by Pellinor
Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk
 

Mon Dec 09 16:37:06 1996

CLASSIFICATION: XA

RATING: NC-17 for violence (well, later on, anyway.)

SUMMARY: Three agents working on the same murder case have
apparently committed suicide. While investigating, Mulder
makes a painful discovery that puts him in very real
danger of becoming the fourth.
____

DISCLAIMER: The X-Files and its characters are the
property of Fox, 1013 and Chris Carter and I torture them
without permission but with no mercenary intent.

FEEDBACK: Yes please

WARNING: This story isn't that gory. It's not even
particularly graphic. But it _does_ contain violent and
potentially disturbing subject matter. I'd hate to upset
people needlessly, so if that sort of thing bothers you,
please go away.

**********

Shades of grey. Nothing but shades of grey, burning into
his eyes, his memory.

Her skin was the palest of shadows, smooth as smoke. Her
hair were wisps of ash, dry and arid, all life and
vibrancy drained away. Dark folds slashed the slate grey
of her clothes. All grey, all the same colour, yet at the
same time cruelly different, showing him every detail,
showing him....

Black.

Splashes of black on her clothes, in her hair, on the
ground beneath her.

It had been _so_ red....

Black in the photograph, red in his mind. Red on her body,
black in the gaping darkness of his soul.

His fingers were stiff, aching. How long had he been
sitting there, staring at the photographs clutched in his
hand - pictures he knew so well now that he could recreate
every detail with his eyes shut?

A minute? An hour? An eternity?

What did it matter? He would be dead soon.

He glanced one last time round the room, saying farewell
to the trappings of a hollow life he'd once thought so
full, a day ago, a lifetime ago. Now, they seemed so
worthless, so futile. His name on the office door. Shelves
of books. Pictures on the wall. Photographs of.... of her.
Bright hair, bright smile, bright eyes. Her _smile_....

Would she ever smile again?

He pulled his gaze away, feeling her picture swim before
his eyes. Not _her_. Not _that_ photograph, all smiles and
colour and life. This one. _This_ one. A black and white
crime scene photograph where death was faded into painful
greys, harsh contrasts like a dagger in his heart.

He laughed suddenly - a grim sound with no humour in it.
God! The files. The notebooks. The profiles. They were all
still there, filed away in triumph after the successes of
years. Ironic that he'd devoted his career to
understanding the criminal mind, when all the time he'd
been so wrong about.... about everything.

What would it be like, a bullet in the brain? Would he
feel anything? Would it hurt like.... like...?

No! No more. I can't!

Where had _that_ come from? A little voice of horror that
still wanted to forget, wanted to carry on, wanted to
live.

No, he _had_ to think of it. Mustn't fight it. Think of
it. That memory, that thought, pounding at his head,
attacking his mind, forcing the gun to his head.

Whirling shapes, writhing before his eyes. The twisting
images of a screen saver, covering his work, his
unfinished profile. Someone else would finish it now.
Perhaps _him_, his visitor of an hour ago. Would _he_
learn the truth too, and his blood join the others'?

Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered any more. Just the
truth, and his conscience speaking in his mind, and the
cold hard ring of metal pressed against his temple.

And then, slowly, slowly, a finger tightened on the
trigger.

**********

Her footsteps were the only sound in the silence.

No-one moved. No-one spoke. No-one breathed.

"Agent Scully? Is.... er...." Agent Jacobs broke the
silence first, his words faltering into an awkward cough.
"How...? I mean...." Another cough. A nervous shuffling of
feet.

Mulder stared at the words on the computer screen, not
ready to look up quite yet, sharing the older agent's
feelings. The sound of sobbing had become so much part of
their world that its sudden absence had halted words and
actions, making everyone fall silent with awkward guilt at
how such vocal grief had become simply background noise,
of no more import than the distant sounds of cars.

"How is she?" Jacobs tried again, his voice still hoarse.
"Will she.... will she be all right?"

"Of course she won't be all right!" Scully's voice was
fire. "Her fiance's dead, for God's sake. Of _course_
she's not okay!"

Mulder looked up, a slow deliberate movement designed to
catch Scully's eye. When their eyes met he gave a tiny
shake of the head, gesturing with his eyes to Jacobs. He
was confident she would get the message, even though
anyone watching would no doubt be unaware that any
communication had passed between them.

"I'm sorry." Scully sighed, wearily. Her muscles were taut
and he could tell she was struggling to keep control. "I
shouldn't have snapped. But she's.... Of course she's not
okay, but her mother's looking after her now."

"That's good." Agent Jacobs tried to smile, but it was
closer to a grimace, and he quickly gave up the pretence.
"My God!" he burst out suddenly, kneading his temples with
his clenched fists as if trying to drive out the truth
from his memory. "_Three_ of them!"

Mulder stood up, crossing the room to Scully's side,
trying not to glance at the body on the floor. She looked
up as he approached, smiling wanly.

"Are you okay, Scully?" He spoke quietly, touching her
lightly on the arm.

She shrugged. "I'm fine, Mulder. It wasn't pleasant,
but.... I'm fine."

He gave her a quick smile, acknowledging the truth and the
lie behind her words. Over an hour with a bereaved woman,
searching for vain words of comfort - no-one would be fine
after that. But still, in contrast with what they could
have gone through - with what they _had_ gone through in
the past - this was nothing. So much death, so much
suffering over the years for _this_ to be nothing.

"And you, Mulder? Are you....?" She was talking again, her
eyes clouded with concern and wariness.

He smiled, absently pulling a loose hair from her sleeve
and twisting it around his fingers. "No. I know. I _have_
thought about it, but...." The hair dug deep grooves in
his fingers and then snapped. He shook his head slowly. "I
didn't know him. I couldn't have changed anything."

But the man's anguished face was still there, still
talking in the back of his mind, and he knew he wasn't
telling Scully the whole truth, just like she was lying to
him. In all likelihood, he was the last person to see
Agent Feldman alive, having spoken to him in his office
long after the others had gone home. Perhaps he _could_
have seen what was going to happen. Perhaps he _could_
have prevented it. Perhaps. But until the case was solved
those thoughts had to be kept strictly at bay. There was
just too much guilt. As Scully always said, he should try
to approach a case unblinded by personal feelings.

"Agent Mulder?" Jacobs' voice made them both start, lost
as they had been in each other's feelings. "Are you.... I
mean, do you have...?"

The man was scarcely coherent. He was a seasoned ASAC,
with a reputation for remaining calm under pressure, but
the loss of three of his agents in as many weeks had
evidently pushed him to breaking point.

"I'm sorry." Jacobs took a deep breath, visibly trying to
compose himself. "It's just.... Why are you here? I didn't
have time to ask yesterday, with.... with that girl's
murder. It's.... it's not the murders, is it? Is it.... do
you suspect something about...." He ran out of words,
gesturing silently towards the body on the floor.

"Agent Jacobs," Mulder began, then paused, searching for
the right words. He sensed rather than heard Scully's
quick intake of breath, felt the ghost of a touch of his
hand, and flashed her a quick smile with his eyes,
acknowledging her silent warning. She was right. This was
no time to push his theories on a man so lost in grief and
confusion. Better to be tactful, to play it cautiously.

"Agent Jacobs," he started again. "I.... I don't know. But
you know we specialise in the.... unusual. And when three
agents all working on the same case kill themselves, it
does seem unusual."

"_Appear_ to have killed themselves." Jacobs' eyes were
desperate, as if even he knew how flimsy the hope was.

Scully took a step forward, her voice warm with sympathy.
"There's no sign of forced entry at all, just like the
others," she reminded him, firmly, though her eyes were
apologetic. "There's no reason to doubt this was suicide."

"But he was.... They _all_ were...!" Jacobs was shouting
suddenly, a cry of anguish that had the other agents
looking away in embarrassment. They'd looked the same when
the woman had started screaming, leaving Scully to step
forward and take her in her arms and hold her while she'd
cried. But this time, even Scully seemed at a loss for
words.

"God!" Jacobs' pounded a fist into the palm of his hand.
"He had so much to live for. I know some profilers
have.... problems sometimes. But he.... God! He never gave
any sign he'd.... he'd do.... something like this."

Mulder shook his head, doubtfully, wishing he could
provide some reassurance. The truth was, he was seriously
doubting whether this was an X-File at all. Seeing the
body, playing back the conversation he'd had with Agent
Feldman - they only made him more ready to believe that
these were just normal suicides after all.

"Agent Feldman?" It had been after seven that he'd knocked
at the office door. "This is Agent Mulder. Can I talk to
you for a minute?"

The face that had answered had been grey and ravaged, and
the man had shrugged without a word.

"I hear you've been working on a profile on this serial
killer you have in town?" Mulder had prompted, trying to
get a response - any response - from those dead eyes. "Can
I see it?"

Feldman had started, although his eyes still hadn't left a
black-and-white photograph he held clutched in his left
hand. "I.... It isn't finished. I.... couldn't understand
him."

"I'd still like to hear your ideas," he'd persisted. Two
men had killed themselves while on this case. Although the
murders were nasty, they were no worse than many others
they would have seen in their careers - nothing to
indicate why this case had pushed them over the edge.
Maybe there was some clue in the profile - something
chilling in the mind of the person who could do such
things.

"I understand now." The words had been barely audible.

"What?" Mulder had taken a step forward, but the man had
started to close the door in his face.

"I understand now. I understand the killer. I.... Come
back tomorrow morning and I'll show you.... You'll begin
to understand."

But he didn't understand. Not then. Not now. There were
just more questions without answers.

"Come on, Mulder." Scully's voice recalled him to the
present, reminding him that the scene had been recorded
and photographed and the room was slowly emptying.
"There's nothing left to do here."

He smiled, shaking his head. "I guess not." He patted his
jacket pocket, reassuring himself that the print-out of
Feldman's incomplete profile was still there, ready for
him to study later. "Let's have breakfast. Your place or
mine?"

"Well, seeing as they're both about two thousand miles
away, how about that place we saw yesterday - the one with
the pink tablecloths, _not_ the one with the alien in the
window." She hissed these last words through gritted teeth
in a pretence of anger, reminding him of the previous
night's friendly disagreement over eating places.

"Your wish is my command, my lady." He ran in front of
her, holding the door open theatrically, getting rewarded
with a light swat.

It was fragile, but it was holding - this lightness that
was sometimes the only way to make life bearable. They
could laugh and joke and smile, both fully understanding
what lay beneath the facade, fully knowing that the other
emotions were there, but knowing when it was best not to
push.

But then he felt his smile falter, saw the sudden anxiety
reflected in Scully's eyes.

Feldman's voice, a ghost in his memory, muffled by the
closed door. "Tomorrow you'll begin to understand. But....
But I hope for your sake you never understand it all."

**********

It was time.

Scully turned her glass slowly round in her hand, watching
the ring of reflected light dance across the table cloth,
watching Mulder's smile fade as he took in her sudden
change of mood.

"Mulder...." She put the glass down, leaning forward with
both hands on the table. He'd been almost lively during
the dinner, but, while part of her had enjoyed smiling
with him, deep down she knew they that sooner or later
they'd have to talk - that they would very possibly have
to argue.

The light drained from his eyes. "Are you okay?" His voice
was quick, concerned.

"I'm fine, Mulder," she assured him quickly. Then, before
he could the initiative away from her, she asked, firmly,
"Why are we here?"

There was a long silence - too long. She'd expected Mulder
to come up with all sorts of reasons - reasons which would
make little sense to her, but which he would passionately
defend.

"I don't know." He shook his head, sighing.

"It's just that I've been talking to people today."
Although she was surprised by his reaction, she decided to
carry on as she'd planned. "From all I've learnt, I....
Well, I see no reason to assume this is anything more than
meets the eye. These agents.... You know how traumatic it
can be working a murder case. It's probably no coincidence
that each one of the suicides took place shortly after
another body was found."

Mulder nodded slowly, though his eyes were full of doubt.
"Perhaps. But I checked their records. They'd all been on
cases much worse than this one."

"Who's to say what a person will find traumatic.
Everyone..." And then she faded away, remembering. Donnie
Pfaster. _She'd_ dealt with numerous murder cases, but had
nearly been pushed over the edge by one which, to an
observer, was no more traumatic than the others. "It's
just...." She struggled to frame her words, to keep them
objective. "It could have been an accumulation of
circumstances. And if a colleague's killed himself
recently....  It looks like a coincidence, but if each
suicide partly caused the next, then...." She shrugged,
knowing Mulder understood her, that she didn't need to
finish her thoughts.

"I know, Scully." He was clutching and unclutching the
table cloth, eyes dark with regret. "I know, but...."

"You hoped you were on to something?" She kept her voice
gentle, leaning forward so he could catch her every
meaning.

"Yes. I.... When I heard about it, I thought..... It just
seemed such a coincidence that two - now three - agents on
the same case would just kill themselves, despite showing
no previous signs of depression. I thought the murderer
was somehow able to take control of their minds, forcing
them to kill themselves, removing the people who were
working to catch him."

"Mulder...." There was such regret in his voice, such a
desperate need. But she didn't believe. How could she find
the right words?

"Scully...." He took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on his
coffee cup as if he was terrified to look at her,
terrified to see rejection in her eyes if he confided in
her. "You said once you were scared to believe? But I....
it scares me _not_ to believe. If these deaths were
somehow the work of one man, then that's more comforting
than believing that three people, doing the same sort of
work we do, found that work too much to live with."

"Mulder." Was _this_ what was worrying him? That he might
be seeing his own future? "There might be more to it than
that - more to it than meets the eye."

He laughed, though whether with real humour or not, she
couldn't tell. "I thought that was my line."

She smiled quickly, acknowledging his attempt to lighten
the atmosphere, but wasn't deterred. "Not like that,
Mulder. All I mean is - it's probably not just the case
that pushed these men over the edge. Who can tell what
else is going on in someone's life - in someone's mind.
There could be all sorts of factors no-one will ever know
about."

He nodded wearily, but said nothing.

"Mulder...." She broke the silence at last. It was time to
address that other issue that had haunted her during the
long day. "Are you thinking..... I mean, Agent Feldman was
half way through profiling the killer when he.... killed
himself. I heard Agent Jacobs saying...."

"No." His voice was firm, but then he shook his head, as
if trying to explain his vehemence. "I don't think so. I
did think of it, but I've looked through the crime scene
photos, and read his notes. I.... I just can't see a way
into it. This man - this person," he added with a smile,
"has killed four people in a month - no discernible
pattern - no.... It just seems to be murder for the sake
of murder. I can't.... Oh, I guess if I put my mind to it
I could understand him, but I just can't seem to get into
his mind. I...." He met her eyes, speaking with a simple
honesty. "I don't want to try."

She was surprised to find tears pricking in the back of
her eyes at his confession. She'd heard the stories, of
course. She'd even seen for herself just what it could do
to him to immerse himself in the mind of a criminal. But
she'd seldom heard him talk about it, and was strangely
touched that he was opening up to her.

"Good," she said at last, knowing her look conveyed
meanings more than her words. "I'm.... Just don't change
your mind, Mulder. Don't be pressurised into anything."

"No," he said simply, but she could read his eyes, and
knew he shared her worries. If it _was_ something
disturbing in the case that had driven these men to
suicide, then Mulder was the last person she wanted
anywhere near it.

They sat in silence for a while, her hand still resting
lightly on his. There was no need to talk.

"I'd like to stay a few days, anyway." Mulder broke the
silence first, looking almost embarrassed at his desire,
his fervent hope, that there would be more to this case
than met the eye. "You needn't stay if you don't want to."

She affected a stern look. "You don't get rid of me that
easily, Fox Mulder. You know you always end up hurt when
I'm not there to look after you."

She moved her hand, planning to tuck a stray hair behind
her ear, but he reached out and encased her hand in both
of his. "Thank you, Scully." His voice was low, sincere.

There was a long silence. His hands returned to his coffee
cup and he leant back, as if almost embarrassed by what
he'd said, but she was glad for it. These last few weeks
he'd been considerate of her beliefs, honest about his
plans, and open about his feelings. Perhaps it was the
approaching New Year, making him reassess his life and try
and change direction. Perhaps it was simply that their
last few cases had been free of stress. But whatever it
was, it was most welcome.

"Six o'clock." Scully broke the silence first, speaking
abruptly, even awkwardly. It was shifting gears again -
returning from confidences to business. "They'll have
finished the autopsy now. They said I could see their
findings, look over the body."

Mulder pushed his chair back, quickly draining the last of
his coffee. "You take the car. I'll walk back to the
hotel.... think things over.... see what I can find." He
didn't meet her eyes, and she knew he still hoped to find
something paranormal, but was embarrassed to tell her how
important it was to him.

"Mulder...." She was about to reassure him, to tell him
that she understood, but her words were drowned out when
the man at the next table stood up quickly, his chair legs
scraping obscenely against the floor. When it was quiet
again, the moment had passed.

"Call me, if you like." He turned round in the doorway and
coughed, awkwardly. "I mean, if there's anything unusual
in the autopsy."

"I...." But then she had to break off to thank the man
from the next table who took the door from Mulder and held
it open for her.

"I'll call you, Mulder," she said, once out on the street,
but he was already a few paces away and she wasn't sure
he'd heard.

**********

The blood was still there, black against the dirt. There
was no sound but his own breathing and the rhythmic
flapping of the crime scene tape, needlessly fencing off
an area that had already been forsaken.

Blood. Dirt. Dark.... Nothing.

Mulder stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands, wishing
he could wipe the feel of death away so easily.

Why had he come here? He wiped his hand across his brow,
wondering. He certainly hadn't intended to come out to the
place where the latest body had been discovered. Visiting
the crime scene, trying to feel the murderer's
presence.... He was _not_ going to go that way. He'd
promised Scully. He'd promised himself.

But yet....

Out for a run, letting the thoughts and theories work
their way through his mind, he'd suddenly realised how
close he was, and had felt the pull, and, like some drug
addict, had been powerless to resist.

Just for a minute. Just one look. Just in case.... Just in
case the answers are there.

He laughed bitterly. Was there no end to his desire to
understand, to find answers? Alone in an alley at night,
in a city he didn't know, for.... for what?

For the truth.

But what if.... what if the truth _killed_ those three
agents? What if to understand the suicides, he had to
understand the murders, and to understand the murders he
had to be like them - to learn the truth that had killed
them? Was that a price worth paying?

Scully. Smiling in the restaurant, her hand beneath his,
her eyes full of understanding.

Christmas. God! Christmas. Lonely days in his apartment.
But _this_ year.... His mother. He'd nearly lost her,
realised how much she meant to him. This year they'd
neither of them be alone.

The truth? _This_ truth? Some little truth about a
murderer who may or may not be able to control minds? The
truth about three agents who may, after all, have had
their own very different reasons for doing what they did?

Was it worth the risk?

Agent Feldman's haunted eyes. His brains scattered across
the carpet. His fiance's screams.

Was it worth it?

Scully.

Did he even need to ask the question? Four days before
Christmas. Scully's smile. Why cloud Scully's smile by
clinging to a case that was at best insignificant, at
worst positively dangerous?

His footsteps echoed in the alley as he turned and slowly
walked away, heading back to the lights and sounds of the
city, turning his back on the darkness.

Scully. Smiling and promising to stay with him for as long
as he wanted to pursue the case. So willing to give up the
last days before Christmas, even though he knew she wanted
- _needed_ - some time to rest with her family.

He reached for his phone, planning to tell her he wanted
to go home tomorrow after all, then remembered he'd left
it back in the hotel, still inside his suit jacket.

No hurry, though. It didn't matter. He'd tell her in
person - see her eyes light up at the thought of a long
Christmas with her family, untroubled by cases, untroubled
by him.

Nearly out of the alley now, and sounds of movement
scurrying in the dark corners. Rats. Cats. Eyes in the
darkness, watching him....

He quickened his pace as a shiver passed through him,
reminding him he was dressed for running, not for the long
minutes he'd spent crouching at the murder scene.

Twenty minutes back to the hotel - perhaps twenty-five.
Have a quick shower. Wait for Scully, and then....

Forget about the case. No murders. No suicides. Nothing to
worry about. They could see a movie. They could go to a
bar and just talk. They could walk beneath the Christmas
lights and think. They could....

A sudden noise cut into his thoughts, making him stop
quite still, his hand on his gun, his whole body tense,
listening to the darkness.

Nothing. Then a quiet rattle, a soft padding.

A cat. God! Just a cat.

He put his gun back, wiping the sweat from his brow, and
took a step forward. A car sped past, only a few yards
away now, where the alley opened onto the road.

Just a few steps from the light....

But then a shadow moved and something slashed through the
air and the sudden burst of pain in the back of his head
drove him to his knees.

Everything went cloudy and he struggled to push himself to
his feet, struggled to make his arms obey him, but then
came another blow, and the darkness engulfed him.

**********

end of part 1

********

He still wasn't answering. Relentlessly ringing, again and
again, but still no answer.

Just one more ring....

He was probably in the shower. Or out running off his
surplus energy. Or.... or....

Just one more ring. Mustn't stop now. He might have rushed
out of the shower, dripping water all over the carpet, and
be reaching for the phone even now.

One more ring....

He could be.... She racked her brains, desperate to find
cause to hope. What else could have happened to separate
Mulder from his cellphone? He could be....?

One more ring...?

"This is stupid!"

Scully put the phone down, firmly, trying to talk herself
out of her worry. He'd be okay. She was over-reacting.
There was no cause to worry. Just an hour and a half since
she'd seen him. No reason to assume the case posed any
danger. Nothing to worry about....

But the bruises. Yellow and brown, blue and grey.

"I don't know why you're so interested in this case."
Michael Hughes, who'd performed the autopsy on Agent
Feldman, had walked across the morgue with exaggerated
weariness, evidently trying to make Scully feel guilty for
wanting to double-check his work. "There's no question
about the cause of death."

"I know." She'd used the tactful voice learnt from long
experience of soothing the feathers ruffled by Mulder in
the course of his investigations. "I'm not doubting your
findings. But this is the third suicide among this team in
as many weeks."

Hughes had sighed theatrically and pulled out the drawer,
drawing back the sheet that shrouded the body. "Cause of
death is a bullet wound to the head. No sign of any drugs,
if that's what you're thinking." He'd smiled, evidently
thinking he'd pre-empted her question. "If you're thinking
someone's drugging these men, driving them to depression
and psychotic behaviour, then you're wrong."

But something else had caught Scully's eye. "What about
these?" She'd gestured towards the spreading bruises
across Feldman's body.

"Oh, those were sustained some time before death - 18
hours - perhaps more. Had a fight with his girlfriend, I'd
guess. Maybe that's why he killed himself. Who can tell?
But it's nothing to do with his cause of death."

But she hadn't been so sure - she still wasn't so sure.
Little facts, innocent enough in themselves, had suddenly
taken on a new significance.

How did it all fit together?

She leant her head back against the wall, reviewing the
evidence, forcing her mind to think of the case.

He'd be okay. Nothing to worry about. _Think_. The
facts...

Agent Feldman, usually so punctual, hadn't arrived at work
until after eleven the previous day, with no explanation
for his lateness. No doubt about _that_ one. Several of
his colleagues had remarked on it.

At some time shortly before this, Agent Feldman had been
soundly beaten. No doubt about that either. She'd seen it
with her own eyes.

It was only after his beating that Agent Feldman had
displayed any signs of depression or mental instability.
While everyone agreed he usually appeared happy, that last
day he'd shut himself in his room. Thinking he was working
on some fresh inspiration derived from the new murder,
everyone had left him alone, but Mulder had spoken to him,
and had spoken eloquently on his apparent mental state.

So, what conclusions could she draw?

"Agent Scully." A voice made her start. She'd had her eyes
shut, thinking. "Here are the reports you asked for."

As she took the proffered reports, she was surprised to
find her hands shaking. Had her subconscious made
connections that her conscious mind wasn't ready to make,
not just yet?

The autopsy reports for the other two agents. She skimmed
through them quickly, looking only for one thing, dreading
that she'd find it.

It was there. In both of them, it was there.

Bruises. Cuts. Strained muscles.

"Oh God!"

The pages fluttered to the floor as she reached for her
phone again.

All three of the dead agents had been ill-treated shortly
before they'd taken their own lives.

And Mulder was missing.

Probably nothing. Probably nothing at all. Four rings now.
He'd answer before the tenth. Nothing to worry about.

But still.....

**********

It was dark even here.

He _thought_ he was conscious, but he couldn't see. Just a
deadening blanket of darkness, all one texture. Why was
there no depth to the darkness - no shadows? Even the
darkest of nights had shadows when you looked hard enough
with a dark-adapted eye.

_Why_ was it so dark?

It _bothered_ him, intensely, irrationally.

He was still unconscious. He was dreaming. He was.... he
was dead. He was....

Where was he?

He shook his head fiercely, a last desperate attempt to
clear his vision, but the pain in his head welled up like
fire and pushed him down into that other darkness where
there were no questions.

**********

Still the darkness - always the darkness - but this time
there were other perceptions too.
His hands, restrained behind his back, something hard
pulling on his wrists when he tried to move. Something
tight around his ankles. His cheek.... A cold rough
surface beneath his cheek, making him suddenly desperate
to change position, although he knew the fire in his head
wouldn't allow him to move. His face... His eyes....

_Why_ was it so dark?

Such total darkness. Complete absence of light. Some
quotation he'd heard somewhere and never bothered to think
about - hell is the total absence of God. Hell. Utter
utter darkness for all eternity.

And silence.

A terrible silence which pressed on him like a suffocating
hand, making him breathe faster with terror until the
sounds of his own breathing, his own heartbeats, resounded
in the darkness until it felt that the whole room was full
of people leaning over him, watching him dispassionately
as they planned his death.

"No!" He tried to cry out loud, desperate to hear a voice
- even his own voice - in the darkness, but something
consumed his voice, turning it into the littlest of
groans.

Something.... Something in his mouth, strangling his
voice, choking him if he tried to speak. And then.... He
concentrated, trying to pin down perceptions through the
pain in his head. Yes. There was something there as well.
A soft pressure against his face, across his eyes.
Something across his face, keeping him from the light.

Fettered to the darkness, alone in the silence.

Whywhywhywhywhywhywhy?

It started as the weakest of questions in the back of his
mind, but swelled until it filled his whole being.

Help me Scully! Help me!

Voices in the darkness, and light. Shining hair burning
like the setting sun. That rare smile that lit up all her
face.

"I would never put myself on the line for anyone but
you...."

Remember that. Cling to that. Pictures in the darkness,
voices in his memory. Think of them. Feel them. Make them
real.

Not the darkness - not _that_. Scully. Think of Scully.

"I was certain they would have killed you, Mulder."

I need you, Scully. Help me again.

"I just knew...."

How did I....? I felt her then - I _spoke_ to her,
although we were far apart. How....?

Help me, Scully.

Talk to me, somebody. Tell me why I'm here.

Help me....

**********

He hadn't thought there could be anything worse than being
alone in the darkness....

A noise. A small, small noise, scarcely there at all.

Breathing.

Someone was watching him.

Closer.... closer. Breathing. The slow creak of soft
footsteps. The rustle of clothing as someone crouched down
next to him. Then....

Silence.

Speak to me. _Do_ something. Talk to me....

The monsters of childhood, the horrors only imagined, more
terrible than anything that was seen, that had shape.

Talk to me. Do _anything_, but just tell me _why_....

Then came the lightest of touches on his throat. Cold as
ice, soft as feathers. Half a breath, then it was gone.

"Where?" A voice, hissing in his ear.

It touched him again, sliding lightly down his arm towards
his wrist.

"Here?"

Then it moved again, sliding across his chest, moving in
broad spirals down his body, whispering quietly as it
touched his clothes.

"Here?"

Then the touch was on his inner thigh, moving slowly, oh
so slowly, upwards.

"Or here? Shall I go higher?"

He didn't dare to move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think.
The touch was everything in his world, the voice hanging
in the darkness like a sentence of death.

"No." The voice sounded regretful. "Not yet. Later,
perhaps...."

The touch disappeared, and there was a long silence.
Darkness. Breathing. It was there, _somewhere_. It was
watching. It would come again.

"But for now...." Whispering close to his ear.

The touch at his throat again, moving downwards towards
his chest, pressing harder against his shirt, leaving a
thin line of pain in its path, leaving a sudden feeling of
cold air and flapping cloth against his chest.

"Here."

The touch stilled, the voice faded to the softest caress.

Silence. A long, long silence. "Here.... here....
here...." The word echoed in his memory, but nothing
moved, nothing happened.

He exhaled, releasing a breath he never knew he'd been
holding, relaxing the muscles he'd tensed, expecting....
what?

Silence. Still nothing but silence.

Then a tongue of fire lashed across his stomach, and he
felt the warm wetness pour across his skin and pool
beneath him, and he tried to curl up, tried to clutch
himself round the pain, but was held tight by the metal at
his wrist and ankles.

"Yes." It was a purr of satisfaction. "Here."

**********

"I don't _want_ to hurt you."

How long had passed, with the darkness and the breathing?
Only minutes? An hour?

"You can stop this any time."

The blood was still trickling across his stomach, though
slower now. Not enough to kill him, he knew that.

"It's your decision." The voice was calm, relentless. "Why
don't you ask me how?"

He rolled away from the voice as best he could, knowing he
only managed to move his head a few inches. He knew the
voice wanted him to groan, to try and speak through his
gag, but was determined not to give it that satisfaction.
His earlier terror had faded. The faceless presence had a
voice, footsteps, emotions. It was a man - just a man.

"Ask me how!"

Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him roughly
onto his back, crushing his bound wrists against the
floor. He could sense the face just inches from his own,
hear the fury in the voice.

"Say something!"
 
The hands moved again, one grabbing a fistful of flesh at
his shoulder, the other digging its fingers deep into his
side, and they pulled violently, pulling his onto his side
again, then tipping him heavily onto his front. He was
dimly aware of fingers working on something at the back of
his head, of the pressure in his mouth loosening, but all
sensations were like a distant mist, viewed through the
fiery agony as the wound on his stomach was forced against
the floor.

"Talk!"

Hands again, pawing, clutching, pulling.... He was on his
side again. He could move his jaw properly. He could
swallow without feeling he would choke.

But he wouldn't make a sound. He _wouldn't_.

Then a bolt of agony kicked him in the stomach, and a
great cry echoed through the darkness, and from the raw
feel of his throat he knew that the cry had been his,
although it hadn't sounded like him at all but like
someone.... someone tortured.

"I'll show you!"

A grip like iron around his ankles, pulling. The rough
floor, scraping, burning. His wrists weeping as he toppled
over on to his back, his weight forcing his hands into the
raw burning floor. Warm moisture on his stomach and in his
eyes.....

"You _will_ understand."

A door opening. A different textured floor - warmer,
smoother. Another door.

"Here."

The movement stopped. He curled on the floor, willing the
pain to subside, willing the world to stay will.

Silence.

He wouldn't speak. He wouldn't ask. He wouldn't speak. He
_wouldn't._

Then a great blow landed on his face, and he heard his
teeth cut into his lips, tasted the iron red of blood in
his throat.

"What?" His own voice sounded so weak, so unlike him.

Silence.

Then, faint as the rustle of a bird's wing, came a noise.
Breathing. Whimpering. A groan....

A woman.

Oh God! Not her. Not Scully. Not her. _Please_ not her. Do
what you like to me, but _not_ Scully.

He couldn't see. He couldn't move his hands. He
couldn't....

The voice laughed, a low chilling sound, as he started to
inch across the floor, slowly, desperately following the
sound of the whimpering, expecting any minute to feel a
blow on his back, but not caring.

He _had_ to get close. He _had_ to find out.

They were so close now. Whimpering entwining with his own
breathing. Her breath on his face in short terrified
bursts.

He couldn't see her. He couldn't touch her....

"Scully...?"

A cruel laugh behind him, but no movement.

He leant forward, resting his cheek on her cheek, rubbing
his face up and down against her face. She was alive. She
was warm. She was breathing.

But....

Her smell.... The smell of terror, but behind that, very
faint now, an unknown perfume...

Hair on the floor, around her face.... Long. Too long....

Not Scully.

He rolled away, almost smiling with relief.

_Not_ Scully.

"Kill her."

The voice had crept up close behind him, whispering in his
ear like a devil sitting on his shoulder.

"Kill her, and you can go free."

He couldn't find any words, overcome with the horror of
what he'd been thinking. She wasn't Scully. He'd even
_smiled_ at that, as if she was of no consequence in
herself, simply because she wasn't Scully.

"Kill her, and I won't hurt you again."

He tried to recoil, but the hands held him by the
shoulders again, and he could feel the eyes boring into
him through the blindfold.

And then the voice laughed, and a finger traced the course
of blood on his chin. "It's so easy, Fox. You don't even
have to kill her yourself. Just tell me you want it done,
and I'll do it."

"No!" He spoke at last, his voice choked with tears of
remorse.

"Ah, but you don't have to decide yet." The voice was like
silk as a hand entwined itself in his hair and pulled his
head back, slowly, slowly, until his neck felt as if it
was breaking and he could scarcely catch a breath.
"Anytime you like, you can change your mind. After all, we
have all the time in the world."

**********

end of part 2

********

After eleven, and still no word.

Scully sat on the edge of the bed, rocking gently to and
fro, her arms wrapped tightly round her middle to keep the
tears in.

Ring, damn you. Ring!

Her eyes were fixed on the phone, muttering the command
over and over like a mantra, hearing the silence of every
second like a physical blow.

Oh God, she thought, as her hands clenched and unclenched
rhythmically, in time with her heart. How often....?

Long nights on his couch, waiting, dreading. That terrible
night when Skinner and Mr X fought outside, every second
taking Mulder closer to death. Running to her mother to
escape the fiery images of the burning in the desert,
knowing that the sight and smell would be with her always,
however much her mother held her. Waiting with Skinner in
a hospital, eyes always on the door, watching for him as
the minutes turned into hours and still he didn't come.

But he'd come back. Every time, however hopeless it had
looked, he'd come back. Battered and bruised, with scars
emotional and physical, but he'd returned.

So he'd return this time, right? She said it over and
over, willing herself to believe it.

But deep down the little voice of her fears was whimpering
and afraid. You've been lucky before, it told her, though
she tried not to listen to it. Now's the time for your
luck to run out.

"No!" She spoke aloud, jumping to her feet, reaching for
her gun. Now was the time to _do_ something, not just sit
and wait.

"Oh Mulder." She shook her head sadly, knowing she might
have left it too late already. She'd suspected he was in
trouble, right from the start, as soon as she'd found out
about the other agents' injuries. But how could she launch
a search when very probably he'd just run off following a
lead of his own? Like the boy who cried wolf, he'd run off
so often that she never knew when he was really in trouble
- never knew when to call in help to find him.

But now was the time, she _felt_ it.

"I'll find you, Mulder," she said out loud, wishing there
was some way she could let him know. "Don't give up....
Please."

**********

It was rich and warm and it was the smell of coffee. A
warm brown smell - not the rusty sharp brown of the blood
in his mouth.

Strange how there were colours in the darkness now - how
his eyes were so starved of colour that they painted
sounds, smells, tastes.... even feelings. The rusty brown
smell, always there now. The fiery red flashes of memory -
of _her_. The darkest of greys of his own thoughts. The
deep brown of the resonant footsteps that came near, then
faded away.... near, and away.... near....

Then a hand raised his head, and there was a flash of the
purest crystal as a drop of cold water trickled past his
swollen lips, stabbing his parched throat into a pang of
awakened desire.

"More!" he mouthed, unable to stop himself, but the water
was withdrawn and the hand lowered his head gently to the
floor.

Gently....

Who?

The softest of touches on his stomach, as something wiped
and cleaned - cool material washing away the rusty
stickiness of blood.

Stroking, stroking.... _Gentle_....

Scully?

Bending over him, her fiery hair falling towards his,
hiding the pure crystal blue of her eyes. Her face was
tight with worry, but she was smiling through the tears
that dripped onto his face.

Hey, Scully! I'm okay. I'll be okay. Now you've found me,
everything will be okay. I didn't give in. I didn't let
him kill her. It'll be okay.

"Sc..."

He struggled to move towards her, tried to move his
pounding head from the floor, but the movement shattered
the darkness into a thousand pieces, and Scully's face
dissolved into nothingness.

"It _could_ be like this."

The voice. Oh God! The voice. Still here. Still
whispering, soft like a caress.

"Rest. No pain. Light...."

There was a scraping sound against the floor, and the
smell of coffee moved closer, then passed and was gone,
leaving his mouth aching painfully in longing.

"You know what you have to do."

The tumbled hair and the smell of fear and distant roses.

"Think about it. Scully will be so worried. You know she
doesn't need that, not now."

Oh God! He _knew_. The voice, speaking his thoughts,
playing on his deepest fears, tempting him.

"Think of how she was smiling. Think of the light on her
hair. _Think_"

The wet cloth ran in small circles, gently on his stomach,
and the voice was soft as down, seductive as the devil.

"If you won't do it for yourself, do it for her. Don't be
so selfish. Think of _her_."

He could feel the breath on his face as the voice reached
under his skin, entwined its fingers in his mind.

Scully, her face ravaged with grief as the tears flowed as
if they'd never stop. "Why were you so stubborn?" she
shouted to the empty air. "Why didn't you do what he said,
then you could have come back to me?"

But then her face changed into a vague misty female form,
its features distorted with blood and its eyes devoid of
life, and he knew he _couldn't._

"No!" It was the merest of croaks, though he'd shouted it
with all his being.  "I won't."

"Oh, _she's_ of no importance - don't think of _her_. A
faceless stranger. You haven't seen her, haven't spoken to
her. What does _she_ matter. People die all the time -
strangers. What does it matter."

"It - matters." He spoke through gritted teeth, clinging
to the image of her unknown dead face, letting the picture
drown out the sinuous soft words of temptation.

Silence. A long, long silence.

"Very well." The faintest of whispers, hissing from the
silence.

A crumpling of fabric as someone stood up. Soft pad pad of
footsteps across the floor, fading into nothingness.

Silence....

Alone in the dark. Silence. Don't leave me.... Not alone.

Panic fluttered like wings in his chest. He hated the
voice. He _needed_ the voice - needed to know he was alive
- needed to know he was sane - needed to know _someone_
knew he existed.

Come back...!

Pad pad of footsteps, an eternity of seconds later. A
radiating warmth, close to him.

"You're still bleeding." The voice was honey, soothing
like a mother to her child. "There's too much blood...."

Then a slash of agony opened up in the middle of his mind
and he reeled in confusion, struggling to make sense of
the tongues of fire that radiated from his stomach, the
bitter smell of charred flesh that choked the back of his
throat.

"That's better."

There was a clash of metal against the floor, distant
through the thick mist of pain, and the voice sounded a
million miles away, slurred and pulsing, fading into
nothingness.

"Because you mustn't die.  Not before...."

**********

I can do it, Scully. I can be strong. I won't give in. I
won't let her die.

She smiled in the darkness, her hand touching his brow. "I
know you won't, Mulder. I'm proud of you."

I'm sorry, Scully. If I never come back, I'm sorry....

"Don't talk like that, Mulder. You'll get through this.
What can he do?"

Lie still. Don't move a muscle. The slightest movement and
the pain would return and the memory - the vision - would
shatter and his mind would be an echoing void, without her
voice.

I can do it, Scully. You're right. What can he do? What
has he done? A cut, cauterised now, not even bleeding. A
few bruises. Nothing. I've had worse. I've survived worse.
I can get through this.

"That's my Mulder." The tone of her voice brought tears to
his eyes. "Always strong. I _know_ you won't give in. I
have faith in you."

Then the door was thrown open and he started at the sudden
noise, breaking the spell. Her voice faded away like a
ghost and he was left alone, bereft, even though he knew
she was only his own conscience, trying to persuade him by
using her voice.

Footsteps. The sound of something being plugged in.
Then.... silence.

He tensed every muscle, knowing now that the blow could
come from any direction, at a time completely unexpected.
Counting slowly in his head  - one.... two.... three....
four....

Nothing.

Twenty-six.... twenty-seven.....

His muscles ached from holding then tense and the wound on
his stomach screamed at him to let it relax. But he
couldn't. It would come....

Forty-five.... forty-six....

Then a whirling screech that started low and rose until it
filled the whole world.

Oh my God! Scully! Help me!

Images of blood and the coming agony. A drill, gouging
through flesh, shattering bone. Slow, oh so slow. Hearing
it approach, bracing for the first gentle touch, then the
agony as inch by inch it would bury itself in the flesh,
throwing up a fountain of blood.

Scully!

He groped in his mind, wildly searching, trying to find
her comforting presence, but she was gone. He was alone.

He could feel its passage close to his cheek - feel the
cold air as it rushed past. The panic in his head, the
screaming in his ears, but still, through all that, a
still small voice of menace, whispering close.

"Where?"

No! Scully! Help me! I need your help!

Then he felt the rain on his face - hard fragments falling
from above, dust choking him. Rain falling as the world
split apart in thunder - in the scream of the drill as it
bit into....

The pulsing after-image was loud in the sudden silence.
Silence. No drill. No screams. No....

Slow dust on his face, falling, falling....

"That's better." The sound of hands being rubbed together
in the satisfaction of a job well done.

"Wh....?" He shouldn't ask. He couldn't ask. He _had_ to
ask. "What...?"

"Stand up!" The voice hissed, angry. "Stand up!"

Strong arms pulled at him, wrenching at his shoulder,
pulling him to his feet. He _tried_ but his feet were
tied, his hands were tied, he had no leverage. An arm
under his shoulders, pulling, and then, suddenly, somehow,
he was upright, the wall cold against his shoulders, his
hands crushed painfully behind his back. His feet, numb
with lack of circulation, could scarcely hold his weight,
but he knew that to fall would bring even worse pain.

Somehow, he stood.

Then an arm wrapped itself around his neck and pulled his
head and shoulders forward, and another hand snaked behind
for his hands and pulled them up, up, up....

"No!" It was an involuntary cry of pain, forced from his
throat by the screaming pain in his shoulders and arms as
they were pulled higher behind him.

No! No further! I can't. No further! It hurts. God, it
hurts!

A clash of metal on metal and his arms lowered a fraction,
just a fraction, as the handcuffs dug into his wrists and
his weight settled.

"See?" The voice was smug, triumphant. "A hook. _So_
effective. So..."

A blow crashed onto the side of his face, driving his body
to one side, jerking his shoulders and arms into a white-
hot fire of pain that drove tears from his eyes.

"So....?" The voice was silky soft again.

Another blow, not a fist this time, up into his ribs,
forcing the breath from his lungs until he burned with the
aching need to wrap his arms around his stomach and cradle
the pain.

"Have you changed your mind?"

The other side of the face, this time, making the warm
wetness trickle down his neck, making his whole spirit
ache with the pain in his shoulders.

"Have - you?" Hissing, hissing.... A serpent in the
garden, tempting.

A knee, hard in his groin, and he pulled instinctively to
curl over the throbbing agony, only to pull back even
faster as his shoulders erupted in an explosion of pain.

"Have - you?"

He licked his lips, struggling to muster a sound - any
sound. "Kill...." It was the smallest of croaks, forced
out through ragged gasps of pain.

The blows stopped. Strong arms held him round the body and
he was lifted slightly, taking the worst of the pressure
from his shoulders.

"Her?"

Peace. Resting, free from pain. Light. Scully's smile....

"Kill her?" The serpent's apple, sweet and tempting.

Death. A woman dead. A woman - maybe a girl. Blood on his
hands....

"Kill..... _me_....."

Breath on his ear, whispering, incredulous. "You'd _die_
for a stranger?"

"Yes...."

The voice laughed then - a harsh and bitter laugh that
went on and on until he wanted to scream with the horror
of it.

"You really believe that?" The words, fractured through
the laughter. "You know so little about yourself."

Blood on his hands. A woman dead. _Think_. Think of this.
Don't listen to him. This is the only way out.

"Kill me." It sounded so much like a whimper, though it
had sounded so firm in his head. "Kill me. Not _her_."

"But would you _live_ for a stranger?"

The arms let go without a warning, and his bound feet
scrambled for balance, putting the full weight of his body
into his shoulders for a second - just a second. But it
was enough to wrench a scream from his throat.

It was a scream that ended in a choking agony as a great
blow landed across his stomach, making his head rush with
the sudden dizziness of breathlessness and the white fire
of his shoulders and the wound on his stomach.

"Your death is not an option."

A hard wooden bat across his back, driving him forward,
jerking his shoulders....

"I'd kill a dog to end its suffering, but you...."

His face again, and a fresh iron taste in his throat,
choking him....

"Would you _live_ for her - live like this?"

A fist in his stomach again and again, nearly knocking him
from his feet, pulling....

"Say it."

He was a child again, powerless against a stern adult,
remorselessly logical, impossible to resist. Leave me
alone! I didn't mean to be naughty. Please smile at me
again.

"Say it!"

A hand twisting in his hair, holding his face steady for
the fist to land....

"Say it. Just one word. Say yes."

Go away! Leave me alone! I don't want to listen to you. I
_won't_. Hiding inside himself, searching his memory for
sounds to drown out the voice.

"I had the strength of your beliefs." Scully's voice,
distant as through the deepest ocean, struggling through
the fire of pain that was no longer in his arms, his
shoulders, his stomach but was the whole world.

"Say...."

No! I won't listen to you! Scully! Talk louder. I need
your voice. It's so quiet. I need to hear you. I need the
strength of _your_ beliefs. I _can't_ listen to him.

"You're the only one I trust." Her voice was quieter now,
distorted by distance, barely there at all.

I need your trust, Scully. You trust me to get through
this. You trust me to be strong. You trust me....

"Say it."

Blows on his shoulders, his face, his ribs, his legs.

It _hurts_, Scully.

"Say it."

But it's so.... it's so hard, Scully. I don't think I
trust _myself_ any more....

A sudden wrench on his legs, pulling them out from
underneath him, throwing his whole weight onto his arms.

A scream echoed through the room, unearthly, inhuman, not
_him_.

"Scully! I _can't_!"

**********

End of  part 3
 

********
 

The night had gone, and most of the day, and still she saw
the blood.

It had been dawn - red in the dawn. A pool of blood at the
end of the alley where the last murder victim had been
found. Blood. _Mulder's_ blood.

"We don't know that, not for certain." Agent Jacobs, eyes
haunted with the deaths he'd seen, had tried to reassure
her, though his own face showed he'd long since forgotten
how to feel optimism. "It might not be."

She'd tried to smile, acknowledging his sympathy, but had
been closer to tears. "Oh, it's his all right. I know it.
He'd come to the crime scene. He said he wouldn't, but I
know him. He wouldn't have been able to keep away."

"But none of the others...."

"Oh God, sir. I just don't know." Her voice was been taut
with strain, snapping at the easiest target even as she
knew how unfair she was being. "If they'd been taken for a
night, who would have known? They were all living alone.
They could have been held for hours before.... before...."

And then Agent Jacobs had looked away, as if he had only
just realised what she had feared with a quaking terror
right from the start. At last he'd managed to speak,
stammering and awkward. "Surely he won't.... You don't
think...."

"I don't know!" She'd passed her hand over her eyes,
dashing away the tears she couldn't let anyone see. "I
don't.... I hope.... He will be okay. He _will_!" She'd
almost shouted the last words, as if his survival depended
only on the vehemence of her hope.

But that was hours ago now, and there had been no leads. A
girl had been reported missing somewhere else in town, but
that was all. No clues about either disappearance. No
reports of suspicious activity in the area. Nothing.

She leant against the wall in the office, hearing the buzz
of activity that surrounded her as the local agents went
about their business. Phones ringing, people talking....
Nothing....

"Agent Scully!" She was jerked into an instant alertness
by Agent Jacobs' voice. He was out of breath, even
hopeful. "A woman's just called in. She heard our appeal,
and she thinks she knows...." He paused and appeared to
consciously collect himself, as if afraid he'd been saying
too much, been too optimistic. "She says," he continued,
more quietly, "that she's seen activity in an empty house
near her. She thought she heard a scream once, but
thought...."

She didn't wait for him to finish. "Where is it?" She
checked her gun, reaching for her coat.

"I can send out someone else to check it out," Jacobs cut
in, touching her shoulder with concern. "You've not slept
all night."

"Of course I'm going," she snapped, then took a deep
breath, collecting herself. "I'm sorry. But I_have_ to
go. If it's him, and he's like the others...."

She didn't finish the thought, but the prospect filled her
with dread. If she was right, all the others who'd been
taken had killed themselves within the day. She would
_not_ let that happen to Mulder. She wanted to be there
for him - the first person to see him, the first person to
speak to him, the first person to hold him and soothe him
and comfort him until he had recovered from.... from
whatever it was that had been done to him.

Jacobs nodded, accepting her decision, but then he reached
for her arm, his eyes clouded with sympathy. "It might
not..." he said, unable to look her in the eye. "I mean,
it _might_ be, but don't.... don't expect too much."

"I won't," she assured him, but she couldn't look at him
either. She _was_ expecting too much, she knew that. She'd
already convinced herself that this was the one, simply
because the alternative was too horrible to contemplate.

But if it wasn't.... What would she do then?

**********

It was sharp and it was sweet. It was everything in his
world and it was nothing. It was repulsive and it was
beautiful. It was blood - his own blood.

He snaked out a tongue again, picking up another bead of
the warm liquid, revelling in the feel of it. Liquid in
his parched mouth. A movement that was of his own
volition, not forced on him by the voice. The sharp tang
that was the only proof he had that he was still alive,
the only sensation that wasn't pain.

More. I want more....

He reached out again, licking the floor, finding only the
earthy taste of bare stone.

Where's it gone? I want more. I _need_ it....

He moved his head, ignoring the pain that blossomed at
every movement, reaching out blindly for the life-
affirming liquid. Tears were pricking his eyes. It
mattered. Somehow, it mattered immensely. It was more
important than why he was here, more important than who he
was, more important than anything.

Where is it? There must be more. Not far.

Wildly, he scrabbled with his hands, trying again to push
himself up with his useless arms, knowing it was in vain.
The voice had unlocked his handcuffs, letting him plummet
face-first to the floor, but his arms had refused to move,
refused to break his fall.

I need it. I.... I don't know why, not now. But I _need_
this. It's more important than anything.

But there was something else. A little voice from
somewhere far beyond the pain, whispering that there was
something else. Something he _mustn't_ say. Something the
voice _wanted_ him to say. The reason he was here. The
reason there was nothing left in the world but pain.

A trickle of liquid ran down his face and he caught it
greedily, an oasis of liquid in the desert. Tears? Blood?
Sweat....?

Sweat?

It was _hot_, he realised that now, frowning with
concentration as he struggled to find a sensation - any
sensation - through the pain. Heat in his face, heat on
his hands, heat everywhere.

Why was it so hot?

He forced his sluggish mind to drag itself through the
fog. Why was it so hot? Somehow he sensed that he _needed_
to ask - that the moment he stopped asking questions was
the moment he stopped living.

Think. Listen. Feel. _Focus_.

The heat, everywhere. A crackling sound. The choking
winter smell of smoke....

"No!"

He cried aloud, drawing a lung-full of smoke and wracking
his bruised body with an agony of coughing.

No! Scully! Help me! Not _this_!

He clawed at the floor with his hands, stabs of pain
lancing through his fingers, struggling to pull himself
away, but his arms wouldn't support him and the heat was
all round him and inside him.

Where are you? Talk to me. I _can't_. Talk to me. Ask me.
I'll say yes. _Anything_....

Crackling of flames. The sound of whimpering, low and
guttural. But no footsteps. No voice....

Talk to me! I can't.... Not alone. Not all for nothing.
Ask me.

Burning, burning.... Words, distorted by terror, dancing
across the charred pages of memory. Burning burning.... Oh
Lord Thou pluckest me out.... The fire.... the fire and
the rose... Fire... Ixion on his wheel of fire.... bound
on a wheel of fire, tears like molten lead....

Ask me. Ask me to say it. Anything.... Anything not to
feel the flames eat my flesh. Anything not to hear my skin
crackle and burn. Anything....

"Shh, it'll be okay, Mulder." Scully, soothing, stroking
his hair. "Don't...."

"No!" He forced away the image. Not _her._ She couldn't
help now. She mustn't see. Not her and the light. Only....

"Say it!"

A shuddering sigh of relief. It had come. It could stop
it. Everything would be all right.

"Say it!"

The voice was barely there through the crackling, and he
felt the panic fluttering in his throat as he felt it
withdraw and leave him.

"Say.... say what?" It was the tiniest of whimpers. "Say
what?"

Help me! I can't remember. Only the flames. Nothing else.
Just the flames - the bright light. Tell me, Dad. Talk to
me. What do you want me to say? How can I make it better?
Tell me.... Please.

"Say yes."

Water sheeted down his face as the flames moved closer,
making his skin sting and burn.

"Yes!" A cracked whisper, distorted by smoke. What is it?
Why? A word, no meaning but escape. "Yes...."

"Louder." The relentless voice with the tongue of flame.

"YES!"

And then everything fell away and he was left in a
darkness that was without sound, and alone.

**********

"After three." The gun was slippery in Scully's hand as
she mouthed to the other agents, tensed and waiting
outside the house.

He's in here. He's in here. He's in here.... You _have_ to
believe that. The simple faith of a child, wrapped in her
father's stories. Believe it strong enough and it will be
true....

"One...."

Take a deep breath, steady the gun.... Concentrate.

"Two...."

Can you hear me, Mulder? I'm here. I'm coming

"Three...."

There was a crash as the door burst open, and feet pounded
across the room, guns flashing in the torchlight.

"Mulder!" She called aloud, knowing that surprise wasn't
an issue now. "Mulder! Where are you?"

She ran through the downstairs rooms, searching,
searching. They were empty, hollow caverns, with only the
barest ruins of furniture, grey and bereft. No hiding
places, she could see that. No hiding places at all. But
still she looked - she had to look. Peering into corners
that she knew were empty, hoping....

"Freeze! FBI!"

She whirled round, blood pounding in her head, at the
sudden cry from upstairs.

"I said, freeze!"

Dust flew up in clouds as she pounded through the empty
room, following the voices up the stairs.

Oh God, Mulder, I'm sorry. I should have been the first to
find you - not some stranger. Someone who can hold you and
comfort you and.... and _understand_. I'm sorry. But I'm
coming. I'm here now. I'll....

It was a frozen tableau. Two agents, pointing their guns
at the bed, and there, white-faced with horror, a boy and
a girl, wrapped in the dirty sheets and each other's arms.

"What are _you_ doing here?" She stormed forward, bitter
disappointment needing an outlet, although she knew full
well that it wouldn't make it better - that _nothing_
could make it better.

"I.... We...." The girl spoke first, pulling the sheet
closer around her body. "We wanted.... Our parents won't
let us, and we haven't got a car, and it's too cold
outside. We thought.... No-one lives here. We didn't think
we were doing any harm."

Suddenly knowing that nothing could keep the tears from
her eyes, Scully turned and left without a word, running
down the stairs as if all the demons of hell were after
her.

"Oh Mulder!" she cried silently, wrenching open the car
door. Her nail broke on the handle but it didn't matter -
nothing mattered. "I'm sorry. I thought.... I was so
_sure_ it was you."

She leant forward, resting her head on the steering wheel.
She could almost see him - alone and frightened, crying
out for her, too quiet for her to hear.

What clues had there been that _his_ quick mind would have
noticed, had the situation been reversed? Always so good
at getting into the mind of a criminal, would he have done
it any differently? Would he have _listened_, rather than
running after a shadow, so convinced that it was the truth
just because it was the first lead to present itself?

"I'm sorry, Mulder."

Had she _ever_ found him - ever been of any real use?
She'd have lost him in Alaska if it wasn't for Skinner.
She'd left him for dead in New Mexico, and only Albert
Hosteen had realised the truth. Someone - some unknown
person - had saved him on that train. And all the others -
all the other times he'd gone.... What had she done then
but just wait until he decided to return?

"Oh God, Mulder. What can I do? Where are you?"

**********

The gun was cool beneath his finger tips.

Nearly there. Just a fraction more, and he'd have it,
could wrap his fingers round it, and slowly, painfully
force his arm to lift it, and then....

Agent Feldman, eyes glassy and staring. "You'll begin to
understand," he'd said, face ravaged by guilt. "I hope,
for your sake, you won't understand it all."

"But I do understand!" He spoke the words aloud, knowing
he was too weak for the words not to get blown away by the
winter night. "I do understand it all."

"You were so arrogant, just like the others." The voice
had been without accusation as a hand had reached out and
given him water, coaxing his body away from the world of
pain. "You didn't want to understand."

He'd hardly listened, then. It had been soon - too soon.
The fire had still crackled in his memory, and his skin
had still remembered it's heat.

"I heard you, sitting there with your partner, talking
about me. You didn't want to understand. You had nothing
but contempt for someone who could take the life of a
stranger."

The life of a stranger.... How could he have been so
touched by the fire that he hadn't remembered, even at
that, the terrible thing that had given him no peace ever
since?

"Just like them. They were even worse. That first one,
standing over the body, face full of revulsion. I heard
him. 'The death penalty's too good for people like that' -
that's what he said. But he.... He only lasted two hours,
and he was begging for her to die."

He'd pulled away then, memory crashing over him like a
physical blow. Oh God! What have I done? What have I done?
What have I done?

"You all think you're so superior, you cops. So quick to
judge and to hate. Always so sure that you could never for
one second be tempted to do what I do."

Her hair. Her tumbled hair, and her faded perfume. Her
scream. He hadn't heard her scream. Had she screamed? How
had she died?

"How can you live with yourself now, and still presume to
judge? _You've_ killed now. For purely selfish reasons,
you killed someone. _You're_ a murderer now."

Blood. Was that blood on his hands, slippery and warm? A
welling tide of blood, pulsing from the floor, washing all
over him until he choked in its thick liquid, unable to
breathe.

But the gun could _end_ that....

"Can you live with yourself?" The voice had hissed in his
ear much later, when the night air was cold on his face
and the grass wet beneath his cheek. "It's here, if you
want it - if you decide you can't judge others now you've
been found wanting yourself."

"No!" he'd whimpered then, hearing again the imagined
scream that replayed itself endlessly in his memory - now
shrill, now low - now long, now abrupt. How had she
screamed? How had she died?

He couldn't bear to think of it, but he _needed_ to see
it. A black and white crime scene photograph,
immortalising his sin, showing him her face for the first
time. Flash flash of camera, maybe even now, somewhere
else in the city. He still heard the dull thud as her body
was thrown from the car, somewhere else, before they'd
driven to this place. Death in a dark alley, far away from
here, when she should be entwined with him, her blood on
his hands as it was surely in his soul.

What would it feel like, a bullet through the brain? Could
it hurt more than.... than _this_?

The last words he'd heard, a long eternity of minutes ago,
as fingers had untied his blindfold, leaving him free - as
if he could ever be free. "Let him who is without sin cast
the first stone...."

He who is without sin.... He who is without sin....

Thou shalt not suffer a sinner to live....

No! That's not quite right. That's not it. Help me,
Scully. Help me, Sc....

No! Not her! How can I even utter her name? So principled,
so strong. "You can be strong, Mulder" - I heard her say
it, back then. She trusted me, and I let her down. I was
weak. How can I..... God! I can't! I can't _look_ at her
again.

The gun. Just one little movement of the finger, and
then....

Tempting, _so_ tempting....

Just a little movement - like this....

Finger on the trigger, easing, easing.....

"No!" There was a crash of metal as he cast the gun away
with all the force that his useless arms could muster. "I
_can't_!"

Thoughts, scuttering across his mind, panicky and rapid.

I can't! To pull the trigger is to end the pain, and to
end the pain is to be weak. End the pain - that's what I
did earlier. The fire.... End the fire. Selfish, selfish.
The coward's way out. I was weak. Couldn't face the pain -
_couldn't_. Mustn't..... Mustn't be weak again. Face the
pain. _Suffer_ the pain. Can't run away. Penance....

Footsteps, echoing in a confined space. A woman,
screaming, "Oh my God! Call an ambulance!"

He wrenched his eyes open, forcing himself to look into
the night. Grass beneath him. A building above him, the
wall close to his face. Windows, empty and faceless. A
hotel - God! It was the hotel he'd been staying in
with.... with _her_.

Panic pounded in his chest. She.... _She_.... Light on her
hair, face clouded with worry, still believing he was
worth worrying about, not knowing the truth. She was
close. She was _here_. She was close....

He rolled over, shoulders screaming with pain, and curled
into a tight ball, hiding from the light and the voices.

He couldn't look at her, not yet.

**********

end of "The First Stone"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was inspired by an article I read
long ago, and, sadly, have mostly forgotten. All I remember
is that it described an experiment in which psychologists
gave their test subjects a button and led them to believe
that a stranger in the next room would receive a painful
electric shock if they pressed it. I can't remember what
incentive or threat the people were given (if any), but I do
remember that many of them showed few qualms about pressing
the button.

If anyone knows more about this, I'd be very grateful if they
could tell me.
 

********

Please send feedback to Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk
___

"King Pellinor could now be seen to be visibly troubled in his brains."
from "The Sword in the stone" by T H White.