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Lacrimae Mundi by Brandon D. Ray
BEGUN: February 10, 2000
FINISHED: April 19, 2000
DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere is fine, as long as these headers remain intact. But please let me know where, so I can visit. If you want a nice clean copy all in one piece, email me and I’ll send it to you. You are more than welcome to link to the copy at my site — although, again, please let me know that you’re doing it.
CATEGORIES: X-File (MOTW), Romance, Angst
KEYWORDS: MSR. MulderAngst. ScullyAngst. Mulder/other (past)
SUMMARY: After losing his mother and finally learning Samantha’s fate, Mulder has been set adrift, and is unsure of how to proceed with his life. Will investigating a series of brutal murders help him find a new focus? And will Scully’s caring and concern be enough to hold him together while he tries?
RATING: NC-17
CONTENT STATEMENT: Contains both explicit sex and explicit violence, sometimes occurring simultaneously. Sexual content includes both hetsex and m/m slash. Some people might consider some of the sexual content to be non-consensual.
TIMELINE: This story takes place in the second half of Season 7, two or three weeks after SUZ/Closure.
SPOILER STATEMENT: Anything through “Closure” is fair game, but NONE of the subsequent episodes have occurred. There are also some non-specific but important spoilers for “all things” — although, again, the events in that episode have not yet occurred.
DISCLAIMER: If I owned them, I would no longer be making monthly mortgage payments. It’s as simple as that.
THANKS AND CREDITS: To Brynna, Narida, Paulette, Sharon, Shawne and Trixie, for brainstorming and beta and all that good stuff. Thanks to McKab and Thomas Hong, for research on New York City morgue facilities, and to Blackwood, for helping me find my way around the seamier parts of NYC.
And of course … any shortcomings in this story are my own responsibility, and not those of the wonderful folks who devoted so much time and effort to helping me put it together.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Don’t you hate shooting at a moving target? I started this story right after SUZ aired in the United States, and subsequently incorporated the events in “Closure”, as well. I knew there was more to come, and I even had an inkling as to some of it, since I’m a spoiler whore. And so I took a guess at how Mulder’s reaction to the events of Closure might play out, and I turned out to be wrong. Oh, well.
So as I said in the SPOILER section, this story is set post-Closure, AND BEFORE ANY OF THE SUBSEQUENT EPISODES HAVE OCCURRED. Developments on the show have in some ways passed me by, but I still like this story, and I hope that you enjoy the ride.
Lacrimae Mundi
by Brandon D Ray
“It is a lonely life, the way of the necromancer… oh, yes. Lacrimae Mundi – the tears of the world.”
— Merlin, “Excaliber”
Prologue
The music isn’t loud enough, but for tonight it will have to do. The volume is already cranked as high as it will go.
He resists the temptation to stop what he’s doing and study the canvas. To study it would be to overintellectualize it; it would mean sucking the life from his work. The urge to do so is almost overwhelming, but he fights it down. That’s just what they want him to do, and he refuses to succumb.
This will be his work. His art. It will belong to no one else.
He must not study the work; he must not think about it. He must feel it. He must immerse himself in it, and make himself manifest; he present himself on the canvas — and thus, to the world.
As always, when the work is going well, his body is bathed in sweat. It drips from his face and runs in rivulets down his neck and lower body. He wears no clothes tonight; he never wears clothes when he works. Clothes are an obstacle; an artificiality. They only get in the way of true art.
He continues to move about the studio, dancing now, swaying in time to the pounding and throbbing of the music. In his mind, he begins to see it, as it slowly appears out of the darkness, red and glowing and angry. It has no form and no substance, but he knows that it will have. Soon, very soon, it will live.
He’s whirling and spinning, attacking the canvas with paint, red and yellow and blue, an assault done in oil. The music pours across him and through him, driving his rage before it, pushing him, forcing him to move faster and harder and deeper into the darkness. He can see the thing more clearly now, he can see it begin to take on shape and form. He can see it begin to look human — harsh and ugly and human.
He can see it.
And now there are tears on his face, mingling with the sweat that still pours from his brow. A part of him wants to stop, wants desperately to pull back and away from the chasm that’s rapidly opening up before him. But he knows he will not; he knows he cannot. His anger has only one outlet, and this is it. If he does not allow himself this release, if he attempts to bottle it all up inside, it will destroy him, rather than them.
And they so richly deserve this fate. They deserve nothing but pain and horror and contempt, and as he remembers this, as he remembers all the suffering and humiliation they’ve earned, his doubts quickly fall away, leaving nothing behind but the rage.
The rage.
The rage.
The thing in his mind is now fully formed, huge and hard and solid, glowing with a dull, red heat. He moves closer to the canvas, holding the creature in his mind as tightly as he holds the brush in his hand. He can see it all, now; he can see it as if it were happening before his eyes. His brush flies frantically across the canvas, trying to capture the moment, his heart swelling with emotion, growing larger with each stroke, and he sees it all, he feels himself sinking down, down, down, until he becomes —
The man in the tavern, abruptly consumed by lust. His gaze moves restlessly around the smoky room, searching, searching, sliding past one patron after another, until finally it falls upon the woman. Until this moment, until this instant, he did not know why he was here. He did not realize that he was sent to find this woman, and unite with her, but now he knows. He can feel it ….
She knows, too, and he can also feel that. He feels it as a stirring deep in his groin, a needy, demanding surge that will not be denied. And even as he’s rising from the barstool, he sees her also coming to her feet, a feral smile appearing on her face as she walks slowly towards him ….
Without quite knowing how it has happened, they’re in the alley behind the bar. The woman is backed up against the wall, her skirt around her waist, her panties lying torn and discarded on the ground. He’s thrusting into her, driving into her, harder, harder, harder. Her legs are wrapped around his waist; her arms tight about his shoulders. Her breath against the side of his neck is hot and moist and harsh ….
A small, distant part of him, deep down inside, is screaming for him to stop. He doesn’t understand why he’s doing this; he doesn’t want to be doing this. That small, distant part of him already knows how this will end, and its cries of protest are awash with fear and horror. But those cries can barely be heard; they’re so lost and far away. And his hips keep driving into the woman, moving in time to the beat of some unheard melody, driving, driving, driving, seeking the ultimate release ….
And then suddenly its there; the climax is upon them, pounding from his body to hers and back again, seeming almost like a living thing. Her hands are clutching convulsively at him, clawing at him, frantically digging into his back and shoulders, and she’s crying out, her voice raw and hoarse, and then the knife appears as if from nowhere, filling his hand, and in another instant her screams turn from pleasure to pain ….
The artist returns to himself, at last. He is alone again, in the studio, standing before the easel. It was so simple, so necessary, so right, but as before, it has left him drained and empty. Strangely unfulfilled. And he weeps, his tears falling from his cheeks, spattering across the canvas, mixing with the still-wet paint ….
The music continues to play.
Chapter One
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday, March 7, 2000
8:05 a.m.
Scully was going to be late for work, and she had no one but herself to blame.
That was not entirely true, she thought grimly, as she steered her car through the morning rush hour traffic. But it was true enough. Her alarm had not gone off, and in the end she was responsible for that, because she’d apparently forgotten to set it the night before.
Again.
She’d been having difficulty with her alarm clock for nearly two months now; ever since she killed Donnie Pfaster. She knew perfectly well, on an intellectual level, that Pfaster was the source of her problem. The memory of her clock reading “666” the morning he escaped from prison had burned itself into her memory, and that was making it hard for her to deal with the damned thing.
It wasn’t that she had to force herself to set it, though. That would be too easy; she could have worked her way past that. No, what was happening was that she was having trouble remembering to take care of it at all. Not every night, but about one night a week, she found herself drifting off to sleep, and then suddenly remembering that she hadn’t switched on her alarm. And very occasionally — like last night, apparently — she forgot about it entirely.
Scully swore as a battered station wagon abruptly changed lanes, cutting her off. Morning rush hour traffic in Washington could be infuriating; sometimes she almost wished she were an ordinary cop, so she could pull people like that over and write them up. But for an FBI agent, of course, that would be serious overkill ….
A few seconds of sharp maneuvering brought Scully into the clear once again, and she pressed down on the accelerator a little harder, trying to make up for lost time. And, inevitably, her thoughts returned to the alarm clock.
There was another element to the problem, of course: Mulder. Or rather, his absence. She didn’t have this difficulty on the nights they slept together, and not only because he understood about her problem, and took care of the alarm himself on those occasions. No, the whole thing was just easier to deal with when he was there. Scully would never admit it to anyone, least of all to Mulder, but she felt more secure and content when he slept next to her. Safer.
Unfortunately, those times had been few and far between since Mulder’s mother had died, and after they finally found out about Samantha’s fate.
At first he’d seemed very calm and accepting; he even told her that he felt as if he’d finally been set free, and Scully had thought he just needed a little space, a chance to regain his center. She’d wanted to help him, of course; she’d wanted to offer him the comfort of her love. But their personal relationship had only begun on New Year’s Eve, and everything was so new and uncertain that she’d been afraid of making things worse. And in the end that fear, reinforced by her own resistance to emotional intimacy, had won out.
Lately she’d come to realize that she’d made a mistake. Mulder was very dependent on the people around him for emotional support; she’d known that for a long time. His tendency to withdraw into himself was the result of a quarter of a century of mistreatment by those he loved and trusted. His mother’s suicide had simply added fuel to the fire, and Scully was now berating herself for allowing him to push her away.
Samantha was also an issue, of course. Although Mulder had seemed genuinely relieved at having the matter of his sister’s disappearance finally settled, Scully had not been surprised when a secondary reaction of depression set in. Her partner had focused his entire adult life on finding Samantha; it was completely predictable that when that focus was suddenly and finally taken away, he would feel lost and without purpose.
She was going to have to change that, and it wasn’t going to be easy. It had been nearly a decade since she’d been seriously involved with a man, and even then, she hadn’t been very good at taking the lead or showing her feelings. But she was just going to have to do it, she told herself firmly. Mulder needed her, and that was the only thing that mattered.
At last she found herself pulling into the Hoover Building’s underground garage. Not too bad, she thought, glancing at her watch as she grabbed her briefcase and laptop and headed for the elevator. It was only 8:20. It could have been much, much worse.
Scully decided to swing through the cafeteria before going to the basement. Mulder had almost certainly not had anything for breakfast; he was probably already on his third cup of coffee, but that would was most likely all he’d had. He hadn’t been eating well the past few weeks, and she decided that trying to do something about that would be the first step in her campaign to show him that she cared. Little things could mean a lot, after all.
And so it was that she walked into the X-Files office a few minutes later, bearing a tray laden with bagels and orange juice. As she’d expected, Mulder was already there. As she’d also expected, he was staring at his computer screen, his finger clicking the mouse button every few seconds. Random surfing, she thought. He’d been spending a lot of time on the web since they got back from California, not doing anything in particular as far as she could tell. Another sign of his withdrawal.
Another thing that she was determined to change.
“Hey, Partner,” she said softly, after it became evident that he wasn’t going to acknowledge her presence. “Sorry I’m late. But I did bring you breakfast.”
For a moment she thought he was going to continue to ignore her, and she glanced at the computer screen to see what was holding his interest. He was to be looking the web page for something called the New York Sanctuary for Contemporary Art — an art museum, apparently. He was currently scrolling past a series of thumbnail images, but they were too small and the screen was moving too quickly for her to get a really good look at them. Just as she was about to speak again, he stopped, bookmarked and closed the page, and turned in his chair to face her.
“Scully,” he said faintly, as if he were mildly surprised to see her standing there. His features were drawn and sad, as they had been since that horrible night. As long as she’d known him, there’d been shadows hovering around Fox Mulder, but now it seemed as if they had finally settled down to stay, and were gradually soaking into his skin.
And that was unacceptable.
Scully put the tray down on Mulder’s desk, pushing aside a file to make room. She then stepped across the small room and grabbed a chair, pulled it over next to him and sat down, deliberately positioning herself so that her knee brushed against his. Mulder flinched slightly at the touch, but Scully did her best not to appear to notice. Contact, Partner, she thought. You and I are going to have some of that this morning.
“Food, huh?”
Mulder’s voice pulled Scully back out of her own thoughts, and now she studied his face, briefly but thoroughly. To anyone else, she knew that he would appear unchanged from when she’d entered the office. But she was so familiar with him, so accustomed to looking at him and interpreting his expession, that she had no difficulty detecting the slight wariness that now crept across his features.
“That’s right,” she said calmly, looking him steadily in the eye. “Food. As in breakfast.” She picked up one of the bottles of orange juice, shook it slightly, and twisted off the cap and handed the bottle to him. “I was just reading a monograph about it the other day. It’s the latest thing in preventive medicine.”
Mulder actually smiled slightly at her weak attempt at humor, and Scully felt her heart lighten a little. He was still there, and she could still reach him. Everything could still work out okay. “I hear all the cool kids are doing it,” he replied levelly, and then he took a sip of juice. Scully rewarded him with a smile.
“There,” she said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Mulder hesitated, then shrugged. “No, I guess not.” He took another sip, a little larger than the last. “I’m ….” His voice trailed off and he shook his head helplessly. “I’m sorry, Scully.” He waved at the bagels sitting on his desk. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”
“I don’t have to do this, Mulder,” she responded, refusing to allow him to break eye contact. “I want to do it. Because I care about you.” She held his gaze for one more moment, then leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, before finally turning towards the desk, picking up one of the bagels and smearing cream cheese on it.
“What’d you get?”
Scully thought she detected reluctant interest in her partner’s voice, and she smiled once more. “You’re the profiler, Mulder,” she said, finally turning to face him again and handing him the bagel. “What do you think I got for you?”
This time his smile seemed a little less cautious and insecure, and he said, “My favorite?” He held it up to his noise and sniffed at it. “But Scully, you hate garlic.”
“That’s right,” she agreed, once again catching and holding his gaze with her own as she carefully maintained the serene deadpan expression that she knew he loved. “And that alone should tell you how serious I am about this. That I freely and without coercion brought you a garlic bagel.”
“That is pretty remarkable,” he said solemnly. “Worthy of a lengthy entry in my diary, I’m sure.”
“Mulder, I don’t even want to think about what might be in your diary,” Scully replied, continuing to maintain her cool, professional demeanor. “Now why don’t you start on that bagel, and while you’re eating you can tell me about the new case we just got.” The last was a shot in the dark, based on the file folder on his desk and the unusual interest he’d been showing in the art museum’s web page. But when he raised his eyebrows at her statement, she knew she was right.
“And you say I’m the profiler,” he murmured. He paused and took a small bite of the bagel, then as he chewed he pulled the folder over in front of him and opened it, briefly skimming the cover page before beginning his presentation.
“Kimberly brought this to me a few minutes after I got here this morning,” he explained. “Apparently Skinner’s in budget meetings over at Justice all morning, and he felt the file was self-explanatory.”
“What does it concern?” she asked, pulling her chair a little closer to the desk as she automatically dropped into her full professional persona.
“A series of murders in the Manhattan area,” her partner replied, pausing for another sip of juice. His voice was halting and uncertain at first, but as he continued his explanation, he gradually seemed to pick up strength and energy.
“There have been three so far,” Mulder went on. “All of them were extremely brutal.” He turned over several pages in the folder, revealing photographs of the victims: a man lying in a shower stall, his head beaten to an almost unrecognizable pulp; another man, sprawled on a king-sized, four-poster bed, looking as if he’d been partially eaten by some sort of animal; a woman, her eye sockets nothing but bloody wounds and her upper body one massive bruise, lying sprawled across the counter in what appeared to be a fast food restaurant.
All of the victims were nude.
Scully shook her head, but forced herself not to look away. She’d seen worse, of course, but she’d never gotten used to it. God willing, she never would. Nevertheless, she studied each picture with slow deliberation, trying to absorb all the details she could, before going on to the next. Finally she looked back up at her partner.
“Serial killer?” she asked.
He shook his head, and in the distant place where she had pushed the part of her that was Fox Mulder’s lover, Scully felt a small surge of joy as she realized that her partner was gradually reemerging, at least a little. They’d been needing an assignment, she realized. They hadn’t been out in the field since the conclusion of the LaPierre case. This would be good for both of them.
“It doesn’t look like it,” Mulder was saying, picking up the pace of conversation even further. “For one thing, as you can see, the method used varied from one incident to the next. Also, there’s no apparent pattern in the selection of victims. Both of these factors are uncharacteristic of the serial killer.” His lips quirked slightly, and he added, “And then, of course, there’s the biggest objection. In each instance, the alleged killer was immediately taken into custody. All three of them have already confessed.”
Scully felt her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “I don’t get it,” she commented. “If the locals have already made arrests, and there’s no apparent connection between these murders, why are we being asked to investigate?”
“That’s an excellent question, Agent Scully,” her partner replied with a small smile. “And the answer is that someone on the NYPD is learning to think outside the box.” He flipped through the folder and extracted what appeared to be the cover sheet. “A Detective Burks has requested that the Bureau take a look. As I’m sure you can imagine, the New York field office was less than enthralled by the prospect, and bucked it on down to Headquarters. Eventually, it wound up on Skinner’s desk.”
“I still don’t see the point,” Scully objected. “What is there to investigate?”
“I wasn’t sure of that, myself,” Mulder responded. “Until I read Burks’ report, that is. He noticed that there does seem to be a link connecting these cases. Not between the victims, though; between the killers. Each of them is a respected member of the New York art community. One is a museum curator; the second is on the faculty at NYU; the third seems to be something of a dilettante, but apparently has enough money to have bought himself a seat at the table, so to speak.”
“Do they know each other?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t prove much,” her partner said. “The art world in New York City is very tightly knit and insular, almost like a small town. These people all know each other, and the three suspects have all served on various boards and foundations together at one time or another — although not all three of them at the same time, so far as anyone’s been able to find out. And, of course, none of them were acquainted with their respective victims prior to killing them.”
Scully shook her head. “So what you’re saying is … what? That these three men conspired to commit brutal murders against a series of randomly selected strangers?”
“No,” Mulder replied, shaking his own head. “In the first place, one of the suspects is a woman.” He held up the photograph of the man whose body had been chewed. “Victim number two, Marvin Draper, was murdered by one Sylvia Denson, that NYU faculty member I mentioned. Married, and by all accounts — including her own — happily so. Three children. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
“But also by her own account,” he went on, “she picked Draper up on a subway platform, went with him back to his hotel room, engaged in sexual intercourse, and then deliberately bit through his carotid artery at the moment of climax.” He dropped the picture back on the pile. “The rest of the bite marks were apparently inflicted while she was waiting for the police.”
Scully felt her eyes widening. “You mean she just sat around afterwards until the authorities came?”
“Better than that,” Mulder said laconically. “She was the one who called 911.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.” Her partner paused for another bite of his bagel. “And that brings me to the other thing that ties these cases together. The confessions are eerily similar. Each suspect can describe the event in vivid detail, and has made no attempt to deny his or her guilt. Each of them also remained at the crime scene until the cops came — in two of the three cases, the killer actually called the police. Finally, each of them characterized the incident as something that seemed to be happening to someone else; they said it was almost as if they were standing outside their own bodies, watching it all go down. ‘My body did it.’ That phrase occurs repeatedly in all three confessions.”
“So is that the X-File?” Scully asked, consciously suppressing the urge to be openly incredulous. They needed this case, she reminded herself. They needed to get out in the field again. Even if this turned out to be a dead end, as she suspected it would, it would still be good for them. But she couldn’t resist tweaking Mulder, just a little. “You suspect some sort of out-of-body experience, or something?”
“Perhaps,” he replied. From the glint of amusement and appreciation in his eyes it was apparent that he knew exactly what she was doing. “Or possibly possession.” A slow smile spread across his face. “Or it could even be a coincidence, Agent Scully. But we won’t know unless we go and look, now will we?”
Chapter Two
U.S. Airways Flight 6362
Somewhere over New Jersey
Tuesday, March 7, 2000
1:48 p.m.
Scully stared out the window at the sunlight glinting off the Atlantic Ocean, and thought about how much of her life these past seven years had been spent on airplanes.
It was really quite a remarkable total. Early in her partnership with Mulder she’d kept a log, and assuming that their travel had continued at the rate she recorded those first few months, she must now have well over five hundred hours in the air, just since starting to work on the X-Files. And that didn’t even count time spent driving to and from airports, waiting for delayed or connecting flights, waiting at baggage claim ….
She looked away from the window and snuck a glance at Mulder, snoozing in the seat next to her. How typical that one of them should fall asleep on the plane, even on such a short flight. But how atypical that it should be him. Usually she was the one who fell asleep, as a defense mechanism against the fear of flying she had never managed to completely shake. She’d long since lost track of how many times she’d awakened during the final approach to some airport, her head resting comfortably on her partner’s shoulder.
And yet, today it was Mulder who dozed, and she, Scully, who was having no difficulty staying awake. Another defense mechanism, she supposed, on both their parts. Sleep was Mulder’s way of avoiding the tedium that would inevitably lead him to thinking about his mother and his sister, while this unusual wakefulness was Scully’s way of maintaining a vigil, and keeping him safe.
She had done the same thing the night his mother died, and again the night they finally proved beyond any doubt that Samantha was dead.
In the first instance, Mulder had broken down completely, and the tears hadn’t stopped until he finally fell into an exhausted sleep. In the second, he’d remained dry-eyed, but very, very still, so still that Scully was never quite sure when he finally drifted off. But in each instance, she cuddled with him in bed, holding him through the night, staying awake in fulfillment of an unspoken commitment to guard him while he slept. Offering as much comfort as she could.
Offering as much comfort as he would accept.
Even now, though, even as he slept, he didn’t seem as if he was really resting. His body was still — there was none of the tossing and turning that characterized some of his nightmares. But even so, he was not calm; his brow was furrowed, as if he were deep in thought, and his lips twitched intermittently.
Hesitantly, remembering her resolve to reach out and try to help, Scully gently stroked her partner’s forehead. She didn’t want to wake him; the flight crew’s announcement of their final approach to LaGuardia would do that, soon enough. But she did want to soothe him, and perhaps remind his sleeping self that he was not, after all, alone.
And to her immense gratification, it worked. Under her gentle touch, she saw the wrinkles disappear and the frown lines ease. Mulder’s eyelids flickered slightly, and he mumbled something that she couldn’t quite make out. Then he spoke again, a little louder, and this time she could hear him.
He was speaking her name.
For an instant, Scully’s hand froze in place, and she felt tears filling her eyes. He recognized her; he recognized her touch, and it was calming him and helping him relax. She didn’t understand why she was so surprised and moved by the discovery, but she was. It was just the reaction she’d hoped for, of course — but she had not, deep down in her heart, expected Mulder’s response to be so immediate, or so quietly dramatic.
She gave his forehead one more soft caress, and then withdrew her hand and settled back in her seat. For another moment she sat quietly, watching him, wanting to make sure the change would be a lasting one. Finally, she turned her attention back to the casefile sitting on her lap.
Manhattan Detention Complex
Manhattan, NY
4:01 p.m.
“Agent Mulder? I’m Paul Burks, NYPD. We spoke on the phone.”
Mulder nodded as he took the detective’s hand. The man’s grip was brisk but firm, and Mulder found himself taking an instant liking to him. He was tall and bulky, with dark, almost olive-colored skin, and light blond hair done in a buzzcut. He appeared to be in his late 30s, and wore an open, friendly expression on his moon-shaped face. His clothes were conservative, and looked expensive.
“And this must be Agent Scully,” Burks said, offering his hand to Mulder’s partner with the same economy of movement he’d used in shaking Mulder’s hand. As he continued speaking, the hint of a southern drawl that Mulder had heard on the phone became apparent.
“I’m very pleased to meet you both,” the detective went on, allowing his hand to drop back to his side. “And I must say I’m impressed by the response to my report. I thought perhaps your New York office might send someone over to ask a few questions. I never imagined that two agents would be sent all the way from Washington.”
“We’re from a special unit,” Mulder replied, giving his standard explanation for the existence of the X-Files. “We focus on investigating unexplained and paranormal phenomena. The way your report was written it got routed to our A.D., and he passed it on to us.”
“Paranormal phenomena?” Burks repeated, his eyebrows rapidly climbing towards his hairline. “You mean U.F.O.s and ghosts and stuff like that? And my tax dollars are paying for this?” Mulder felt his hackles starting to rise at what he assumed was the derision behind the man’s words, but before he could respond, the detective went on, “That’s great! As I’m sure you know, cops see a lot of strange things that tend to get swept under the rug. It’s good to know that somebody’s paying attention.”
Mulder blinked in surprise, but before he could think of a reply the detective had turned away and was leading them through the crowded reception area of the detention center.
As they made their way further into the building, Mulder speculated on the source of Burks’ comment. It was certainly true enough that police sometimes saw things that they didn’t report, because they wouldn’t be believed. That was how the X-Files got started after all, half a century earlier — as a dumping ground for those unexplained incidents that did get reported.
But was that really all Burks had on his mind? Despite the stories that circulated in locker rooms and squad cars, most cops were pretty hard-nosed, and didn’t take such things very seriously. So why was this one so much more open to the idea? Just the luck of the draw?
For that matter, Mulder wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the paranormal anymore. Originally, the X-Files had just been an entree, a way of diverting official Bureau resources to help him in his search for Samantha. Over the years, they had grown to be much more than that, but now that his quest was finally at an end, and he had his answer, he wasn’t sure if there was enough there to hold his interest.
More than anything else, this was why he’d become so withdrawn from Scully the past few weeks. He knew he’d been doing it; he’d seen it happening. But he’d been so self-absorbed he couldn’t seem to stop himself, even though it was clearly worrying her — and perhaps hurting her, as well.
The problem was that he didn’t know how to raise the issue. He couldn’t just walk up to her and say it, could he? He couldn’t just say, “Well, Scully, now that we’ve found out what happened to my sister, what say we close up shop and go back to the real world?”
Could he?
Because that was exactly what he wanted to do, some days.
“Agent Mulder?”
Mulder realized that they’d come to a halt in front of a door guarded by two uniformed correction officers, and that Burks was now looking at him inquiringly. The detective had apparently said something, but Mulder didn’t have a clue as to what it might have been. Dammit, he had to pay better attention than that —
“Yes, Detective Burks, we’ve both read the file,” Scully was saying. Glancing down at his partner, Mulder saw that her expression was as smooth and professional as her voice. “Has there been any change since your report was faxed to Washington?”
Burks shook his head. “No. McSparran is standing by his confession, and he’s still refusing legal counsel. He’s made no effort to hire a lawyer, although he could probably afford one. The public defenders have been over here a couple of times, too, but he wouldn’t talk to them, either.”
“Will he talk to us?” Scully asked.
“I think so,” the detective responded, now focusing all of his attention on Scully.
That was okay, Mulder thought, feeling a slight sense of relief. Scully could handle this; he’d let her take the lead. She had seemed to be interested in this case, after all; that was the main reason he hadn’t offered any resistance to it. When she arrived at work that morning, Mulder had been seriously considering waiting until Skinner got back from his meetings, and then trying to persuade the A.D. that there was nothing here of interest. But Scully really seemed to want this case, for some reason, and so he’d acquiesced.
“He hasn’t had any problem with talking to the cops or the D.A.,” Burks went on, still speaking to Scully. “At least, not so far. He even cooperated with the shrinks — and we’ve been told informally that their report will state that he’s able to stand trial, by the way. Anyway, I told him you were coming, and he seemed fine with it.”
Scully nodded. She seemed to be giving all of her attention to the detective, but Mulder knew better. There was nothing specific he could point to, nothing in her body language or facial expression or tone of voice. But it was clear that she was very aware of his own presence, and was in some way responding to whatever it was that she perceived coming from him.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have a clue as to what she thought she was responding to, which made it impossible for him to understand what she was trying to say or do.
“Is there anything else we should know before we go in?” Scully asked.
Burks hesitated, and gnawed his lip. His gaze flicked briefly to Mulder, and then back to Scully, before he replied, in a low tone of voice, “This guy’s weird.” The detective shook his head in exasperation, and went on, “I don’t mean he’s a flake; he’s as sane as you and me. But … he’s weird. All three of them are. You’ll understand when you’ve talked to them, but I wanted you to be aware that there’s something funny going on. That’s why I asked the Bureau for help.”
Mulder continued to watch as his partner nodded slowly. She glanced up at him briefly, seeming to peer down inside of him with those inquisitive blue eyes of hers. Finally, she turned back to Burks and nodded once more, and the detective led the way into the room.
Chapter Three
Manhattan Detention Complex
Manhattan, NY
Tuesday, March 7, 2000
4:28 p.m.
Scully stood for a moment just inside the doorway to the interrogation room and looked at the man in the orange jumpsuit.
His name, she remembered, was Devon McSparran, and he looked completely ordinary. About six feet tall, still in surprisingly good shape for a man of 52 — but of course, his habit of jogging each morning helped explain that. His hair was sparse, but what there was of it was iron gray, and still carefully styled, even after three weeks in custody. In short, he looked like what he was: a respectable, middle-aged man in a prison jumpsuit.
“Devon, these are the people I told you about,” Burks said, moving further into the room. “The FBI agents.”
McSparran nodded, but remained silent, and for a moment no one in the room spoke. Finally, Scully shrugged slightly, and stepped forward and took a seat at the table across from the suspect. A few seconds later, Mulder joined her, while Burks continued to stand behind them.
“Mr. McSparran,” she said, opening her badge and displaying it to him, “I’m Special Agent Scully, and this is Special Agent Mulder. We’d like to talk to you about George Ventner.” McSparran nodded, and she continued, “First, I want to make sure that you understand that this conversation is being recorded, and that by talking to us you are waiving your Constitutional right to remain silent. Anything you say here today can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“Yes,” McSparran said, speaking for the first time. “I understand.” His voice sounded dry and scratchy, and was without inflection. He added, “I have nothing to hide. Not anymore.”
Scully cocked her head slightly and looked at the man for a moment. He hadn’t even spoken a dozen words, and already she was starting to understand why Burks had said he was a little weird. There was an odd lifelessness to his tone and delivery; a sense of listless finality.
Scully shook her head, and pushed the thought away. There would be time to consider that later. She continued, “Second, do I understand correctly that you have also waived your right to be represented by counsel during this interview?”
The prisoner shrugged. “A lawyer’s not going to do me any good.”
Scully hesitated again, then repeated, “Do you waive your right to be represented by counsel?”
For the first time, the man met her gaze, and there was a brief spark of annoyance in his eyes, gone so quickly that Scully wasn’t even sure she’d really seen it. Small as it was, it was the first sign of true emotion that he’d exhibited so far. Finally, he gave another shrug, and said, “Yes.”
Scully nodded, and glanced briefly at Mulder, but he was still sitting next to her, quietly and impassively. Apparently he was content to have her carry the ball, at least for now. She looked back at the prisoner.
“Mr. McSparran,” she said, “why don’t you tell us what happened on the morning of February 14.”
The man shrugged yet again. “You know what happened,” he responded. “I killed a man. Or, to be more precise, my body killed a man.”
“George Ventner,” she said after a moment, when it became apparent that he didn’t intend to speak any further.
“That’s what his name was,” McSparran acknowledged. “At least, that’s what the police say it was, and I have no reason to doubt them.”
“You didn’t know Mr. Ventner?” Scully asked.
“No,” the prisoner replied, shaking his head. His voice continued in the same dull, inflectionless monotone, and Scully found that she had to strain to make out his words. “Until that morning, I’d never met him; I’d never even laid eyes on him.”
“So why did you do it?” she asked. In her mind, she continued, Why did you have sex with a total stranger, and then batter his head against the wall of the shower until he was dead? And then why did you keep battering his head against the wall, over and over and over ….
“I don’t know,” the man said calmly. “I have absolutely no idea. I just … did. My body did,” he amended, his choice of words reminding Scully that this was one of the major points of similarity in the three crimes they were investigating.
“Why don’t you tell us how it happened,” Scully suggested. She wasn’t sure what they were going to learn from this exercise; she and Mulder had both read the man’s statement. But at least it was a place to start.
“I went running,” McSparran said, his voice still flat and emotionless. “I go running every morning, 5:30 sharp, rain or shine.” He leaned forward slightly, and went on, “You have to make yourself do it, you see. You have to discipline yourself. I’m sure you understand how hard it is to find time for such things; you just have to make the time. So I run. Every morning.”
“Okay,” Scully said. “So you went running. Then what happened?”
“I went running,” the prisoner repeated. “It was still dark, and I didn’t see very many people. But after a few minutes, I noticed another man also running, a short distance ahead of me.”
“Ventner?” Scully realized that she’d almost snapped the victim’s name, and she forced herself calm down. The man’s tone and affect were definitely bothering her; he was so calm and serene, even as he was discussing the horrible things he’d done.
“That’s right.” McSparran nodded. “As I said, I’d never seen him before. They tell me that he’d just moved into our neighborhood a few days earlier. Anyway, I saw him running a little ways in front of me, and so I naturally picked it up a bit until I was running alongside him.”
“Competing?” Scully asked.
The man shook his head. “No, not at all.” He looked at her speculatively for a moment. “You don’t run, do you? Or you wouldn’t ask that question.” He glanced briefly at Mulder. “But he does. He runs. I can tell. He understands.”
Scully felt her eyebrows rising slightly, and she had to force herself not to look at Mulder to check his reaction. She was about to respond, and attempt to steer McSparran back to the real subject, when her partner suddenly spoke.
“Runners don’t compete,” he said. Scully glanced at Mulder in surprise, to see that he was looking intently at the prisoner. “So you weren’t competing; you weren’t trying to beat him. Why did you kill him?”
For an instant anger flared in the other man’s eyes, but it was quickly extinguished. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, quietly, “I told you — I don’t know. My body did it.”
“Okay,” Mulder replied smoothly, “Tell us how your body did it. You saw Ventner running ahead of you, and you caught up with him. Then what?”
McSparran frowned, and for a few seconds he chewed on his upper lip. His hands were clasped tightly together on the table in front of him, and he stared down at them, as if he expected them to somehow unlock some great mystery for him. Finally, he looked back up at Mulder.
“That’s when I started to feel … outside,” he said.
“Outside?” Scully asked.
The prisoner looked at her and nodded. “Yes. Outside. I felt as if I were outside of my own body; as if I were a spectator, watching someone else. At the same time, I was still fully aware of being myself; I could hear my thoughts, and I could feel everything that was going on.”
Scully nodded. “Go on.”
The man shrugged. “There isn’t a lot more to tell,” he replied. “We ran together for a while. Fifteen, twenty minutes. We didn’t say anything, and I sort of assumed that at some point he would break off and take a different route, and that would be the last I’d see of him.”
“But he didn’t.” That was Mulder again, and Scully saw that her partner still wore that expression of intense curiosity on his face.
“No. He didn’t.”
“Did you still feel as if you were ‘outside’?” Mulder asked.
“Yes.” The prisoner hesitated, then went on, “It was the strangest feeling I’ve ever had in my life. I almost felt as if I was in two places at once.” He touched his forehead, and said, “I was up here.” Waving his hand vaguely to encompass the room. “But I was also out there somewhere.”
The conversation was abruptly interrupted by the shrilling of a cell phone. Automatically, Scully reached for her jacket pocket, and was aware of Mulder doing the same.
“It’s me.”
Scully had almost forgotten about the presence of Paul Burks; now she turned in her seat in time to see the detective punch the CONNECT button on his phone. She watched for a moment as he spoke to whoever was on the other end; then she turned back to face McSparran once again.
“So what happened after you stopped running?” Mulder asked.
McSparran shrugged again. “We stood for a few minutes in front of his building, cooling down and doing some stretches. Then he invited me upstairs.”
“To have sex?”
No hesitation. “Yes. He didn’t say so in as many words, but it was understood.”
“And you went with him.”
“Yes.” A brief pause. Then: “I don’t quite understand why, though. I’m not … interested in men. I’d never had sex with a man before. I’m also happily married, and even when I was single I was never into one night stands.” A shadow crossed his face. “At least, I was happily married.”
“But you did go with him?” Scully persisted. The state of McSparran’s marriage was something they were going to have to look into, but not yet. First they needed to establish the facts of the case.
“Yes, I did,” the prisoner answered. “And it was … different.” Scully realized that the man was now staring at Mulder, and she was suddenly aware of an odd tension radiating from her partner.
“You might understand,” McSparran continued, speaking directly to Mulder. “You might understand how amazing it was. We took a shower together, and after we’d soaped and rinsed each other he went down on me. And it just felt so incredible, you know? I mean, the worst blowjob I ever had was still pretty good, but this was … fantastic. I think it was because he was a guy, so he knew instinctively what would feel good.” He paused, still staring at Mulder. “You do understand, don’t you?”
Almost against her will, Scully found herself looking at her partner, but he was giving nothing away. His face was bland and expressionless; his body language unreadable. There was something going on behind his eyes, but she didn’t have a clue what it might be. Finally, she forced herself to look back at McSparran.
“So the victim performed oral sex on you,” she stated, drawing the prisoner’s attention away from Mulder and back to herself.
“Yes,” the man responded, nodding. “He did, and as soon as he’d finished, I killed him.”
“Why?”
The prisoner sighed. “I keep telling you — I don’t know. I wish I did. But he sucked me off, and before I’d even finished coming, I was overcome with rage.” McSparran’s voice was calm and matter-of-fact, as if he were giving a weather report. “It was completely overpowering, and it just seemed to come from nowhere. I was holding onto his head and he was still sucking, and before I had time to realize what I was going to do I was slamming his head against the wall, over and over and over. After a while, I knew he was dead, but my body just kept doing it. I couldn’t seem to stop.”
“But you did stop,” Scully noted.
“Yes, I did,” the man acknowledged. “Eventually.”
“And then you called the police.”
“That’s right.”
“Were you still ‘outside’ when you made the call?” Mulder asked.
McSparran looked at him and shook his head. “No,” he replied. “No, that was me.” He frowned. “I’m not entirely sure when the outsideness stopped; it just sort of faded away once he was dead. It was definitely gone by the time I called the police.”
“This rage you felt,” Mulder said. “Was it because you were uncomfortable with having participated in a homosexual act?” It seemed to Scully that there was a tinge of … something … in her partner’s voice, but as with his expression a few moments before, she couldn’t put her finger on what it might be.
The prisoner shook his head again, firmly. “No,” he said. “That wasn’t it. As I said, I’d never had sex with a man before, but it seemed completely right and natural.” He drew himself up slightly. “I’m not a homophobe, Mr. Mulder.”
“What about your wife?” Mulder persisted. “Is it possible that you were angry with yourself for committing adultery, and displaced that anger onto the other man?”
“I don’t think so,” McSparran replied. “I’ve thought about it, of course — and the police psychiatrist suggested that, as well. But I don’t think that was what was going on. I was just … angry. Suddenly, uncontrollably enraged. I don’t know where it came from, or why.” He seemed to be struggling to find the words. “I almost felt as if … as if that man, George Ventner, had insulted me in some way.”
Scully felt her eyebrows rising. “Insulted you?” she asked. “You mean, by suggesting that the two of you have sex?”
“No,” the prisoner responded, shaking his head again. “It wasn’t about the sex. I don’t know what it was about. I just felt as if he had … humiliated me. As if he had abused and belittled me.”
“But you’d never met him before that morning?” Scully asked.
“No. I’m sure of that.”
“Then your interaction that morning was the only opportunity he had to humiliate you.”
“That’s right,” McSparran agreed. “And he didn’t. We ran together, he propositioned me, I took him up on it, and I killed him. And I have no explanation for any of it.”
For a moment or two silence descended on the room. Scully knew there would be more questions to be asked, but they would have to talk to McSparran’s wife, among other things, before they could pursue the matter further. At last, she turned to Burks and asked him to summon the guards, and a few moments later, she, Mulder and the detective were alone in the room.
“So that was the first one,” Mulder commented. “And number two was the woman, Sylvia Denson, right?”
“Yeah,” Burks replied. “But you’ll have to go out to Rikers to see her, and it’s already getting late. I’ve arranged for you to interview her tomorrow morning, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine,” Scully said with a nod. “What about the other male suspect?” She searched her memory, and added, “Bradley Hamilton.”
Burks hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. That phone call I had a few minutes ago — they were calling to tell me that Hamilton just committed suicide. He hanged himself in his cell.”
Chapter Four
Residence of Devon McSparran and Kendra Prentice
Manhattan, NY
Tuesday, March 7, 2000
6:55 p.m.
“They sent a man this time. Thank God.” Mulder felt his eyebrows rising at the greeting, but before he had a chance to respond, the woman standing in the doorway continued, “You are the FBI agent, right?” He nodded, and she concluded, “Thought so. You’ve got the G-man look. Come on in.”
Upon hearing of Bradley Hamilton’s suicide, Mulder and Scully had decided to split up for the evening. Scully had gone with Detective Burks, in hopes of being allowed to participate in the autopsy, while Mulder got them checked in at their hotel, and now was keeping the appointment Burks had made for them to interview Devon McSparran’s wife.
So here he was, standing in the doorway of the couple’s condominium on the Upper West Side, trying to figure out what he could ask this woman that the NYPD hadn’t already covered.
Ms. Prentice, Mulder reminded himself. She was married to Devon McSparran, but she hadn’t taken his name, and according to Burks she could be a little belligerent about it. She was Kendra Prentice, not Kendra McSparran.
“I really am glad they sent a man this time,” the woman was repeating, as she led him down a short entryway to the living room. She appeared to be in her late 40s or early 50s, with short blonde hair and a good figure. Her clothes were casual, but looked very expensive. She held a cigarette in her right hand, and a trail of sweet-smelling smoke followed her as she walked.
“I mean, that woman they’ve been sending to talk to me,” Ms. Prentice continued. “Detective Ross. She means well, I’m sure, and she’s very correct and professional. But she’s also so cloyingly sympathetic that it makes me want to throw up.” She had walked over to peer out the window at the street below; now she turned to face Mulder. “I have a feeling you’re not like that.” And she took a long drag on her cigarette.
Mulder took a couple of steps further into the room, towards Ms. Prentice. “You don’t want sympathy?” he asked.
The woman rolled her eyes. “Of course I want sympathy,” she snapped. “Meaningful sympathy, from people who know me and Dev, and actually understand. But I don’t need a bunch of strangers offering a few empty words, out of the hope that it will make it easier for them to do their jobs.”
“Do you think that’s all people mean when they express sympathy?”
“Isn’t it?” Ms. Prentice lips quirked, and she took another puff on her cigarette. “Would you be here, right now, if someone wasn’t paying you?”
Mulder blinked in surprise, then shook his head. “Probably not,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not interested, or that I don’t care about what’s happening to you and your husband.” The words were true, but even as he spoke them, Mulder felt a niggling in the back of his mind; the woman’s question as to why he was here seemed to be finding fertile soil. Not now, he admonished himself. Not here. We can think about all that later; right now, we need to stay on task.
“Well, at least you’re honest,” Ms. Prentice said flatly. “That’s something.” She gestured at the sofa with the hand holding the cigarette. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll get you something to drink. Cops like beer, right?”
“Not when we’re on duty,” Mulder replied. He was starting to get an edgy feeling about this woman, and he just wanted to get the interview over with so he could get out of there. “And it’s really not necessary —”
“That’s fine,” she said, interrupting him with a wave of the hand that held the cigarette, as she moved briskly across the room. “My mother would have another coronary if I didn’t offer you something. I’ll be right back.” And she was gone.
Mulder sighed and stuck his hands in his pockets, as he waited impatiently for Ms. Prentice to return. He briefly considered taking the seat she’d offered him, but he didn’t expect to be here that long.
For that matter, he didn’t expect to be in New York for very long. Bradley Hamilton’s suicide was no doubt going to slow things down a bit, but so far, Mulder had not seen or heard anything that really interested him. The only real link between these cases was the similarity in language found in the suspects’ confessions, and that could very well just be a coincidence.
God. He was starting to sound like Scully.
He shook his head, and paced across the room and back. Nothing seemed to be working for him; nothing seemed to be right. Things hadn’t been on track since the end of the LaPierre case, and Mulder couldn’t find a reason for that — at least, he couldn’t find a reason that he liked.
Because the fact of the matter was that he was bored. Bored and detached. The work that he had found so compelling and important only a few weeks ago now seemed to be more irrelevant with each passing day. He just couldn’t keep his mind on it.
Mulder found himself standing in front of the sofa, looking up at a painting hanging on the wall. At first glance, he thought it was just an abstract, but now as he looked at it more closely, he realized there was some sort of pattern there … something he felt he should recognize, but couldn’t. There was a strange tingling sensation in the back of his head —
“I found some root beer.”
Mulder started at the sound of Ms. Prentice’s voice, then turned around, to see her steadily approaching, two highball glasses in her hands.
“Root beer?” he asked, eyeing the dark brown liquid and ice in the glass she handed him.
“Yeah,” she replied, and her right eyelid flickered in something very close to a wink. “It’s Dev’s; it’s his secret vice. I can’t stand the stuff, myself.” Her own glass, Mulder noted, was half full of what appeared to be whiskey, straight up.
“So what does the FBI want to know?” the woman asked. She gestured again at the sofa, this time with the hand holding her glass, and the liquid and ice sloshed slightly. “No, wait,” she went on as Mulder reluctantly sat down. She paced over and sat primly on the hassock positioned directly in front of him. “You want to know if my husband is gay or bisexual, and you want to know if he’s cheated on me in the past, right?”
Mulder nodded. “That’ll do for a start,” he replied. He was definitely becoming irritated with Ms. Prentice, but he couldn’t seem to find a handle with which to take control of the interview.
“Well, the answer to the first question is no,” she said, taking another drag on her cigarette, followed quickly by a healthy hit from her glass. “I’ve been married to Dev for twenty-two years, and we lived together for two years before that, and if he had any interest in other men, I’d know about it.” She smiled slightly. “Not that I would have minded. I’ve always thought it might be fun to watch a couple of guys going at it.”
“Okay,” Mulder answered, fighting down his own sense of discomfort at addressing this issue so directly. That was in the past, he reminded himself; it was a long time ago. He forced himself to focus on the interview. “And as for the other question?”
The woman shrugged. “Has Dev cheated on me? Of course he has, although he thinks I don’t know about it. But it was never serious; just a quick screw at a party sort of thing.” She took another drink. “And we’ve swapped a few times over the years; who hasn’t? But that doesn’t count as cheating, does it?”
Mulder couldn’t keep himself from blinking, and responded, “That wouldn’t be for me to judge, Ms. Prentice.”
“Well, it doesn’t,” she asserted. She stuck her cigarette in her mouth and left it there for a moment.
Mulder nodded, and tried to turn the conversation in a more useful direction. “Are you or your husband acquainted with Bradley Hamilton or Sylvia Denson?”
Ms. Prentice frowned. “Yeah, we know Brad and Sylvia. Not well, but we know them. Dev works with them from time to time, and of course we bump into them at parties and the like.” She swirled the ice in her glass, and seemed to have a sudden fascination for watching the ice cubes go round and round.
“Was there any bad blood between you or your husband and either of them?”
She looked up at him curiously. “No. Not especially. I think Sylvia was one of Dev’s conquests, but that was years ago, and it’s not a big deal. Of course, the art crowd can be pretty cutthroat, but there wasn’t any serious trouble with either of them.” Her frown deepened. “Are you trying to suggest there’s some sort of connection between what Dev did and what Sylvia and Brad did?”
Mulder hesitated, then shook his head. “I really can’t go into the details of what I’m investigating, Ms. Prentice.” He maintained eye contact until she nodded, and then he went on, “What about George Ventner? Did you or your husband know him —”
“No.” She shook her head firmly. “Never met the man. I did call his wife, the week after — after he died. But she didn’t want to talk to me.” Her lips quirked slightly. “I can’t say that I blame her.”
“What about the other two victims? Marvin Draper and Louisa Antonelli?”
Ms. Prentice shook her head again. “Strangers,” she said. “I couldn’t even have told you their names.” She leaned over to the coffee table to stub out her cigarette, then straightened up and cupped her nearly-empty glass in both hands.
Mulder nodded again. “Ms. Prentice,” he said, “I know this is a difficult question for you, but based on your knowledge of your husband, can you think of any reason for him to have murdered George Ventner? A total stranger?”
For a long minute the woman didn’t say anything, and as Mulder studied her face he saw the facade of self-possession finally start to crumble. At last, she seemed to force herself to meet his gaze, and Mulder saw that there were unshed tears in her eyes. “No,” she said quietly. “I can’t. It’s almost as if he must have been possessed or something.” She gave a bitter smile. “But the cops aren’t going to believe anything like that, are they?”
Mulder wanted to reassure the woman; he wanted to tell her that he, at least, might be willing to believe her. But once again he found that he lacked the energy; his heart just wasn’t in this case, and he seemed to be powerless to change that. So he didn’t comment, but simply moved on with a few more perfunctory questions to wrap up the interview. Fifteen minutes later, he was on his way back to the hotel.
Bellevue Hospital Center
Manhattan, NY
10:12 p.m.
“Agent Scully?”
Scully turned, to see Paul Burks approaching from across the hallway outside Bellevue’s Department of Pathology. She’d just finished assisting with Bradley Hamilton’s autopsy. She was tired and irritable, and wanted nothing more than to get back to the hotel, check and see how Mulder was doing and, hopefully, get some sleep. But here was Burks bearing down on her, a friendly smile on his face. Apparently she was going to have to play nice for a few more minutes.
“Detective Burks,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you again this evening.”
“I know this is going to sound like a line,” he replied, the friendly smile still in evidence. “But I was just in the neighborhood, and thought I’d drop in.” Scully raised an eyebrow, and he went on, more seriously, “Actually, that’s even true. I’ve been over at the office trying to get caught up on some paperwork, and it occurred to me that you’d probably be finishing up about now. So I thought I’d stop by and see what you’d found. If anything.”
Scully shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” she told him. “Ligature marks consistent with strangulation, and everything else matches up, as well. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow for the tox screen and the other blood work, but I’d say it’s just what it looks like: a man overcome with remorse who couldn’t live with what he’d done.”
Burks nodded soberly. “I can’t say that I’m surprised.” A lopsided grin. “But I am a little disappointed. I’d been hoping there’d be something there that would provide the missing link.”
Scully allowed herself a small smile. “Sorry.” She started walking down the hall, in the direction of the elevators. Burks followed. “What’s your interest in all this, anyway?” she asked. She didn’t really want to get involved in a long, drawn-out discussion, but she’d found it was generally good politics to be friendly to the locals — and since Mulder got along with people only when it suited him, she usually had do the lion’s share of their liaison work.
“It’s my job,” the detective said simply. He got to the elevators a step ahead of her and punched the up button, then turned to face her. “I have a sort of roving assignment. Technically, I’m attached to Internal Affairs, but what I actually do is look for connections.”
“Connections?” Scully asked.
“Yeah,” Burks replied. “Oddball stuff. Things that don’t quite match up, or make sense. Sort of like what you and Agent Mulder do, I think.”
“Really?” Scully felt her eyebrows rising in spite of herself. Still, if the FBI had an X-Files unit, why couldn’t the NYPD have something similar? Although she would have thought they would have heard about it by now —
“It’s low profile,” the detective said seriously, almost as if he’d read her mind. “Very low profile. And a lot of it isn’t really paranormal — that’s not even a formal part of my brief. I spend a lot of time on political work.” The elevator arrived, and they got on board.
“What do you mean ‘political’?” she inquired.
The man shrugged. “You know. Cases that are spread over several precincts, and for one reason or another nobody can see the connection. In some cases, nobody wants to see the connection. Like this one.”
“Why are you so convinced there’s a link in this instance?” They stepped off onto the main floor and Scully allowed Burks to lead her towards the main entrance.
The detective hesitated, then shrugged. “There’s not a lot I can point to,” he admitted. “Just the items you already know about — the similarities in the confessions, and so forth. I guess after a while it just gets to be an instinct.”
“I see.” The conversation was starting to sound eerily familiar to Scully — and she realized with a stab of heartache that this was one of the things she’d been missing these past few weeks. Mulder’s tenacity, and his willingness to jump to outrageous conclusions, often on little or no evidence, had sometimes infuriated her, but those were also two of the qualities she found most endearing about her partner.
God, she missed him.
“Agent Scully?” Burks again, of course. “There’s a cop hangout a few blocks from here. I was thinking we could stop by and have a beer, and talk things over. I’d like to get your views on this — and I’d also like to hear more about the work you and Agent Mulder do. It sounds fascinating.”
Scully stood for a moment, looking at the man and trying to gauge his intentions. What he’d just said sounded suspiciously like a pick-up line, and she just wasn’t interested. She was also tired, and her feet hurt, which meant she wasn’t in the mood to deal with him as gently as she otherwise might have.
She shook her head, and replied, “I’m sorry, but I’m already seeing someone.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the heavy gold band on the ring finger of Burks’ left hand, and then back up to his face. “And even if I weren’t, I wouldn’t go out with a married man.” She suppressed a shudder at the thought. Not again, she thought. Once was more than enough.
For a moment the detective simply stared at her, a look of confusion on his face. Then his eyes widened, and he burst out laughing.
“I’m sorry, Agent Scully,” he said, in his soft, southern drawl. “I really am. I guess that did sound like a bit of a come on.” He raised his left hand so as to display his wedding ring more clearly. “I didn’t mean it that way at all. Not that you aren’t a lovely lady, but I am married — happily married. And I really am interested in talking about the case and your work — but only about the case and your work. So how about it?” Still grinning broadly, he added, “I’ll even let you buy.”
Scully felt herself blushing furiously. She should know better by now than to make snap judgments about people when she was this tired. Thank God the detective hadn’t taken offense. But now she was going to have to go with him, at least for a little while, which meant it would be that much longer before she would have a chance to check in with Mulder, and then get some sleep. She forced a smile, and replied, “Okay. But just one drink, okay? I need to get some rest tonight.” And she allowed Burks to lead her on out of the hospital to his car.
Chapter Five
The Best Western President Hotel
Manhattan, NY
Wednesday, March 8, 2000
12:29 a.m.
Mulder lay in bed staring at the ceiling of the darkened hotel room. He’d been lying there for over an hour, but sleep just wouldn’t come.
He’d tried his usual remedy: the television. He had, in fact, spent nearly forty-five minutes flipping through the channels, looking for something to watch, but nothing had attracted his interest — not even on the adult channels on pay-per-view. He’d finally turned the TV off in disgust, its annoying babble not providing the distraction it had given him in the past.
This was yet another of the things that had changed for him in the past few weeks. For so very many years, he had suffered from insomnia, but he’d developed a set of coping mechanisms to compensate. He would study the current file, or he would surf the net, or he would watch television, or he would run, and eventually some combination of these elements would lull him, if not to sleep, then at least into a state of restfulness.
But now everything was different. Mulder still had problems sleeping, but it wasn’t because of nightmares, or chronic anxiety over his sister. No, these days it was about himself. It was about his life, and the lack of meaning or direction in it.
It was because of this wakefulness that he’d started pushing Scully away — or at least, he’d tried to push her away, he amended in his mind. The trouble was, she was steadfastly refusing to be pushed — and to be perfectly honest, at least with himself, his heart wasn’t in it.
He didn’t want her to go; he wanted her to stay. He wanted her right next to him, as close as possible. He was almost certain that having her around would in the long run help to solve his problems; the catch was that he was unwilling to reach out to her, because he feared what that solution might cost her.
Whatever the hell that meant.
God, he was a mess.
Mulder grumbled softly and turned over in bed, so that he was lying on his stomach. That was the real difficulty, of course. He didn’t clearly understand what he wanted, and he wasn’t sure what the stakes were, for him or for Scully, if he tried to find out. It seemed that dispite having at last found release from the uncertainty over Samantha’s fate, he had somehow acquired a new state of not-knowing.
Or perhaps it was simply that now he finally had enough spare emotional energy that he was actually capable of caring about his own life and future.
Shit.
He was drawn from his introspection by a light rapping on the connecting door to Scully’s room. For a moment he considered feigning sleep; part of him didn’t want her to know he was having trouble sleeping, because he wasn’t completely ready to try to explain himself.
But he knew that even if he did pretend to be asleep, she would probably come in anyway — and if she didn’t, it would just be one more instance where he had pushed her away. If he did that enough times, eventually she really would leave him, and if he was honest enough to admit to himself that he didn’t want that, then he should try to be strong enough to modify his own behavior, so that he would no longer be shoving her in that direction.
“It’s open,” he said, very softly. “Come on in.”
Almost immediately, the door swung open and then shut again, briefly admitting a narrow shaft of light from the other room before darkness descended once again. He was momentarily blinded by the brief flash of illumination, but he could still hear her. He could almost sense her presence, as she moved carefully across the room.
He knew when she stood by the bedside, looking down at him, perhaps wondering if she should sit on the bed, or even lie down next to him. And just as his eyes finally adjusted, and he was about to invite her to join him, he made out her shadowy form as she turned away and found the chair next to the small round table next to the door, and sat down.
“You were out late,” he said, trying to cover his disappointment, all the while wondering why he didn’t just speak up and ask for what he wanted. “Was it a complicated case?”
“Not that complicated.” It was still dark in the room, of course, but now he could see well enough to make out the shadow of her head, shaking back and forth. “We found nothing out of the ordinary. It’s going to be reported as a simple, straightforward suicide.”
“He just hanged himself, huh?”
“Were you expecting something different?” Her words could have sounded combative, but somehow they did not.
“No, not really,” he replied, after a short pause.
“Hoping?”
Mulder sighed, and shook his head. “No, not that either.” There was a brief silence. Then: “So what do you think? Should we pack it in and go back to D.C.?”
“Well, I don’t think there’s an X-File here,” she said, seeming to choose her words carefully. Mulder waited in silence for her to continue. After a moment, she went on, “But I don’t think we should go home. Not just yet. We accepted this assignment, and I think we owe it to ourselves to do a thorough job.”
“To ourselves?”
“Yes.” He could see her shadowy form nodding, and she leaned forward a little in her chair. “Mulder, we haven’t been out in the field since the LaPierre case. We’ve been sitting in Washington, spinning our wheels, not doing anything much of importance, and it’s been making us both a little crazy. I think we need to put some direction back into our professional lives, and I think this case can help us do that.”
“But what are we doing here that’s of importance?” he objected. “All that I can see going on is a small group of unconnected murders, and the police already have them all solved. So what’s the point?”
This time the silence was long and heavy, and when Scully finally spoke, she sounded as if she was having trouble keeping her throat from constricting. “Mulder,” she said, “I don’t like to hear you talk like that.” She rose from the chair and stepped forward, then dropped to her knees next to the bed and reached out and felt along the covers until she found one of his hands.
“I want to be out in the field with you,” she went on — and now he could see her eyes, blue and luminous, seeming to cut through the darkness. “I like going places and seeing things. I like the problem solving. I even like the arguments. It’s part of who we are.”
“I thought you were the one who wanted to stop the car.” Mulder felt a sense of helplessness closing in on him. This was exactly the reaction he’d been afraid of, and he didn’t know how to deal with it.
“I never said that,” she replied, shaking her head. “I’ll admit that I thought about it some, back when we were under Kersh. And I’ll also admit that I raised the subject. But it was never what I really wanted. I was just … frustrated with the way things were going that fall, and I was playing with ideas. The fact of the matter is that I want to stay in the car. But only if you’re there, too.”
“Why?” The word was out of his mouth before he realized he was going to say it.
There was another pause; then Scully replied, “Why do I want to stay in the car? Or why do I want to be with you?”
“Either. Both.” Mulder realized he was clenching his free hand into a fist, and he made a conscious effort to relax it. And he wondered just how he had so completely lost control of this conversation.
She seemed to consider his question for a moment, her head cocked thoughtfully to one side. Finally, as if she were dictating an autopsy report, she said, “I want to be with you because I love you. I realize that begs the question, but it’s really the only answer that I have.”
“You love me,” Mulder repeated. It wasn’t the first time she’d said those words, but he still had trouble accepting them, and he couldn’t keep himself from saying them aloud, as if they were some sort of magic incantation. “You love me.”
Scully shrugged in the darkness. “I never planned for it to happen, and if someone had suggested it to me, way back when we were first working together, I would have laughed. Nevertheless, it happened. And before you ask, I wouldn’t have it any other way, even if I could.”
“What about the car?” he asked softly.
His partner shrugged again. “How far do you want me to carry that metaphor? I like it in the car. The car is moving; it’s going places. Looking back at my life before the X-Files, it seems very static and uninteresting.” She hesitated, then added, “Mulder? What’s wrong?”
And there it was, Mulder thought. She’d finally come out and asked him directly, and he wasn’t going to be able to evade the issue any longer. Even so, he couldn’t keep himself from trying to hedge a little.
“I’m … not quite sure what’s wrong,” he said, his voice very low.
“Do you want to stop the car?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Mulder replied. “Sometimes … sometimes I think maybe I do. God, that seems so selfish.”
There was another moment of silence, as Scully apparently waited for him to go on. Finally, she said, “It’s okay to tell me how you feel, Mulder. Even if it’s not entirely positive, I want to know. I need to know. Why do you feel it’s selfish that you’ve been thinking about stopping the car?”
God. She wasn’t going to cut him any slack; she was going to make him face this. He wanted to run away and hide, but he couldn’t. This was Scully, he reminded himself. She was his partner, and she deserved the truth.
“I’m not sure I really do,” he replied. “But sometimes I think I do. And as for why ….” His voice trailed off and he shook his head angrily. Try again. “I’ve given up so much to this fucking quest, Scully. I’ve lost so many things that I’ll never be able to get back, and all the time I was searching she was already dead ….”
“And you want to try to reclaim some of those things?” Her voice was soft and understanding, and her hand was warm and comforting in his.
“I think … sometimes I think I would, yes.” The admission came with surprising ease, and Mulder was encouraged to continue. “But I don’t see how I can. It’s too late for most of it.”
“Why is it too late? What do you want that you think you can’t have?”
“I want … I want you.” The words sounded foolish, even to Mulder, and he tensed as he waited for her reply.
“You’ve already got me,” Scully said quietly. Hesitantly, she leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. “And you’ll never, ever lose me.”
“I know. But that’s not what I meant.” God, this was going to sound stupid — but he was too far in to back out now. And so he continued, “I want to be twenty, and meet you for the first time. I want to bump into you on the Quad, and … and be taken with you. Immediately. I want to go on dates with you and have the experience of falling in love with you without having to worry about government conspiracies and alien invasions. I want my biggest worry to be whether you’ll agree to go with me to see The Police in concert.”
“I didn’t like The Police when I was twenty,” she commented — but there was no mistaking the amusement in her voice.
“Then I want to convert you,” he insisted, feeling a little more confident at hearing the tone of her response. “I want to invite you over to my apartment and feed you spaghetti, because that’s what bachelors know how to cook, and then I want to make you sit on the sofa and listen to my albums.”
“We’d just listen to records?” she asked. “Nothing else?”
“Well, this is our first date I’m talking about here, Scully.”
“I dunno, Mulder,” she replied. “I have a feeling you were a pretty sharp operator when you were twenty.”
Suddenly things were serious again, although he didn’t think she’d intended that. “I would never do that to you, Scully,” he said quietly. “I did do some things when I was younger. Stupid things. Things I’m not proud of.” He felt a shudder race through his body, as the memories that were stirred up by his interview with Kendra Prentice threatened to surface once again, but he hurriedly thrust them away. “But I would never do anything like that to you.”
“I know that, Mulder.”
Scully fell silent again, and Mulder tried to think of something else to say; anything to move the conversation along. Things were going pretty well, so far — much better than he’d expected. But now he wasn’t sure how to proceed. There was so much more he wanted to say —
Abruptly his partner was rising to her feet and letting go of his hand. For a moment Mulder was confused, and didn’t know what he could have done to upset her — but then she began unbuttoning her blouse, with quick, efficient motions. A minute or two later she was lifting the covers and sliding into bed next to him, her naked body warm and comforting against his own.
Automatically, he slipped his arms around her waist, drawing her closer, even as she was bringing her hands to rest on his shoulders and pressing her forehead against his. But before he had a chance to say or do anything further, Scully spoke.
“Hi,” she said, with surprising shyness. “Do you mind sharing your table? All the other seats appear to be taken.” Mulder blinked in confusion, but before he could think of something to say in response, Scully went on, “My name’s Dana, by the way. Dana Scully. I’ve just arrived from America; I’m a transfer student from the University of Maryland.”
“Oh.” Mulder blinked again, but now he felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sure. Have a seat. I’d enjoy the company.” He hesitated, then added, “My name is Fox.”
“Fox.” She seemed to think about the name for a moment. Then: “That’s a lovely name. Very unusual.” She tilted her head slightly. “But I have the sense you don’t like it very much?”
“No, I don’t,” he admitted. Immediately he regretted the words, as he saw a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. “But I like the way it sounds when you say it. Say it again.”
“Fox.” Her breath puffed against his lips, warm and moist. “Fox. It really is a lovely name; it’s so unique.” She pressed her lips against his again, gently and briefly.
“Dana’s a nice name, too,” he replied, once his mouth was free. “But doesn’t a pretty girl like you already have a boyfriend?”
Scully shook her head, smiling, and somehow she managed to look much younger than she was. “No,” she said. “No, there’s no one. No one but you. And there never will be.” Then she kissed him again.
This time the kiss went on for quite a while. Mulder moaned slightly as he felt Scully’s tongue trace the outline of his lips — and then he willingly opened his mouth, allowing her inside.
God, this was good; this was so good. Suddenly, Mulder couldn’t remember why he’d been keeping this woman at arm’s length recently. She was, quite simply, the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he was an idiot not to accept everything she wanted to give him.
Scully pushed on his chest, very gently, and Mulder allowed her to roll him onto his back and crawl on top of him. They were still kissing, alternately exploring each other’s mouths, and now Scully’s fingers were tangled in his hair, clutching and very gently scratching at his scalp. Nor were his own hands idle; they were stroking and caressing her back, and tracing the length of her spine.
Mulder was so absorbed in tasting her and feeling her and just basking in the warmth of her body that he barely noticed as she lifted her pelvis, and reached down to push his boxers down off his hips. His erection sprang free, and in another instant she’d grasped him with one hand, gently touching and caressing him for a moment, before she finally lowered herself again and guided him to her entrance.
“Ahhhh!”
The cry of pleasure had come from Scully; Mulder was almost sure of it. She was poised above him, now, her expression taut with ecstasy as she slowly moved her hips downward until she had sheathed him completely. Mulder felt his own body quivering in response, and as his hands came to rest on her hips, it was all he could do not to slam himself up into her. Not yet, he told himself firmly. Not yet.
For a moment or two they both held perfectly still, trying to adjust to the sensation. This was not new, Mulder reminded himself; this was something they had done before. Yet, somehow, it did seem very much like the first time. And not just the first time with each other, but the first time with anyone, ever. It was almost as if they were both twenty, and everything was new and fresh and exciting.
Scully’s hips began to move, then, banishing coherent thought. Mulder had to struggle to keep his eyes open, but he didn’t want to miss this; he wanted to watch her face as she made love to him. He wanted to lose himself in her, and drown in her expression of joy.
Jesus, she was beautiful. Her face was flushed, eyes closed, head thrown back, mouth slightly open. The tip of her tongue protruded slightly between her teeth, and she wore a look of intense concentration on her face. She’s still thinking, he thought, feeling a sense of wonder spreading through him. She’s always thinking, always aware of who she is and what she’s doing. Even now, when she’s obviously in the throes of intense physical pleasure ….
Almost as if she had read his thoughts, her eyes came partway open, and she looked down at him and gave him a smile that took his breath away.
“Scully,” he whispered — but that was the only word he had time to utter before her mouth descended on his again.
This time, as they kissed, it was electrifying. Mulder felt a tremendous surge of energy coursing through him, seeming to pass directly through his mouth and groin to Scully, and then come streaming back at him, added to and multiplied by her own unique flavor of passion ….
They were both moaning, now, writhing in each other’s arms, their bodies slick with their mingled sweat. The scent of their mutual arousal filled his nostrils, and seemed to pervade his very being, sending him higher and drawing him closer to Scully with each breath he took ….
They moved in perfect unison, hips pumping desperately, arms clutching fiercely. Mulder found himself no longer able to concentrate on her face; he was no longer able to do anything but feel the desperate need that now pulsed frantically in his groin. He might have felt selfish about his drive to satisfy that need, were it not for the fact that he could feel Scully’s desire, as well, simmering just below the boiling point ….
And then, suddenly, he was there — they were there. The bright, white pinpoint of his arousal abruptly blossomed in a silent explosion of emotional release. He was still thrusting up into her, just as she was slamming down onto him, and he was spending himself, emptying himself into her, giving her everything that he had, even as he felt her entire body quaking and convulsing in orgasm ….
And she was lying on top of him, her body apparently as limp with exhaustion as his was. Somehow, Mulder managed to find the energy to reach for the covers, and draw them up to cover both of their cooling bodies. Scully sighed, and snuggled down on top of him, and he could feel her gentle breathing tickling slightly against the side of his neck. And after a while, he slept.
He is unable to sleep.
He came home hours ago, after a long, tedious day of dealing with the world. A day of putting up with the stupid and the scoffers and the detractors. Those who make the destruction of others into a sport.
Those who have made a mockery of his life.
This would not be enough, in and of itself, to keep him awake. Not yet, at any rate. It has not been long enough since the last time, and the pressure has not yet pushed him to the breaking point, forcing him to descend once more into the darkness.
Still, he cannot sleep.
He stands before a blank canvas, now. As always, he is nude. The music pounds in the background, blasting from the speakers, assaulting his mind and soul. But unlike the other times — unlike the four previous occasions when he was overtaken by his rage and hate — he stands perfectly still.
Motionless.
Unmoving.
He has been standing here for more than an hour, now. It’s been that long since he gave up tossing and turning in his bed, and entered the studio. It has been that long since he finally admitted that what he felt, earlier this evening, was real.
It was real, he thinks. It was no more than a twinge, a faint echo of the pressure he usually experiences, but it was no less authentic for that. There was a familiarity to the feeling, but he can’t quite put his finger on why. It was almost as if someone was walking on his grave.
He even had a brief flash of an image. It was a vision of a man, tall and dark-haired, with infinite sadness in his eyes. A sorrow that said, somehow, that this man, whoever he may be, is also familiar with the darkness, and may even be a resident of that awful place. There was a kinship there; a sense of fellowship. And it is this feeling that the artist is now seeking to capture in oil.
Without success.
At last he flings his brush aside in disgust and storms from the studio, leaving the blank canvas behind.
Waiting.
Chapter Six
Northbound on Interstate 278
Approaching Rikers Island, NY
Wednesday, March 8, 2000
9:18 a.m.
“So how long have you and Agent Mulder worked together?”
Scully glanced at Paul Burks, sitting in the driver’s seat of the car. Once again, she and Mulder had chosen to split up, at least for the morning. Mulder had taken their rental car and gone to interview Bradley Hamilton’s widow, while she and Burks planned to visit the prison facilities on Rikers Island, and talk to the other surviving suspect, Sylvia Denson.
“Seven years,” Scully replied. She and the detective had chatted a bit the night before over a couple of beers, after the autopsy, but neither of them had said much of substance; it had been a get-acquainted session, for the most part. Now, Burks apparently wanted to continue the process.
Liaison, she reminded herself firmly. Liaison.
“Seven years,” the man repeated. “That’s quite a stretch. I thought the Bureau moved people around more often than that.”
“It does,” Scully replied reluctantly. “But the X-Files is a special assignment, outside the Bureau mainstream, so not all of the regular rules apply. Also, we’ve got an assistant director who believes in continuity.”
“The X-Files?” Burks asked. “Is that the unit the two of you work for?”
Scully smiled slightly. “Actually, we are the X-Files Division,” she admitted. “Mulder’s technically the senior agent, but as a practical matter we work as equals.” She glanced at Burks again, and saw that he appeared to be genuinely interested. “We each bring our own strengths to the partnership,” she added. “We complement each other.”
And it was true, she thought, as Burks broke off the conversation for a moment in order to negotiate through some particularly heavy traffic. It hadn’t always been so, especially in the early years, but now it was. The events of the past few months had finally forced Scully to acknowledge something that she’d only paid lip service to in the beginning: that Mulder’s wild leaps of logic and his almost childlike willingness to believe were just as necessary to their success as partners as was her own devotion to science and reason.
It had been a bitter pill for Scully to swallow, and it hadn’t been until well after her return from Africa that she had finally reconciled herself to it. For all that she trusted and respected Mulder, there had always lurked in her soul a series of quiet reservations about his worldview. That, more than any other single factor, had been the reason she had resisted his hesitant overtures concerning a personal relationship.
But last fall, all of that had changed. Last fall, on the west coast of Africa, she had been confronted by an artifact and associated phenomena that she could explain in no other way but by resorting to Mulder’s theories. Nor could she turn away from them, as she sometimes had in the past, and pretend they didn’t exist, or hadn’t happened. Not with her partner’s life hanging in the balance.
When she returned to Washington, Scully found that the walls that she had hastily and thoroughly torn down in her moment of desperate need could not be casually and easily rebuilt — nor did she really want them to be. And, for the first time in her long, odd friendship with Fox Mulder, she found herself reaching out to him at precisely the same moment that he was reaching out to her.
And the rest, she thought sardonically, was history.
“That’s a nice situation to be in.”
For a moment, Scully was confused by Burks’ remark; her thoughts had drifted so far from their conversation that she’d lost track of the thread. But then she replayed her own previous comments in her head, and realized what he was talking about: her partnership with Mulder.
“It is,” she agreed with a nod, after a slight pause. Something about the detective was encouraging her to speak, and she added, “It’s the most meaningful relationship I’ve ever had in my life.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and Scully tensed slightly as she waited for the man’s reply.
Burks hesitated, and glanced briefly at her before looking back at the road. “Agent Scully,” he said, seeming to pick his words very carefully, “again, I’m so sorry about last night. I never intended for my invitation to sound as if —”
“It’s okay, Detective,” Scully said, more sharply than she’d intended. She deliberately softened her tone, and added, “If anything, I should be apologizing to you. For jumping to conclusions, I mean.”
Burks shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, you were fine. Believe me, I’ve been around, and I know how hard it is for a woman to make it in law enforcement.”
Scully considered the man’s words for a moment. There was certainly some truth in what he said; it was difficult. But Scully had never been one to rely on excuses, even when they were valid, and it went against her grain to acknowledge such a handicap. It almost felt like a weakness —
“I’m sorry too, Dmitri,” the detective murmured.
Scully felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and then her lips twitched slightly as she recognized the words Burks had just spoken. Dr. Strangelove. The detective’s eyes were glued to the road, but Scully could see a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
And suddenly it did all seem terribly funny. Burks was a perfectly ordinary man; very pleasant, good-humored and unassuming. They’d had a brief misunderstanding the day before, but that was all it was. And so, struggling to keep a straight face, she replied, “Don’t say that you’re more sorry than I am, because I’m capable of being just as sorry as you are. So we’re both sorry, all right?”
The gate guard at Rikers Island would be telling people for weeks about the FBI agent and the cop who passed through his checkpoint with tears of laughter streaming down their faces.
Rose M. Singer Center
Rikers Island, NY
9:59 a.m.
“My attorney says I don’t have to talk to you.”
Scully nodded, glanced briefly at Detective Burks, and then looked back at the prisoner sitting on the other side of the table.
Sylvia Denson was an attractive woman in her early 40s; even the prison jumpsuit couldn’t conceal that. She had short, dark hair, framing an elfin face, and her eyes were even darker than her hair. She was short, almost as short as Scully, and had the sort of tight, compact figure that spoke of regular exercise and religious adherence to a diet.
There was a callus on the third finger of her left hand, presumably where her wedding band had been. Scully knew it would have been confiscated when Denson was processed in by the police; she wondered, though, if the prisoner would be wearing it now, even if she could.
Because this woman, of course, had seduced a man other than her husband — committed adultery with him — and then brutally murdered him and mutilated his body. With her teeth.
“That’s very true, Ms. Denson,” Burks was saying, in cool, professional tones. “But it’s our understanding that you’ve signed a waiver of your Miranda rights. Is that correct?”
She sighed, and nodded. “Yes.”
“Have you changed your mind?” Burks pressed. Scully nodded to herself. Best to nail it down; they didn’t want any doubts about the status of this interview. “Do you wish to invoke your right to remain silent?” His eyes flicked to the empty chair next to the prisoner. “Your attorney does not appear to be present,” he added.
“No, he’s not,” Denson agreed. “I don’t need him. And no, I haven’t changed my mind. I just … I’m not used to this. That’s all.”
“Not used to what?” Scully asked.
The other woman glanced at Scully, and shrugged. “Not being in control,” she replied. “Having other people decide where you sleep, when and what you eat, when you take your exercise ….” Her voice trailed off and she waved a hand. “Everything.”
Scully nodded, carefully keeping her features professional as she suppressed the slight feeling of discomfort Denson’s words had evoked. She could certainly relate to what the woman was saying — but this interview wasn’t about her. It was about the prisoner. And her victim.
“Ms. Denson,” Scully said, beginning as she had with Devon McSparran, the day before, “why don’t you tell us about Marvin Draper.”
Denson shrugged again. “There’s not a lot to tell,” she answered. “I was on my way home. It was a Monday, and my day to fix dinner. While I was waiting on the subway platform, I noticed this man looking at me.” She looked Scully in the eye. “You know how it is, I’m sure.”
Scully did know, and she couldn’t keep herself from nodding. “Go on.”
The prisoner took a breath, and continued, “So I saw this man looking at me. And at first, I did what I usually do in that situation. I ignored him. But I found I couldn’t make it stick.”
“What do you mean?” That was Burks chiming in, and Scully glanced at him and nodded approval of the question.
“I mean,” Denson said carefully, “that I couldn’t just ignore him.” She went on quickly, “He wasn’t bothering me; he wasn’t getting in my face or anything like that. But I couldn’t keep myself from looking back at him.”
“Why do you think that is?” Burks asked.
“I don’t know.” She paused for a moment, then added, “He was attractive, of course. I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of how he looked … before.” Scully and Burks both nodded. “But that wasn’t it. You see attractive men on the street all the time. But this was … different, somehow.”
There was a moment of silence; after it became clear Denson wasn’t going to go on, Scully asked, “How was it different?”
“I’m not sure if I can explain it,” the woman said. “I felt … I felt as if I wasn’t in control of my own body.” She shuddered. “As if someone else had taken over, and I was just along for the ride.”
“So what happened?” Burks prodded, after another moment of silence.
“I don’t quite know,” Denson replied. “Not the early part of it. I kept looking at him, he kept looking at me. The train came, people got on, and the train left. And he and I were standing on the platform together. Alone.”
“You didn’t get on the train?” Scully asked.
“No, I didn’t.” The woman frowned. “Look, could just one of you ask the questions? I’m starting to feel whipsawed here.”
Scully glanced at Burks; he nodded for her to go on, and she looked back at the prisoner. “So the two of you were on the platform,” she said. “Then what?”
“Then … then I don’t remember very clearly. The next thing I remember is riding up in the elevator to his hotel room,” Denson said, her face reddening. “He was from out of town — at least, that’s what they tell me. We never really talked.”
The prisoner shook her head, as if she couldn’t quite believe the things she was saying. “So we got to his room, and … and we had sex. He didn’t offer me a drink and we didn’t make small talk. We just took off our clothes and did it.” Still shaking her head: “God, I can’t remember when I’ve been that … that aroused. And the things he did to me felt so damned good ….” Her voice trailed off.
“And then you killed him,” Scully finished.
“Yes,” the woman agreed flatly. “Then I killed him.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then reopened them. “And no, I don’t know why. He was on top, and he was … fucking me. I was really into it, we both were, and … and I felt my orgasm starting. And then, suddenly, I felt this terrible, horrible rage. I was so angry and hurt and frustrated and humiliated that I couldn’t think. And his neck was right there, and there were a few marks on it — we’d been a little rough, earlier. So I bit him. Hard.”
“You severed his carotid artery,” Scully commented.
“I know. That’s what I intended.” The prisoner’s voice was flat and expressionless.
“You meant to kill him.”
“Yes,” Denson said. “I meant to kill him.”
“Why?”
The woman shook her head. “I already told you. I don’t know. It wasn’t me doing it.” She waved her hands helplessly. “I mean, it was me. I remember everything, after we got to his room, and obviously, it was me. But at the same time, it wasn’t. It was as if my body did it.”
//As if my body did it.// Scully shook her head. The same words the other two suspects had used. The same dead end. She sighed, and looked back at Denson again. Well, there was still one more line of questions to pursue. “Ms. Denson, are you familiar with Devon McSparran or Bradley Hamilton?”
Her eyes clouded, and she nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I know Dev and Brad. I’ve known them for years. I also know that Brad killed himself yesterday.” Scully felt her eyebrows shooting up in surprise, and the other woman added, “That sort of news travels fast when you’re inside, Agent Scully.”
Scully nodded in acceptance of the point, and asked, “How would you describe your relationships with Mr. Hamilton and Mr. McSparran?”
“I know them,” the prisoner repeated. “I’ve worked with each of them on projects from time to time. We get along, but we aren’t great friends.”
“Kendra Prentice — Mr. McSparran’s wife — she thinks you slept with him,” Scully commented.
“Yeah, I know,” Denson replied. “I know she thinks that; she confronted me about it once. But she’s wrong — although I think I may be the only woman in the past twenty years who turned Dev down. But I’ve been faithful to my husband, Agent Scully.” Her eyes dropped, and she seemed to be studying her bare ring finger. “Until now.”
Scully couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so she didn’t try.
Chapter Seven
Residence of Bradley and Helen Hamilton
Saddlebrook, NJ
Wednesday, March 8, 2000
11:09 a.m.
For the second time in as many days, Mulder found himself in an upscale home, waiting for the owner to appear.
Actually, in this case “upscale” was a major understatement. Mulder had driven for the better part of an hour to reach this place, and found it to be more of a mansion than a house. A long, pebbled drive wound through leafy greenery, finally terminating in a loop in front of a three story brick house — a house that had obviously been there, virtually unchanged, for a century or two.
He’d been greeted at the door not by Mrs. Hamilton, but by a butler — an honest to god butler, complete with the dark suit and the high, starched collar. The man led Mulder into the house and down a long, wood-paneled hallway, finally leaving him in a moderate-sized room lined with bookshelves — self-evidently the library.
And now here he stood, looking idly at the books on one of those shelves, for lack of anything better to do. It held an odd jumble of titles, that seemed to be arranged in no particular order. He noted books by Poe, Hawthorne, Dickinson … a couple by Melville, although not //Moby Dick//. He smiled slightly and made a mental note to mention that to Scully. Many of the books were older editions, and most of them looked as if they hadn’t been taken off the shelf in years.
“Sir? Mrs. Hamilton will see you now.”
Mulder turned and followed the butler out into the hallway again, and further back into the house. A moment later he was stepping into a large, formal-looking room, and being introduced to his hostess and the young man — Bradley Hamilton III, apparently — he found waiting for him there.
The woman looked much like her house: elegant and refined. Her clothes were flawless and conservative, and her hair was perfectly coifed. Her bearing was proper, almost regal, as she stood waiting for Mulder to approach her. The agent knew she was nearly 60, but if not for the streaks of gray in her hair, she could easily have passed for 40.
“Agent Mulder,” Mrs. Hamilton said — and Mulder started slightly at the Brooklyn accent issuing from her mouth. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting, but things are difficult this morning. I hope you understand.”
“Of course,” he replied, briefly taking her hand and then releasing it. “I’m terribly sorry to have to intrude like this. I’ll try not to take too much of your time.”
“What exactly is the FBI’s interest in this case, Agent Mulder?” That was the son speaking, Bradley III. Mulder turned to face him.
He looked very much like a younger, male version of his mother. He seemed to be in his early 30s, and was immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit that Mulder suspected had been hand-tailored. His face was lean and tan, and his manner practically radiated “Wall Street”.
Mulder extended his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, the younger man took it. “I regret intruding on your grief,” the agent said. “As Detective Burks explained on the phone, there are some unresolved issues surrounding your father’s case, and I’d like to ask your mother a few questions.” Something told him he was going to have to go through young Hamilton to get to the dead man’s widow.
“What sort of issues?” Hamilton asked sharply, coldly. “My father’s death should have closed the matter.”
Mulder nodded. “I agree,” he replied. “And for the most part, it has. However, there are some … oddities that I’d like to resolve before —”
“‘Oddities’?” the young man repeated, even more sharply than before. “Agent Mulder, I don’t pretend to understand why my father did what he did, but I don’t propose to have the incident turned into a … a circus for the idly curious. I ask again: what is the FBI’s interest in this matter? To the best of my knowledge, there is no federal jurisdiction involved. Am I mistaken in that?”
Mulder shook his head. “No, you’re not mistaken,” he said. “However, the local police have asked us to take a look at the case, as well as two others, and try to determine if there was some linkage between the three.”
“He’s talking about Dev and Sylvia,” Mrs. Hamilton said suddenly. Mulder turned to look at her, and she nodded bleakly. “I’ve wondered about that, myself. The similarities were rather striking.”
“Mother,” the young man said crisply. “As I’ve already pointed out, you are under no obligation to speak to this man. There is no legal case anymore, and —”
“Yes,” Mrs. Hamilton interrupted. “Yes, you mentioned that. Repeatedly. And I told you that I intend to answer his questions.” She glanced briefly at Mulder, then back to her son. “Within reason, of course.”
“Mother, none of this is reasonable! My father is dead, and —”
“That’s enough!” The woman paused and took a breath, then continued in a shaky voice. “Bradley, I thought we’d settled this. Your father was a good man, and no one is going to miss him more than I am.” Another deep breath. Then: “But he also killed a woman, and the authorities and her family and friends have a legitimate interest in having the matter settled.”
“It is settled,” her son insisted — and now Mulder thought he detected a tremor in the young man’s voice, as well. “It’s over.”
For a moment, Mrs. Hamilton stood quietly, looking at her son. Finally, she sighed, and said, “Bradley, why don’t we step out in the hall for a minute.” To Mulder, she added, “Mr. Mulder? Will you excuse us?”
“Of course.”
Mulder waited in silence as mother and son left the room. He’d had reservations about conducting this interview at all, let alone so soon after the elder Hamilton’s death. He’d known that the family would be in an emotional turmoil over the events of the past few weeks. But Burks had assured him that Mrs. Hamilton seemed very calm and reasonable over the phone, and he did want to close this case and get back to D.C., so he’d agreed to do it, and now here he was.
He’d been a little surprised when Burks offered to take Scully out to Rikers Island. The partners had already agreed, before the detective arrived, to split up for the morning. It would speed things along, and there was no real risk involved, so there was no reason not to do it that way. But Mulder had assumed that Burks would come with him. It hadn’t worked out that way.
In retrospect, it made sense that the detective, with his familiarity with the city’s correctional and detention facilities, should choose to accompany Scully. Still, Mulder couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t some other reason for the man’s offer. A personal reason.
He shook his head angrily, and began to pace around the room. That was absolutely ridiculous. Burks was just trying to be helpful on a professional level. The man had invited the two agents up here, after all, and he no doubt wanted to facilitate their investigation. That was all that was going on.
And even if the detective did have something else in mind, Scully was quite able to handle the situation, Mulder reminded himself. He’d certainly seen her do so plenty of times in the past. He smiled slightly as he remembered how she’d shut down John Kresge, when they bumped into him during their most recent trip to California. The look on the man’s face as she turned and walked coolly away had been priceless.
Mulder’s smile faded as he found himself standing in front of a pair of paintings at one end of the room. He didn’t recognize either of them; they appeared to be abstracts, and not in a style he cared for. Nevertheless, there was something about the one on the right that was catching his eye.
He looked at the painting thoughtfully for a minute. There was something familiar about it, he decided. He didn’t think he’d actually seen it before, but there was something about the way the bright, primary colors swirled and interacted, not quite coalescing into something concrete and real. He felt an unpleasant tingling in the back of his mind, and that seemed familiar, too —
Abruptly, the room he was standing in seemed to disappear. The tingling feeling swelled quickly from a minor annoyance until it dominated his entire consciousness. Mulder felt lost and disoriented; there was no up or down, no sense of direction at all.
He felt as if he were being lifted up, thrown down, pulled apart and crushed all at the same time. He was hot and cold, sleepy and wakeful, exhausted and energized. In the space of a few seconds, he felt sorrow and anger, remorse and terror, panic and horror. And mixed with it all was a strange, terrible arousal that he couldn’t seem to resist.
That he didn’t want to resist.
The anger was dominant, now, burning inside him and mixing with sexual desire. All he knew was his hunger and his need for release. He needed to assert himself, he needed to stake his claim and shout his fury and defiance to the world, to the universe. His entire body throbbing, now, swelling and growing until he thought he would explode —
“Mr. Mulder?”
He was standing in front of the painting again, in Helen Hamilton’s home. He blinked several times as the strange, frightening feelings slowly faded from his mind. At last, he turned to face Mrs. Hamilton.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, still trying to shake off the effects of the rapidly fading vision, or whatever it had been. “I guess I was … preoccupied.”
“That’s okay,” the woman replied. She stepped forward to stand next to him, and for a moment she looked at the painting he’d been staring at. Mulder couldn’t bring himself to follow her gaze; instead, he focused his attention on her face as she studied the piece of art.
“I must admit I don’t know what Brad saw in this one,” she continued after a few seconds. “He usually had much better taste than that.”
“Your husband purchased this painting?” Mulder inquired, his gaze still on the woman standing next to him, rather than the artwork. He didn’t know why his question was important, but something inside him was insisting that it was.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Hamilton answered, looking briefly at Mulder and then back at the painting. “Brad purchased all of the works of art in this house. He didn’t have much confidence in my judgment when it came to aesthetics.”
“I see.” Again, what she’d just said seemed to Mulder to be significant, but he didn’t have the faintest idea why.
She glanced at him again, and smiled briefly. “I grew up in Brooklyn, Mr. Mulder, as I’m sure you’ve already deduced. I went to Princeton on a scholarship, and that’s where I met Brad. His family has never quite forgiven me for my birthplace, and even Brad never quite shook all of his prejudices.”
Mulder couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he simply repeated, “I see.”
Mrs. Hamilton shook her head slightly, and said, “I’m sorry. That’s not what you’re here to talk about it, is it? Why don’t we sit down, and you can ask your questions.”
She led him back across the room, to a spot where three chairs were situated around a low table. A carafe sat on the table, as well as three cut glass goblets. Mrs. Hamilton motioned for the agent to sit, then said, “Mineral water?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The woman nodded. As she poured, she said, “I must apologize for my son, Mr. Mulder. I hope you understand; it’s been very difficult for all of us, and Bradley … well, he’s taking it particularly hard. He and his father were very close.”
“I do understand, Mrs. Hamilton,” Mulder replied. “And I don’t want to disturb your family any more than necessary. I appreciate your willingness to see me today, under the circumstances. Especially on such short notice.” She nodded, and he continued, “I won’t go over the details of the crime with you; I understand that you don’t know anything about it, other than what was in published reports.”
“That’s correct,” she said soberly. Again, there was a slight shakiness to her voice. “Brad refused to see or talk to anyone from the family. So all I know is what I read in the papers.”
“I do need to ask you a few questions, though, ma’am,” Mulder persisted reluctantly. In contrast to Kendra Prentice, he was quickly coming to like this woman, and he wished he didn’t have to risk upsetting her. Choosing his words carefully, he went on, “As you’ve guessed, the FBI’s part of the investigation is focused on the similarity between what happened to your husband, and what happened to Devon McSparran and Sylvia Denson.”
The interview proceeded in much the same fashion as had the one with Kendra Prentice, the evening before — although it did seem to Mulder that Helen Hamilton was more thoughtful and far less abrasive than the other woman had been.
Mrs. Hamilton confirmed that she and her husband were acquainted with the other two suspects, but stated that they were not really close. She recalled encountering both of them at parties and meetings, and said that her husband had worked with each of them from time to time on projects of mutual interest. She also verified the police report’s characterization of Bradley Hamilton’s role in the art world as being more financial in nature.
“Brad had no artistic talent of his own, Mr. Mulder,” she explained. “None. And he was the first to acknowledge that. But he did have an appreciation for good art, and I think he tried to compensate for his own lack of ability by helping others in the only ways he could: with encouragement, and money.”
Mulder nodded; after a brief pause, he said, “Mrs. Hamilton, I appreciate your candor in these matters, and we’re almost finished. I do have one more subject I need to address, and I hope you’ll forgive me for bringing it up at this time —”
“Mr. Mulder.” She stopped, and seemed to be waiting until she was sure she had his attention. “I’m not a delicate little flower, and I do understand that sometimes in your profession you must pursue matters that are not normally discussed in polite company. I presume you’re about to ask about my husband’s fidelity?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mulder was surprised to realize that he was blushing.
Mrs. Hamilton sighed, and answered, “To the best of my knowledge, Brad has not slept with any woman other than myself since well before we were married, which was more than thirty years ago. Of course, it’s in the nature of such things that I might well be the last to know, but if he did stray at some point, I’m sure I would forgive him. I loved my husband, Mr. Mulder, and he loved me. People in love do make mistakes sometimes, but if the relationship is strong, they’re able to overcome those errors and move on.”
“That’s commendable,” the agent murmured. For a moment he couldn’t keep himself from reflecting on all the times he and Scully had hurt each other down through the years. Yet, as this woman had just said, their relationship was strong, and somehow, in each instance, they had weathered the storm.
He shook himself, and returned his attention to Mrs. Hamilton. “I think that’s everything I needed to cover today, ma’am.” As they both rose to their feet, he added, “Again, I want to thank you for seeing me. I know it’s a difficult time for you.” The woman nodded silently, and turned to lead him to the door.
But for some reason, Mulder found himself unable to follow her. For a moment he stood in place, wondering what it was that he still wanted to say. All in a rush, he had a sudden sense of hollowness, incompleteness, as if he had been left unsatisfied on some very fundamental level.
Abruptly he found himself walking over to stand in front of the painting again, the one he’d been studying earlier. Once again, he felt a stirring of those disturbing, inexplicable feelings that he’d experienced a few minutes before. The anger he’d felt then was still present in his mind, he realized, pulsing deep inside him in savage counterpoint to his heartbeat. It was small, now, and easy to control — but it was still there.
Mulder wasn’t sure what to make of what had happened to him. He knew what Scully would say, of course. She would attribute it all to stress, and advise him to disregard it. And she might be right to do so.
But there was something else about the experience, something that still bothered him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it … and then he had it.
It was the tingling sensation he’d had in the back of his head, just before things got out of control. That tingling had seemed familiar at the time, and now he remembered why. He’d had the same odd, disquieting feeling last night, when he stood in Kendra Prentice’s living room, looking at another painting.
A painting very much like this one.
Mulder stood perfectly still for another moment or two. Could that be the connection? Again, he knew what Scully would say, but he also knew that his own investigator’s instincts were clamoring for attention. Could the paintings be the link between these three cases?
Was it possible that there was an X-File here, after all?
“You seem to be really enamored of that one.”
Mrs. Hamilton’s words took him by surprise; he’d become so absorbed in his own thoughts that he’d almost forgotten she was there. He turned to face her, and shook his head with a slight smile. “I guess it just caught my eye,” he replied. “I’m sorry; I know you have things to do.”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Mulder,” she said. With slight humor: “You may have it, if you wish. I really don’t like it very much. I don’t know what possessed Brad to buy it in the first place.”
The agent shook his head again. “No,” he said. “That won’t be necessary. I just wanted to look at it for another minute.” He hesitated, and added, “Although … you wouldn’t happen to know who the artist is, would you?” Automatically, he glanced at the painting again, and after a few seconds of looking he found a pair of initials in the lower left-hand corner. “L.M.?” he added.
“Yes,” Mrs. Hamilton replied. “That stands for ‘Lacrimae Mundi’, which is supposed to be the artist’s name. His work has become quite popular in the last few months. I suspect it’s actually a pseudonym, however.”
“‘Lacrimae Mundi?” Mulder repeated. “That’s Latin, isn’t it?” He concentrated for a moment, trying to bring back what he could of his lessons at Oxford.
“Yes,” she said. “It is. It means ‘Tears of the World’.”
Chapter Eight
The Plough and Stars
Manhattan, NY
Wednesday, March 8, 2000
6:24 p.m.
The Plough and Stars turned out to be just what Mulder had guessed it would be when he first heard the name: an old, smoky, working-class tavern, located in the heart of one of New York’s many Irish neighborhoods.
When Scully proposed meeting here for dinner and a drink while they compared notes and brought each other up to date on the day’s activities, he’d wondered for a few seconds how she knew about such a place. Before he’d had a chance to embarrass himself by asking, however, he realized that the suggestion had undoubtedly come from Paul Burks. Now that suspicion was confirmed as well, because the place was thick with cops.
Mulder wished he understood why it was bothering him so much that Burks had chosen where the three of them would have dinner. It was only logical that the man take the lead in such matters, he told himself firmly. The detective was the local resident, after all; the out-of-towners would be smart to follow his lead.
Mulder took another sip of his soda water, and wondered once again if he was jealous. He’d been thinking about that off and on all day, ever since Scully and Burks had departed for Rikers Island, and he hadn’t reached any useful conclusions — at least, none that he was comfortable with.
On the face of it, it was ridiculous. He knew Scully well enough to understand that he had no reason for such feelings. She’d proven her loyalty to him countless times over the years, and he had no cause to think she wouldn’t carry that level of commitment over into a personal relationship, as well. But no amount of logic and reasoning seemed to be enough to keep his anxieties at bay.
He shook his head, forced the troubling thoughts away, and tried to think about the case as he continued to sip at his soda water. The music blaring from the jukebox and the noisy chatter of the other people in the bar was making it difficult to think, so Mulder took out a pen and started doodling on a napkin as a way of focusing his thoughts.
After leaving the Hamilton residence, he’d driven back to the city, grabbed a quick bite of lunch, and embarked on the thankless task of beginning interviews with the victims’ families, while Scully and Burks made the long trip out to New Haven to talk to Sylvia Denson’s husband. Again, Mulder wasn’t completely happy at the division of labor, but he had to agree that it would have been a waste of time for them to rendezvous somewhere in the city, and then all go out to Connecticut together. This way was better, he assured himself. This way was efficient.
Unfortunately, his afternoon had been completely unproductive. He’d visited the families of two of the victims, and none of them had been able to shed any light on the murders. Nobody who knew the deceased had noticed anything different or unusual in the days leading up to their deaths, and neither victim had been in the habit of picking up strangers for one night stands. And the icing on the cake was that George Ventner, the man Devon McSparran had killed, was neither gay nor bisexual — in fact, he’d been known by his friends and family to be something of a homophobe.
Mulder supposed he should also contact Marvin Draper’s wife, but since Draper was from the west coast that would have to be done by phone, and Mulder quite frankly had been putting it off. He had no desire to intrude on yet another family’s grief — especially since none of it seemed to be going anywhere, and most especially since he would be unable to establish truly personal contact over the phone.
One thing he had done was to call Kendra Prentice, and ask her about the painting that had caught his attention the day before. She’d confirmed his suspicion that the piece had been produced by the same man who’d painted the work in Helen Hamilton’s home: Lacrimae Mundi.
Unfortunately, Ms. Prentice had been unable to provide any information about the artist. She knew even less about Mundi — or whatever his name actually was — than Mrs. Hamilton did. Just that her husband had bought the painting a month or so earlier, and it had been hanging in the living room of their condominium ever since.
Mulder frowned as he thought about that again. McSparran had bought the painting in early February. He had met and killed George Ventner on February 14. Could there be a connection? Or was he making too much stew from one oyster? All he really had to go on was the odd feeling he’d had when he looked at the paintings, and he was sure Scully would be quick to inform him that it had all been brought on by stress.
And she might well be right.
Mulder sighed, and finished his drink, then looked at his watch. 6:45. Scully and Burks were late; they were supposed to have been here at six. He felt another tremor of anxiety, but quickly suppressed it. The interview in New Haven had just taken longer than expected, or they were stuck in traffic; that was all. A phone call would have been nice, but he wasn’t her father. Scully was a grown woman, and she could take care of herself.
And then suddenly there she was, standing in the entrance and furling her umbrella. An instant later, Burks stepped in behind her, brushing drops of water off his coat, but Mulder was barely aware of the man’s presence. All he could see was Scully.
Scully gave her umbrella one more shake, then closed it and tucked it under her arm. The rain had started just as they were leaving New Haven; by the time they reached Manhattan, it had developed into a steady downpour. They’d been late leaving Connecticut in the first place, and the weather and a traffic accident on I-95 had caused additional delays.
But now here they were at last, at the Plough and Stars, the same tavern she and Burks had visited the night before. They were 45 minutes late, but at least they were here. It had been a long, tiring day, a day that Scully wasn’t at all sure had been truly productive, and she was looking forward to seeing Mulder again. Splitting up had made sense, and she had enjoyed Paul Burks’ company, once they got past the initial stiffness. But he wasn’t Mulder.
She spotted her partner almost immediately, sitting by himself in a booth towards the back. His eyes were already glued to her, and he was looking at her with a hesitant, friendly expression that made her feel warm all over. So he had missed her, too.
Scully allowed her own face to blossom into a smile, and was rewarded as Mulder’s smile broadened even further. She was about to walk over to his table, when she felt a gentle touch at her elbow.
“Agent Scully?”
Scully sighed, and turned to see that Detective Burks was now a few feet away, standing next to a table where three other men were seated. “Yes, Detective?” she asked, as she stepped over to stand next to him.
The other men were already climbing to their feet, as Burks said, “Agent Scully, I’d like you to meet Captain Swenson, and Lieutenants Bigelow and Cheung.” To the other three: “This is Special Agent Dana Scully; she’s with the Bureau, and she and her partner are giving me a hand with a case I’m working on.”
Scully forced a smile as she shook hands and exchanged a few polite words with each man. More liaison, she thought. Whether he was conscious of it or not, Burks was seeking to enhance his own status by making sure his peers knew that federal agents had been assigned to his investigation. There was no real harm in that, and it was far from the first time she’d encountered this situation. But right now, she really wasn’t in the mood.
She finished greeting the third man and stood quietly next to Burks, as he continued to talk to his colleagues. Something about basketball — Scully heard the words “Final Four” spoken several times. But beyond that, she wasn’t really paying attention. Idly, she turned her gaze back in the direction of her partner — and frowned.
Mulder was no longer looking at her. Instead, he was sitting perfectly still, staring at the empty glass in front of him. His face was completely calm and expressionless; he almost looked bored. Scully doubted whether anyone other than herself would be able to detect the fact that her partner was deeply unhappy about something.
Even as she was making her excuses to Burks and the others, Scully’s mind was working, trying to figure out what was bothering her partner. He’d seemed fine only a couple of minutes earlier, when she and the detective first arrived. Then she’d turned away for a moment to talk to Burks and his friends —
Shit.
Scully shook her head in disbelief as she walked quickly across the room to Mulder’s table. It had been a long time since she’d been seriously involved with someone, and it seemed she’d forgotten what it was like. And Mulder was particularly vulnerable right now.
She came to a halt next to Mulder’s table. For a moment or two she just stood there watching him, as he stared in apparent fascination at the glass in front of him. At last, she cleared her throat and spoke.
“Mind if I join you?”
Mulder hesitated, then nodded and moved over in the booth. Scully slid in next to him, deliberately scooting over until her hip bumped against his.
The partners sat together in silence for a pair of minutes, while Scully tried to decide what to say. She knew the issue needed to be addressed; she also knew that this was far from the ideal time and place. But she couldn’t just let the matter drop; if she did, it would be that much harder to deal with later. Finally, choosing her words very carefully, she said, “Mulder, I have to be able to work with other men. If I can’t do that, I can’t function in this job.”
Mulder nodded slightly, and his lips quirked. “I know, Scully. I’m sorry.” But still he couldn’t seem to meet her gaze.
“It’s okay,” she replied. “I understand. We’re both still feeling our way into this whole being a couple thing, and we’re bound to make mistakes.” She hesitated, then added, “Mulder? I know we haven’t talked about this, but I’ve been operating under the assumption that we’re involved in an exclusive relationship. Is that your perception?”
Now Mulder did turn to look at her, and his eyebrows shot up in apparent surprise. “Of course it is,” he responded. “I don’t want anyone but you, Scully. Ever.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and replied, “I don’t want anyone but you, either. And that means we’re going to have to trust each other.” Mulder opened his mouth to answer, but she hurried on, “I know you do trust me, Mulder. You’ve trusted me with your reputation, as well as your life. But now you’re going to have to learn to trust me with your heart, as well.”
For a moment he just looked at her; then he nodded, and whispered, “I do trust you with my heart, Scully. Even when the world is falling apart, I trust you. But I’ve never been very good at this relationship stuff.” He nodded in the direction of Burks and his friends, still chatting on the far side of the room. “I hope you’ll be able to cut me some slack when I need it.”
“Always,” she replied, feeling her insides quiver in recognition of his words. She paused briefly to swallow the lump that had suddenly formed in her throat, then reached out and briefly squeezed his hand. “And I suppose I should confess to you at this point that I can also be pretty possessive at times. Even territorial. If I step over the line, I expect you to let me know. Okay?”
Mulder smiled, and nodded. “Sure.”
Once again silence descended, but this time is was a comfortable silence, even a happy one. Her hand still rested lightly on his, and Scully felt a warm sense of contentment settling around her.
She wished that she could kiss him, but her lifelong resistance to public displays of affection was inhibiting her. Scully was a very private person when it came to her emotions, and the questionable propriety of kissing her partner, coupled with having Paul Burks and a dozen or more of New York’s finest only a few feet away, was only making her more reticent.
Mulder was watching her, she realized, waiting to see what she would do. Now that he was past his bout of insecurity, his ability to look down inside her had apparently kicked in, and she could tell from the sudden glint of humor in his eyes that he knew exactly what she was thinking, and that he wanted some sort of reassurance.
But she just couldn’t do it, and Mulder must have known that, as well, because in the next moment he lifted his free hand and lightly brushed her cheek. “Rain check,” he murmured softly.
“Absolutely,” she replied with a grateful nod.
“But here come the cops,” Mulder added in a more normal tone of voice, as he straightened up in his seat and withdrew his hand from hers. He looked past her, and Scully turned to see Paul Burks finally approaching the table.
“Is this a private party?” the man asked, a friendly smile on his face. “Or can anybody join?” Without waiting for a response, he slid into the booth across from the two agents, and went on, “Sorry I took so long, but I was waylaid. You know how it is.”
“That’s quite all right, Detective,” Scully replied, fighting to keep a smile from her face. She strongly suspected that the man had noticed her little tete a tete with Mulder, and had deliberately stayed away until it seemed to be over. She added, “If anything, I should apologize for leaving you standing there. But my feet are killing me.”
Burks laughed. “Don’t tell an old beat cop about sore feet,” he commented. He turned his attention to Mulder, and asked, “So how was your day? Did you find the missing link?”
Mulder seemed to hesitate, and Scully felt her eyebrows rising slightly. Did her partner actually have something? But then he shook his head, and said, “No, not really. Just the same story we’ve been hearing. Nobody knows anything, and nobody has any explanation for what happened. Everybody’s appalled, shocked and hurt.” He shrugged awkwardly, and concluded, “The usual.”
“Same with us,” Burks replied, disappointment evident in his voice. “I didn’t really expect that we’d find anything, but I’d hoped maybe we’d turn up something that would link the cases.”
Scully tuned the detective out, and studied her partner’s face. He was holding something back, she realized. From the slight tension in his posture and the exaggerated poker face he was wearing, she could tell; he was holding something back. Again, she doubted if it was evident to Burks, let alone anyone else — but she knew her partner very well, and she could tell.
“What’s this?”
Her attention was drawn back to the conversation as Burks reached across the table and picked up the napkin sitting by Mulder’s glass. There was something scribbled on it, but Scully couldn’t make out what it was. For a moment the detective held the napkin, staring at it intently, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Just some doodles,” Mulder commented, as Burks continued to stare at the napkin. “I guess my mind was wandering a bit.”
“A bit,” the other man agreed. He glanced at Scully, then handed the napkin to her. “Take a look,” he suggested.
Scully took the napkin and studied it for a minute. She immediately recognized her partner’s drawing style — Mulder was by no means a professional sketch artist, but he was quite capable of rendering a simple scene in a recognizable manner. This particular drawing seemed more abstract than usual for him, though. There was something odd about it, something not quite right, and it took her a moment to realize what she was looking at.
It was a drawing of a table, with a nude woman sprawled across it, face down. There weren’t many details visible, but something about it was familiar; very familiar. And then suddenly she realized what it was.
“It’s the Hamilton crime scene,” she said, looking up at Burks for confirmation.
He nodded. “That’s right.”
Scully frowned, and went on, “But I don’t remember it quite this way. Wasn’t the victim face up in all the photographs we saw?” She looked over at her partner. “Mulder?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes, she was,” he responded. “That’s the way they found her.” He took the napkin from her and stared at it for a minute. “But I don’t remember drawing this at all. I do remember doodling.” He pointed to a small caricature of Skinner down in one corner. “But the rest of it … I don’t remember.”
The incident was obviously bothering him, and Scully wasn’t quite sure why. It was just a drawing, after all. She’d been momentarily startled when she realized what she was looking at, but it wasn’t really that inexplicable. They’d both been focusing on this case a lot for the past forty-eight hours; the sketch was probably just a reflection of that.
But still, Mulder seemed perturbed, as he continued to study the drawing. There was something going on inside his head, and Scully had a feeling it was related to whatever it was he wasn’t telling them. She was tempted to ask what was wrong, but she didn’t want to challenge him in front of a stranger. No matter how pleasant and helpful Paul Burks had been, there were some things that needed to remain private.
She glanced across the table at the detective, and saw that he was studiously not looking at them. Well, the man wasn’t stupid, she reminded herself. Fortunately, he apparently had the discretion not to intrude, at least at this stage. Of course, if Mulder really did have something, they were going to have to discuss it with Burks at some point. But not just yet.
At last the detective turned back to them with a smile, and changed the subject, and the rest of the evening passed without incident.
Chapter Nine
The Best Western President Hotel
Manhattan, NY
Wednesday, March 8, 2000
11:07 p.m.
It was dark, but he wasn’t alone. Mulder wasn’t sure how much he liked that.
They’d stayed on at the Plough and Stars for a long time after dinner, much longer than Mulder had really wanted. But Scully actually seemed to be enjoying herself — she’d even allowed herself a couple of beers, something she almost never did. Mulder found himself captivated by the vision she presented: relaxed, happy and at ease, chatting amiably with Paul Burks. She had even flirted with him at one point, surreptitiously and in a low-key sort of way, while Burks was in the restroom.
Mulder had also found himself warming to the detective, as the evening progressed. He did not actually talk to Burks much, himself, but as he watched his partner interacting with the man, he gradually came to realize that whatever it was that was forming between the two, it wasn’t a threat to his relationship with Scully. Not professionally, and certainly not personally. Mulder had known that in his head all along; now, after an evening of careful observation of Scully and Burks together, he was coming to feel a little easier in his heart, as well.
And of course, that had merely cleared the decks for Mulder to start worrying about other things. Specifically, the odd experiences he’d had yesterday and today when he looked at those paintings.
Mulder suppressed the urge to turn over in bed. He’d been lying here in bed virtually motionless, now, for over an hour, and the reason for his immobility was simple: Dana Scully was nestled up against his side, apparently fast asleep, and he didn’t want to disturb her.
When they got back to the hotel, a little after 9:30, Mulder had supposed they’d each go to their own rooms. In retrospect, he didn’t know why he’d assumed that, after he’d finally allowed Scully back into his bed the night before, but somehow that had seemed like what would happen.
But as she so often did, his partner had surprised him. She had gone to her own room, but only long enough to brush her teeth and change. She’d knocked lightly on the connecting door a few minutes later, wearing only one of his t-shirts, and matter-of-factly crawled into his bed. Then she simply lay there, calmly looking at him, silently daring him to ask her to leave. And after only a second’s hesitation, Mulder had smiled, stripped down to his boxers, and slid under the covers next to her.
Unfortunately, he’d found himself unable to sleep, and having his partner curled up next to him was preventing him from trying any of his usual remedies and distractions.
“What are you thinking about?”
Scully’s voice, coming as a whisper out of the darkness, made Mulder start in surprise. Immediately, he heard a soft chuckle. “Sorry,” she said, still speaking very softly. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” He felt her body shift slightly against his, and her hand, which had been lightly gripping his shoulder, moved down to gently stroke his chest.
“I thought you were asleep,” Mulder replied, also in a whisper. Somehow, lying here together in the dark, in the middle of the night, it seemed right to whisper.
“Uh uh,” she responded. “Not even close. I’ve just been lying here next to you. Thinking.” Her hand continued to pet and tickle his chest, and Mulder felt the distant tingle that signaled the beginning of arousal.
“About?”
Scully was quiet for a minute, and Mulder waited patiently as she apparently considered her response. The hand that had been stroking his chest now slid up and around his shoulders, and she gently pulled on him, until he turned on his side so that he was facing her. She snuggled in against him, then, nuzzling her face against his neck, and Mulder felt his cock begin to harden at the intimate contact.
“I’ve been thinking about us,” she said at last, breathing the words against the base of his neck. “You. Me. The X-Files. Where we’ve been. Where we’re going.” Pause. “How I feel about getting out of the car.” She had both arms around him now, and was lightly touching and caressing his back.
“Mmm hmm.” For some reason, Mulder wasn’t having any difficulty following the conversation. Normally, his cognitive ability rapidly deteriorated when Scully started getting physical, but for some reason, tonight, he wasn’t having any trouble concentrating. “That’s a big subject,” he commented. “Have you come to any conclusions?”
“Not really.” He shivered a little as her lips brushed against his collar bone. “Other than the obvious one. That I love you, and I want to be with you.” A brief pause as she nipped at the base of his neck. “It’s not really a topic that lends itself to final conclusions, anyway. Someone told me once that having respect for the journey is what really matters.”
“Sounds like a wise man,” Mulder said. He shifted his hips so that his now fully erect cock was pressed firmly against her abdomen.
“I’ve always thought so.”
For a few minutes neither of them said anything, as they lay next to each other, holding, touching, kissing. There didn’t seem to be any hurry, either to continue the conversation, or to bring the physical encounter to its logical conclusion. Neither of them was going anywhere, and they had plenty of time.
Mulder let Scully take the lead, taking comfort from the warm reassurance of her touch, and the silent promise of her body, pressed against his. This was not foreplay, he realized with distant satisfaction. This was not a necessary build-up to something else. This was lovemaking in its own right, but in a different form, and no less satisfying for that. It was tender, intimate and erotic, in ways that he had never experienced before — not with Scully, and certainly not with anyone else.
At length, Mulder found himself lying on his back once more, his partner snuggled firmly against his side. At some point they had both divested themselves of their clothing, and now Scully was lightly stroking and caressing his erection. It felt good; it felt impossibly good. Yet somehow, her touch was not creating the sense of urgency he usually felt, and Mulder knew that even if they stopped now and simply went to sleep, he would not be disappointed.
“I love to touch you like this,” she murmured. It was the first time either of them had spoken in the better part of an hour, and Mulder admired the way the sound of her voice seemed to surround and enfold them, adding to the sense of contentment that had settled over him. And Scully continued, in the same soft, drowsy tone of voice, “I love to hold you in my hand. It feels so profoundly … intimate, that I can make this happen. In my head, I know that it’s just a physiological reaction, but in my heart —”
“It’s all about you, Scully,” he said softly. “Don’t ever doubt that, and don’t try to explain it away, because you know better. Your heart knows better. I can become aroused for a lot of reasons, but it’s always different when it’s you. It’s always special.”
There was another period of silence, as Scully continued to stroke and caress his cock and balls. Finally, her voice sounding slightly choked with apparent emotion, she said, “Thank you. Thank you for saying that.”
“I was only telling you what I feel. What I thought you already knew.”
“I did know. But it’s good to hear.” Her hand closed more firmly around his erection, and now Mulder did feel himself sliding a little off the plateau of contentment he’d been occupying. Then his partner went on, in a lighter tone of voice, “Mulder? Would it spoil what just happened if I told you I now want very much to be fucked?”
Mulder chuckled, and tilted her chin up so that he could kiss her. “Not at all,” he replied, once his lips were free again. “In fact, I’ve been thinking along those lines myself.”
Before he’d even finished speaking, Scully had rolled him on his back and was straddling his hips. She hovered above him for a moment, still holding and stroking his cock, the expression of open adoration on her face almost too much to bear. Then she closed her eyes, and slowly lowered herself down onto him.
Once again, silence fell, broken only by their breathing and the soft sounds of their lovemaking. Mulder’s hands rested on Scully’s hips, following their motions as she moved up and down, while his gaze was focused on her face.
He never grew tired of watching her under any circumstances, but these moments, when they were together, were the best of all. She was so intelligent, so thoughtful, and even when she was in the throes of passion, her brain never completely disengaged. Mulder was always fascinated to watch as her brow knitted in concentration, and he tried to imagine what thoughts might be flowing through her at such a moment.
And it suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t have to wonder; he could simply ask. He shook his head in amazement that it had never occurred to him, but it hadn’t. He smiled, then, and spoke her name.
“Scully.” He waited until she opened her eyes and looked down at him, a slight smile on her face. Then, as her hips continued to move, in a slow, steady rhythm, he said, “What are you thinking about?”
Her smile broadened a little, and she slowed the motion of her hips a bit. “You’ve never asked me that, before.” She cocked her head, and seemed to think for a moment. “No one’s ever asked me that.” Her smile grew even wider. “Not under these circumstances, anyway.”
Mulder chuckled, and then moaned as she clenched her muscles around his cock. “Sorry, Scully,” he murmured. “You must admit you can be a bit of a distraction when you get like this.” For emphasis, he thrust up with his own hips, just as she was coming down with hers, and they both gasped. “So come on, Scully. Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on in your head.”
Her face grew thoughtful again, her head tilted back and her smile disappeared. She didn’t look unhappy, though; she was just concentrating again, apparently trying to bring back whatever it was that had occupied her thoughts a few moments ago. Finally, she looked back down at him and smiled once more. “I was thinking about the case,” she said.
Mulder felt his eyebrows shoot up; he wasn’t sure whether he was more amused or surprised. “You think about work when we’re making love?” he asked. He supposed he should be offended, but somehow he couldn’t keep himself from smiling. This woman never ceased to amaze him. God willing, she never would.
“Yeah, I do,” Scully admitted. She slowed her motions, and carefully stretched out on top of him, until her forehead rested against his. “Does that bother you?”
Mulder shook his head, fascinated by her revelation. Fascinated and, for some strange reason, even more aroused. “No. Not at all.” He kissed her, briefly but thoroughly, and slipped his hands back and around, until they cupped her buttocks, drawing her farther down onto him. “Tell me about it.”
“Well ….” She paused for a moment and returned the kiss he’d given her. “Mostly, I was thinking about that napkin.”
“What napkin?” For a moment, Mulder was confused, but then it came back to him. She was talking about the sketch he’d made while they were at the Plough and Stars.
“What was it you didn’t want to say, Mulder?” She was looking down at him intently now, her fingers tangled in his hair, her hips still moving gently against his. “I understood that you probably didn’t want to discuss it in front of Burks, but he’s not here now.” She smiled again, briefly, and ground against him a little. “Obviously.”
Mulder chuckled along with her, but then he sobered. This was it, then. He’d known the moment would come when he’d have to tell her about what had happened; he wasn’t even sure why he’d been resisting it.
A month ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Hell, a month ago, he probably would have spun the whole thing out in front of Detective Burks, and thought nothing of it. He would’ve been eager to build a theory that would link these three cases, and anxious to find evidence proving that it was an X-File.
That was the difference, of course. He didn’t want this case to be an X-File. He wanted it to be what it appeared to be: a series of unconnected crimes, with superficial similarities. He wanted to prove that, wrap everything up, hand it back to Burks, and go home.
Which was fine, except that he didn’t really have a home to go back to. Not in the deeper sense of the word. He’d carefully avoided building anything resembling a home, because that might have caused him to stray from his mission. It might have made him stop looking for Samantha. He hadn’t wanted a home; he hadn’t deserved a home. Not while his sister was still missing.
But he did have a home, and the joy of that realization spread through him seemingly at the speed of light. He had a home, and she was at this moment poised on top of him, looking down at him with love and compassion, and waiting for him to come back to her. Waiting for her partner to reemerge from wherever he’d gone.
Something must have shown in his face, because suddenly Scully was grinning from ear to ear. She’d smiled at him before, but never like this, never so openly and without reservation. Mulder found himself grinning in response, feeling like an idiot, but also feeling just too damned good to stop. He wasn’t out of the darkness; not yet. There were still things he needed to work through. But at least now he thought he saw the way.
He reached up and cupped the back of his partner’s head, drawing her down for another long, deep, kiss. Then he released her, and after just a moment’s pause to get his thoughts in order, Fox Mulder began to talk.
He got that feeling again, today — the feeling that someone was walking on his grave. It was stronger, this time, harder to ignore. He feels wronged; he feels unclean; he feels violated.
He feels angry.
He went to the studio again tonight. He went to the studio and stripped off his clothes and started the music, but again, like the night before, he’s just standing there, staring at the canvas.
His body is trembling now, though. He can feel the energy flowing within him, he can feel the process starting again. The pressure is building, slowly, slowly building, making his body throb and ache with suppressed power. He’s close, so very close —
He abruptly thrusts his brush into one of the pots of paint, then smears it savagely across the canvas in counterpoint to the beat of the music. A single stroke is all he has tonight; he already knows this. But he also knows that this stroke is right; it is good; it is true. It will shape the rest of the work, leading to the ultimate release and climax once again.
He closes his eyes as his pulse continues to beat in time to the music, but in his mind he can still see the canvas, and the violent, untamed splash of red.
Chapter Ten
The New York Sanctuary for Contemporary Art
Manhattan, NY
Thursday, March 9, 2000
1:12 p.m.
“Mr. Carstens will see you, now.”
Scully glanced up from the notes she’d been studying, to meet the cool, disapproving gaze of the receptionist. When Scully and Mulder had arrived at the art museum, twenty minutes earlier, the woman had greeted them as if she wanted to ask them to use the side entrance, along with the rest of the hired help. Now, her expression and tone of voice transmitted quite plainly that the interview her boss had agreed to was, in her opinion, in questionable taste.
Scully glanced briefly at her partner, trying to gauge how he was taking the receptionist’s display of attitude. He seemed to be in a much more positive mood this morning than he had been the day before — hell, he looked better than he had for most of the past month.
She knew better than to think he was completely recovered from his funk, though. As much as she’d have liked to have believed that a couple of nights of her lovemaking could heal any ailment Mulder might have, she realized that the things that were bothering him ran much deeper than that. In the end, he was going to have to work through it all, himself.
Already, she was seeing unmistakable signs that Mulder was backsliding. No — that was the wrong word, because he didn’t seem to be losing ground, exactly. But he had become increasingly morose as the morning progressed, and now he seemed nearly as tense and unhappy as he’d been yesterday.
The day had started with a call from Paul Burks, informing them that his captain had called him into the office for a series of meetings — meetings that Burks said were a waste of time, but that would probably last most of the day. Scully and her partner proceeded to spend the morning tying up loose ends: they’d conducted a phone interview with Marvin Draper’s wife, that had netted them nothing much, and then spent the rest of the morning going over their notes and trying unsuccessfully to find a pattern in the killings.
They hadn’t talked much at all about Mulder’s experiences with the paintings. After he’d told her about that, while they lay in bed together the night before, Scully had been as tactful as she could in expressing the view that he was simply reacting to accumulated stress. Mulder had surprised her by agreeing that this was probably so, and they hadn’t spoken of it since.
And now here they were at this art museum, trying to tie up a few more loose ends. This morning, after the call to Mrs. Draper, Mulder had hesitantly suggested that they should talk to someone from the art community who wasn’t directly involved in any of the murders, to see if any light could be shed. He said he knew someone from his Oxford days who was an executive director at one of the city’s many art museums. Scully had agreed, and when Mulder called his contact, the man had readily consented to see them.
Now they were being ushered into Allen Carstens’ office. It was large and opulent, with a thick, expensive-looking carpet, and hardwood furniture that Scully suspected were genuine antiques. Several paintings hung on the wall, including one that she recognized as being by Winslow Homer. She didn’t suppose it was likely to be a copy.
“Fox! It has been a long time.” The man stepping out from behind the desk appeared to be in his early forties. He had dark hair and eyes, and was short and powerful-looking, the sort of man who looked as if he might split the seams of his suit jacket at any minute. He spoke with an English accent.
“I’d heard you were with the FBI, of course,” Carstens continued, as he reached out to shake Mulder’s hand. “Alumni bulletin, and all that.” A smile that didn’t look completely pleasant crept across his face, and he added, “And I do still see Phoebe every once in a while.”
Scully couldn’t keep herself from shooting a glance at her partner at the mention of Phoebe Green. Of course, she thought. If Carstens was at Oxford at the same time as Mulder, and they knew each other, it stood to reason that he would also have known Phoebe. Why hadn’t that occurred to her?
Mulder was nodding, his face an expressionless mask. “I’m sure you do, Allen,” he commented. There was an edge to his voice that Scully didn’t like very much. He opened his mouth to go on, but Carstens beat him to the punch.
“You know, Fox,” the other man said, “we should get together sometime. You and me and Phoebe, I mean. It would be just like in the old days.”
Mulder nodded, but didn’t say anything — and Scully was startled to see a glint of something in his eyes. Anger? Pain? She wasn’t sure. But whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Time to put things back on track. She stepped forward and extended her hand.
“Mr. Carstens,” she said coolly. “I’m Special Agent Dana Scully. Obviously, you already know my partner. I want to begin by thanking you for making time for us on such short notice.”
Carstens turned towards her and took her hand, giving her a frankly appraising look up and down as he did so. Scully was suddenly reminded of one of Sylvia Denson’s comments the day before: //While I was waiting on the subway platform, I noticed this man looking at me. You know how it is, I’m sure.//
Yes, Scully did know how it was, and now Carstens was doing it to her — undressing her with his eyes. She could almost see her own nude body reflected in his pupils. Unfortunately, she’d never found a really good solution to the problem of unwelcome attention. If she objected to it, and confronted the man, he would probably view it as a challenge, even an expression of interest. If she looked away, it would be interpreted as weakness. A no-win situation.
“Oh, no trouble at all, my dear.” Carstens was practically purring, and for just an instant Scully was afraid he might try to kiss her hand. But then he released it, and went on, “Phoebe has mentioned you, too, on occasion. But I must say that her description didn’t do you justice.”
“That surprises me,” Scully said dryly. “Inspector Green struck me as being a very keen and objective observer.” She nodded towards the desk, and the two chairs situated in front of it. “But Agent Mulder and I don’t want to take too much of your valuable time. Shall we get on with it?”
“Of course,” the man murmured.
Scully couldn’t tell for sure what Carstens’ reaction was to her implied dig at Green, and after a moment she decided she didn’t care. This man wasn’t a suspect; he was only a witness — and not a very important witness at that. She resolved not to waste any more time and energy sparring with him.
A moment later they’d all taken their seats. Glancing at Mulder, Scully saw that he was looking a little better. Whatever had been bothering him when they first arrived, he at least had it under more control now. Just as she reached that conclusion, he caught her looking at him, and nodded slightly, indicating that she should begin the questioning.
“Mr. Carstens,” she began, turning to face the man. “I’m sure you’re aware of the three murders that have recently been committed by members of the New York art community.”
“Certainly,” Carstens responded. Once again his eyes were boring into her, his gaze frankly appraising her as he continued, in smooth tones of impersonal sincerity. “Terrible tragedies, all of them. All three were valued members of the community — each in his or her own way, of course. Their contributions will be sorely missed.”
“I’m sure the victims’ families feel for you,” Scully said, more sharply than she’d intended. She shook her head slightly. She didn’t need to bait this man, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She was finding his manner intensely annoying, and not just on a personal level.
“I see your point, of course, Agent Scully,” Carstens replied. He bowed his head for a moment, then looked up again. “And I did not in any way mean to be giving short shrift to the pain those poor people must be experiencing. I was simply responding to your statement.”
Scully nodded reluctantly. There was some truth in that. Time to move on. “Are you acquainted with any of the suspects?” she asked.
“Of course,” the man replied easily. “I think I know everyone of consequence in the community. None of them were people I would count among my friends, but we got along.”
“Did they get along with each other?”
“So far as I know,” he replied with a shrug. “As I said, I didn’t know any of them very well. I wasn’t privy to the intricacies of their interpersonal relationships.”
“Did you find it surprising that these people would commit such crimes?” This interview was going nowhere fast, Scully thought. But now that they were here, there didn’t seem to be much choice but to run through the list of questions.
“Of course,” Carstens responded. “I was shocked. I don’t like to think that any human being is capable of doing such things. But to wake up one morning and find that someone you sat in a conference room with only last month has committed such a hideous crime ….” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.
Something about his choice of words and tone of voice struck Scully, and she cocked her head and asked, “Which of the three are you referring to?”
The man looked surprised. “All three. I thought you knew.” He glanced at Mulder. “Isn’t that why you called me, Fox?” Mulder shook his head in apparent puzzlement, and Carstens looked back at Scully. “Dev, Sylvia, Brad and I were on a jury together in early January.” He repeated, “I thought that was why you called me.”
Scully’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “A jury?”
“Yes,” the man said with a nod. “An exhibition jury. We were helping put together a show for one of the galleries. ‘The Dawn of the New Age’, or some such dreck.” He waved a hand disparagingly. “I wasn’t too interested in the theme, quite frankly, but we all have to pay our dues.”
Scully nodded. She paused for a moment as she tried to digest the new information. Slowly: “So you and the three suspects served together on an exhibition jury two months ago.”
“That’s right,” Carstens replied.
“We weren’t aware of that,” Scully said. She glanced quickly at Mulder, and he nodded confirmation. “In fact, we asked each of the suspects’ families, and none of them were aware of any instance where the three had worked together at all, let alone recently.”
Carstens shrugged. “None of their families were really very involved in the business end of things,” he said. “They went to openings and receptions and such, but they didn’t participate in the politics. And there was no real reason for them to know.”
“Was it a secret? Confidential?”
“No.” The man shook his head, and his brow furrowed for a moment. Then: “Do you mention the names of all the agents and police officers you work with to your friends and family?”
“I see your point,” Scully answered. She thought for a moment, then added, “So what transpired in this jury? What did you discuss?”
Carstens hesitated, then said, “The actual deliberations are confidential. But in general, we looked at proposals for works to be included in the exhibition. We looked at the works, themselves. We came to a consensus on which works to include. The whole process lasted through three long sessions, spread over a couple of weeks.”
“Were there disagreements?” Scully asked.
Carstens shrugged again. “There always are. Nothing out of the ordinary, though, and we managed to resolve them.”
Scully wasn’t surprised at the answer. Nothing was out of the ordinary in this case. These cases, she amended. Three separate cases, with no connection other than a common interest among the perpetrators. Three respectable, upper middle class people who just decided, each for his or her own reasons, to commit cold-blooded murder. None of the crimes made any sense, but murder seldom did.
She was really starting to wonder why she’d urged Mulder to accept this assignment. There was nothing here, and she’d known it from the start. But, dammit, they had needed to get back into the field together, and nothing better had appeared to be forthcoming. And it did seem to be helping, at least on a personal level —
“Allen,” Mulder said suddenly, “have you ever heard of an artist named Lacrimae Mundi?”
Scully felt her eyebrows shooting up in surprise, but in the next instant she wondered why. She should have known better than to think that Mulder would allow the matter to drop. She’d been lulled into inattentiveness by the passive, dispassionate Mulder of the past few weeks, and now that her partner was starting to reemerge, it was coming as a bit a shock. A pleasing shock, all things considered, but a shock, nonetheless.
“Yes, of course,” Carstens was saying. “He’s fairly new, but he’s made a bit of a splash. Of course, Lacrimae Mundi is almost certainly not his real name. That’s a Latin phrase, not a name.” The man smirked slightly. “Are your … linguistic skills any better now than they were fifteen years ago, Fox?”
If she hadn’t been looking at her partner when the other man spoke, Scully would have missed the brief, intense flash of anger and — self-loathing? — that passed across his face. As it was, the emotions were so quickly wiped away that she wasn’t entirely sure they’d really been there at all. And when Mulder spoke, his tones were cool and dispassionate.
“My linguistic skills are fine,” he said. “It means ‘Tears of the World’, right?” Scully couldn’t force herself to look away from her partner, but she saw Carstens nodding out of the corner of her eye. “So what do you know about him?”
“Honestly, not much,” the other man said. “He’s produced only four works, but they’re really quite unique. All of them have been sold at private auctions; bidding is by invitation only.”
“Who gets invited to bid?” Mulder asked.
“Again, I don’t know,” Carstens replied. “I’ve been invited to bid twice, but was unsuccessful each time. It was all handled through a third party, with funds supporting each bid held in escrow. The identities of the other bidders were not disclosed, and in each case the bidders were required to sign agreements not to exhibit the work to the public.”
“Isn’t that all a little unusual?”
Carstens shrugged. “Yes, it is. But these works really are remarkable, Fox. I would go to considerable trouble and expense to obtain one for my private collection. And the use of the third party intermediary assures me that everything is on the up-and-up, as far as the bidding and the details of the transaction are concerned.”
“Have you met Mundi?” Mulder inquired.
“No.” The other man shook his head. “He seems to be a bit of a recluse. But I’ve spoken to his agent on the phone, and met her in person several times. She’s a member of the community, albeit a peripheral one. A bit of a looker, too, if you like redheads.” He turned his gaze to Scully, giving her the once-over again. “And I do.”
There was a moment of silence, and Scully felt her grip tightening on her notebook. She was not going to react to this; she was determined to do nothing that Carstens could construe as encouragement. She just wanted the interview to be over so she could get out of this man’s presence and forget about him.
She could feel the tension radiating from Mulder, though. She knew he liked it even less than she did when other men hit on her, and she prayed that he wasn’t about to make a scene. Somewhat to her surprise, however, he didn’t respond to that last comment but simply said, “Mundi’s agent, then. Do you have a way we could get in touch with her?”
“Certainly,” Carstens replied, his eyes still on Scully. “Ask my secretary on your way out; she has the number on file. Will there be anything else?”
“No,” Mulder grated. “I think that about covers it.” He rose to his feet, and Scully and Carstens both followed suit.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help,” the other man said, finally looking back at Mulder, with seeming reluctance. He reached across the desk and the two men briefly shook hands. “It’s been nice to see you again, Fox, after all these years. I’ll be sure to mention it to Phoebe, the next time I see her. I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear you’ve kept up with your linguistic skills.”
He turned to Scully. “And I’m very happy to have made your acquaintance, my dear,” he went on. “By chance will you be in town long? I’d be honored if you would allow me to escort you about some evening, perhaps take in a few sights. New York is nothing compared to the Old World, of course, but there are some things of interest —”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Carstens,” Scully replied coolly. “But I’m already involved with someone. And we won’t be in town long, in any case.”
“Pity,” the man replied, a slight smile on his face. “Of course, he wouldn’t have to know —”
“Yes, he would,” Scully answered sharply, cutting him off. “Because I’d tell him. And this conversation is completely inappropriate. More importantly, it’s over.” She turned to leave, without further comment — but just as she reached the threshold, she felt Mulder’s hand settling possessively on the small of her back.
Scully smiled.
Chapter Eleven
Outside the New York Sanctuary for Contemporary Art
Manhattan, NY
Thursday, March 9, 2000
2:05 p.m.
“Jesus, Mulder. I thought you said that man was your friend.” Scully had barely been able to contain her obvious annoyance until they were outside. Now she strode purposefully along the sidewalk next to Mulder as they walked to the car, her shoulders set and guarded, the expression on her face enough to cause the other pedestrians they encountered to give way, even before her diminutive frame.
“I don’t think I have ever used the word ‘friend’ to describe my relationship with Allen Carstens,” Mulder replied quietly, suppressing a shudder at the thought. “He’s just someone I knew at Oxford, and we needed a contact.”
“We should have asked Burks,” Scully muttered. “I’m sure he knows somebody.”
“What’s done is done,” Mulder said simply. “But I am sorry, Scully; I should never have subjected you to that. I’d … well, I hadn’t exactly forgotten what Allen was like; I don’t think that would be possible. But I didn’t stop to consider how he’d respond to you.”
Scully abruptly stopped walking, and Mulder had to turn around to face her. “Mulder,” she began, and then stopped and shook her head angrily. “Mulder, you did nothing wrong. Nothing. The world is full of men like him; it’s not your fault —”
“Scully —”
“I mean it, Mulder,” she insisted, her eyes flashing. “I’ve been dealing with men like Allen Carstens all my life; I can handle it.” She appeared to force herself to relax a bit, and now she suddenly was looking at him intently. “Besides, you seemed to have some issues of your own with him.”
Mulder hesitated, then nodded slowly. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to get into this, but she deserved to know. She was already aware that his life consisted of one fucked up mess after another, he reflected bitterly. He might as well tell her about this, as well. “Let’s get in the car,” he said, very softly.
By the time they had walked the remaining half block and taken their seats, him behind the wheel and her on the passenger side, Scully seemed to be having second thoughts. She sat fidgeting in her seat, fiddling unnecessarily with her seatbelt and refusing to meet his eyes.
“Scully,” he said, still speaking softly. “Scully, it’s okay. We don’t have to talk about this. It’s not a very pretty story, anyway.” And it should probably stay buried, he thought grimly. He should never have —
“Mulder, don’t.” He focused his gaze on his partner again, to see that she was looking at him with warm, understanding eyes. “You don’t have to tell me whatever it is, if you don’t want to. But you know you can tell me anything, and I’ll understand.”
Mulder shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Scully.” He forced a weak smile. “I haven’t always been the suave, sophisticated man you’ve come to know and ….” His voice trailed off, and he silently cursed himself for being unable to complete the familiar phrase.
“The man I’ve come to know and love,” she finished for him, quietly. “Whatever it is, it’s okay.” Her lips quirked slightly. “I haven’t always made the smartest possible decisions in my personal life, either. As you know.”
“So we’ve established that we can both be pretty stupid sometimes,” he concluded, as if he were summing up the evidence in a case. She laughed slightly at his affectation, but tension was now evident on her face, and Mulder knew that drawing it out was only going to make her more anxious. And so he took a deep breath, and said, “I’ve never told you why I broke up with Phoebe.”
Scully shook her head. “No, you haven’t. Was it because of him?”
Her voice was surprisingly calm. Mulder knew there was no love lost between his partner and Phoebe Green, but she seemed almost serene at the mention of the other woman’s name. Of course, it had been six years since they’d encountered his former lover on the L’Ively case — and Scully surely knew by now that her place in his life was secure.
“Yes,” he said finally. “Allen was at the very heart of the problem. But he wasn’t alone. I was there, too.” He paused, then continued, all in a rush, “I came home one afternoon and found them in bed together. My bed, I might add. Phoebe and I never lived together, but I’d given her a key to my place.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah,” Mulder said with a grim nod. “I believe those were my exact words.” He found himself dropping into an almost clinical detachment as he continued to speak, and the psychologist in him recognized it as a necessary distancing mechanism; a means of self-protection. This was going to hurt; it was going to hurt a lot. But not right now. Not as long as he kept it at arm’s length.
“Anyway,” he went on, “I walked in on them.” He glanced at his partner, who was looking at him with an undisguised expression of shock on her face. “I know you’re not a profiler, Scully, but you know me pretty well. Care to guess what happened next?”
She blinked, and said slowly, “What you should have done was throw them both out of your apartment. Bare-assed naked, if possible.” She reached up and stroked his cheek in obvious sympathy. “But that’s not what happened, is it?”
“No.” Mulder allowed himself to lean into her touch slightly. “No, that would have been too easy.” Scully nodded, and he allowed a note of sarcasm to enter his voice as he added, “Besides, Phoebe wouldn’t have liked it.”
“Of course not,” Scully replied. She hesitated, then asked, “What did she do?”
“Nothing that you’d expect,” he answered. “Phoebe prides herself on being unpredictable. She likes to take risks, and she likes to shake things up. She likes to shock and upset people. Of course, it goes without saying that she wasn’t embarrassed or regretful or apologetic. Nothing like that.”
“Did she laugh?” He could see that his partner was trying hard to get into Phoebe’s head — something he’d tried to do for years, without notable success. He had a brief memory of his former lover, sitting naked in his bed, the sheets bunched around her waist and a malicious gleam in her eyes, as Allen Carstens continued to fondle one of her breasts —
“No,” he said, more sharply than he’d intended, as he pushed the image away. More softly: “No. She didn’t laugh. What she did was, she challenged me. Challenged us. Me and Allen.” Scully shivered, apparently at his tone of voice, but he didn’t think she’d put it all together; not quite yet. He was going to have to spell it out, in explicit detail.
“Specifically,” he said, struggling to stay calm as more memories of that terrible afternoon filtered into his consciousness, “she dared us to go down on each other. She said it would be exciting. For all of us. She said if either of us wouldn’t do it, that proved he wasn’t a real man; that he was a coward and a homophobe, and didn’t give a damn about her.” He closed his eyes; he couldn’t bear to see the expression that he knew would be on Scully’s face as his words sunk in.
“Mulder —”
“Wait, Scully,” he said. Eyes still closed. Deep breath. “I haven’t come to the best part. Phoebe also said that whichever one of us was able to make the other one come first, would be allowed to fuck her.” He shook his head, and now he was unable to keep himself from trembling with shame and humiliation. “I was stupid. I still wanted her. I played the game. And I lost.”
The hush that followed Mulder’s admission was little short of deafening. He was, of course, familiar with the old chestnut about silence being thick enough to slice; now he was experiencing it. And with each second that passed, more memories were assaulting him ….
The strange, warm hardness, invading his mouth. The sharp, bitter flavor of the pre-ejaculate, and the strong, masculine smell that was not his own. The insistent scraping of the the other man’s teeth, and the hot, wet sensation of the his mouth, that was somehow different from a woman’s. The realization that he was losing it, and that bright, pure moment of orgasm, as he thrust his cock deeply and savagely into the other man’s throat —
Something touched his cheek. In the fraction of a second before he would have lashed out at the intrusion, Mulder realized that it must be Scully, and he turned the motion into a frantic, needy grasp. He knew he must be hurting her, but she did not complain as he tightly gripped her hand and pressed it harder against the side of his face. He needed contact; he needed to be touching her. Thank god she was here. Thank god for Scully.
“Mulder.” Her voice was a whisper; almost a prayer. “Mulder, please open your eyes. Please look at me.”
He didn’t want to; he still couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her, confronting her. Much as he craved her presence, and her love, he was terrified of what he might see. Anger. Disgust. Disappointment.
Pity.
“Mulder.” Even softer than before. “Please.”
Please. She’d said please.
With a sigh of resignation, Mulder opened his eyes. Even then, it was a few seconds before he could force himself to look anywhere but straight ahead, through the windshield of the car. Finally, reluctantly, he turned to face his partner.
She was crying.
Dana Scully was crying.
Mulder could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d seen this woman cry. She was always so strong and self-contained — sometimes she seemed damned near invulnerable, and completely impervious to any setback or hardship. But now here she sat, in a rented Crown Victoria on a New York City street, with tears running down her cheeks. And she was making no attempt to hide them from him, or even to wipe them away.
She was crying.
“Mulder,” she whispered, tightening her own grip on his hand. “Oh, Mulder. I don’t know what to say.”
Mulder shrugged sadly, struggling not to look away from her. “Then don’t try,” he said. “There’s really nothing to say. It happened, but it was a long time ago. It’s over.” He forced a smile. “At least now you know why I’m not a big fan of oral sex.”
Scully smiled a little through her tears, and nodded. “I’d wondered about that,” she admitted. “You’re the only man I’ve ever known who doesn’t seem to regard a blowjob as his God-given right.”
Mulder chuckled, but his thoughts were elsewhere. It had suddenly occurred to him that perhaps now he had an entre to try to explain something else to her — something that had stood between them and threatened at one point to destroy their partnership.
He’d never quite found a way to raise this subject, but now here was an opportunity before him. And so, before he could second guess himself, he took a deep breath, and said, “Scully, there’s something else you should know that’s sort of connected to this. It might not be easy for you to hear, but it’s important to me. It’s about Diana.”
Immediately, as he’d more than half expected, he saw Scully’s walls start to go up. He felt a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; he shouldn’t have tried this. He was an idiot. He’d fucked up again. But in the next instant, to his surprise and relief, his partner forced the barriers down again, and nodded for him to continue.
And she never let go of his hand.
“I don’t know quite how to say this,” Mulder began. “You already know that Diana was important to me at one time.” He stopped for a moment, full of misgivings, trying to decipher the expression on Scully’s face, but she was giving nothing away. This was a mistake, he thought again. Diana was dead; if he had any sense at all, he’d just let sleeping dogs lie.
“Mulder, it’s okay,” Scully said, very softly, apparently reading the uncertainty on his face. More firmly, she continued, “Whatever it is, you can tell me. If it’s that important to you, I want to hear it.” Grimly: “But so help me God, if she hurt you, too —”
“No,” Mulder said quickly. “No. That’s not what I’m leading up to.” He paused again, and shook his head in frustration and embarrassment. If he was going to do this, he may as well get it over with. “Look, Scully, after that … that incident, I couldn’t get it up. Have an erection, I mean.” He saw his partner’s eyes widening, but she made no move to interrupt. “I was fine with a magazine or a video, but whenever I was with a real woman … nothing. Until I met Diana.”
“She helped you,” Scully said flatly. It wasn’t quite a question.
“Yes, she did,” he answered quietly. “And I helped her.” He hesitated, then shrugged. Diana was dead, he reminded himself again. She couldn’t be hurt by this, and Scully needed to know about it, if she was to have any chance of understanding.
He went on, “When Diana was a senior in high school, she was raped.” He heard Scully gasp, but he plowed right ahead. “Her boyfriend was in college, and he took her to a party at his frat. There was beer and grass, and one thing led to another. She was so drunk, or stoned, or both, that she couldn’t even remember how many of them had her.”
“Dear God.” All of the latent hostility seemed to vanish from Scully’s face in an instant. “Mulder … I had no idea.” She closed her eyes, shook her head, and repeated, “I had no idea.”
“I know,” he replied. “But that’s why I felt so close to her, even years after we broke up.” He reached out and touched his partner’s cheek. “Even after someone else had taken her place in my heart. Diana and I helped each other get away from our respective pasts, and I couldn’t just ignore that.” He stopped yet again, and swallowed. Now for the really hard part. “But Scully … you were right, in the end.”
Her eyes flew open, and she shook her head sharply. “No,” she said. “Mulder, you don’t have to —”
“You were right,” he insisted, overriding her, and ignoring the ache in his heart as he finally acknowledged in words what he’d known for more than a year to be true. Ever since that last, horrible meeting in Diana’s apartment, the night of the El Rico massacre, he’d known.
“She betrayed me,” he said, feeling as if he were ripping the words from his own flesh. “She betrayed me, and the only reason I’m alive to admit to it, is you. You, Scully,” he went on, his voice dropping once more into a whisper. “You’re all that matters to me, now.
“You.”
Chapter Twelve
Northbound on the Bruckner Expressway
Approaching New Rochelle, NY
Thursday, March 9, 2000
4:28 p.m.
Scully sat in the passenger seat of the Crown Victoria, staring unseeingly out the window as her partner maneuvered the car through the late afternoon traffic.
Throughout the long drive out from the city, the two partners had remained silent. Scully didn’t know what was going through Mulder’s mind; for her own part, she needed some time to think.
She really hadn’t devoted much of that time to the horrible ending to Mulder’s affair with Phoebe Green. She knew how she felt about that, and it had taken all her self-control not to demand to be taken to the airport, so that she could catch the next Concorde to Heathrow, hunt down Mulder’s former lover, and rip the woman’s heart out.
If she even had a heart.
But that wouldn’t have helped, and Scully knew it. As satisfying as it was to imagine punishing Inspector Green for what she’d done, it wouldn’t change what had happened, and it would put the emphasis in the wrong place: on Green.
The only person in that whole sorry affair who was deserving of Scully’s attention was Mulder. That realization had made it easy for her to nod in assent when he suggested driving out to New Rochelle to interview Lacrimae Mundi’s agent. She doubted that anything useful would come of it, but right at the moment, they both needed something outside of themselves to focus on.
The things Mulder had told her about his relationship with Diana Fowley had been harder for Scully to evaluate. She had disliked Fowley almost on sight, and those negative feelings had only deepened as the months passed and evidence accumulated against the woman. Mulder’s stubborn refusal to acknowledge what Scully considered to be clear proof of the woman’s betrayal had deepened Scully’s antipathy towards Fowley even further.
It wasn’t until after Fowley’s death that Scully had finally acknowledged the depth of feeling that Mulder obviously held for the woman. It was longer still before she could admit, even to herself, that her own behavior had been driven partially by jealousy, rather than the strictly professional concern she professed to be acting from.
But it was only partially jealousy, she reminded herself firmly. There really had been signs of Fowley’s treachery, and Scully’s suspicions had been proven right, in the end. Something that Mulder had now finally acknowledged.
Now, however, she had finally been confronted with the reality of her partner’s relationship with Fowley. She’d known of its existence for a long time, of course — almost two years. But although the Gunmen had been the ones who first told her about it, they’d been either unwilling or unable to provide any important details — and Mulder, himself, had never seemed to want to talk about it.
Until today, that is. This afternoon he’d laid it all out for her, in a few, succinct sentences, prompted by the emotional trauma of encountering Allen Carstens. And now, finally, Scully understood just exactly what it was that had forged such a powerful bond between her partner and a woman who had almost literally sold her soul to the Devil.
Scully shook her head, and tried to push the thoughts away. She could hardly fault Mulder for his reticence on this issue; in retrospect, she hadn’t been very receptive on the few occasions he had tried to talk to her about it, back when Fowley was still alive. And besides, Scully hadn’t shared all of her own past history with Mulder, either — not by any means. There was one relationship in particular that she’d indulged in as a young woman that would make Mulder’s trust of Fowley seem like a minor peccadillo.
Or maybe not. Her own feelings were so deeply entwined in all of this that it was ridiculous to pretend that she could be objective. Best to set it all aside, and keep her focus on what was really important. She was with Mulder, now, and he was with her, and nothing, and nobody, was going to come between them.
Not if Dana Scully had anything to say about it.
She was finally drawn from her reverie as the Crown Victoria came to a stop in front of a ranch-style home in a quiet, suburban neighborhood. She turned her head, to see her partner looking at her quizzically. “Everything okay in there?” he asked quietly.
Scully breathed a sigh of relief. She’d been so lost in her own feelings, she hadn’t even considered Mulder’s emotions, or the possibility that he might wonder where she’d gone. A fine lover she was, she thought — so wrapped up in herself that she’d neglected the very man who’d set her off on her internal journey. Thankfully, he seemed to be doing okay. His face was calm and relaxed, almost happy, as if their conversation after the interview with Carstens had been cathartic for him, rather than inflicting further trauma.
“Everything’s fine,” she said, a genuine smile on her face. Mulder cocked an eyebrow at her, presumably at her choice of words, and she broadened her smile and added, “Everything’s great.”
Residence of Shara Wyche
New Rochelle, NY
4:53 p.m.
“So. How can I help the FBI today?”
Scully glanced briefly at her partner, then back at the woman seated on the other side of the kitchen table. She was still trying to adjust to the situation. Looking at Shara Wyche was almost like looking in a mirror. No, not a mirror — a photo album. A photo album featuring pictures of herself, when she was perhaps ten years younger.
Wyche was in her mid-twenties, an inch or two taller and perhaps twenty pounds heavier than Scully, herself. Her eyes were a deep blue, and her face was sufficiently pale that Scully was sure that her hair color was natural. She wore her hair long, too, so that it brushed against her shoulders, just as Scully’s had in medical school and residency, and into her first few years with the Bureau.
The resemblance wasn’t lost on Mulder, either; Scully could tell from the brief but definite flicker in his eyes as the agents introduced themselves, a few moments earlier. Now, of course, he was cool and calm, the consummate professional. And it was all really irrelevant, anyway. A coincidence.
“Ms. Wyche, I want to thank you for seeing us,” Mulder said, beginning the interview. “We’ll try not to take too much of your time.”
“That’s perfectly all right, Agent … Mulder?” Mulder nodded, and she continued. “May I ask what this is about? You didn’t say much over the phone.”
“I’m afraid we can’t be very specific,” Mulder replied. “It’s necessary that we preserve the confidentiality of our investigation.” The woman frowned and nodded slowly, while Scully suppressed the urge to look at her partner again. He was treating Shara Wyche as if she were a potential suspect, or at least a material witness.
“I understand,” Wyche said, in tones that said not only did she not understand, but she didn’t approve.
Mulder nodded briefly, and asked, “Ms. Wyche, are you familiar with a man by the name of Lacrimae Mundi?”
“Yes, of course. He’s my client. One of my clients,” she amended. “Why do you ask? Is he in trouble?”
Scully’s partner shook his head. “I’m afraid we’re not at liberty —”
“— to say,” Ms. Wyche said sharply, cutting him off. “That’s all well and good, Agent Mulder, but I don’t know you, and now you’re here in my home, asking questions about one of my clients, and you won’t tell me why.” She paused, and seemed to deflate slightly. “I don’t like that.”
Scully leaned forward, hoping to mollify the woman. “That’s very understandable, Ms. Wyche, and we don’t in any way wish to upset you. But we do have some questions we need to ask, and we really can’t discuss the case we’re working on. I hope you’ll understand, and cooperate.”
The other woman raised an eyebrow at her. “So you’re the ‘nice cop’,” she said. “Do you always divide it up this way, or do you take turns?” She held up her hand and shook her head. “Never mind. You can’t tell me anything, but you want me to tell you everything. Fine. Go ahead and ask your questions.”
“What can you tell us about Mr. Mundi?” Mulder asked.
The woman shrugged. “Not much. He paints. I sell. I get a commission, and turn the rest of the money over to him. What else is there?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Mulder replied. “For example, is that even his real name? We know it’s a Latin phrase: ‘Tears of the World’. It seems like an odd thing to name a child.”
“What did you say your name was?” she asked. “Fox?” She shrugged again. “It’s the name I have for him. The checks I write to him get cashed. That’s all I need to know.”
“How long have you known him?”
Wyche stared at Mulder for a few seconds before she answered that one, and Scully thought she detected a glint of … something in her eyes. “Only a few months,” the woman said at last. “Only a few months.”
“How did you meet him?”
Another pause. Then, flatly: “I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?” Mulder asked, apparently unable to keep the surprise from his voice.
“That’s right,” the woman replied. “I don’t remember. Look, if you don’t like the answers, don’t ask the questions.”
“Ms. Wyche,” Scully intervened again, before things could get any further out of hand. “We don’t mean for you to feel harassed, but we do need to ask you these questions.” Scully wished she could be sure that was true, but she had to follow her partner’s lead. “And you have to admit, it does seem odd that you say you can’t remember how you met this man, given that by your own account it was only a few months ago.”
“I don’t see what’s odd about it,” Wyche replied, shortly. “I meet a lot of people in the course of day-to-day business. Some I only see once or twice, others become regular acquaintances or business associates. I have no way of knowing in advance which category a given person will fall into, and so I often don’t remember the circumstances of first meetings. I meet a lot of people,” she repeated frostily.
Scully nodded. “So it would be safe to say that you did not first meet Mr. Mundi when he came to you and asked you to be his agent? Surely you’d remember something like that.”
The other woman stared at her again, the same odd glint in her eyes that had been there a moment before. At last, she said, “I suppose that’s a fair assumption. And yes, I was already aware of Mr. Mundi’s existence when he asked me to represent him.”
“And how long have you been his agent?” Mulder asked, picking up the thread of the interview again.
Wyche hesitated, then shrugged. “A few months,” she said.
“That’s what you said when I asked you how long you’ve known him,” Scully’s partner pointed out.
“That’s true,” the woman replied.
After a moment’s silence, Mulder said, “That’s not very specific. I accept the possibility that you might not know with certainty how long you’ve known a given individual, but surely you’ve kept records of the business you’ve transacted with him.”
“Of course,” Wyche replied with a nod. “How could I account for my activities on his behalf, if I didn’t keep records?”
“Could you consult those records, and try to give us a more specific answer to the question?”
The woman hesitated, looking back and forth between the two agents, and Scully had the sudden impression of an animal caught in a trap. At last, Wyche said, “Sure.” Then she rose from the table and left the room.
The two agents waited in silence while Wyche was gone, and Scully took the opportunity to study her partner’s features. He was wearing his cool, poker-faced expression, the one he used when he thought he was onto something, and didn’t want to give anything away. She didn’t have a clue what was going on in his head, or what he thought he was picking up on, but it made her heart beat a little faster, just seeing that look, because it meant that he was finally engaged in the case.
Her partner was coming back.
Just as she was coming to that conclusion, Shara Wyche returned, carrying a dark green ledger. She took her seat across the table from the agents and opened the book, carefully positioning it so that no one could see its contents but herself. She turned the pages slowly for a moment or two, and Scully had the impression she was making a deliberate production out of the process. Finally, she closed the book and looked across the table at Mulder.
“According to my records,” she said flatly, “I received the first painting from Lacrimae Mundi on January 28 of this year. The sale is recorded as having cleared escrow on February 10.”
“Quick work,” Mulder commented.
“I pride myself on my efficiency, Agent Mulder.”
“I’m sure that pleases your clients,” Scully’s partner replied. “Who purchased that first item?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, shaking her head. “That information is confidential. It was part of the sale agreement.”
“Don’t you have to report the names of the payors to the IRS?” Mulder asked.
“Of course,” Wyche answered. “And that report will be filed within the timeframe required by law.”
Mulder nodded. “How many sales have you made for Mr. Mundi, all told?”
The woman hesitated, and glanced at Scully, as if hoping she might intervene. At last she shrugged, and turned back to Mulder. “Four. The most recent cleared escrow just a couple of days ago.”
“Can you give us the dates of those sales?”
Again Wyche hesitated, but finally she nodded. “I don’t see the harm in that.” She opened the book once more and carefully scanned through it, handling the pages as if they were those of a rare first edition. Finally, she read off three dates, two in February and one in early March. Then she closed the book with finality. “I believe that concludes this interrogation,” she stated flatly.
A few minutes later, Mulder and Scully were in their rental, on the way back to the city.
Chapter Thirteen
The Plough and Stars
Manhattan, NY
Thursday, March 9, 2000
7:49 p.m.
The Plough and Stars was busier than it had been the night before. In addition to the cops who made it their regular hangout, there were also a number of other people here tonight. Judging from their clothes they were blue collar workers, Scully thought, presumably of Irish descent. More men than women, and most of the women were obviously here with someone. This was not a pick-up bar.
Tonight the tables had been pushed aside, converting the center of the room into a makeshift dance floor. Loud music blared from the jukebox, as it had the other two times she’d been here. Not current pop; Scully would have recognized that, from endless hours spent listening to whatever station the radio on their rental car could pick up. But this was older stuff, music that had been popular in her teen years and her early twenties, and it was bringing back vivid memories.
There were three couples dancing in the cleared space, and that was bringing back memories, too. Scully had loved to dance, back when she was in high school and college, and she’d seldom passed up an opportunity to do so. That had fallen by the wayside after she’d entered medical school; the demands placed on her had been too great, and she found herself with little time for a social life. She’d always promised herself that eventually she would come back to this, but somehow, she never had.
She turned her gaze back to her partner, sitting across the table in the booth they occupied. The same booth they’d sat in the night before. He was watching her with obvious curiosity as he bit into an onion ring, the last remnants of the burger basket he’d ordered when they arrived.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, now that he saw he had her attention. He dipped the onion ring in ketchup, and took another bite.
It briefly occurred to Scully to make a wisecrack about Mulder’s profiling abilities, as she had two mornings ago in their office. She could almost hear the words in her mind: //You’re a profiler, Agent Mulder. You figure it out.//
But that would be the wrong answer, she realized. That was the answer she would have given three months ago, back when they were still sparring and dancing around each other. In their new relationship, there was no room for anything but the truth. And so she simply said, “I was just thinking that you and I have never danced together.”
She saw something flicker in his eyes; something that was not quite a denial. There was that memory there, the experience she was sure must have been a waking dream, but one that, somehow, he had shared. The grubby little bar with the Cher impersonator on stage, and Mulder impulsively pulling her to her feet and into his arms —
“Dance with me, Scully.”
Scully felt her eyes widening in surprise at his request. She hadn’t been fishing, had she? She’d been feeling a little wistful, remembering what it was like to be young and dancing the night away, and she’d just been trying to express that to him. Hadn’t she?
//Dance with me, Scully.//
Her partner was standing next to the booth, now, holding out his hands to her. There are a thousand reasons why we shouldn’t do this, she thought. More than a thousand. They were working, and they were in public. Burks would be here any minute, but he already knew about their relationship; she’d as much as admitted it to him the day before —
And she was in Mulder’s arms, swaying gently to the music, her head resting against his chest. She’d been tense ever since Mulder’s revelations this afternoon. She’d been more than tense; she’d been hurt and angry and a hundred other things. She’d felt as if she were being torn to pieces, and only the knowledge that he needed her and that they had a job to do had kept her from falling apart.
Now he held her in his arms, and she held him in hers, and the music was washing over them, seeming to isolate them from the rest of the world as they began the slow process of healing each other’s wounds. Began the process again, she amended in her mind, because that was the way of it for the two of them. There were always new hurts and injuries, some caused by others, some self-inflicted.
The very worst were caused by each other.
Scully could almost hear the puzzle piece clicking into place as she turned that thought over in her mind. //You always hurt the one you love.// That had been a song lyric back in her childhood, and even then she’d known it as a plappy excess of sentimentality.
But there was a kernel of truth there, she realized, with sudden, blinding clarity. Loving someone meant opening yourself to him and making yourself vulnerable. It meant accepting the fact that no matter how careful and gentle your lover was, he would make mistakes, and sometimes those mistakes would hurt. But you opened yourself anyway, because he was also the only one who could make the hurt go away.
She tightened her arms around her Mulder, and slid her hands up his back, gently kneading at his muscles through his suit jacket. This need for openness was what had always made her pull back from relationships in the past; looking back at the previous men in her life, she saw that now.
It was also a large part of the reason that she’d kept herself aloof from this man for so long, because she couldn’t bear to expose herself to the strength and depth of his passion. Because she knew the wounds he inflicted on her would be bone deep, and they would hurt like hell. The ones he gave her from a distance had been bad enough.
But she also had been unable to pull away from him, and that had been the other half of the equation. Even as he was hurting her — even as they were hurting each other — he was also healing and soothing her, fixing the hurts of his own making, as well as those caused by others.
He could not address the harm she did to herself, of course; never that. She would not allow it. And also of course, as a direct corollary of her own reserve, he had kept her at arm’s length, as well. Even Mulder was not so lacking in boundaries that he would let her inside, while she kept him at bay.
But now, it seemed, that was changing.
Scully snuggled closer into her lover’s arms, and they continued to sway to a gentle rhythm that only they could hear.
9:02 p.m.
“Sorry to be so late; you know how bureaucracy is.” Paul Burks’ voice was light and easy as he slid into the booth next to Scully. Mulder looked at the detective thoughtfully for a few seconds, while the other man waved across the room to get the attention of the sole waitress. “Sylvia!” Burks called, raising his voice so he could be heard over the music. “Sylvia! A brat and a Bud, eh?” The woman nodded, and Burks turned back to look at Mulder. “So. Find any leads today?”
Mulder hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing,” he replied. He was suddenly acutely aware of Scully watching him intently from across the table. “We talked to a contact of mine who’s plugged into the art community in the city, but he didn’t know anything. He gave us the name of a woman who seems to have recently done business with all three suspects, but she didn’t know anything either.”
“Is that your assessment, Agent Scully?” Burks asked, turning to look at Scully.
Mulder felt a brief surge of annoyance that he quickly suppressed. The man was not playing the two of them off against each other, he told himself firmly. There was no reason to think that. Mulder should be pleased that Burks was treating Scully as a professional and an equal, and asking for her opinion as well, and Jesus Christ if this wasn’t a really petty thing to be worrying about!
“I’m not sure,” Scully was saying, causing Mulder’s eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. “It’s certainly true that there’s nothing concrete or verifiable, but Agent Mulder does seem to be developing a theory.” She looked across the table, directly into Mulder’s eyes, and smiled. “And I’ve learned to respect his hunches.”
“Sometimes you have to go with your hunches,” Burks agreed, nodding. He paused for a moment while the waitress he’d signaled earlier delivered his order. Then: “That’s actually how I got the job I’m in now.”
“What do you mean?” Scully asked.
The detective hesitated, then shrugged. “Look,” he said, “I started out as a beat cop. MP’s in Germany, right out of high school, then got hired on here when I got out. I went to school at night, moved up in the ranks, got my degree. You can probably figure the career track, and the details don’t matter.” Mulder nodded, feeling himself one more warming to the man almost despite himself.
“But cops see strange things,” Burks went on, his voice taking on more intensity. “Things that are hard to understand or explain. You both know that.” For the first time since beginning his story, he looked away from Scully, and directly at Mulder. “I did some asking around while I was downtown today. I found out a few things about you.”
“Like what?” Mulder asked, suddenly wary.
“Like just exactly what kind of work you do,” he replied. “And a little bit of how you got into it. I managed to dig up a couple of people who’ve worked with you, including a cop named Ritter, used to be with the Bureau’s New York office.” The detective’s lips quirked. “He didn’t have much good to say about you.” A glance at Scully, then back to Mulder. “Either of you.”
“I’m sure he didn’t,” Mulder said coldly, fighting down a surge of anger, partly at Burks’ intrusion, and partly at the memory of what Ritter had done. “Peyton Ritter’s lucky to still be carrying a badge. Any badge.” He forced himself to stop; he’d already said too much. Scully’s decision to ask the OPR for leniency for Ritter still galled him, and she knew it. No need to be opening old wounds.
“Yeah, I know,” the detective replied. “And I agree. I remember when that case went down, and now that I’ve met the guy, and … well, I guess he’s not the most boneheaded cop on the force, but he’s gotta be a contender.” He took a sip of beer, and shook his head. “But this isn’t about Ritter, and it isn’t really about you. Nor did I spend the day doing background checks on you; I just asked a few questions, informally. I really did have a string of bullshit meetings I had to go to.”
“So what is it about?” Scully asked quietly. Mulder felt an odd sense of relief that she seemed to be as reserved towards the detective as he was. They were a team, he reminded himself. She was his partner, and he was a complete idiot to think that could ever change.
“This is about me,” Burks said, very seriously, now focusing his attention on Scully. “You asked what I meant when I said I got my job because of a hunch, but that’s a more complex question than you probably realized.” Another sip of beer; he seemed to be steeling himself for something. “But what happened was, my partner disappeared.”
“What do you mean?” Scully again, but Mulder could see from the apprehension on her face that she already knew — or, at least, suspected — what was coming.
“She was abducted,” Mulder said flatly. “Wasn’t she?”
“That’s right,” the detective said. “How did you know my partner was a woman?”
“An educated guess,” Mulder said quietly. “They often are.” Looking over at his partner, he saw that she now wore the cool, professional mask she used to conceal emotional distress. He realized that he hadn’t been seeing that look from her very much these past few months; the last time had been immediately after she killed Donnie Pfaster, and that had seemed to resolve itself fairly quickly.
Now he wondered, though, if she hadn’t simply been covering better than usual. That would be bad, but it would also be so very Scully. Ever since the night his mother died she’d seemed to be totally focused on his needs — to the extent he would let her, which hadn’t been very damned much. Had he really been so self-absorbed that he’d failed to notice that her emotional needs were not being met?
Impulsively, he reached across the table and lightly squeezed his partner’s hand. She started slightly, flashed him a smile, and then, with apparent calmness, she turned back to look at Burks again.
The detective sighed. “There’s actually not much to tell,” he said. “We were on a stakeout, a cooperative deal with the DEA. Middle of the night. I got out of the car to take a leak, and — Hell, you probably know the scenario better than I do. The radio died, there was a strange whooshing, a bright, white light that seemed to come from everywhere … and then she just wasn’t there anymore.” He took a long drink from his glass of beer. “That was five years ago.”
“Did you ever find her?” Scully asked, very softly. She gave every outward appearance of having herself under complete control, now, but Mulder knew better. He could see the tension gathered in the tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes.
Burks shook his head. “No. But they finally closed the file, a couple of years ago. The official ruling was that the East River is a big place, and plenty deep.”
Scully swallowed, and nodded. “How does that relate to your current job? And what was the hunch?”
The man smiled mirthlessly. “The hunch was that there was more to it than that, and so I just kept pushing and digging. After a while, they transferred me to Internal Affairs and gave me this assignment with the firm understanding that I was not to spend all of my time looking for Susan.”
“I see.”
Scully fell quiet, and Mulder couldn’t think of anything to say, either. The conversation was obviously bringing things back for her, and Mulder realized with a shock that he wasn’t sure which set of memories she was reliving. Her own abduction and return? The cancer? Penny Northern? Cassandra Spender? Did he really know so little about his partner that he couldn’t divine her thoughts on such an essential matter?
Suddenly, Burks’ phone shrilled, and as he spoke to whoever was on the other end, his face grew even grimmer. A moment later he punched DISCONNECT and put the phone away, and said, without preamble, “They’ve found another body.”
Chapter Fourteen
Northbound on East River Drive
Manhattan, NY Thursday,
March 9, 2000
10:45 p.m.
They rode to the crime scene in Paul Burks’ car, and somehow, Mulder wound up in the back seat. Much to his own surprise, he didn’t mind. Not too much, anyway.
The drive across Manhattan was giving him an opportunity to watch his partner’s interactions with the detective at close range. The first few minutes he’d felt as if he were spying on her, and that had made him more than a little uncomfortable. He told himself he was being irrational, though; it wasn’t as if she didn’t know he was here, after all, and she certainly didn’t have anything to hide. It was just a case of his own insecurities poking him in the ass again.
“This bar isn’t in the best part of town, I take it,” Scully was saying.
“Not even vaguely,” Burks replied with a shake of the head.
“Doesn’t that break the pattern?” she asked. “The other killings all took place in upscale neighborhoods.”
“That’s true,” Burks replied. “And I honestly don’t know all the details yet. But I’ve got some keywords filed with central dispatching, and this call apparently triggered at least one of them.”
“That doesn’t seem like very much to go on,” Scully commented.
“It isn’t,” the detective said with a nod. “I’ve had two other calls in the past two weeks that turned out to be duds.” He glanced at her briefly, and Mulder could just make out a quick grin. “But I’ve got a feeling this one could be the real deal.”
Mulder started to smile as he anticipated a classic Scully eyebrow, or perhaps a roll of the head, but it didn’t come. “I guess we’ll see when we get there,” was all she said.
Mulder found himself suddenly feeling unaccountably annoyed at his partner’s response. She was only making nice with the detective, he counseled himself. Someone had to mind the political fences when they worked with a local law enforcement agency, and Mulder knew that he was temperamentally unsuited to it. He’d long since lost count of the number of times Scully’s tact and diplomacy had salvaged their relationship with the locals, after he’d made a mess of things.
His irritation really made no sense at all, he argued silently. Burks just wasn’t a threat, personally or professionally. Mulder also knew that Scully had been going to great lengths to care for him since his mother’s death, and it was way past time that he put some energy into taking care of her.
“You doin’ okay back there, partner?”
Mulder focused his attention back on Scully, who was now craning her neck so that she could peer into the back seat. There was a look of slight concern on her face, and Mulder had the uncomfortable impression that she’d been reading his mind.
“Yeah,” he said. He forced a smile, and affected a New England accent. “Just settin’ and thinkin’.” Scully raised an eyebrow, and her lips twitched, but she didn’t say anything. Obviously, she remembered that night, too.
“I’m starting to feel a little guilty, dragging the two of you all over town,” Burks commented, as he steered the car through the interchange for the Cross Bronx Expressway. “But I have a feeling that this call could be the breakthrough we’re looking for.” He shrugged, and Mulder could hear the smile in his voice. “Call it another hunch.”
“Hunches R Us,” Mulder replied, deadpan, keeping his eyes focused on his partner — and now she did smile. But there was still a melancholy undercurrent in her expression, and Mulder couldn’t for the life of him figure out where it was coming from.
Outside “The Burning Zone”
The Bronx, NY
11:03 p.m.
Paul Burks was out of the car almost before it had stopped moving, with Scully close on his heels. Mulder took just a few extra seconds, due to the difficulty of climbing from the back seat, and had to run a few steps to catch up.
“Burks, Internal Affairs,” the detective was saying, as he waved his badge at a uniformed officer. “And these folks are with the Bureau.” The cop nodded and allowed them to pass; another twenty yards, and they were in the middle of the crime scene.
The trio paused for a moment to get their bearings. They were standing on the sidewalk in the middle of a block of dingy-looking storefronts, at least half of which had been boarded over. Random bits of litter were strewn about the area, and a sour, rotten smell emanated from a nearby alley.
Meanwhile, all manner of official activity swirled around them, most of it centering around that alley. There was a disreputable-looking bar on the far side of it, with “The Burning Zone” declaimed in ancient neon letters over the entrance. The garish red illumination from the sign combined with the strobes of half a dozen squad cars to create an eerie mix of light and shadow, and a few small clots of people hung back in the darkness, outside the police lines. Obviously, this neighborhood did not usually welcome the authorities.
“Over here,” Burks said, suddenly in motion again. He led the way to a short, weary-looking African-American woman, who was standing with her hands on her hips surveying the scene with a proprietary air. Again, Burks flashed his badge and introduced himself.
“Lieutenant Hodges,” the woman replied with a nod. Gesturing at Mulder and Scully: “And you are … ?”
“I’m Special Agent Dana Scully,” Scully said smoothly, offering her own identification. “And this is my partner, Special Agent Mulder. We’re with the Bureau.”
“FBI?” Hodges asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Agents Scully and Mulder are assisting me with an investigation,” Paul Burks explained. “This call may be related to three other murders in the past month, and there’s a possibility of federal jurisdiction.”
The woman raised her eyebrows even further, her gaze once again focused on the detective. “Really,” she said flatly, her voice suddenly cool. “Do I take it you’re assuming authority over this investigation?”
“Not at all,” Burks assured her, shaking his head. “We just want to look around a bit, ask a few questions. We do need to see if we can establish a link to the other cases we’re working on, but at this point that’s all we’re doing: trying to establish a link.”
Mulder’s attention was drawn away from the conversation as he noticed someone being led towards one of the squad cars in handcuffs. Without really thinking about it, he found himself striding briskly across the intervening space, arriving at the waiting police car just ahead of the prisoner and the two officers who had him in custody.
“Excuse me,” Mulder said affably, flashing his badge at the closer of the two cops. “I’m with the Bureau, and I need to talk to this man for a moment.”
The cop hesitated briefly, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. We need to get him downtown so we can book him. He’ll be available for questioning —”
“Sometime tomorrow afternoon,” Mulder finished for him. “But this can’t wait. I need to talk to him now.” He wasn’t sure why it seemed so urgent, but it was. He didn’t want to wait until tomorrow afternoon to talk to the suspect, and not just because that would give the man time to cool down and call a lawyer.
Ever since the strange experience with the painting at Bradley Hamilton’s home, Mulder’s instincts had been quivering. He’d allowed Scully to talk him down that night, in the drowsy afterglow of their lovemaking, but he’d never really abandoned his suspicion that there was a connection between the paintings produced by Lacrimae Mundi and the murders.
He noticed that the officer was now looking past him, in the direction of Lt. Hodges — and even as Mulder absorbed that fact, the officer apparently received some sort of signal, because he shrugged, and he and his partner took a step or two back. “All yours,” the cop commented. “Try not to take too long, okay, sir?”
Mulder nodded absently, already turning his full attention on the suspect. He was tall, in his mid- to late-40s, with just a tinge of silver in his hair. He was well-dressed, in expensive clothes, and Mulder was sure that he’d cut a fine figure earlier in the evening.
But he wasn’t making a good impression now. The man’s eyes were wide, and slightly unfocused, and his face was pale, almost pasty. He had several scratches on each cheek, that looked as if they’d been caused by a woman’s fingernails; looking down, Mulder noted spatters of blood down his shirt front, and several stains of uncertain origin on his slacks.
“When we got here, they were down around his ankles.” Mulder looked away from the suspect, to see that the officer he’d spoken to before had followed his gaze. “Underwear, too — he was lettin’ it all hang out,” the cop said with a smirk. “We actually had to pull ‘em back up for him; he didn’t seem to be capable. Or interested.”
Mulder looked back to the suspect. “Is that true?” he asked.
The man stood in silence for a few seconds, then seemed to realize he was being spoken to. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, and spoke in a monotone. “I guess so. It didn’t seem to matter.”
The agent nodded thoughtfully, and glanced at the police officer again. “Has he been Mirandized?”
“Yes.”
Mulder looked back to the suspect. “Have you been read your rights? Did you understand them?”
Something flickered in the man’s eyes. “You didn’t say ‘asshole’.”
Mulder blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”
“‘Asshole’,” the suspect repeated. “It’s how the cops do it on ‘Law and Order’. ‘Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you, asshole?’”
The agent shook his head. “This isn’t a game, Mr —”
“Danvers,” the cop supplied, holding out his pocket notebook to Mulder.
“Henry Danvers,” Mulder said, taking the notebook and skimming the page it was open to. “Age 48, residence on the Upper West Side. High rent district.” He looked back at the suspect. “That you?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man said. He seemed more in control of himself now, but he was still very, very calm — almost eerily calm. It reminded Mulder of Devon McSparran’s behavior, that first day in New York — although Danvers seemed to be a little rougher around the edges. That was understandable, of course; he was a lot closer to the traumatic event that presumably had caused this emotional shutdown than McSparran had been.
“I’m going to ask you again, Mr. Danvers,” Mulder said. “Have these officers read you your rights? And are you now waiving your right to remain silent and your right to have an attorney present?”
Danvers hesitated for an instant, and seemed as if he might object — but then he shrugged, and just said, “Sure. Why not.”
“So what happened here tonight, Mr. Danvers?”
“I killed her,” the man said flatly. “My body killed her. After I fucked her.”
//My body killed her.// The simple statement leapt out at Mulder, echoing the words uttered by the other three suspects, and he felt a tingle of anticipation at the realization.
“How did you kill her?” he asked. He didn’t really care; he wasn’t sure it would be relevant. But he did need the background, and he wanted to keep the conversation going while he thought about things.
“With a knife,” Danvers replied, his voice still unnaturally calm. “It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.”
“As you thought it would be?” Mulder asked. “Did you have this planned?”
“No, no,” the man replied, shaking his head. “I just came here to get laid.” He nodded in the direction of the bar. “This is a good place for it, if a man likes variety and doesn’t mind a certain amount of risk.”
Mulder nodded, and asked, “So if you didn’t have it planned, when did you decide to kill her? And why?”
Danvers looked puzzled, and cocked his head. “I didn’t decide to,” he explained. “I told you; my body did it. My body did all of it; I was just a … a spectator. I had her up against the wall, over in that alley, and I was laying it into her — and suddenly I was furiously angry. Completely enraged. I have no idea where it came from; it was just suddenly there.”
“Were you angry at her?”
The man shrugged, apparently lapsing further into apathy. “I suppose so,” he replied. “I killed her, after all.”
Mulder nodded again, aware of the two police offers shifting their weight impatiently. Time to wrap this up, at least for now. “Mr. Danvers, I just have one more question. Are you familiar with the work of a painter named Lacrimae Mundi?”
Danvers eyebrows shot up in surprise, his first show of real emotion since Mulder began speaking to him. “Of course,” he said. A hint of smugness filtered past the man’s unnatural reserve. “I own one of them.”
“Really.” Mulder couldn’t make himself feel surprise at the revelation. Deep in his mind, so deep that he was barely aware of it, pieces of the puzzle were starting to fall into place. “How long ago did you acquire it?”
Again, Danvers looked puzzled. “Not too long,” he said. “A few days. Why? Is it important?”
“Perhaps,” Mulder replied. He jerked his head at the two cops, indicating that he was through, and turned and walked away.
Chapter Fifteen
Outside “The Burning Zone”
The Bronx, NY
Thursday, March 9, 2000
11:29 p.m.
Scully wrinkled her nose in a futile attempt to ward off the smell, and tried not to pay too much attention to the things she was stepping over and around as she made her way down the alley that ran next to “The Burning Zone”. The random litter that had been visible out on the street was even more prevalent here. The stench of decaying food, urine and God only knew what battled for ascendancy, and seemed to grow stronger with each step she took.
A few minutes ago, she’d watched with amused tolerance as her partner abruptly sped off on his own to grab a chance to talk to the suspect, leaving her and Burks to finish soothing Lt. Hodges. A small part of her wanted to be annoyed at him for his behavior, but really, it was just Mulder being Mulder. And in truth, Scully was actually pleased at the development, taking it as further proof that her “therapy” was working, and that her partner was gradually returning to normal.
Reaching the end of the alley, Scully was able to make out a couple of paramedics and a uniformed officer standing next to a large, exceptionally smelly pile of garbage. It was even darker down here in this cul-de-sac than it had been out on the street, but as she closed the remaining distance, she saw that there was a body lying on top of the pile.
“I’m Special Agent Scully,” she said, offering her badge to the officer. “FBI. What’s the site status here?”
“The photographer finished a few minutes ago, ma’am,” the cop replied soberly. “We’re just waiting for the M.E. to show up and give his blessing before we move the body.”
Scully nodded, and moved over to stand directly in front of the body. After a moment’s hesitation, while she contemplated the unidentifiable filth and garbage lying at her feet, she knelt down for a closer look.
The body was that of a young woman, in her late teens or early twenties. She had short, brown hair, framing what Scully thought had probably been a plain-looking face, which had in turn been enhanced by the application of far more make-up than Scully would ever have considered using. The woman’s features were contorted into a mix of fear, pain and horror, and her eyes stared sightlessly up into the night sky.
It was obvious enough what had brought that expression to her face: the woman’s abdomen had been ripped open from just above the pelvic bone, all the way up to the sternum. Coils of dark-blue intestine protruded from the gaping wound, with what Scully assumed was fecal matter visible wherever the organ had been severed. This woman had not died an easy death.
Of course, there was blood everywhere, no doubt pooled and congealing in the abdominal cavity, as well as soaking into the victim’s blouse and skirt. The woman’s short, denim skirt was hiked up around the her hips, and Scully saw that she wore no underpants.
“She was found just like this, right?” she asked, straightening back up and glancing at the officer.
“That’s right,” the man said with a nod. “I was the first on the scene, and I checked for pulse and respiration, but it was obvious she was dead.” He pointed to the darkest recesses of the alley’s dead end, and added, “The asshole who did it was right over there when I got here. He was just standing there, his pants around his ankles, with one of the biggest woodies you’d ever hope to see. Pardon my language, ma’am.”
Scully nodded. “What about the victim’s underclothes?” she asked.
The cop shrugged. “We found a pair of panties on the ground, right about where you’re standing. I’m assuming they’ll turn out to be hers. Somebody’d ripped the hell out of them.”
Scully nodded again, thoughtfully. “Sounds like she was assaulted,” she said speculatively. Of course, there would be no way to tell for sure until after the autopsy, but for the moment, that was the way the evidence seemed to be pointing.
“Doesn’t sound like it, from what I’ve found out so far.” Scully turned in surprise, to find Paul Burks standing a few feet away. He went on, “I just got through talking to the bartender, and a couple of customers who didn’t vamoose as soon as they heard the sirens. They all agree that the woman left the bar with the suspect of her own free will, and everyone I talked to also thought it was pretty obvious what they were up to.”
“Maybe she changed her mind,” Scully suggested. “And then he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”
“That’s possible,” Burks agreed. “But again, not likely, from what I’ve heard so far. Both she and the suspect have been seen here before, although never together, and both of them appeared to frequent the place for the obvious reason. Neither of them ever left alone, so far as anybody can recall.” He shrugged. “We’ll have to do more interviews, of course, with people who actually knew each of them. But as of now, it looks like it was consensual.”
“Consensual sex that turned into murder,” Scully responded.
“That’s right,” the detective replied. “Just like the other three cases.”
“That’s true,” she agreed, nodding reluctantly. It was also circular reasoning, to some extent, Scully thought. The fact that in this case consensual sex had led to murder proved there was a connection, and the connection to the other cases bolstered the supposition that in this instance the sex was consensual. But Scully didn’t want to shut the door on Burks or his ideas too quickly. Best to wait until all the evidence was in.
She looked back up the alley, and saw another man approaching. Mulder. She stepped past Burks to meet him.
“Hey, Scully,” he said, his tone of voice so very normal that despite the seriousness of the situation, Scully almost wanted to cry with joy. He really was coming out of his shell, at last. “What have you got?”
“Come see for yourself,” she replied, and turned and led him back to the pile of garbage with the body lying on top of it.
Mulder stood quietly and studied the woman’s corpse for a pair of minutes, while Scully in turn studied Mulder. He was looking so much better than he had even earlier this afternoon. His expression was alert and thoughtful, and his gaze was focused and probing. Here at the crime scene, at least, he was completely back in his element; he was practically glowing.
“He’s pulling back,” Mulder said at last. “The others were done with bare hands; this time, he used a weapon. That could mean he’s trying to distance himself — maybe even starting to feel remorse.”
Scully raised an eyebrow at her partner. “Which ‘he’ are we talking about, Mulder? The last I heard, there were three other people in custody, charged with the other murders.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, his voice tinged with good-natured impatience. “But I’m not talking about them; those are the metavictims. I’m talking about the real killer.”
“‘Metavictims’?” That was Burks, and Scully shot him an amused glance as she realized that the detective had not yet witnessed Mulder in full cry.
“Metavictims,” Mulder repeated. “McSparran, Hamilton, Denson, and now Danvers. They were the ones who committed the actual crimes, but they were not self-motivated. In a very real sense, they’re also victims.”
“How so?” the detective asked.
“This isn’t a simple case of possession,” Mulder responded, waving at the body lying before them. “But there is a connection between these cases, and these people were influenced by an outside force.” He looked Burks in the eye. “Have you heard of an artist named Lacrimae Mundi?”
Burks’ brow furrowed, and he shook his head. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, these people have,” Mulder went on. “All four of them — all four of the killers — had bought a painting from this guy, Mundi, within a few days of committing their respective crimes.”
“So?”
“So those paintings, somehow, some way, influenced their behavior.” Burks eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Mulder continued, “I’ve felt it myself. First at Devon McSparran’s condo, and then again at Bradley Hamilton’s home in Saddlebrook.” He went on to briefly describe the incidents that he’d already told Scully about, concluding, “Agent Scully thinks these experiences were brought on by stress, and at first, I thought she was right. Now, I’m not so sure.”
Burks was nodding, “Okay, I can see where you’re going with this, but it’s going to be a bitch to prove, even if you’re right.” He gave a crooked smile. “And I’m not saying that you’re right. I’m just trying to keep an open mind.”
Mulder nodded, and looked back to Scully. “I called Danny this afternoon,” he stated, “and asked him to do a background check on Lacrimae Mundi. If those paintings are the connection, that’s the place to start.”
“And if they’re not?” she asked quietly. Her emotions were in a whirl; she was so happy to have the old Mulder back, and terribly afraid that the slightest skepticism on her part might undo all the good that working on this case had accomplished. On the other hand, she couldn’t in good conscience embrace her partner’s theory; not without any solid evidence beyond his own subjective perceptions.
Mulder shrugged. “If they’re not, we’re back to square one.” He stepped closer, crowding her personal space in a way he hadn’t done in weeks. “But I’m not wrong, Scully. Not this time.” And despite her determination to remain objective, Scully felt a thrill of excitement at hearing his words.
At last, the anger is flowing.
A short while ago, Shara told him about the visit from the FBI agents. A man and woman, she reported, asking questions, prying into his business, mocking his work. Adding more pain and humiliation to his already overburdened soul.
The music is pounding through him tonight, as he dances before the easel. Pounding in time with his anger; pulsing in rhythm with his hate. The streak of red that he previously smeared on the canvas has now become the centerpiece of this new opus, and finally the rest is taking on shape and form.
Soon it will also take on depth, and from there it is but a short step before it becomes real.
Already the sweat is pouring down his body, dripping from his face and running down his ribs. The darkness is waiting for him, now, he can feel it surrounding him and embracing him, preparing to gather him in. He leaps and prances, slashing at the canvas with his brush, adding more color and texture to the savagery already there.
This is his vengeance, this is his release, this is the only outlet for the terrible rage he feels. The horrible, agonizing ritual is well underway, and then suddenly he becomes ….
The man in the darkened room, diverted from his purpose by the sudden arousal flooding his body. His cock is hardening and thickening almost before he realizes it’s happening, pressing painfully against his slacks, begging to be free, frantic to seek the hot, moist haven that awaits it ….
The woman is here, too, in the darkened room, watching him with her own desire evident in her deep, blue eyes. A slight smile tugs at the corner of her mouth as he approaches her, and he finds himself fascinated by her lips, mesmerized, entranced. The tip of her tongue darts out, and traces the outline of those lips, sending another throb of pleasure through his body ….
He’s standing directly in front of her now, and if only he could take his eyes from her mouth, he knows that he would see the excitement in her own gaze. She’s backed against the wall, now — not from fear, but as a tease. For a moment he hesitates, unsure what he should do, but then she licks her lips again, and he is lost ….
And she’s on her knees, unzipping him and pulling his hard, erect cock from his pants, swirling her tongue around the head, tasting him, sending jolts of electricity deep into his groin and up his spine. It has never felt this good before; never. Her mouth is so warm and moist, her tongue just slightly rough as it glides along the length of his shaft, and dear god it’s beautiful ….
Her mouth finally closes over him, and in the next instant he’s thrusting himself into her mouth, grasping her head with his hands, tangling his fingers in her gorgeous, auburn hair, fucking her mouth until the tip of his cock bumps roughly against the back of her throat. She gags and coughs, but he does not relent, and after a moment she finds his rhythm, and then she’s taking him smoothly, all the way inside ….
He’s crying out with the pleasure of it, now. She’s suckling on him, scraping him gently with her teeth, caressing him with her tongue, and her fingers are playing with his balls and rubbing the sensitive strip of flesh behind them. His eyes are closed, he feels the climax hovering, just above and behind him, and he knows it won’t be long now ….
And then suddenly it’s here, bursting on him as a million bright pinpoints, beginning at the base of his cock and spreading outwards, seemingly at the speed of light, until his entire body is engulfed in fire. He convulses, thrusting into her mouth one more time with savage brutality, and then his hands are around her throat, and he’s squeezing her, throttling her, cutting off her air, lifting her from the ground as his thumbs methodically and inexorably crush her windpipe, until finally she goes limp ….
The artist returns to his body, and finds himself, once again, alone. And as has happened four times before, he now finds himself sobbing with grief and bitterness and despair. The tears run down his cheeks, mingling with the sweat, and finally falling from his heated flesh onto the canvas.
After a while, he slumps to the floor, and sleeps.
Chapter Sixteen
The Best Western President Hotel
Manhattan, NY
Friday, March 10, 2000
6:40 a.m.
Scully heard the cell phone ringing as soon as she turned off the shower. Swearing softly, she hurriedly wrapped a towel around herself and stepped from the bathroom.
The phone rang again as she moved across her hotel room — the room that the Bureau was paying for, but that she hadn’t really used since arriving in New York three days earlier. This morning she’d elected to take her shower in here, though, in hopes that she could avoid waking Mulder until it was absolutely necessary. But now the damned telephone might be about to undo her good intentions.
She pushed open the connecting door, which she’d left slightly ajar so that Mulder would know where she’d gone if he did wake up, and saw with relief that he hadn’t stirred. He was still lying sprawled on his stomach, drooling onto his pillow, with one arm reaching out to her side of the bed. Scully smiled at the sight, even as she was crossing to the nightstand and scooping up the phone. She punched the CONNECT button just before it could ring for the fourth time.
“Scully,” she said quietly, moving away from the bed again and turning her back.
There was a moment of silence on the other end. Then: “Agent Scully? I’m terribly sorry. I thought this was Fox’s number.”
Scully gritted her teeth as she recognized Allen Carstens’ voice. Another day, she might have been able to cope the Englishman, but between her own exhaustion-induced irritability, and the still-fresh memory of how the man had participated in abusing Mulder, all those years ago, her patience and willingness to suffer fools gladly was extremely thin.
“This is Mulder’s phone,” she acknowledged. “But I’m afraid he’s not available right now.”
“I … it’s rather important ….”
The man’s voice trailed off, and Scully shook her head, barely restraining herself from suggesting that Carstens go fuck himself for a change. Of course, the one she really wanted to get her hands on was Phoebe Green, but she wasn’t immediately available, and Carstens was —
“Agent Scully,” the Englishman said softly. “Please. May I speak to Fox?”
“Why don’t you call Inspector Green?” Scully replied abruptly. “I believe you have an understanding with her.” She hit DISCONNECT without waiting for a response. For a moment she hesitated, feeling a vague tinge of guilt that she hadn’t waited to listen to what the man had to say — but he hadn’t had anything for them yesterday, and he had shown himself to be a self-absorbed manipulator. They weren’t missing anything by not hearing him out, she decided.
She closed the phone decisively, and turned around to look at her partner again. Still asleep, thank God. They hadn’t gotten back to the hotel until nearly 2:30, and had simply stripped off their clothes, fallen into bed, and gone straight to sleep. The question of where Scully would spend the night had never been raised, and she felt a quiet happiness at that, even if neither of them had had the energy for anything beyond a goodnight kiss. If only she hadn’t had to get up early this morning to participate in the autopsy ….
She turned away again and stepped back into her own room, still carrying the cell phone. She tossed it on the bed, then proceeded to dry herself and dress. She caught herself yawning several times, which only increased her level of annoyance, as well as her determination to see it through. She was just buttoning her blouse when the cell phone shrilled again.
Scully growled softly. If that was Carstens again — She grabbed the phone off the bed and hit the CONNECT button. “This is Scully,” she snapped.
Again, there was a moment of silence. Finally, she heard an uncertain chuckle. “Agent Scully, this is Danny Grimes in D.C. Have I called at a bad time?”
“Oh.” She knew her face was reddening; thank God there was no one here to see it. Or hear the way she’d answered the phone. “I’m sorry, Danny. I thought it might be someone else.”
The man laughed again, a little more easily. “I guessed. Anyway, I was trying to reach Agent Mulder. Is he there? I did dial his number, right?”
“Yes, you did,” Scully replied. “But right now he’s asleep. We had a late night last night.”
“That’s fine,” Danny said. “I’ve got some info for him on that Lacrimae Mundi character, but nothing earthshaking; it’ll keep. Unless you want to take the report?”
Scully hesitated, and glanced at her watch. She knew Mulder would want the information; on the other hand, it was already almost seven; she was going to be late as it was. And Danny had just said he didn’t have anything important. “No,” she said, deciding as she spoke. “Mulder’s handling that end of it, and I’m really short of time. Can I have him call you later?”
“That’ll be fine, Agent Scully. Anything else I can do for you this fine morning?”
“Not that I can think of,” she replied. Scully paused briefly. “Danny? I really am sorry about how I answered the phone.”
Another chuckle. “Don’t worry about it,” the man replied. “You should hear some of the things my wife says to me.” And the connection was broken.
Scully stood looking at the cell phone for a moment, then impulsively switched the power off with her thumb. She and Mulder had made plans the night before to have lunch with Burks after the autopsy and plan their next move; that would be soon enough to tell him about the calls, and let him decide what to do about them. In the meantime, he needed his sleep. She was pretty tired, herself, but she could take it; she’d gotten along on less when she was in medical school and during her residency.
She pulled a pen from her pocket and hastily scrawled a note asking Mulder to call her when he woke up so they could firm up their plans for lunch. Then she set her partner’s cell phone on the nightstand by the bed, grabbed her coat and headed for the door.
11:02 a.m.
Mulder’s first thought on awakening was to wonder where Scully was.
She’d been there the night before, when he fell asleep. Her small, soft body tucked in against his, her hand resting delicately and possessively on his chest, her breath warm and moist against the side of his neck ….
But that had changed during the night — no, it had been early this morning. As Mulder gradually returned to full conscious, he had vague recollections of his partner slipping quietly out of bed several hours earlier. It must have been morning, because there’d been a gray light filtering in through the partly-closed curtains. Then she’d bent over the bed and kissed him gently on the cheek, and he’d been asleep again before she’d finished straightening up.
But now he was awake — fully awake. And he remembered why Scully had gotten up so early, and where she had gone. Bellevue. The autopsy.
Mulder sighed, and rolled out of bed. A bleary-eyed squint at the clock revealed that it was past eleven. Jesus. He should have left a wake-up call, but he hadn’t thought it was necessary — apparently he hadn’t realized quite how tired he was. He shook his head, and headed for the shower.
Twenty minutes later he emerged again, feeling almost civilized. In fact, he felt more awake and alert than he had in weeks. That was Scully’s doing, of course. Scully, and her relentless campaign to drag him out of the doldrums he’d fallen into, and put him back on an even keel.
He wondered about that as he dressed; wondered how any woman as smart and sturdy as Dana Scully could be so devoted to his welfare. But she had been, almost from the start — years before either of them even considered the possibility that they might one day become lovers.
He had used her too, he admitted to himself. Not in an evil, manipulative way, but he’d used her, nonetheless. He’d come to depend on her steadiness and common sense to balance his own more reckless tendencies.
Suddenly, this morning, everything was becoming clear to him somehow. All these years, Scully had been by his side, supporting him, and the past three weeks had been no different. She’d given him space when he needed it, despite the fact that it was hurting her, and then somehow she had known, apparently by instinct, when the time had come that he would accept her love and comfort once again.
Unburdening himself to her yesterday afternoon must have cleared the decks, he decided, as he tied his tie. It wasn’t the first time he’d done it, of course; not by a long shot. The first week they’d worked together he’d told her the basic story of Samantha’s abduction, and over the years he’d added details, as time and circumstances seemed to warrant.
She’d also found out about Phoebe, of course, and about Diana. In each case, the revelations had been slow in coming, and almost criminally incomplete, but at least she’d found out about them. Now, at last, after yesterday, she knew everything, and Mulder felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He felt a sense of relief second only to the one he’d experienced the night he discovered Samantha’s fate.
Because Scully had not abandoned him.
This was a new thing in Mulder’s experience. Everyone he’d ever known and cared about, everyone he’d ever allowed to get close enough to really know him, had used him, betrayed him and finally left him. Even Diana, whom he’d thought he could trust, had turned on him, in the end. He didn’t know how or when or why, but that scarcely seemed important.
All that mattered was that she had. And that Scully had not only not betrayed him, but had supported him and bolstered him, display a fierce, unabashed loyalty, at great cost to herself. She even loved him, as impossible as that might seem.
He needed to do some things for Scully, and the very first item on the agenda was healing himself. He was working on that — with her help; always with her help. But the next, and even more important item, was to find out what Scully’s needs were. He’d thought he’d known what she wanted, out of this job and out of her life, but now he realized that he hadn’t ever really looked past the surface. More importantly, he’d never asked.
A home, a family, the so-called “normal life” — those things mattered to her, he was sure, but they weren’t priorities. Dana Scully ran much deeper than that, and he was determined to find out where her heart truly lay.
But first, they had to solve this case, and that meant he had to find Lacrimae Mundi — or whatever his real name was — and wring the truth out of him. Specifically, he was determined to find out why Mundi was producing those paintings, and what it was about them that turned ordinary, respectable people into ruthless, brutal, impulsive killers. And the first step would be another conversation with Shara Wyche.
Finally finished dressing, Mulder picked up his cell phone from the night stand. He hesitated briefly as he saw that his partner had left a note asking him to call when he got up, but then he shook his head; that could wait. He’d call her when he got back from New Rochelle.
Chapter Seventeen
Residence of Shara Wyche
New Rochelle, NY
Friday, March 10, 2000
3:11 p.m.
“So you’re back.”
Mulder nodded affably, doing his best to project open friendliness to Shara Wyche. It had taken him longer to get here than he’d wished, in large part because Scully had taken their car. That had been fine when all he’d intended to do was stay in the room and make some phone calls, and eventually take a cab over to Bellevue so they could have lunch together. But with his change in plans that was no longer adequate, and he’d been forced to rent another car. God knew how the bureaucrats in accounting were going to respond to that, but what was done was done.
“I’m glad I caught you at home,” Mulder replied. “I just have a few more questions I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind.”
The woman hesitated, and her gaze flicked past Mulder’s shoulder, and then back to him. “I guess so,” she said, with apparent unconcern. Then, more pointedly: “Where’s your partner today?”
Mulder shook his head. “She couldn’t be here,” he explained. “She has other duties.”
Shara Wyche nodded. “Okay. Come on in.”
She turned and led the way into the house, but this time she didn’t take Mulder to the kitchen; she took him through the living room and down a hallway to a room that appeared to be a spare bedroom that had been converted into an office.
An antique roll-top desk sat in one corner, a computer monitor incongruously perched on it. A short filing cabinet with an oak panel veneer stood next to the desk, and a couple of unremarkable paintings hung on one wall: one was a portrait of an undistinguished older man and a plain-looking woman; the other was of a child’s swingset with a flower garden in the background.
Mulder turned from looking at the paintings, to find that Wyche had sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk, and was looking at him coolly — and once again, he was struck by how much she resembled Scully. Not just her build and her hair color, but the air of reserve she carried about her as a cloak, as well.
Of course, in Scully’s case, he was able to look past the surface, and see the warm, compassionate woman who lurked beneath the cool exterior. With Wyche he couldn’t. Presumably, that was because he’d worked with Scully for so long, but as he thought back, he could no longer really remember what it had been like in the beginning.
And even with Scully, he reminded himself, there had been times when she’d closed herself off so thoroughly that nothing was visible but the shell. When she’d been sick with cancer, the woman Dana Scully had been almost completely subsumed by Special Agent Scully, at least insofar as her interactions with him were concerned —
He shook his head slightly, driving the thoughts away. This wasn’t the time for such things, and it was all in the past, anyway. He turned his attention back to the woman in front of him, and saw that she was looking at him quizzically. Time to get started.
“One of your clients paint those?” Mulder asked, gesturing at the paintings on the wall, hoping to break the ice a bit.
“No,” she said. “I sell my clients’ work; I don’t display it. Those are just … paintings that I liked. Now what questions did you want to ask? I’m a busy woman.”
Mulder nodded. Glancing briefly about the small room once again, he realized that there was no place for him to sit. Apparently Wyche intended for this to be a short interview.
“Ms. Wyche,” he began, “I’d like to know a little more about Mr. Mundi.” She nodded, but didn’t say anything. Mulder went on, “I believe you said yesterday that you’ve known him for several months?”
“That’s right. I also told you that I don’t remember exactly where or when I met him. That hasn’t changed.”
“Okay,” Mulder said. “But you have met him, right?”
“Of course. I do business with him. But he doesn’t go out much; he’s a recluse. I don’t see him very often.” If anything, Wyche’s voice was even cooler than before.
“So you don’t consider him a friend?”
The woman paused for a long moment, and her face took on a very odd expression, that Mulder found himself unable to interpret. Finally, she shook her head. “No,” she said firmly. “Mr. Mundi is not my friend.”
“What do you mean when you say he’s a recluse?”
She paused again, and cocked her head. “I mean … what I mean,” she said. “He’s … he’s reclusive. He doesn’t go out much, because he doesn’t need to. He gets along fine without other people.” Another hesitation, briefer than the others. “Perhaps ‘self-sufficient’ would be a better word.”
“I thought you said you don’t know him very well,” Mulder commented curiously. He was growing more confused by the minute; the woman was being much more cooperative than she had been the day before, but her answers weren’t quite adding up. It occurred to him that she must be hiding something — but he had no idea what that something might be, or whether it was even important.
“I never said I don’t know him,” Wyche said, in low tones. “I said he’s not a friend. There’s a difference.”
“Okay.” Mulder thought about that a minute, trying to decide what to say next. “So you know him, but he’s not your friend. How would you characterize your relationship with Mr. Mundi?”
“Business associate,” she said promptly. “I told you that already.”
“That’s true, you did.”
“Agent Mulder, is there some point to all this?” Shara Wyche shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and waved one hand vaguely at the desktop. “I do have things I need to be doing.”
“I understand,” Mulder replied. “And there is a point to this.”
“You just can’t tell me what it is.” Was that sarcasm in her voice? Mulder couldn’t quite decide. Then the woman went on, her voice once more calm and cool. “But you expect me to tell you everything.”
“You say Mr. Mundi is a recluse —”
“‘Self-sufficient’,” she interjected. “I believe I settled on ‘self-sufficient’.”
“‘Self-sufficient’,” Mulder acknowledged. “Do you think that Mr. Mundi’s self-sufficiency would allow him to meet with me?”
Wyche frowned, and she bit her lip. “I … don’t know,” she said at last. “He really doesn’t go out very often.” She gave a nervous-sounding laugh. “I don’t think he likes people very much, to be perfectly honest.” She shrugged. “I suppose I could ask him.”
Mulder nodded. Progress. Maybe. “Do you think you could call him now?” he asked.
The woman’s eyes widened, then narrowed, and she shook her head sharply. “No,” she said. “I don’t call him. He gets in touch with me, when he feels like it.” Another uneasy laugh. “I don’t even know how to contact him.”
Mulder raised his eyebrows. “How do you stay in touch, then? How do you notify him that you’ve made a sale?”
Wyche cocked her head again, as she seemed to think about his question. After a moment, she answered, “I told you. He contacts me. When he feels like it.”
“That seems like a very odd way to do business.”
She shrugged. “It’s the way he wants it.”
“How do you get his money to him?”
Wyche looked puzzled. “His money? We have an … arrangement.”
Mulder couldn’t keep himself from lifting his eyebrow. “What sort of an arrangement?”
“A business arrangement,” she said, settling back into her cool, distant mode, obviously intending to say no more on that subject.
Mulder gritted his teeth in frustration. Shara Wyche was not, in fact, telling him very much — and every time he actually did seem to be getting somewhere, he found a door suddenly being slammed in his face.
Of course, it would help if he actually had some idea of what he was trying to find out. All he really had to go on was his own subjective experience with Mundi’s paintings. That, coupled with the coincidence that all four of the killers owned paintings they had recently purchased from the artist, had led him to the conviction that the artwork was in some way the missing element that linked these murders.
But holding that conviction and proving it were two entirely different things.
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Mundi?” Mulder asked suddenly.
Again, something flickered across Shara Wyche’s face, but was quickly gone. “Yesterday,” she said calmly. “I saw him yesterday. He said he had a new painting for me to sell.”
“Did he bring it with him?”
“Oh course. I couldn’t very well sell it otherwise, now could I?” She hesitated, and once again she cocked her head at him as she gave him an appraising stare. “Would you like to see it?”
“Why, uh, yes,” Mulder replied. The invitation startled him, but he wasn’t about to turn it down. Perhaps if he saw another of Mundi’s paintings, he’d at least be able to evaluate his strange response to them a little better. Of course, he reminded himself, it was always possible that he would have no reaction to this one. It was always possible that Scully was right, about this being all stress-related, and they’d just be back to square one again.
But somehow, he didn’t think that would be the case.
Wyche rose from her chair and led him back out into the hallway and towards the front of the house once more. They reached the living room, and the woman motioned for Mulder to wait, while she crossed to the far side of the room. Reaching back behind the sofa, she withdrew a large portfolio, and then with one fluid motion she extracted the painting that was inside it.
For a moment she stood there with her back to him, apparently studying the work. Mulder couldn’t really see much of it from where he was standing — just a brief impression of whirls of bright red against a background of deep, deep blue. Even so, he felt a slight tremor of something … the same undefinable twinge he’d first felt in Devon McSparran’s living room his first day in New York. Then Shara Wyche turned to face him, and displayed the painting —
Mulder felt as if he’d been hit in the face by a hammer. He gasped, as a powerful rush of emotion washed over him: fear and anger and rage, and most especially pain. Yes, pain — the pain of humiliation and degradation. The withering, crippling sense of emptiness and self-loathing that he thought he’d left behind when he’d finally found his way first to Scully, and then to the conclusion of his quest. It was palpable; it surrounded him; it was everywhere. It was a living, breathing thing ….
He’s lost in the fog. Lost, lost, lost in the fog. No matter where he turns, there’s nothing but dull, featureless gray. No light. No sound. No form or shape of any kind. Just stultifying gray mist, neither warm nor cool, but simply there. A distant, rational corner of his mind recognizes this fog, recognizes it as being related to the things he felt in McSparran’s home, and then more strongly still in Bradley Hamilton’s. But that knowledge is so tiny and far away that it is useless to him ….
Gradually, he begins to make out … things. Nothing coherent or understandable; just vague, shadowy forms slowly coalescing out of the mist. Misshapen, deformed things; horrifying caricatures of living creatures, swarming and growing before his eyes. And overlaying it all, the overwhelming flood of hurt and anger and shame — and arousal ….
God, the arousal is everywhere, intense and throbbing and brutal. He feels as if he’s burning, as if he’s on fire, and only one thing can quench the flames. Only one thing can bring him relief. His hands clench, reflexively, over and over, and now his need is all he knows. It fills him to overflowing, the pressure building within him so very, very fast ….
And suddenly the fog clears, and he feels the bottom drop out of his stomach as he seems to abruptly lift upwards and backwards. He looks down and he sees ….
Himself, walking with slow determination towards the woman. He can no longer remember who she is; he cannot remember her name. He can only see her, backing slowly away until she bumps up against the wall. His own need, his own overpowering lust seems to fill the room, so thick and pungent that he can actually see it, and he watches as his hands reach out to grab her shoulders, to force her to her knees —
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Mulder’s eyes flickered open; he hadn’t realized that he’d closed them, but apparently he had. For a few seconds he was confused and disoriented, and all he could see was bright blue eyes framed by coppery hair. Scully? But how could it be Scully? She was downtown, doing an autopsy. Wasn’t she?
“Agent Mulder!”
He blinked and shook his head, and found himself standing only a few inches from Shara Wyche. She was backed against the far wall of the living room, and was holding the painting between them as if it were a shield. The expression on her face was a study in affronted anger, and she was breathing in short, sharp puffs, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she obviously struggled to retain her composure.
Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed as he backed carefully away. Opening his eyes again, he saw her still standing where he’d left her, tightly clutching the painting to her chest. “I … I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me. The painting —”
“I think you’d better leave,” she said sharply, tossing her head at the door. “Now.”
Mulder swallowed again and nodded.
“And don’t come back.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Plough and Stars
Manhattan, NY Friday,
March 10, 2000
6:52 p.m.
Once again, Scully and Burks wound up at the Plough and Stars. The smoky little bar was, if anything, even more packed with people than the night before, and the music seemed even louder — although, somehow, Scully didn’t seem to have any trouble tuning it out, when it suited her. She had never been much interested in the bar scene, and had tolerated it in college only because it offered the opportunity to dance. But there was something warm and comfortable about this place.
The autopsy had taken much longer than she had hoped. For openers, the prosector was late, and they hadn’t actually had the body on the table, ready to begin, until nearly 9:30. Then when they finally did get started, the supervising pathologist assigned to the case turned out to be a plodding, methodical man who insisted on checking each finding a minimum of three times — and more than that, if there was any ambiguity at all.
Scully sympathized, on an intellectual level. She prided herself on her own care and precision, and she was well aware that a post mortem was often the only hope the deceased’s family had for any kind of closure. But this man’s caution bordered on neurotic. Unfortunately, she had been present as a matter of professional courtesy, and so there was little she could do about it, other than grit her teeth and nod politely each time he decided that a particular examination needed to be repeated.
When they finally finished, around five, she’d tried to call Mulder, but got a recorded message that his phone was out of range or switched off. Apparently he hadn’t noticed that she’d turned it off — and she winced as she realized that she’d forgotten to call and give him the message from Danny Grimes. There was no answer at the hotel — either his room or hers — so apparently he’d gone out somewhere.
Nearly two hours later, there was still no answer, and Scully shook her head in frustration as she put her phone away yet again and turned her attention back to Paul Burks. The detective was sitting across the table from her, methodically cracking peanuts and popping the meats into his mouth.
“Still no answer, huh?” he asked, cracking another nut.
“No,” she said with a sigh. She picked up a peanut and turned it over in her hands. “And it’s at least partly my fault. I turned off his cell phone this morning so no one would bother him, since we had such a late night, and then I was unavailable most of the day, even if he did try to call me.”
“That last part wasn’t your fault,” Burks pointed out. He crunched another peanut and swallowed. “An autopsy takes as long as it takes.”
“True,” she admitted. “Although this one didn’t have to take as long as it did.”
“Which also was not your fault,” the detective replied. He cocked his head and seemed to study her face for a moment, while Scully fidgeted uncomfortably under his gaze. “You know, Agent Scully,” he said after a few seconds, “it’s okay to be worried about him.”
“I’m not worried —”
“Bullshit.” Scully looked at the detective sharply, but the sad, ironic smile on his face took the sting out of the word. “You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t worry. I worried about Susan every single day, and she worried about me. She went off to get us coffee and a donut, I worried, because in this business you can never be sure what’s waiting around the corner. And my relationship with her wasn’t … similar to what you have with Agent Mulder.”
Scully nodded slowly, in reluctant acceptance of the man’s point. It was true, after all. Even in the early days, when they had been just partners, and not yet even friends, she had worried about Mulder. And heaven knew he worried about her — that had been obvious from the outset. From that first night in the field when she came to him with the lumps on her back that turned out to be mosquito bites, it had been clear to her that this oddball she’d been partnered with against her will actually was concerned for her welfare. Occasionally that concern had seemed too much — even stifling, from time to time — but if she was honest with herself, it had never been completely unwelcome.
“I guess you’re right,” she said at last. “I just feel stupidletting myself get worked up like this. I mean, how much trouble can he really get himself into? He’s a grown man; he can take care of himself.”
“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” Burks asked quietly. Before she could respond, he went on, “Agent Mulder strikes me as a very intense man. I would imagine that whatever he does, he puts all of himself into it. And sometimes that can lead a person into trouble.”
“He is very intense,” Scully agreed. Over the past few days she’d found herself confiding with the detective more and more. It made her uneasy to be so reflexively trusting of the man, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. His entire manner invited openness.
“And it does get him into trouble,” she went on after a brief pause. “But at the same time, it’s one of his best qualities — the ability to focus on what he’s doing, to the exclusion of all else. I think it’s one of the things that makes him such a great profiler.”
Burks nodded. “I understand that,” he replied. “And I’m not putting him down for it; honest.” His lips quirked slightly. “I do value my life, after all.”
Scully couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. “I think you’re safe,” she murmured.
Again the detective nodded, and then his expression turned serious once more. “Agent Scully? What’s your stake in all this, anyway?” She looked at him questioningly, and he waved a hand vaguely. “The X-Files; the paranormal. You’ve told me a little bit about why Agent Mulder’s involved; what about you? I don’t really know you very well, but if you’ll pardon the observation, this doesn’t seem as if it’s exactly your cup of tea.”
For a moment or two Scully stared at the man, trying to decide how to respond. He was right, of course; the X-Files weren’t — or hadn’t been — the sort of thing she’d ever envisioned herself taking seriously, let alone getting deeply involved in. Yet she had. She had. And Burks was waiting for an answer.
“I’m not sure if I can explain it,” she replied slowly. “At first … at first, it was just an assignment. They sent me to him so that there’d be someone there to act as a check. But after a while ….”
Scully let her voice trail off. How could she possibly explain it? She didn’t really understand it, herself. She knew she was tied to Mulder and to the X-Files; she’d known that for a long time, and it had literally been years since she’d seriously considered leaving. Not since shortly after her first abduction, in fact —
“I was taken,” she said suddenly. She found that her gaze had drifted away from the detective; now she forced herself to look him in the eye. “I was kidnapped by a suspect in a case Mulder was working on, but there was more to it than that.”
“More?”
“Yes,” she said with a firm nod. “A lot more. I was gone for three months, and I don’t remember any of it, other than vague flashes here and there. I don’t know where I was, or what was done to me, or why. But I do know some of the consequences.” She saw something flicker in the man’s eyes, and abruptly stopped speaking.
Burks’ partner had disappeared under similar circumstances, she remembered. Scully shuddered reflexively, and found herself suddenly praying that Susan, this woman she had never met, truly was at the bottom of the East River. Anything was better than what she’d been through.
Wasn’t it?
Scully shook her head and pushed the thought away. Not going to go into that, she told herself firmly. Not with this man she’d only known for a few days. Not when she hadn’t even talked to Mulder about most of it.
The sudden knowledge struck her like a thunderbolt. Had she really kept that much from her … lover? She shook her head again. She’d made a conscious decision, years ago, shortly after her return, that she couldn’t afford to dwell on these things. She’d decided that she needed to put it all behind her, and concentrate on rebuilding her life. She hadn’t had time for weakness.
More importantly, Mulder hadn’t had time for her weakness; he hadn’t been up to listening to her. He’d been on the ragged edge of despair already — Missy had told her about it, and then she’d observed it herself when she finally returned to work. And besides, they were both so damned busy, reopening the X-Files, getting things going again … and then there’d been the Samantha clone, and Ken Soona and Mulder’s apparent death and sudden resurrection, and Missy’s death and —
And somehow, after a while, her own problems didn’t seem very important. They were still there, tucked away in a box in the back of her mind, but there was always some reason why this wasn’t a good time to open it up and take a look at what was inside. Even when the cancer came, even when Emily appeared in her life and then was as suddenly taken from her, there was always something else going on, something that seemed more urgent than her problems.
She’d been fine, after all.
Fine.
Scully dragged herself back from the precipice that had suddenly appeared in front of her. Stepping carefully, not wanting to topple over the edge, she forced herself to focus her gaze on Paul Burks, still sitting across from her in the booth in this cheap but homey bar somewhere in Manhattan, eating peanuts and watching her curiously while strangers swirled around them, talking, drinking, smoking, dancing … and how in heaven’s name had she ever come to this place? What concatenation of choices had led her here, and would she change any of them now, even if she could?
And where in the hell was Mulder, anyway?
And her cell phone rang.
With a sigh of relief, she pulled the phone from her jacket pocket, flipped it open, and punched the CONNECT button. She didn’t even think about who it might be or how to answer; she simply brought it to her ear and said, “Mulder? Where have you been?”
There was a moment of silence at the other end, and then she heard a chuckle, followed by a man’s voice. “Sorry, Agent Scully; this is Danny Grimes.”
Scully let out her breath and resisted the temptation to swear at the man. It wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t the one who she was hoping to hear from. And in the meantime, she still hadn’t notified Mulder of the call this morning. “Yes, Danny,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m about to head out, and I still haven’t heard from Agent Mulder. And I was hoping to clear this report before I closed up shop for the day. Would you happen to know where he is?”
She sighed and shook her head, oblivious of the fact that the man couldn’t see her. “No,” she said. “I don’t. I’ve been trying to reach him myself. Why don’t you just give the information to me, and I’ll be sure he gets it.” In retrospect, she should have done it this way this morning — but she hadn’t had any inkling that her partner was going to disappear on her like this. Well, that was water under the bridge.
“Sure. As I said this morning, I really don’t have that much for him; there doesn’t seem to be much to find.” Scully pulled a notebook and pen from her jacket pocket, as the man continued to speak. “In a nutshell, Lacrimae Mundi doesn’t appear to exist. I found a couple of minor references in filler items in the New York Post, all within the last three months.
“But beyond that — the guy has no credit history, no military record, no selective service record, no police record, nothing. He’s never applied for a passport, and he’s never had a driver’s license anywhere in the United States — he doesn’t even have a Social Security number. The one thing he does have is a bank account.”
“A bank account?” Scully felt herself becoming interested, almost in spite of herself. None of this proved anything, she reminded herself. She and Mulder had already surmised that ‘Lacrimae Mundi’ was a pseudonym, and everyone they’d talked to — with the exception of Shara Wyche — had agreed on that point. But it wouldn’t hurt to hear Danny out.
“Yeah,” the man replied. “At Chase Manhattan, no less. I wasn’t able to get a record of activity; Mulder said you guys don’t have enough for a warrant at this point. But I can tell you that there haven’t been any transactions over the ten thousand dollar limit.” Banks were required by law to report cash transactions over ten thousand dollars. “But I was able to find out that it’s a D/B/A account.”
“D/B/A?” Scully repeated. “Doing business as?”
“Right,” Danny confirmed. “The actual account holder is someone named Shara Wyche, of New Rochelle, New York. I did a quick rundown on her, too. You want it?”
“Sure.”
She heard papers rustle in the background for a few seconds, then Danny continued, “She, at least, is real. But there’s nothing remarkable. Couple of traffic violations in New York, and one in Connecticut. A slow pay on her Discover card last year. A few references in the Post, and one in the Times. A handful more from when she was a kid, in Manchester, New Hampshire. She does have her own bank account, also at Chase Manhattan. Want me to go a little more in depth? I could probably dig a bit more out for you by tomorrow sometime. Probably wouldn’t be much, though.”
“No,” Scully said, after a brief hesitation. No point in wasting the man’s time. “We still can’t get a warrant, and that would limit you pretty severely. Thanks for your help, though, Danny.”
“Sorry I couldn’t find more for you.” And the connection was broken.
Scully sat staring at the phone for a pair of minutes as she tried to decide what to do next. Obviously, she needed to pass Danny’s report on to Mulder — but she’d have to find him first, and even then, the researcher hadn’t really discovered anything of significance. All his report boiled down to was that Wyche was probably using the name Mundi as a pseudonym, something that Scully supposed might be interesting to those in the art community, but did nothing to prove that there was any link between the paintings and the murders.
Of course, Scully knew perfectly well how she could get more information, if she really wanted it: the Gunmen. They wouldn’t be hampered by the lack of a search warrant or probable cause, and she’d seen first hand what they could do, the night they’d helped her dig into Diana Fowley’s background.
But it would be a terrible invasion of privacy; those laws were there for a reason. And besides, there was no link, she reminded herself. Nothing to connect the four murders, and nothing to tie any of it to Lacrimae Mundi or Shara Wyche — even if they did turn out to be the same person. It was a dead end. The whole case was a dead end.
But Mulder would want to know.
“Anything interesting?”
Scully looked across the table at Paul Burks, who was watching her with open curiosity, still popping peanuts into his mouth. He chewed the nuts slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. He had no real idea what she and Mulder were all about, she reminded herself, despite several days of congenial companionship. No idea at all. But maybe he’d asked the right question, despite that fact.
//Agent Scully? What’s your stake in all this, anyway?//
Mulder would want to know, she repeated in her mind. Even if there was nothing there, he would want to know. It really was quite simple when she thought about it that way.
But there was an even better reason than that, she realized, and that was that she wanted to know, as well. She wanted the truth, all of it, and she was no longer content to accept customary explanations without question.
She wanted all of the truth. No matter how unconventional — or frightening — that truth might be.
Without looking away from Detective Burks, Special Agent Dana Scully moved her thumb, and pushed the speed dial for the Lone Gunmen.
Chapter Nineteen
The Best Western President Hotel
Manhattan, NY
Friday, March 10, 2000
7:28 p.m.
Try as he might, Mulder couldn’t get the images out of his mind.
It had been more than three hours since he left Shara Wyche’s home. The drive back to the city was nothing more than a vague memory in his mind, and it distantly occurred to him to wonder how he’d avoided an accident. Because all he’d really been able to see, since his first glimpse of that painting, was the fog, and the things that lived within it.
On an intellectual level, somewhere deep down inside, Mulder knew he was dissociating. From the instant it all started, he’d recognized the state, but knowing what was going on and being able to do something about it were two entirely different things.
Even now, as he lay on the bed in his hotel room staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t get away from it. Everywhere he looked, he saw the gray, pulsing fog and the dark, mysterious shapes. Closing his eyes just made it worse; closing his eyes brought the experience closer, let him feel the feelings again. Closing his eyes made his body throb with anger and lust, and allowed the fog to coalesce until once again he saw the woman kneeling before him, her red hair flying as her head moved back and forth and her lips and tongue assaulted his cock. He could feel his fingers closing around her neck —
He shook his head sharply, once again forcing it all away. In a sudden flurry of activity he threw back the covers, rolled out of bed and began to pace.
He thought he knew what was going on now, but as yet he had no way to prove it. The paintings, in some way, affected those who looked at them, and drove them to commit these crimes. Not just anyone viewing the paintings, he amended. Just the person they were targeted at, apparently, because no one else in any of the households seemed to have been affected.
But who was doing the targeting? And why? And why was Mulder affected, even peripherally? That last one had quite evidently been aimed at him, personally, for some reason — but why had he felt anything at all when he looked at the other two?
He abruptly stopped pacing as a thought occurred to him, and he raised his hand and ran his fingers across his scalp, until he found the ridge of scar tissue that was the only visible remnant of the involuntary brain surgery he’d undergone the previous fall. Could that have something to do with it? He had no idea what had been done to him, and only a vague idea of why. He knew only that before the surgery he’d been able to read minds, inefficiently and with great discomfort, and afterwards, the ability seemed to be gone.
He moaned in frustration as the fog closed in on him once again. It was almost impossible to think coherently while this was going on. He felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to just act on what he was feeling. The pressure was so strong, so intense, and it was all he could do to keep it from taking him over completely, and seeking out the woman he saw so vividly behind his eyelids. The woman who could release him from this — but only with her death.
He needed to talk to Scully, he thought. If only he could talk to Scully, then between the two of them they could work it out. The only problem was that he was afraid even to be in the same room with her. It was not lost on him that the woman in his vision bore a disturbing resemblance to his partner, and he was unwilling to risk what might happen if he saw her. And yet again, even as he thought about it, he felt his fingers tightening, tightening, and he saw those beautiful, sky blue eyes bulging in terror —
Mulder snapped his eyes open, shaking his head violently from side to side. No! He was not going to allow that to happen; he wasn’t even going to think about it. He would, by god, eat his gun before he would permit himself to bring harm to Scully. And then he lost himself again ….
He found himself on his knees in front of the bureau, and slowly he managed to focus his eyes. He needed help. He had to have it. He’d been hoping that once he left the vicinity of the painting, its effects would fade, and he’d be able to cope once again. Unfortunately, they seemed to be getting stronger instead of weaker, and the attacks were coming at more frequent intervals. This one had been the worst yet; he didn’t even have a clear memory of what had happened — although the painful throbbing of his erection told him more than he needed to know.
He needed help, he repeated in his mind, and there was only one place he could get it. Scully. He would just have to warn her, that was all. She probably wouldn’t believe him; she thought it was all brought on by stress, anyway. But at least if he warned her she’d have her guard up, so that if he did lose control she’d be ready to defend herself. God, he needed her ….
He had his cell phone in his hand, although he couldn’t remember pulling it from his pocket. He stared at it dumbly, as if trying to figure out what this strange object was. His brow furrowed slightly in confusion as he realized that it was switched off. When had he done that? Had it been that way all day? But then he shook his head; it didn’t really matter. His thumb moved, and he turned the phone on again —
And before he could even punch Scully’s speed dial, it started ringing. Mulder frowned in annoyance, and pushed the CONNECT button.
“Mulder.”
“Agent Mulder, this is Shara Wyche.” The woman’s voice sounded cool and composed; the anger and fear that had been there as she ordered him from her home was gone. And she continued, “I’m calling to let you know that I just spoke with Mr. Mundi, and he’ll be here in a little while. He’d like to talk to you.” There was a moment of silence. Then: “Agent Mulder? Are you there?”
Mulder shook himself, and realized he needed to reply. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“Well?” she asked. “Will you be able to come over? Mr. Mundi is very anxious to meet you. He’d like the chance to answer your questions, and satisfy whatever doubts you may have.”
Mulder felt as if his were head clearing slightly as Wyche’s words slowly sank in. Lacrimae Mundi was going to come out of hiding, and wanted to talk to him. He wanted to answer his questions. Maybe this was the break he’d been waiting for. He was already climbing to his feet and heading for the door as he responded, “Sure. I’ll be there within the hour.”
The Best Western President Hotel
8:11 p.m.
“Well, he was definitely here,” Scully commented as she and Burks stood in the connecting door leading from her room to Mulder’s, looking at the unmade bed. She flushed slightly as she noticed her own clothes from the night before, in a disorderly pile on the bureau. Well, it wasn’t as if that was much of a secret at this point, at least from Paul Burks.
The detective made no comment about her clothing, though, and stepped past the bureau as if he hadn’t even noticed it was there. A moment later, he was running his hand across the bedclothes, a thoughtful look on his face. “He hasn’t been gone long,” the man commented. “Sheets are still warm.”
Scully nodded and thought about that for a moment. Her partner had been here, no more than, say, thirty minutes ago, but then he’d left. Why? And where had he gone? For that matter, had he been here all day, or had he been out part of the time? And if he’d been out, how had he gotten around town? She’d taken their rental when she left for Bellevue that morning.
At that moment, her cell phone rang. Scully forced herself to move with deliberation as she pulled it from her pocket and punched CONNECT, but even before she spoke, she could feel her pulse quickening. It was Mulder. It had to be Mulder.
“Scully.”
“Agent Scully,” said the man’s voice, in that familiar, annoying English accent. “This is Allen Carstens. Please don’t hang up.”
Scully growled softly, and for an instant her finger hovered over the DISCONNECT button. But then she shook her head angrily. “What do you want?”
“I … I heard about the fourth killing,” the man said, his voice trembling. “On the television this morning. About poor Henry.”
“My sympathy is reserved for Lydia Hamman,” Scully grated out. “If you’ve got a point, please come to it. I haven’t got a lot of time.”
“Yes, of course,” Carstens said. “And I’m sorry to be bothering you. I’ve been trying to reach Fox all day, but his phone —”
“Now, Carstens,” she snapped. “Or get the hell off my phone.”
“Agent Scully, I’m afraid I might be next.”
Scully felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and despite her inclination to give the man short shrift, she heard herself asking, “Why would you think that?”
“Because I’m the last one left,” he answered. “The last member of the jury who hasn’t committed one of these horrible crimes.”
She was suddenly alert. “Danvers was on the same jury as the other three?”
“Yes,” Carstens replied, his voice shaking. “And so was I. And … and I wasn’t completely candid with you and Fox when you came to see me the other day.”
“No kidding.” Scully couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her voice, but Carstens didn’t seem to notice.
“No,” he said flatly. “I wasn’t. You asked if there was anything noteworthy that took place during the jury’s deliberations, and I brushed you off. But in fact, there was.” The man seemed to be calming slightly now that he had a chance to talk. “Indirectly, it concerns that artist Fox asked about — Lacrimae Mundi.”
“In what way?” Scully asked, her grip tightening on the phone.
Carstens laughed nervously. “Actually, it concerns his agent, Shara Wyche. She fancies herself an artist, as well, but she’s never been terribly successful. To be perfectly blunt, she’s awful. Dull, derivative — her technique is competent, but she just doesn’t have any vision, if you see what I mean.”
“I think so,” Scully replied. “Go on. What happened that was noteworthy?”
“Well,” the man said, “she had submitted her own work for the exhibition, along with Mundi’s.” He paused, and added, “And we rejected it.”
“So? Surely she wasn’t the only one —”
“No, of course not,” Carstens interrupted. “But in Wyche’s case … well, it was late at night when we dealt with her, and we’d all had a bit to drink, and ….” His voice trailed off and he sighed. Suddenly, all in a rush: “We sent her a rather ugly letter, Agent Scully.”
“Ugly?”
“Gratuitous,” he elaborated. “Unprofessional. You understand? The sorts of things that one says to one’s colleagues in private, only we wrote them down and mailed them to her.” He repeated, “Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do,” Scully said with a frown. “I mean, I understand what you did, but why —”
“Agent Scully,” the man interrupted again, urgency once more coloring his voice. “We humiliated her. Totally and completely humiliated her. And then members of the jury began committing these ghastly crimes, and you and Fox came around asking about her and her client, and last night —”
“Okay, okay,” Scully said, cutting him off. She stopped and thought for a minute, while Carstens waited in silence.
It was absurd; it was impossible. It was a link of sorts between the four crimes, but there was no way that Wyche could have influenced those four people to do the things they’d done.
Yet, all four of them had purchased paintings from Lacrimae Mundi, and Wyche was, as far as jury members knew, Mundi’s agent. So they’d done business with her, in order to do business with Mundi — little knowing, as Scully now strongly suspected, that they were actually the same person. They’d made those purchases only a few days before each committed their respective murders. And Carstens had told them that the bidding had been by invitation only —
“Mr. Carstens,” she said, “who was invited to bid on Mundi’s paintings?”
“I … I don’t know,” the man said. “Not the complete list, anyway. Not with certainty.” He paused.
“But?”
She heard a sigh. “But one hears things, of course. People will talk, over cocktails or while waiting for a meeting to begin. And I know that it must have been a very short list, because quite a number of people have mentioned to me that they wished to be invited.” He hesitated again, and added, “It’s possible that I may have boasted a bit about my own invitations, and they may have hoped that I had an in, or something.”
Scully closed her eyes in frustration, then struggled to keep her voice under control as she asked, “As far as you know, was anyone who was not a member of the exhibition jury invited to bid on any of the works?”
“No. Not as far as I know.”
Scully shook her head. It wasn’t enough; even with that, it still wasn’t enough. There simply wasn’t any way there could be a cause and effect relationship. It had to be a coincidence.
But Mulder wouldn’t think so. Mulder would want to pursue it. She felt her hand tightening still further on the phone as the thoughts flooded through her, and she felt a tremor of fear mingled with excitement as she realized that she wanted to pursue it, as well. She wanted to find a connection between these cases, and Carstens had just given her the best lead they’d had so far.
Once again, Paul Burks’ comment from earlier in the evening floated through her mind: //Agent Scully? What’s your stake in all this, anyway?// And the answer was plainly, blindingly obvious.
Her stake was the truth.
And, somehow, she knew that the truth lay with Shara Wyche.
She punched the DISCONNECT button without saying goodbye.
Residence of Shara Wyche
New Rochelle, NY
8:50 p.m.
Mulder could not remember the drive back to New Rochelle. Now he stood on the walk leading up to Shara Wyche’s front door, considering what to do next.
The house was dark and silent; not even the porch light was on. The garage door was shut, and there were no cars parked in the driveway or on the street. The neighborhood was quiet and reserved, as befitted an elegant suburb of one of the world’s great cities. All around him, people were preparing for bed, supervising their children as they brushed their teeth, turning out the lights ….
But he was here; Mulder could feel it. It was in the air, it was all around him and inside him, making the fog in his mind — and the painfully erect cock in his pants — pulse with eager anticipation. Lacrimae Mundi was here.
He moved slowly up the walk, his eyes fixed on the door in front of him. Still, nothing moved.
He reached the front steps, and put his foot on the first riser, then paused as the door swung slowly open, revealing the dark interior. Someone was in there; he could see a dark, shadowy figure, retreating slowly into the house, but he couldn’t tell who it was, or even make out any detail, beyond the vague outline of a human form. The dark of night, combined with the mist still clouding his mind and his perceptions, blocked that from him.
There was music playing, too — strange, loud, dangerous music, coming from somewhere deep inside the house.
But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He had to go forward. He no longer had any alternative. To be perfectly truthful, he no longer had the volition to turn aside.
Mulder let out his breath, and climbed the steps and entered Shara Wyche’s home.
He closed the door firmly behind him.
Chapter Twenty
Northbound on the Bruckner Expressway
Approaching New Rochelle, NY
Friday, March 10, 2000
8:50 p.m.
“Dammit!”
Scully slammed on the brakes as a light blue VW Rabbit suddenly swerved into her lane without signaling. The blare of horns coming from behind testified to the annoyance she had in turn caused other drivers, but she was only marginally aware of it. All of her attention was focused on the highway in front of them, and a few seconds later they were in the clear once more.
“Try it again,” she said to Burks, sitting in the passenger seat next to her. She knew it was too soon; it couldn’t possibly have been as long as five minutes since the last time. But she couldn’t keep herself from making the demand.
She saw the man shrug out of the corner of his eye, then he hit the speed dial on her cell phone, for at least the fifth time since they’d left the hotel. He held it to his ear for a moment or two, then lowered it and pushed the DISCONNECT button.
“He’s still not answering,” the detective said quietly. “But at least we’re not getting the out of service message anymore.”
“Right.” Scully nodded in agreement, but she was having trouble taking much comfort from the knowledge. If Mulder had turned his cell phone back on, why hadn’t he called her? At the very least, why hadn’t he answered when she called? Something was wrong; she could feel it in her bones, now, and she found she was unwilling even to try to dispel it with an appeal to rationalism.
Something was wrong.
At that instant, her cell phone shrilled, and Scully felt her pulse increase. Mulder. It had to be Mulder. She glanced at Burks, and saw that he was hesitating, unsure whether he should answer it himself, or pass the phone to her. She nodded sharply, and he opened the phone and punched CONNECT.
“Paul Burks answering for Dana Scully.” He listened for a moment, then went on, “We’re in traffic right now, and Agent Scully’s driving. Can I take a message?” Another pause, shorter than the first. Then: “Okay. Just a minute.” He handed the phone to her, saying, “Man’s voice. Won’t talk to anyone but you, and he says it’s important.”
Scully sighed and tried to suppress her disappointment, even as she was bringing the phone to her ear. “Scully.”
“Agent Scully, this is Byers, and I’ve got some information for you on Shara Wyche.” She could almost see the dapper little man’s goatee bobbing slightly as he spoke.
“Talk to me,” she replied briefly.
Byers wasted no time. “We began by verifying the demographics that Bureau researcher found for you,” he said briskly. “And we have nothing to add in that area. Ms. Wyche appears to be a solid citizen, unremarkable in any way.” He stopped speaking, and seemed to be waiting for a response.
“I think I detect a ‘but’ in there somewhere, Byers,” Scully said tensely, after a moment.
Again, she could almost hear the nod. “As it happens,” he said, “Langly’s been working on a tapeworm program that’s designed to infiltrate hospital computer systems and download lists of patient names and problem lists.” Scully opened her mouth to ask why, but thought better of it. She didn’t really want to know. Byers continued, “And as it also happens, he did a test run on New York City area hospitals a few weeks ago, and he still has the data on disk.”
“And Shara Wyche is in that database,” Scully guessed.
“Correct,” the man confirmed. “And it’s not good news, Agent Scully. If Mulder’s with that woman, he could be in a lot of trouble.”
Automatically, Scully felt her iron control clamping down. She was a professional, she reminded herself, and she and Mulder had gotten out of some very tough situations. They’d get out of this one, too. “What did you find?” she asked, amazed at how calm her voice sounded.
“Shara Wyche has been in and out of psychiatric hospitals for the past ten years,” Byers replied. “Early on, the records are a little confusing — sometimes she carries a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia, other times it’s major depressive disorder. But fairly recently, about six months ago, she spent nearly a month in a private facility over in Jersey, and they tagged her with with dissociative identity disorder. What used to be called MPD.”
“Multiple personalities,” Scully whispered. “So she and Lacrimae Mundi really are the same person. Literally.”
“That’s right,” Byers answered. “And the reason we’re concerned is that the psychiatrist on her case also confirmed those two other diagnoses, and identified each of them with a different personality. Shara Wyche is the depressive, but the other personality — which didn’t have a name at the time — is paranoid. Full-blown paranoid, complete with homicidal rages, delusions of persecution, the whole nine yards.”
“Jesus.” Scully shook her head, trying to make sense of everything the man had just dumped in her lap. “But Byers, they let her go, right? They discharged her. So they must have thought she’d be okay.”
“One would assume so,” Byers replied. “However ….” He didn’t complete the sentence. He didn’t have to. A sign flashed up out of the darkness, serving notice that the first New Rochelle exit was just ahead. Scully pressed down on the accelerator a little harder.
He stands perfectly still in the middle of the living room, trying to pierce the gloom with his gaze. Some instinct is telling him not to turn on the light.
At least, he thinks it’s an instinct. But with the fog still swirling and coruscating in his mind, and the lust pervading his consciousness, it’s impossible to be sure. They clog his senses and befuddle his thoughts, deadening his perceptions both of the world and of himself. And after a few more seconds, he doesn’t even remember that it happened.
The shadowy figure he saw in the doorway a moment before seems to have vanished. But he knows where that person — whoever it was — has to have gone. And without really thinking about it, because he can’t really think about anything, now, he finds himself walking slowly down the hall. Following the sound of the music.
Four closed doors, two on each side of the hall. Four closed doors, and he doesn’t hesitate as he passes them by. Even without the music, he would know. Even without the music, the open door at the end of the hall, dark and foreboding and unbearably enticing, would be enough of a clue. It signals to him, it calls to him, drawing him forward like an impatient lover.
He reaches the open doorway, and for just an instant, he stops. It’s dark here, darker even than the rest of the house. The music is louder, pounding and throbbing and blending with the fog as it wraps itself around him and over him and through him. He moves a hesitant foot forward, feeling his way, and discovers that he must step down. Then another another step down, and another, each step taken with slightly more confidence, as he descends slowly but steadily into the darkness.
Leaving the world behind.
Residence of Shara Wyche
New Rochelle, NY
9:09 p.m.
The front door was locked, of course. Scully hesitated for a moment, trying to decide what to do. There was another car parked in front of the house, one with plates that Burks identified as being part of a series reserved for rented vehicles in New York. Presumably it was Mulder’s, and that meant he was here. The place was completely dark, but the faint sound of music coming from the house told her that someone was inside.
She reached into her pocket and drew out the lockpick she now routinely carried. She was briefly aware of the look of mild surprise on the detective’s face, but he didn’t say anything, and a few seconds later she had the door open and they were both drawing their weapons and moving forward into the darkened living room.
Automatically, Scully felt along the wall until she found the light switch, but when she flicked it, nothing happened. She swore softly, and fumbled in her pocket again, this time for her penlight. She found it and turned it on; a few seconds later, Burks apparently found his own pocket flash, and a second beam illuminated the room.
The room looked pretty much as it had when she and Mulder visited the day before. They had only passed through the room on their way to and from the kitchen, but as far as she could tell, nothing had changed. Sofa on one side, unremarkable paintings on the walls — and Scully suddenly wondered if they were examples of Wyche’s own work, as opposed to that of her Lacrimae Mundi persona. Carstens had said she was unimaginative, and these certainly fit the bill —
She shook her head and put the question to one side. Later; she could deal with that later. Right now, she had to find Mulder.
She turned her light so that it illuminated Burks’ face, without shining it in his eyes. The man had apparently just completed his own canvas of the room, and now turned his gaze on hers.
“Well?” he asked, softly.
Scully shrugged, and flicked her light in the direction she remembered the hallway being. “Through there, I guess,” she said. The man nodded, and Scully stepped past him, leading the way into the gloom, the music growing louder with each step she took.
He stands still as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. The music has now completely enveloped him, claiming him as its own, merging with the fog and intensifying its assault on his mind. He no longer thinks; he no longer reasons. He simply feels ….
The painting is here, too; the painting that has been singing to him, calling to him, seducing him, ever since he first saw it. The painting owns him now, it commands him, and he can no more resist its siren song than he can stop his own heart from beating. He cannot see it, but he does not need to see it. It’s here, and he can feel it, and that’s all that matters ….
His feelings of lust and arousal abruptly double and redouble as he realizes that in addition to the painting, someone else is in the room. There is no sound or motion, nothing to give the other’s presence away, but somehow, he knows. Here is his chance, here is his opportunity. Here is where he can relieve the pressure that’s been building within him, forcing its way through him until there’s room for nothing else. No thought, no memory, no identity — only raw, animal need ….
And then he suddenly feels himself being lifted up and away, until he no longer completely inhabits his own body. Looking down, he sees himself, still standing at the foot of the stairs looking poised and hungry and very, very primitive ….
“Over here.”
The words are low and guttural, just loud enough to be audible over the throbbing music, and barely discernible as having come from a human throat — and somehow, that excites him even more. There is no need for subtly here; no need for gentleness. He can take and take and take, and not ever have to give. His body, no longer under his control, turns slowly in the direction of the voice ….
“She wouldn’t let you finish,” the voice goes on, anger burning underneath. His body begins to walk slowly forward, and the words continue to come. “She wouldn’t let you finish, because she’s weak. A sniveling, mewling, pathetic creature, unable to stand up for herself, unable to face the ugliness. She’s weak, and useless, and afraid. But I’m not.” And with each syllable he hears, with each step his body takes, with each beat of the music, his arousal builds and builds and builds ….
He gasps in shock and pleasure as his body encounters warm flesh. A woman’s flesh, he realizes. Hot and ready and covered with sweat. He hears her growl, and realizes that she is only echoing the sounds his throat is making, and that just makes his need even greater ….
He cannot wait; not any longer. The pressure is too strong, his arousal too intense. He has to have release; he must have release, and he must have it now. He’s barely, remotely aware of a flash of light in the darkness, and the sound of a woman’s voice, hauntingly familiar, but he pushes it away. Not now; not when he’s so very close ….
And his body places his hands on the shoulders of the woman in front of him, and forces her brutally to her knees ….
For an instant, Scully stood frozen in place at the head of the basement stairs, shocked at the tableau revealed by her flashlight.
Mulder stood at the far side of the room, perhaps thirty feet away. His body was stiff and angular, reminding her somehow of a puppet on a string. And standing directly in front of him, pressed up against him as if in a lover’s embrace, was the nude body of Shara Wyche.
Abruptly, Scully was clattering down the steps, calling her partner’s name as she went. Burks was close on her heels, but she was barely aware of the detective’s presence. All she could see was Mulder and the woman — the woman who he was even now forcing to kneel before him; the woman who was reaching eagerly for his zipper —
And something snapped inside of Dana Scully. She had never dealt well with her jealousy; she had always been possessive of the men in her life. Now she saw her lover — she could not in that instant even remember the word “partner” — intimately engaged with another woman, and nothing else seemed to matter. Nothing else in the world existed, except for the scene unfolding before her.
Suddenly, he feels resistance. An instant before, the woman kneeling before him had been willing and cooperative, as desperate to fulfill his desire as he was to be satiated. Her hand is still in his pants, her fingers lightly wrapped around his urgently throbbing cock, but even before she pulls back, he knows that something has changed ….
“No ….”
The word echoes in his head as the woman tries to draw away. In a tiny corner of his mind he knows this is a signal, a warning, and perhaps the only one he will receive. He should stop and let her go, and for a moment his body’s grip on her shoulders slackens ….
But that’s not what she wants, and somehow he knows that, too. This is the weak one, the useless one, the one who pushed him away before, and she must not be allowed to decide. He’s too tight, too pent up, and so is the other, the one who was here a few seconds ago. They both need release, and they can only find it in each other ….
He feels his lips stretching into a smile, and again his body tightens its hold on her shoulders, so hard that he knows it must hurt, but she does not cry out. And he knows, then, that the other is back again, and that soon their consummation will be complete ….
Time seemed to slow almost to a halt. Scully felt powerless, completely out of control, as she watched the drama unfolding before her. She wanted to make it stop, she wanted to pull Mulder away from the brink, but something was holding her back and preventing her from acting. She saw the couple before her hesitate, and for an instant she thought perhaps the spell was broken — but then the moment was gone, and events began to move forward once again, still in horrible, agonizing slow motion, as Wyche’s hand began to move in harsh, steady motions within Mulder’s pants.
And suddenly Scully was free, and she found herself stepping sharply forward. She was distantly conscious of Burks moving behind her, positioning himself to back her up. She heard a low rumbling, and identified it as her own voice, once more calling to Mulder. She saw Mulder move slightly, his head turning, his eyes widening as his gaze came to rest on hers. There was awareness in his eyes, there was something flickering to life, as he seemed to recognize who she was, and Scully felt relief flooding through her system —
And Shara Wyche was scrambling to her feet, her features distorted with rage, and a low, guttural sound emanating from her throat. Scully felt her own eyes widening as the other woman’s hand struck like a snake at Mulder’s belt, grappling for his SIG. Scully raised her own weapon by reflex, leveling it at Wyche, guiding the sight by long habit until it rested on the center of mass. Wyche had Mulder’s gun now, and she was turning to face Scully, and Scully’s finger lightly caressed the trigger of her own weapon, once, twice, three times —
And the woman stumbled back, splotches of red blossoming like tiny flowers on her chest, until finally she collapsed on the floor, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Wyche twitched once, convulsively, and then she lay still.
Scully imagined that she could hear the woman’s heart as it slowed to a stop, even over the incessant beat of the music. And in her mind — it must have been in her mind, for Wyche was surely already dead — she heard a woman’s voice, whispering, “Thank you.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Best Western President Hotel
Manhattan, NY
Saturday, March 11, 2000
3:03 a.m.
Mulder shut the door to his room behind him, and paused only long enough to strip off his clothes before collapsing on his bed in an exhausted heap. It was over. It was finally, finally over.
It had been more than half an hour before he’d really started to come back to himself, after Shara Wyche was shot. At least, that’s what Scully and Burks had told him; he hadn’t been in any condition to notice the passage of time on his own. All he remembered was the fog, and the music, and the desperate need to literally fuck the life out of the woman who’d been kneeling before him.
It had taken a few minutes for him to fully understand that he hadn’t done exactly that.
But he hadn’t, and he had Scully to thank for it. She’d figured out what was going on, at least well enough to come after him, and once more she’d pulled his sorry ass out of the fire before he got too badly burned.
By the time he’d worked out in his own mind what had actually happened, his partner and the detective had calmly given their accounts to the local police who’d responded to their 911 call. The three of them — Scully, Burks and himself — had gone together to Wyche’s home to ask her a few more questions concerning a case they were cooperating on. The interview had been proceeding pretty much as expected, when Wyche had without warning grabbed Mulder’s gun and threatened them, forcing Scully to shoot her in self-defense.
Wyche’s nudity was explained as a personal idiosyncrasy. The woman’s motive for the attempted assault was unknown, but her past history of mental illness no doubt had something to do with it. Mulder’s own blurry mental condition at the time the police arrived was attributed to a knock on the head he received when Wyche went for his weapon. Fortunately, the paramedics who also responded to the call could find so sign of serious injury. Not even a lump.
Scully’s expression never flickered as she told this story, and it was, Mulder had to admit, a good one. The best part of it was that although Scully and Burks fabricated a few details, it was in its essence true, and the central point was completely true. Scully had killed Wyche in self-defense.
Mulder wished, though, that he understood what had really happened, even if the police were never going to know. Clearly, Wyche had been deranged; equally clearly, her Lacrimae Mundi persona had in some way been able to use “his” paintings to influence the behavior of others. But had it been conscious and purposeful? Had Wyche understood what was going on, and been lying to them by omission that first day? If not, had Mundi, at least, been acting with deliberation? Or had it all been beneath the surface?
Now that Wyche was dead, they might never know the answers to those questions. But even more important, at least to Mulder, was finding some explanation for his own behavior. Had it been completely due to Mundi’s power, exercised through that painting? Or had Mundi been tapping some inner darkness within Mulder’s own psyche? The latter possibility seemed all too likely, based both on Mulder’s knowledge of himself and on his professional knowledge of psychology and parapsychology. And the thought that a lust-crazed killer lurked somewhere within his own mind was unsettling, to say the least.
And, of course, there was the piece de resistance. Four people who were almost certainly innocent of any wrongdoing were going to spend many years in prison, and might even face execution, and there wasn’t a damned thing Mulder could think of to do that might prevent it from happening. The only silver lining in the whole unhappy business was the knowledge that no one else was going to be victimized in that way.
The ride to the hotel, after their weapons were given back to them and they were finally allowed to leave, had taken place in silence. Burks had volunteered to see that their second rental was returned, allowing Mulder and his partner to drive back together, alone. Mulder hadn’t known what to expect, and had been a little tense, out of fear that Scully might be angry with him — or worse, disappointed. But she’d apparently had nothing she wanted to say.
He wasn’t sure he liked that. She couldn’t really be angry with him, could she? They knew each other too well for her to take the scene in the basement of Wyche’s house at face value. But her continued silence as the miles flowed by had worried him.
And now here he was lying in bed, alone. Scully had disappeared into her own room as soon as they’d arrived, some twenty minutes earlier, still without having spoken a word. He’d resisted the impulse to knock on the connecting door and see if she was doing okay. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t done that; lord knew he wanted to. But something had warned him to keep his distance. She’d come to him when she was ready.
She had to come to him. Please, god, let her come to him.
Even as he was thinking those words, repeating them in his mind in a forlorn attempt at self-comfort, he heard the connecting door open. He felt himself tense slightly, and despite his relief that she wasn’t going to leave him alone, he couldn’t force himself to turn over or open his eyes. He didn’t want to see the expression on her face. If she felt that he had let her down, or betrayed her, he didn’t want to know it.
Not yet. Not until he had to.
Then the covers were being lifted, and an instant later the mattress shifted slightly as his partner crawled into bed next to him. A little more movement, and he felt her small, warm body cuddling up behind him, her arms slipping around his waist, her bare skin familiar and comforting against his own, and slightly damp. And Mulder found that he could breathe again. A shower. She’d just wanted to take a shower.
“Fox?” Her voice was very quiet, so low he could barely hear her. “Fox, do you remember me? My name is Dana; we had lunch together the other day.”
Mulder couldn’t keep himself from smiling at her words, as all his remaining anxiety evaporated in an instant. He felt her snuggling a little more closely against him, even before he’d given his response.
“Sure, I remember you, Dana. The woman of my dreams. How could I forget?”
He felt her lips touch the base of his neck, and he could almost hear her smiling as she replied, “I didn’t think you would have. I just wanted to be sure.” She paused, and kissed him again, a little higher on his neck. “You know, you’re the man of my dreams, too.”
“I know.” Mulder felt his throat constricting slightly as he acknowledged her gift, and his eyes stung with tears. “I know. But it’s good to hear you say it.”
“You’re the man of my dreams,” she repeated. She kissed the back of his neck for a third time, and added, “And you always will be.”
“You’ll always be mine, too,” he agreed. He tried to turn over, at last, wanting to face her and take her in his arms, but she pressed her body more firmly against his and prevented it, and Mulder acquiesced to her unspoken request. He could wait. At least for a little while.
Her hands started moving, then, slowing stroking and petting his chest and abdomen. Mulder felt a thrill of pleasure shooting through his body at her touch, and a profound sense of relief that the quality of his arousal as Scully’s hands glided across his skin was so very different from what he’d felt earlier in the evening, when he’d been with Shara Wyche. Those hadn’t been his own feelings, and in his heart he knew it. But still it was a comfort to have first hand evidence of that fact.
Scully’s hands continued stroking him, moving not at random, but in a slow, intricate pattern, rubbing here, tickling there, pinching gently in yet a third spot. Mulder shifted his legs legs slightly to accommodate his rapidly-growing erection — and then one of her hands slipped lower, taking him gently in her grasp, and he moaned.
This time when he tried to turn, she let him. Mulder eased himself onto his back, his head lying on the pillows as Scully’s own head came to rest on his shoulder. One of her arms was now wrapped around his shoulders and gripping his upper arm, while beneath the covers her other hand continued to stroke and caress his cock.
He felt a brief tremor of anxiety over the fact that he couldn’t see that it was Scully touching him. It was irrational, he knew — there was no one here but the two of them, after all, and there never would be anyone else, ever again, for either of them. But only a few hours before a hand had touched him there, and it had not been hers, and he needed to know that this time it was right. And so he threw back the covers and allowed himself to look.
God, what a beautiful sight. It really was her; it really was Scully. It was her hand and her fingers, the ones he’d come to know so well over the years, touching him in the most intimate manner imaginable. He suddenly realized that he’d never told her how beautiful her hands were, and now as he watched her gently fondling and stroking his cock, he once again felt tears of love filling his eyes.
He reached down, and with shaking fingers he brushed the back of her hand. He felt her fingers tighten around him slightly as he touched her there, but her motions never faltered, never slowed. And Mulder settled his hand on top of hers as she continued her ministrations.
He looked up then, and saw that she was looking not at their hands, but at his face. Her expression was soft and feminine in a way he could not recall ever having seen before. Her eyes were a deep, deep blue, and Mulder felt as if he were looking down into her very soul.
And then she was kissing him; his Scully, his lover, was kissing him. Her tongue was deep in his mouth, and the hand that had rested on his upper arm now cupped the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair as she sought to draw him even closer. He returned the kiss, alternately sucking on her tongue, drawing it still deeper, and then pushing it back as he explored her mouth with his own tongue.
She tasted just the way she ought to taste; she tasted like coffee and chocolate and Scully, and as the kiss continued and deepened further, he felt his arousal building, building, building ….
He rolled her onto her back and moved on top of her, and she spread her legs, cradling him with her thighs. Her hand was still on his cock, but now she was no longer holding him and stroking him; now she was guiding him, urging him forward, until finally the tip found the hot wetness of her entrance, and they both gasped ….
He was inside her, then, all the way inside her, with one quick stroke. Her legs wrapped around his hips as she sought to pull him even farther inside, and her arms circled his upper body, her hands gripping at his shoulders ….
They began to move together, instinctively finding the perfect rhythm. They were both moaning, now, and gasping and murmuring and humming, filling the room with the sounds of their pleasure. The scent of their mutual arousal mingled in the air, the whole so very much more than the sum of its parts. And she was so hot and tight and wet, and he was so very, very hard ….
How could he ever have mistaken anything else for this, even if he had been under some sort of a spell? There was no other person on this planet with whom he could perform this act, and have it be an act of communication, the way it was with Scully. There was no one else with whom he could share his soul ….
He knew the moment when she reached the edge; he knew it, because he saw it in her eyes. They’d been watching each other the whole time, unable and unwilling to look away, blue eyes mingling with hazel until it was no longer clear where his gaze ended and hers began. Now he saw her eyes widen, and he heard her soft, almost inaudible gasp ….
In the next instant her gaze became blurry and unfocused, and then her body convulsed savagely beneath his own, again and again and again. He thrust into her one more time, even more deeply than before, and he was there, too, and they were there together, they were jumping off into space and floating ever upwards, wrapped in the warm cocoon of each other’s embrace ….
Time had passed. It must have. He was lying on top of Scully, her arms and legs still loosely wrapped around him, his spent cock still resting inside of her. His face was buried in the hollow of her neck, and he could taste her skin, warm and slightly salty, against his lips.
And Mulder reached an epiphany, as he lay in bed resting in his lover’s arms. He’d thought on the car ride back to the hotel that they might talk about what had happened, and work it all out in their usual style. He’d expected to debate and argue, and finally arrive, if not at consensus, at least at a point where they could agree to disagree.
But Scully had known better. This had not been a normal case. It had wound up being intensely personal, and the two of them had never been very successful talking to each other about such things. Scully’s silence on the trip back to the hotel, that he had mistaken for anger or disapproval, had simply meant that she was waiting — waiting for a chance to express her feelings and talk to him in the most basic and primitive way of all.
It was an outlet the two of them hadn’t had in the past, and they were both still getting used to it. But Scully had apparently, in this case, reached out for it instinctively.
He was drawn from his musings as his partner stirred slightly beneath him. He should get off her, he realized. He was probably crushing her. She was so tiny, after all, and she needed to be able to breathe. And so he stirred, and tried to lift himself —
Only to have her tighten her four-limbed embrace, denying without words his attempt to move. Refusing to allow any distance to come between them; any distance at all. Proclaiming once and for all that she owned him, and would not allow him to leave. And Mulder relaxed again and closed his eyes, knowing that Scully would tell him when she needed space again to breathe.
After a while, they slept.
Epilogue
United Airlines Flight 921
Somewhere over Iowa
Saturday, March 18, 2000
7:45 p.m., Central Standard Time
For once, they were flying first class.
Of course, they weren’t traveling at Bureau expense this time. This trip was private. This trip was just for the two of them.
Scully turned away from the window, where she’d been watching the lights of cities pass by 35,000 feet below. The scenery outside the plane could only hold her attention for so long, after all, when she had Mulder at her side.
Her partner was still asleep, as he had been ever since they took off from Washington National. His face was smooth and unlined, and his eyelids flickered slightly, signaling that he was dreaming. His lips were pursed as if he were deep in thought, but from the expression his face it was clear that, for once, his dreams were happy ones.
He was beautiful.
The past week had been busy for both of them. Between cooperating with the New Rochelle police, sitting through yet another of the Bureau’s shooting reviews, and the need to get their report finished for Skinner, they’d put in a lot of long days, leaving them precious little time for each other.
This trip was intended to remedy that.
It had been Mulder’s idea, originally. “Let’s go back to the beginning,” he’d said, and Scully had immediately known what he meant. He wanted a fresh start and a new commitment, both personally and professionally, and there was only one place that stood in both their minds as a symbol of all that was good in their partnership. It was the place where it all began, seven years ago this month; the place where they started the agonizingly slow process of learning to trust one another.
They were closing the circle. They were going back to Bellefleur.
Mulder murmured something in his sleep, drawing Scully out of her thoughts. She smiled gently as she once again allowed her gaze to drift across his face. She could never tire of looking at him, and one of the best things about finally being his lover was that now she didn’t have to deny this to herself.
There were still things they had to work out, of course; there were still problems that needed to be resolved. For her own part, Scully continued to have small, niggling doubts about her true role in this partnership. Mulder had done his best to reassure her, but she couldn’t help but feel that sometimes she held him back instead of helping him to move forward. That perhaps the men who sent her to Mulder, all those years ago, intending for her to sabotage his work, had succeeded after all.
And sometimes, too, as she lay alone in the darkness waiting for sleep, on the far side of midnight, Scully still worried that maybe she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, and wasn’t meant to be on this path at all. Was her own personal happiness truly enough to outweigh everything else — including the loss of the contributions she had once expected to make to the field of medicine? Not to mention what had happened to Missy, and the gaping chasm that had opened between her and the rest of her family ….
She shook her head slightly, pushing the thoughts away. Not now; not now. Those concerns needed to be addressed; she needed to find closure for her own misgivings and personal demons, just as Mulder had needed to find closure for his. But now, at last, she felt that perhaps those questions might actually have discoverable answers, and that she was no longer adrift and alone as she grappled with them.
She had Mulder to thank for that.
And as she’d done ten days earlier, while Mulder slept during the flight to New York, Scully reached over and lightly stroked her partner’s cheek. And as he’d done that previous time, he smiled without waking, and softly murmured her name.
It was enough of an answer, at least for now.
Dana Scully settled back in her seat and allowed her hand to return to her lap, as she continued to watch Mulder slumber. Soon her own body relaxed, her breathing evened out, and her head came to rest against her partner’s shoulder as she, too, finally drifted off to sleep.
THE END
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