd been sitting there for hours, still fully dressed, feet propped on the bed, TV blaring. CNN had cycled through the headlines four times now and no matter how many ways they told it, it was obvious the state of the Union was up for grabs. The incidence of AIDS was rising rampantly in San Francisco. Donald Trump was buying up New York and whining that the Japanese were trying to beat him to it. And in East Heller, Montana the bodies of three children were found buried in a playground and no one knew anything, but three blocks over, twenty six people were swearing they'd seen an image of the Virgin Mary on a piece of burnt toast. Jeezus, next thing you knew, they'd be running those hokey alien abduction claims on "Meet the Press." Mulder poked at the remote in disgust, watching the blur of channels until even the blurs began to look familiar. He wound up back on CNN and the remote control joined the little book on the bed with an apathetic thump. Maybe he needed to get some video tapes. Hell, maybe he just needed to get out and get a life. Sure, like the Bureau'd give him time off for that. He grimaced at his reflection in the screen. What the hell was he doing here, anyway? Every other profiler in the Bureau got to fly a desk in the basement at Quantico. Not Fox Mulder, though. It was Patterson's credo: got a bad case? Haul Fox out and let him smell the blood. Hell, he'll dig you up bodies you didn't know you had... He could solve cases with finesse, dazzle the locals-- and the press. It played well with the penny-pinchers in the Ways and Means Committee, too. Never mind that good old Fox has developed night terrors, REM rebound and every symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder listed in the DSM-III. We'll just patch him back together with massive doses of Seconal and a seventy-two hour involuntary committal. He'll bitch like hell but he'll be so grateful to be out he'll make sure he stays vertical long enough to get the next half dozen cases worked. Maybe. Mulder scrubbed at his face fretfully, pushing the thoughts away. Hell, it was his own fault. He should have told his recruitment officer to go to hell and finished out his clinicals. But Mulder hadn't taken up psychology to figure out what made other people tick. He'd been trying to wrestle his own demons, and had simply found too few answers for himself to see psychiatry as a viable career. He just wasn't that good a liar. So, here he was, hunting down the psychos who believed they were the Second Coming of Christ and the Charles Manson wannabes who said it with a hatchet and a smile. And somewhere, early on, he'd discovered this latent talent, the spook: the shivering, the occasional vomiting and the inevitable body in the ditch. And a whole Bureau full of folks willing to pay him for such services, content to stand in awe as he silently drowned in that ever more violent sea-- Mulder swore silently, fed up with his own morose mood. His legs had gone to sleep and the tingling would soon be unbearable. He ignored it. It was the waiting like this that he hated the most. He could feel her, that someone walking up behind. He'd sensed her presence when he'd first spotted the photos on Harris' bulletin boards. She didn't seem to be in any particular hurry, though. Well, why should she be? She'd waited this long. She could happily keep her secrets just a bit longer if for no better reason than to tease him, stringing him along, enjoying the attention. It fascinated him how the personality endured death like that. How it continued to alter the fragrance in a room long after the body had been stilled. He wondered if his own soul would linger when his time came. It might be interesting to hang around and see who showed up. Yeah, and wouldn't it serve you right if no one did, you little bastard-- He stopped the thought without completing it. No. Someone would come, he was certain. Someone from the living to claim the body. Someone from the dead for the soul. He wondered if one of the someones would be his sister. Surely, Sam would come for him. Samantha would be there, somehow, he was sure of it. But from which side of the living... His left leg convulsed into a bitter cramp and Mulder staggered up, swearing and grabbing at the pain in his thigh. Jeez, Fox, where are you digging up all this morbid shit from anyway? His perpetual headache probably wasn't helping much. It'd been running for months, a dull persistent ache. Since Sunday though, it had taken to periodic explosions; he'd had to pull over twice on his way to Fredricksburg, blinded temporarily by searing pulses of light. Stress. Nervous tension. He knew the symptoms, and the aspirin he'd been popping like breath mints wasn't helping any. Baez had prescribed Valium, the occasional moderate dosage of Seconal or Thorazine-- Patterson's unholy Trinity of psychological domination. Sauceda still carried the drugs, he was certain. But even for a simple Valium, Sauceda would insist on a confessional: when did you eat last? Are you sleeping? You getting enough protein? Mulder'd be damned before he'd surrender his life's history for the sake of one little pill, no matter how bad it got. Mulder hobbled to the open window and steadied himself against the frame as he looked out. The breeze that brushed his face smelled alternately of asphalt and burger grease but he was grateful for it all the same; it was the fragrance of freedom, of people living their lives, unconscious of evil in their midst, unconcerned. Somewhere across the parking lot, a child screamed. Mulder convulsed with the sound, his mind galvanized by memory-- forty-six bodies in the past nine months. The scream echoed again, subsiding quickly into a squeal of delight and then laughter. It took a full minute for Mulder to identify the subtle change, then the relief hit him. It slammed into the back of his knees, in fact: he collapsed, folding down to the floor, panting as his head lolled against the windowsill. For several minutes, he made no effort to rise. Every emotion, every bit of energy he possessed had been expended by that little scream and he simply had nothing left. He needed help. He'd needed it for weeks. The knowledge was certain-- one of the more dubious advantages of his training. What Oxford had failed to tell him, however, was who he could and couldn't trust. Patterson's psychological betrayals were a matter of record. Purdue wasn't much better; he'd brought in Baez in Shreveport and threatened involuntary committal if Mulder didn't cooperate in what was tantamount to mental rape. And, hell, Mulder'd puked in front of Purude twice in as many months now. Purdue must already think he was a total flake, a candidate for the Immaculate Order of Our Lady of the Burnt Toast. Unbidden, an image crossed his mind: Purdue's face that night in Seattle, right after Mulder had presented him with that body: that small, cold little form, face down in the mud of a ditch beside the road, bathed in the headlights of the car. And Purdue just sitting there, staring at Mulder, his dark hands shaking too hard to pull the key out of the ignition... Mulder finally managed to sit up and push himself away from the wall. His eyes fell on the television screen, a gesture born of habit rather than real interest. Images of Poindexter and Secord paraded across the screen followed by the scrolling text of the twenty-three count indictment returned against them. Mulder watched it closely, staring without seeing. Tonight, standing out there on the parking lot with Purdue, Mulder had envisioned the latest victim quite clearly. But it was just a glimpse: a whiff of perfume, a snatch of song just audible above the traffic, a glimpse of matted hair, and blood drying dark on pallid skin. The next body he'd haul this ASAC out to see... Mulder closed his eyes against the steady, dizzying flow of words on the screen. Shielded by the bloody curtain of his own lids, only sound could reach him: CNN droning on, a Senate panel speaker asking a question. Oliver North's tenor claiming "Senator, I do not recall." Screw this. Mulder's decision was abrupt. He had to get out. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX CONTINUED IN PART 6B From: cslatton17@aol.com Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 19:46:56 EDT Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 6B of 27 Source: xfc "Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com http://www.softlight.8m.com/ Part 6B of 27: Mulder hadn't thought to change before leaving, though, and realized too late that he wasn't really dressed for a long walk. Was a little overdressed, he imagined, for Wal-Mart; besides, he couldn't recall needing anything right now. He briefly entertained the thought of catching a cab and getting the driver to recommend a good bar, or one of those better entertainment outlets. He didn't really want a drink, though, and in the mood he was in, he honestly didn't think he could work up enough lust to do the leering-animal routine. Between the headache and the stress he was operating under, Mulder'd be no great prize anyway; put him in the room with a willing woman and he'd probably just wind up humiliating himself-- even if he was paying her enough not to say so. Mulder scanned the highway forlornly and turned back to the parking lot. Hell, the diner looked pretty quiet. He could order some pie. Maybe... He let the sound of his shoes scuffing gravel drown out the rest of his tormented thoughts. Chris' was nearly deserted when he ambled in. A couple in a booth were romancing over the remains of chili dogs and cheese fries. An old man in denim was permanently installed at the soda counter, nursing his iced tea like it was a whiskey sour--and not his first for the night. Simply Red was on the jukebox. The singer's voice was hungry; the saxophone backing him had the longing sigh of seduction. Mulder grimaced at his observations: for a man who was just rating his achievable limits so dismally, he was feeling remarkably lascivious. Mulder told himself to behave, staked out a corner booth and set his menu to spinning lazily on the tabletop. "Hi ya, Fox." Mulder glanced up, surprised and surprisingly pleased. "Well, hi yourself, Kay. Don't they ever let you go home?" He felt a warm flush at her smile; it was disturbing but he held the self-analysis at bay, an easy reflex for him, perfected through years of practice. She maintained the smile as she filled his water glass. "Every day this month I'm on from three to nine. Then I hit the day shift again." "You close at nine?" "Uh huh." He checked his watch-- ten 'til-- and started up guiltily, "Jeez, I'm sorry--" She gave him a playful push back into the seat, laughing. "Don't fret yourself, honey. If the FBI doesn't mind me borrowing you for a while, I certainly don't mind having a little security on the premises while I count the drawer down. And you gotta be hungry-- unless you'd like some more tea," she winked mischievously, but her voice was soft with genuine concern. "Kitchen's closed but if there's something on the menu you think you can keep down--" Mulder shrugged his shoulders against that glorious smile; her hand on his chest as she'd pushed him back had radiated an intoxicating warmth. And the realization hit him: he'd hoped she'd be here; he'd lied to himself that it was the pie that had brought him across the parking lot... He asked for it anyway, avoiding her eyes. She laid a knowing hand on his head, leisurely brushing back a lock of dark hair. "Oven's still warm," she said easily. "I'll pop one of the apple pies in and get it hot. It's not half bad with ice-cream." "I don't want you going to any trouble, Kay--" Oh, the convoluted layers, the euphemisms of mutual need-- "So, who's being bothered?" Her voice was satin, cool and comforting against the pounding in his brain. "By the time the crust is hot, I'll have herded these misfit out and join you," she promised. She had a great smile. And an even better laugh. He hadn't heard a lot of laughter lately-- He shouldn't be here and he knew it. He'd be doing her a favor to just get up and walk out. He looked up at her, to tell her so, saw suddenly in her face a glimpse of blood-matted hair in a dark room-- and she smiled again and it was gone. He managed a grimace in return. "Sounds great," he said. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Ten after nine and Kay had the place locked down tight and half the lights shut off. She'd managed somehow to get that damned stupid hat off without making too big a mess of her hair and he'd joined her at the soda counter as she counted down the register. He was quiet as she concentrated, amusing himself with the spin of his pedestal stool. She kept him in focus out of the corner of her eye: spinning on the seat like some kid when his Momma wasn't looking. His eyes were striking-- you didn't see many men with hazel eyes-- but the expression was distant and kind of sad unless he knew you were watching. Probably that crappy job of his... By nine-forty, the remains of pie and ice cream were scattered on the counter. They shared an ashtray. He knew she was from Bridgeport across the river, had skipped college for a marriage that didn't work, that it was a long time ago and she'd been at Chris' ever since, no kids. She knew he was from Martha's Vineyard, had been to Oxford for a psychology degree, was new to the Bureau, no kids. He'd pointedly not explained the ring. She didn't mind too much; he laughed at her jokes. It was a nice laugh and she got the impression he didn't get to use it much. "So, how long you gonna be in town, Fox?" His smile dissipated. "I don't know. Sometimes I'm in town just long enough to file a report. Sometimes they keep me hanging out 'til the case is solved. Could be this week. Could be next month." "Ever get lonely traveling like that?" He laughed. "Hell, I get lonely sitting at home." "Ever thought of finding someone to sit in it with you?" He glanced up under his brows and she waved off the innuendo. "I'm not proposing to you honey, just answer the question." He shrugged and laughed, trying to make this look easy. "Well, yeah. But, I work a lot and..." He looked down at the puddle of ice cream on his plate and his voice got soft and reluctant. "I have bad dreams sometimes." He smiled like a man with his foot on a grenade, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. "I have them a lot, actually. Sometimes they're not so bad if someone's there to wake me. But that kind of thing tends to freak women out." His laugh was painful, hollow, and he cut it short. "You're going to have one of those dreams tonight, aren't you?" The question shocked him into looking up at her. "What makes you say that?" he whispered. Her own voice was soft. "It's all over your face, honey." Mulder studied his plate again and she made her voice light. "So, when you haul these women home so they can keep the nightmares away, do you have sex with them? I mean, just because they're expecting it and all?" His head jerked up just before the blush set in, followed by the little smile as he looked vaguely away over her shoulder. "Yeah, well," he mused, "the least I can do is try to make it worth their time." "And I bet you do, too." He turned a brilliant shade of red and dropped his head again. She took the pressure off by wiping up the crumbs from the counter. After a minute he flicked his ashes and chuckled. "You know, I can just see that: me walking up to a woman in a crowded bar and drawling, 'Hey, babe, I'm about to have one hellacious dream. Whatdoyasay we go back to my place and see if we can fight off the boogie man?'" He pretended a frown. "Actually, I know some bars where that just might work." He gave her a self- effacing shrug and tapped his fork at the crumbs in his saucer. "It works for me," she said. He caught his breath, too stunned to blush, too scared suddenly to drop his head. He dropped his fork instead. "You're not going to disappoint me by being one of those men who're all-talk-and-no-do, are you, Fox?" The sensation of her hand on his arm must have set off an electric charge. He practically flinched. You didn't have to be a psychologist to appreciate his situation: a single male, living alone and on the road, too strung out to expend necessary energy on a long term relationship, pretty much tactilely deprived. Add to that the pressures of a nightmare of a job and you had a very young man overly sensitive to even the slightest physical contact. And she knew enough about men to know no Oxford degree was going to alleviate his physical reality. Still, she wasn't certain she was really ready for this kind of thing. It'd been an awfully long time... She released his arm abruptly, leaving him to deal with the decision for her as she hauled the plates and pie tin to the sink in the back. She took her time with it, running the water until it was hot, watching the dish liquid bubble up her reflection a hundred- fold. And she wondered what he saw when he looked at her. She certainly knew what *she* saw in that mass of reflections: an only moderately-pretty woman on the wrong side of thirty-- with far too little to show for the years. She shook her head, slamming off the tap. And he'd come wandering in like she was his best option, talked to her with respect and concern, like she was his only option. Like there was no one else in the world willing to just be good to him for a while-- Beautiful man like that and he had come to her. It made you wonder just what was wrong with the world.... When she emerged, she knew the decision had been made- - and exactly what that decision was. He was standing at her side of the soda counter. He wasn't blushing but with that look on his face he should have been; she did it for him, suddenly and inexplicably shy. He smiled at that. He apparently had no idea what kind of damage that little smile could do when he put some real interest in it. He moved closer and she backed into the wall involuntarily. He slowed but didn't stop, watching her concentrate on her breathing. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked quietly. She shook her head, suddenly speechless after talking his ear off for an hour... He closed the distance between them much too slowly, but she didn't rush him, enjoying the fluid motion of his body in the dimmed lights of the diner. And then he stopped, finally, very close, so close she could feel his breath against her hair. He stood there a long moment, watching her silently, but he didn't touch her. Her own hands were shaking too much to trust them just then and she waited him out. Jeezus, it had been way too long-- Slowly, leisurely, he placed first one hand, then the other on the wall to either side of her. She wished she was taller suddenly, tall enough leave both her feet flat on the floor and still reach his mouth, tall enough to feel his breath on her face-- He still wasn't touching her but she could feel him like he was all over her. "I'm, ahm, I'm afraid I'm one of those all-talk-and- little-do types, Fox. Pretty small town to boot. I--" He leaned down and she offered her mouth in welcome, blinked rapidly when he moved her chin aside, nuzzling it upward. His evening stubble rasped lightly against her jaw, his lips brushing her neck, searching, sure of their destination. She felt his mouth open against the soft vulnerable skin beneath her jaw and she held her breath, unable to comprehend his intention. Mulder's lips and his check brushing her were his only point of contact; her entire body trembled. She'd never known a man who went straight for the throat: the mouth, the side of the neck, the ear, perhaps, but not the throat. The movement was amazingly sensual, frighteningly predatory, as though his passion, tightly reigned, cloaked another desire entirely, concealed and threatening as a switchblade. She gasped at the intimacy of such a caress, and at the complete abandonment with which he accepted her. His breath was trembling and measured, burning as his mouth pressed gently against the cage of tendons that protected her windpipe. He slid his lips-- just his lips, dry and hot-- down the ridge of her throat, closing his mouth at last to lightly touch the little hollow where her collar bones rested. He lingered and his breath down her dress sent a shiver over her body that lit up everything it passed through. She knew he felt it and felt him smile as he moved up, now along the side of her neck, planting almost-kisses, demure and sweet, as he went. He paused again, brushing her earlobe now, a soft chaste caress that made her feel anything but. A gentle kiss at her jaw. Slowly, slowly. Another tender kiss on her neck. He was definitely not small town. Any man from Belmont County would have had her groped by now and been halfway to touch down, but this man was obviously in no hurry. It was wonderfully infuriating. Her heart was pounding in her ears, drowning out all other thought but the sensation of that mouth against her skin. The kiss under her jaw repeated itself and her breath escaped as a whimper. She felt him smile again. He knew exactly what he was doing, and she was powerless, completely unwilling to prevent him from taking from her whatever he deemed necessary. A gentle caress on her collarbone that lingered and she finally reached for his arms, pulling his hands to her waist. He accepted their placement but left them there, light and hot, still concentrating on her neck and ear. The heat of his fingers burned through the cloth of her dress and she was kissing his neck, infuriated that he wouldn't give her his mouth. She unknotted his tie with difficulty and he made no attempt to make it easier for her. More kisses, his breath too warm on the side of her neck as she tried to remember how to breathe, how to work the buttons on his shirt. She had four managed when his hands began to move, easing down to her hips, his thumbs dragging along her flanks, tracing where his palms had been. He reached her hips as the fifth button finally surrendered and she gasped as his hands moved back and stroked softly well below the bow of her apron. He chose that moment to kiss her mouth, deepened the kiss as she rose to tip-toe to feed on his breath. She ran her hands under his suit jacket eager and insistent, and flinched when she found the holstered weapon. He stiffened. "I'm sorry," he whispered against her mouth. The voice was low and rough but very quiet, truly regretful. Kay caught his mouth again as he pulled away, even as she tried to speak, "It's alright. I'm not afraid--" she lied. He gasped at the ferocity of her kiss, the intimacy of her hands, the intimacy of his own. She grasped his belt loops and pulled him against her, feeling his breath catch with the pressure of her stomach against the reaction of his body. The sudden hesitation in his eyes made her shiver with greed for him. He misinterpreted the response and pulled away abruptly. Kay lost her balance in his sudden motion; he caught her instinctively even as she bumped into the wall. She laughed at his fear-- losing her own at last-- and pulled him to her again, pushing his shirt open and laying feather soft kisses on his chest. It was his turn to tremble. He shifted to hold her hips at bay despite her protests, finally pushing her away entirely, holding her to the wall with his hands on her arms. He was panting, eyes closed, head turned away. She waited, fascinated by the trek of a single drop of perspiration making it's way down his temple and across his cheek. When he looked back again, his breathing had eased and his eyes were still but it was the kind of stillness you find in the eye of a hurricane: electric and alive, and cast in livid green. She knew her eyes were smiling. He smiled back. "Okay now, Fox?" He nodded hesitantly. "You place or mine?" She smiled, her words a breathless whisper. "Mine's closer." His voice was a bit harsher than he'd probably intended and his smile faded as he searched her face. She ran her hand down his arm, laughing softly, reassuringly. He closed his eyes, concentrating again and she was merciful, pulling her hand away and slipping under his arm. He looked around to the rattle of her keys. He held her hand as they walked across the parking lot, apparently not trusting himself to touch her further until they were in his room. Then she kissed him again. It was some time later, with the world finally quiet and still, when he realized he had made love to her while still dressed: suit, jacket, tie hanging loose around his neck. Kay laughed at his amazement. And helped him rectify the oversight. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 4:03 AM. She woke to the pressure of his body shuddering against her. Kay smiled, turning to greet him with a low moan of pleasure, then realized his eyes were not closed in desire. He was asleep. Sweat was pouring off him. She remembered his warning and pulled him close, hugging him tightly, staying under his arms in case he woke fighting. Fox gasped, moving vaguely and she rubbed his back, keeping her voice low and calm, coaxing him back from the land of dementia. He struggled to respond, his body tensed in desperation, like it had when he'd first laid her on the bed. His hands then had spoken of too much death, of blood cold and dried on children's faces. Of the need to feel life, and love-- or at least it's sister, mercy. Kay stayed tucked tightly against him now, her voice at his ear soft and steady. She was listening, too: to his heartbeat as it calmed its frantic hammering, his breathing as it eased. His struggling ceased, though the trembling had not lessened. She felt his hands on her, light, tentative and questioning, then firmer, reassuring himself. Reassuring her. "Okay?" she whispered against his neck. She felt him nod hesitantly. *Okay.* She sat up, pushing with her hand on his chest and he rolled onto his back, his eyes quiet in the wounded face. She leaned down and kissed his eyelids, her hair cascading about his face, a shield, soft and merciful, against all he had seen. He allowed the kisses, turning his face to make it easier for her, but left his arms laying still, one flung to her side of the bed, the other laid across his ribs. She watched his eyes, moving her hand on his chest, feeling the dark hair curling beneath her fingers. She could feel his heart pounding bare inches below her palm, his breath shuddering to escape it's precious cage, and then returning anxiously. Her hand slid lower, comforting, caressing, and there was the contour of his ribs, the flatness of his stomach. And still he was quiet, watching her, but unmoving, unresponsive. She smiled and had resumed the slow downward slide of her hand when another wave of trembling shook him. "Fox?" He closed his eyes against her fear. There was little else he could do, she supposed. Kay pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, then covered him with it, with her, as she lay down upon him. The trembling subsided after a moment and he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to fit against him less awkwardly. He released his hold, sliding his hands to her thighs where they straddled him, searching her face. Kay gave him the smile he sought and felt the tension recede from the muscles across his abdomen, from his arms. She settled her hips gently and leaned to kiss his neck. Softly. Softly. She continued the caresses along his collarbone, his chest, going slow, trying to remember how he had begun the seduction so many hours before. He lay quietly under her, under her hands and mouth, a shiver taking him sporadically. She knew he could feel her reaction to his body beneath her, given her position it was impossible to hide. Yet he remained so utterly still... Her kisses became less chaste. She moved her mouth to his nipple, tugged insistently, teasing it with her tongue. She felt it harden beneath her lips and smiled again. Laughed softly when the hands on her thighs moved back up her hips. Mulder rolled her onto her back gently, finally responding to her kisses with soft ones of his own, pausing to breathe quietly against her as a final spasm shook him. It ceased and he moved his hands over her, slow and intimate and then suddenly she was spasming beneath him, feeling him warm and alive and glad to be alive, no longer desperate or frantic but slowly luxuriating in the power of life. She moaned her delight at the soft resonance of his laughter and covered his chest with feather kisses. XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX From: cslatton17@aol.com Date: Mon, 1 May 2000 19:47:04 EDT Subject: xfc: NEW: Mercury Falling Part 7 of 27 Source: xfc "Mercury Falling" by cslatton17@aol.com http://www.softlight.8m.com/ Part 7 of 27: No Left Turn Disclaimed in Part 1 Wednesday, May 11, 1988. 8:22 AM. Mulder was dressed-- slacks, dress shirt, wingtips-- when he noticed Kay watching him from the pillow. He held her eyes in the mirror, his fingers knotting his tie on reflex. The smile in her eyes traveled to her lips when he gave the silk a final tug and winked at her. She didn't rise, though, when he sat beside her and he had to lean over to kiss her. She pulled him closer, deepening the caress, hands moving up under his jacket to massage his back and shoulders. She was too damned warm, her skin too soft and the taste of her was almonds and honeydew in summer. He heard himself thinking such things and it terrified him, embarrassed him as if she might be capable of discerning his thoughts through the simple intimacy of a kiss. Her hands bespoke such knowledge, though; they moved across his body with the ease of one born knowing him. The truth of it made him giddy. The familiar burn of desire ravaging his gut and mixed with too many more things he couldn't afford to dwell on just now. He broke the kiss and pulled away; her response was a soft, startled "oh" that made her blush and his chest pound. She recovered quickly enough, however, and laced her fingers through his belt loops, capturing him before he could rise. Despite her desperation, she was careful to avoid the weapon on his hip; Mulder noted the fact and relented, retreating no further. "Hi, ya, Fox." "Hi yourself." His smile broadened with hers, and against his better judgment, he leaned to kiss her again. She received and gave with equal passion, her kiss overwhelming the fear in his heart, shattering his resolve. He slid his mouth down across her throat and buried his face in the billow of hair on the pillow, reluctant to release her, content to simply be here. "Say," she whispered against his neck, "isn't this how this got started last night? You dressed to the nines and me naked on the bed?" He laughed, swallowing her giggles with another kiss. Kay moved against him playfully; magical and omniscient, she knew he could not say no to her now-- and that he needed to. She laid her hands on his chest and pushed gently even as she welcomed his kiss, his fingers' brush against her right nipple. Mulder conceded reluctantly, resting his forehead against her shoulder, breathing the fragrance of her skin for later reference. His hands found hers, motionless against his chest, and wrapped them up, small and wise within his grip. "I've *got* to go to work," he whispered, a confession, a grief. She moaned and he realized his tone had been a bit more seductive than consciously intended, his breath doubtless too warm against her breast. She read his regret clearly enough, though, and smiled her forgiveness, squeezing the hands that held hers. He couldn't let her go so lightly, yet he was completely unable to locate the words that seemed necessary. He sat instead, fascinated by the play of morning sun against her skin as she breathed, his thumbs unconsciously swirling provocative patterns within her palms. Her face was still-- who could not regard such a creature as utterly perfect, beautified by gods-- her eyes spoke languages he feared to translate. She had to feel his heart pounding beneath her fingertips-- Ever merciful, she whispered her assurance. "You know where to find me, Fox. I'm not going anywhere." He shuddered in relief; she pretended not to notice and he rendered his thanks in one long soft kiss. She didn't struggle to hold him when he rose and crossed to the door. "Fox?" "Yeah?" He turned, stopped. She'd slipped the covers back, smiling again; she might be letting him go but she didn't intend to make it easy. "See you tonight?" she invited. Her smile faded uncertainly. He knew his appreciative leer had subsided too abruptly but he was struggling to recover his breath; it didn't help that his difficulties suddenly had nothing to do with desire. He covered with a feeble wink, his pupils still too dull and distant. "It's a date," he forced his own smile, lost it as he closed the door between them. His hand shuddered on the doorknob and just standing was a conscious effort. For one brief moment, he'd caught a glimpse of matted hair. And blood.... XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Chris' Cafe. 8:31 AM Purdue grimaced at his cup of coffee-flavored water and poured in another tablespoon of cream. If the stuff got any lighter, he could have ordered them to hold the coffee and just bring him a glass of milk. Still, it was about the only way he could handle decaf. He hated the stuff, only drank it when he remembered he'd promised his wife he'd take care of himself-- which wasn't often enough, he admitted. Sauceda sat across from him, straining his neck with twisting to look out over the parking lot for some sign of Mulder. Sauceda turned back around again and announced adamantly, "He'll be here any minute now, you'll see." The pathologist filled his mouth with fried egg and chatted around it. "Probably just late coming back from his run." The ASAC grunted noncommittally. He'd caught a glimpse of a young couple walking hand in hand from a certain diner last night and had little question about what kind of exercise had delayed the agent's breakfast hour. Purdue didn't offer the information to Sauceda, though; hell, it wasn't anybody's business but Mulder's and-- what was her name? Kay? Still he couldn't help but smile ruefully into his cup of creamer, recalling the image out his window. Purdue was no fool. He knew the rumors and the cover- ups that went on with the agents in his department, male and female: the all-night binges, the hangovers, the hooker parties, the "flight-delay" excuses... It was a tough job and the occasional radial release valve was expected. And the fact that Mulder was so rarely the subject of such rumors was a topic of uneasy speculation among the powers that be. Mulder was probably one of the more intensely investigated agents the Bureau had and they still hadn't found any dirt worth mentioning. Sure, there was that brawl in Baytown and another in Newport; Mulder had gained a reputation for being quick with his fists his first two weeks in the Academy. Aside from that, however, the man was notoriously decent: his few affairs had been short and discreet enough to escape notice, he rarely drank, had to be threatened to take even prescription drugs-- and he *never* allowed anything to interfere with the job. Point of fact, Mulder seemed to have no life at all outside his work. And it was just that fact that worried Purdue. It had worried Patterson, too. Because the sad but simple truth was, men didn't hold up to the kind of stress Mulder shouldered without some kind of occasional high-end release. It was especially true of young men: the blood was too impulsive, they were too ambitious; too much was on the line. So Purdue could appreciate the fact that he'd enjoyed a quiet night's rest rather than having to haul out in the wee hours to peel his agent, sodden drunk, off the floor of a whore house. If Mulder's only "vice" was an occasional fling with a diner waitress, well, the man was old enough to know to take precautions. And he was just too damned good to be true-- "... Just don't let him freak you out." "Excuse me?" Purdue frowned. Sauceda was a regular Chatty Cathy this morning; the ASAC should have ordered *him* the decaf. "I said, I know this is going to be a little unusual but just don't get freaked out. Marty knows what he's doing. Hell, we find half our bodies this way." "He just dreams them up and off you go to fetch them?" Sauceda grinned. "Just like Seattle. And Shreveport." The grin disappeared abruptly and Sauceda's eyes got hollow, remembering. "That first body in Shreveport-- that was a tough one. By the time we got called in they had seven bodies and Marty knew that they were too well staged to have been the first, that there had to more 'earlier works.' So, we hadn't been there a day, and we're driving down this road with the local sheriff, and Marty starts with his 'turn here, turn there' thing. The sheriff's just looking at him, you know, like he's thinking maybe this kid's just out cruising for massage parlors or something. Anyway. We get to this abandoned house and Marty has him drive to the back. The body'd been laid out in an old storm cellar. You can't even see it from the road. Hell, I couldn't even see it until Marty's standing on top of it, kicking the lock out to get at her. And there she was, just like he'd said. Blew that sheriff's mind clean away. Everything from then on out was Agent Mulder this and Special Agent Mulder that. Which, of course, really hacks Marty off--" Purdue frowned. Stuff like this had set the foundation of the "Spooky" legend surrounding Fox Mulder. And it was this kind of story that only rarely got written up in officer reports. The very things that might give the most insight into Mulder's work were often the things no one wanted to admit to, afraid of getting themselves labeled as crackpots. Instead, Mulder's bewildering talents were heralded by gossipmongers at water coolers, whispered in "off the record" conversations in deserted halls. And God only knew at what point the truth ended and rampant imaginations began. But this was insight from a man who should know-- Mulder's own partner for the past nine months. Unfortunately, Sauceda, the little bastard, was the worst gossip of all, a sensationalist from the cradle. The ASAC kept his tone skeptical, scarcely feigning interest. "So, that body was the first victim?" "Nope," Sauceda grinned sagely. "That's the thing, see? We really wanted to find the first victim. That would have been the killer's sloppiest work, 'til he got his technique down, you know? And he'd have left more clues with the earliest ones. But this was his seventh victim, and he was well practiced by then. Marty was damned near apologizing about hauling us to her first but he swore that he found her straight off because when he went looking," Sauceda tapped his forehead, "she stepped up first. Loudest. 'Cause she didn't like being alone, he said. He said she was afraid of the dark." Purdue hesitated, "Lenny, most kids are afraid of-" "No, no. Not like this. We ID'd her and I went with the sheriff to go see the parents. I asked them. They showed me her room. The kid slept with two lights on so in case one of the bulbs burned out, the other would still be on for her, so she wouldn't start screaming. They'd taken the door off the hinges, so she wouldn't feel closed in or alone either. Kid had a pile of stuffed animals on the bed, barely room for her. She slept with all of them. And the dog. Couldn't stand to be by herself. Or in the dark. And Marty knew that." "Sauceda--" "On the drive out to find the body, Marty told us what she'd be wearing. What had been done to her. In what order. Knew where she'd be found. What position she'd be lying in. The placement of her hands. Everything. He told us that on the rest of the bodies, too. Nineteen more." Sauceda swallowed hard, wincing at the effort, the memory apparently over-running his exhibitionist's tongue. Purdue had the Shreveport file damned near memorized and he could sympathize with the pathologist. All those autopsy reports. All those sweet little lives thrown away like so much garbage. Worse. Sauceda's voice was distant when he spoke again, his mind, no doubt, still somewhere south, in the swampy waters of Caddo Lake. "Marty told us the killer'd given the girl a candy bar when he picked her up. Mars Bar. But that her favorite was Baby Ruth. I asked her mom about that, too. Wild for Baby Ruth." Sauceda's glare was an accusation. "He coulda told you the same kind of things about that kid in Seattle. Only he's gotten so he doesn't like to tell that kinda stuff anymore. It scares people." Purdue shook his head. "So you're saying-- what? Mulder's telepathic or something?" There was a caustic taste in his mouth as he formed the words. "Empathic. Maybe. How the hell should I know? I'm just trying to tell you what I've seen, dammit. Look, you watch him day in and day out, watch those eyes get dull and dilated and listen to him whisper poetry to himself like most people pray, trying to comfort himself, trying to make sense of the senseless, insane shit of the world. Then you sit there with that look on your face and tell me how the hell else he does it. 'Cause I wanna know. Sir." Sauceda shoved his egg-streaked plate away and spent a few minutes apparently trying to wash out his mouth with coffee. "Shit," he declared to no one in particular, waving the waitress down for a refill. Purdue stared past the waitress' arm, watching a figure in dark blue striding across the parking lot, jacket swinging loose and easy. "So," he brooded, "you're saying when Mulder walks in here he'll look like he's just seen a ghost or--" "Hell no," Sauceda took another gulp, wincing as he choked the hot liquid down, "that's just it, Reg. He'll walk in like he's got the world by the tail: mirror shades and son-of-a-bitch mode full on. And *that's* how you know--" He was silenced by the expression on Purdue's face and the tinkling of the bell on the cafe door. He took a quick glance back and grimaced at the ASAC. "Told ya," he mourned. Mulder entered the diner just like he entered most rooms, with the confidence of the terminally unconcerned. Diner, motel, crime scene, morgue: Purdue had known him to grace each with the same indifferent stride. Only the constant motion of Mulder's head betrayed him now, his roving focus impatient, preoccupied, shades incapable of settling on any one thing for long. The profiler was immaculate as ever, suit too impossibly unwrinkled to have been shoved in a suitcase, cologne only subtly pervasive. He gave Purdue a cursory nod and plopped himself next to his partner. And instantly began drumming to the jukebox. Purdue listened to the tune a minute: Cheap Trick. Good band. Sauceda was frowning, though. "Say, Marty, didn't we discuss this hyperactivity of yours yesterday?" Mulder glanced over the shades at him briefly and completed his percussion solo as the waitress, a blonde with too much blue eye shadow, stopped to take his order. Coffee. Sauceda was obviously displeased. "You're not going to start this not-eating routine of yours again, are you, kid? 'Cause it's a little early in the case for--" "When my mother decides to vacate her position, I'll let you know, Len. Drop it." Sauceda gave Purdue a knowing look. The ASAC smiled. If this was the pathologist's idea of son-of-a-bitch mode, Purdue needed to introduce him to Walter Skinner when the auditors were in. Mulder poured about five tablespoons of sugar in his coffee and didn't bother to stir before downing it. "So, what's first on the agenda?" he asked pleasantly. Purdue pointedly maintained eye contact with the shades. "I thought we'd go for a drive. See the city." "Okay." Mulder's face was expressionless. "I'll drive." Sauceda's eyes got big. "You drive like a bat outta hell, Marty, especially if you've got someplace to be." He turned to the ASAC, pleading. "I swear. I ain't getting in the car with him behind the wheel." "There's nothing wrong with my driving--" Mulder protested solemnly. "Not usually, but if you take a notion to--" Sauceda paused. Even Purdue could feel the glare behind the gold glass. "If I take a notion to what?" Mulder demanded. Sauceda, damage done, clamed up to await the passing storm in silence. The profiler swore and swung to Purdue. "Look, if I'm going to be continually discussed behind my back like some freaking lab rat, maybe you should ship me back to BSU." He grimaced and looked down. "Sir." "Fair enough, agent," Purdue answered evenly. He ignored the hiss in Mulder's voice, noting the trembling in his fingers as Mulder clenched the coffee cup. Instinct assured him it was not anger. The ASAC shrugged, seeking to lighten the mood. "Your partner here seems to be under the impression that you have something to show us. Is that right?" Mulder regarded him a moment; the shades couldn't hide the convulsive bob of his Adam's apple. "Same routine as Seattle," Mulder shouldered a levity he obviously didn't feel. "I've got a body. Somewhere to the northwest. Take the highway. I'll know when we get close." He looked away quickly, swallowing again as he shrugged. "So how're we going to explain this to Harris?" "You let me worry about Harris," Purdue ordered. He glanced at Sauceda. "And the driving." Mulder shrugged again and remained silent, watching as the blonde, unbidden, refilled his coffee cup. Sauceda had been watching his partner closely. Now he raised his eyebrows at Purdue and his voice went quiet. "So, Marty, what's this one look like?" he asked soberly. Mulder's jaw twitched, threatening. "You'll see her when we get there," he growled. "I'm not your goddam performing seal." Without another word, Mulder rose and slammed out of the diner. Sauceda favored the ASAC with an apologetic shrug and followed. Mulder strode back across the parking lot, Sauceda skittering after. Purdue watched the performance languidly; he was the ASAC, after all. He was perfectly free to finish his coffee in peace while his agents cooled their heels at the car. He was the one calling the shots here. He was the one in control. He looked down into the tasteless cup with it halfway to his lips. Oh, hell, might as well get this comedy on the road... XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Mulder sat in front with Purdue, which didn't keep Sauceda from at least having his face shoved in the front seat. The pathologist choked as the wind from the open window periodically blew Mulder's cigarette smoke back into the car. "Marty. You need to give those things up, kid. They'll kill you." "Promise?" "Marty--" "If I toss it, will you stop your incessant babbling? Christ, you act like you're on meth or something." Eliciting the vow, Mulder let the cigarette sail out the window. Purdue enjoyed a minute of silence before the profiler flipped the radio on. Rolling Stones. Mulder nodded approvingly, drumming on his thigh with one hand. He cradled the other against the door and absently chewed his thumb. Sauceda promptly slapped at him from the backseat. "Stop that." "What?" "Chewing your thumb. Jeez, whatsamatta, you're momma wean you too early or something?" "Hey, you're the breast man, as I recall--" "You little bastard. That gets back to Imelda and I'll--" "Yeah, right. Like she's little Miss Faithful while you're out here--" Purdue felt his seat jerk as Sauceda exploded. "Goddamn you, you take that back, you son of a bitch. That's my wife-- and I never touched that girl in Dallas--" "Hey!" Mulder turned in the seat and Purdue wondered if he was about to have a fistfight on his hands. Mulder's voice was sincere enough, though. "I'm sorry, Len. That was out of line. I didn't mean it. Hey, you listening?" "Yeah, well--" Sauceda shrank back in his seat, apparently uncertain of just what to do with the anger just then. Or with Mulder's mercurial mood. Purdue watched the man in the rearview mirror. Sauceda was hurt, his expression confused when he glanced up, down and up again at his partner. He was managing to choke his rage down for Marty Mulder, though. Purdue would have to remember that. Len sputtered quietly for a minute. "Well, you know," Sauceda managed to cover at last, "a guy gets lonely on the road. Thinks about things. You know? That he shouldn't sometimes. That's all. That's all that was, Marty. Honest." Mulder slumped back down in his seat, staring forward, his face an undecipherable mask. "Yeah," he said. After a minute, there was a chuckle from the backseat. "You know, Imelda says that considering the number of bodies I've seen molested and whatever, if my libido hasn't gone south by now, my body chemistry must be pretty much immune to anything. What's Freud or Jung say about that, Marty?" Mulder closed his eyes-- Purdue could tell because he had him in profile. "Psychology 101, Len. The drive for life is strong in everyone. No matter how twisted the individual." "Yeah, I guess so-- Hey! Who're you calling twisted?" Mulder sighed wearily, turned to Purdue. "Take a left at the light. And put some speed on it, wil you? He's giving me a headache." Sauceda's face was back in the front seat. "You wanna talk about twisted--" "No," Mulder answered and was promptly ignored. "--How about that gal you cuffed in Baytown?" "Oh, so, I was supposed to know she *liked* being handcuffed?" "Well, you know the earring in her tongue would have given *me* some indication--" Mulder sat up suddenly, pointing, gripping Purdue's arm insistently. "Here. Turn here." Purdue obeyed, tires squealing dully. A street of walkup tenements. Lower middle-class. Identical buildings lining both sides of the road. Purdue shifted his vision from the light traffic to the agent, electric beside him. Mulder scanned the rows of windows as Purdue slowed the Chevy to a crawl. The ASAC shook his head at the rearview mirror and Sauceda gave him that wicked little grin he'd used in Harris' car. Mulder was chewing his lip. Halfway down the block. Three quarters and Purdue sighed. Almost to the second light-- "Stop," Mulder barked. Purdue pulled to the curb and hadn't gotten fully parked when Mulder hopped out and paced back up the street to the stoop they'd just passed. Sauceda waited until the car was still and ran to catch up. By the time Purdue had reached the building, Mulder had found the landlord's door and was fidgeting as a myopic man stared at his badge. "In my building?" the man looked from Mulder to Sauceda, his eyes growing wider as he caught site of Purdue. Purdue maintained an authoritative presence but kept his distance. No sense making the super feel like he was being surrounded. Might come in handy later, though. Mulder repeated himself. "Would you get your keys and accompany us? Please." The man scratched his T-shirt a moment, and closed the door in Mulder's face without further comment. The three men were regarding one another blankly when the door re-opened and the burly gentleman re-emerged, slippers flopping, keys jangling. "Which apartment?" he demanded. "Upstairs." Mulder preceded them up, runner's legs taking two steps at a time. The super was huffing not even half the way up. "Who called this in? Huh? Nobody told *me* nothin'--" They made the second floor and followed Mulder as he made a sweep of the doors, examining each as though he expected someone to just open up and invite him in. Purdue grabbed Sauceda's arm; the little pathologist just grinned and tried to keep pace. The only way the super was keeping pace was verbally. "Hey, I run a legit place here. Inspectors were out, what, two weeks ago? Gave me a clean bill a health. Well, 'cept for that little incident in 12. But hey, I got that taken care straight off. Booted 'em right out. Legally, though-- Hey, I know tenants got rights- -" The landlord was beginning to remind Purdue of Sauceda on a nervous streak: non-stop yap. The ASAC had him fairly well tuned out halfway round the second floor, just nodding and uh-huhing occasionally. It was clear Mulder had tuned him out as soon as he'd heard the keys rattle. Right now, Mulder was making for the stairs again, on his way up to the third floor. The super blanched, following dutifully. "Say, this ain't about that letter that bunch in 302 sent to the Federal Housing Commission, is it? 'Cause I can explain all that--" Mulder began his step-and-pause dance on this floor as well. Two doors. Three doors. Four. Five. He stopped abruptly, the hulking super almost slamming into him. Mulder turned and pushed past him, past Purdue and the grinning Sauceda, back to apartment 304. He laid one hand on the door and interrupted the super's babbling. "Who lives here?" "Uh." Again, the myopic stare. "Three-oh-four? That's Mary Kelly. No. Michele Kelly. Something like that. It's on the rent agreement--" "Open it," Mulder demanded. "You ain't even knocked," the super protested. Mulder didn't take his eyes off the little man, rapping the side of his fist against the wood like he was out to wake the dead. "She's not answering," he explained even as he pounded. "Open it." The super squinted at Purdue and the ASAC nodded. He fumbled for his keys, paused and fumbled again, gaping as Mulder donning latex gloves. "Say," he mused slowly, "don't you need a warrant or something?" Purdue sighed. "Sir, do you own these premises?" The man looked up from working the doorknob. "Sure." "Are you opening this door under threat of force?" The super swung his head uncertainly between the three men, pausing to scrutinize the man in the shades a little more closely. "No..." His answer sounded doubtful. "Then we have the something," Purdue advised. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer that we file for a warrant--" The verb 'file' apparently held unpleasant associations and the super shook his head vehemently. "No. No, sir. No problem." He pushed the door open almost triumphantly, glancing in; his face blanched, white as cigarette ash. Mulder pushed him back and took one step inside. "Hello, Ms. Kelly," Purdue heard him whisper.