Title: Only Skin Deep Author: mimic117 Email: mimic1172@gmail.com Rating: NC-17 with some very disturbing content Category: S, A, M/S established relationship Setting: Season 7-ish. That always seemed like the best time for them to get it on. That's just mho, of course. NOTE: There's a vignette prequel to this story called "In Sight." You don't have to read it in order to understand this story, but it does give some added insights into one character. Summary: "Squinting against the ache in his head, Mulder tried to focus. Waist-length blonde hair framed a lovely, heart-shaped face. Bright blue eyes were surrounded by thick, black lashes. A button nose perched above a full, cupid's-bow mouth. Her petite body was lushly curved and definitely not a child's, in spite of the piping voice which made her sound like one. Her voice was vaguely familiar although he was pretty sure he'd never seen her face before. He did recognize the gun pointed at him, though. It was his." Archive: I'll send it to Gossamer and Ephemeral myself, but anyone else who wants it, knock yourself out. Just let me know where so I can brag. Disclaimer: Any characters you recognize belong to 1013 Productions, Chris Carter, and FOX. No money is being made or anticipated from the posting of this story. Beta Thanks: To Obfusc8er for the medical and MulderTorture advice, wickedly good suggestions and pointing out the funny bits which weren't supposed to be. To my Twinsy, for beta which is second to none and more than I deserve. To mr. mims for handy-man type comments and putting up with me all these years. And apologies to all three for enduring endless whining befitting a toddler. Special Thanks: To my own personal stalker for numerous cups of restorative tea exactly when they were most required, and for Agent Hatter. To Tali for fixing one of the details I kept getting stuck on. And to Shelba, for the "beautiful" picture that started it all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Only Skin Deep by mimic117 Location unknown Sunday 9:43 PM The smell was getting really bad. Julie wrinkled her nose as she walked past the hallway to the bedrooms. She couldn't remember it ever being quite so strong before. She looked at the digital camera in her hands and smiled. Dealing with it could wait for later. She had a more enjoyable task to think about. When she reached her desk in one corner of the dining room, the computer monitor sprang to life with a touch on the mouse. She loved her new wallpaper. He looked so beautiful in that picture, she was tempted to kiss it, but she didn't want to smear the screen. Julie giggled at her own silliness and glanced at the camera again. Besides, she had lots more pictures to download. She pulled the memory card from the camera, sat down, then slotted it into the computer port. She loved the anticipation of seeing what her lens had captured--zooming in, cropping, fixing any fuzzy spots, printing out the best ones and sorting the rest into the proper folders. There were already hundreds of pictures stored on her hard drive, but that didn't stop her from taking more. Opening a new thumbnail was every bit as exciting as Christmas. Or a new beauty pageant. Julie frowned. Those days were over. Best not to think about that anymore. The computer dinged to let her know it was finished opening all the new files. She reached eagerly for the mouse. The silence in the house was only broken by staccato clicks followed by the whir of the printer. Page after page of shiny photographs spewed into the tray while she worked her way through the new trove. It didn't seem like two hours had passed when she finally gathered up the stack of colorful prints along with a roll of Scotch tape. Walking toward the bedrooms, she hummed happily--until the smell hit her again. She clutched the pile of photos and glared at the duct tape surrounding the bedroom door on the right. Ron never should have called her crazy. She'd really thought he'd understood. She was wrong. A truly beautiful man wouldn't have called her *that*. At least he'd finally stopped yelling. She really hated listening to him every night. She opened the door across the hall and turned on the light inside. Everything was ready, except for this finishing touch. She added the pictures in her hands to the enormous stack already resting on the chair near the door. This was the best part. Plucking a glossy photo from the top of the pile, she studied it for a moment, then smiled and taped it to the wall. Every subsequent picture was given the same treatment, obscuring the painted surface bit by bit as she slowly worked her way around the room. Her hair swung into her face each time she bent over, but she didn't think about pulling it back. Momma always insisted that her thick, silver-blonde hair should be left long and free, to dazzle the viewer. She finally ran out of photos and surveyed the frieze that circled the room. This man was the right one. Ron simply wasn't beautiful enough. She could see now that she hadn't chosen very carefully. Julie yawned and looked at her watch. It was almost one in the morning. She was going to be so tired at work, but it would be worth the loss of sleep. Tomorrow, or rather later today, she'd deliver the envelope of letters and pictures. Then, after work, she'd bring him to his new home and they'd be together. Forever. One more check to make sure the room was ready to receive its new occupant. She stuck the empty tape roll in her pocket and picked up the chair. After placing the chair against the hallway wall, she flicked off the light and pushed the door shut. There was that smell again. She really needed to do something about Ron. Maybe if she duct-taped more plastic over the door... She should have known not to buy the cheaper plastic. Trying to cut corners to save money usually ended up costing more in the long run. That's what her mother always said, and Momma was usually right. The thought of such an easy solution made Julie happy. And when she was happy, she liked to sing. "You must have been a beautiful baby. You must have been a beautiful child," she warbled as she walked back to the computer. A jiggle of the mouse shut off the screensaver, revealing her favorite picture of Fox Mulder. Head thrown back, lips slightly parted, eyes closed, his face filled the screen. She remembered taking that one while he was masturbating. Soon, they'd be together and she could watch that expression develop on his face up close instead of seeing it from across the street. The view from the roof of the building opposite hadn't been the best. Momma would say it was worth the extra money for a good digital camera and telephoto lens. Her close-up photos looked like she was really there with him. A tingling started in her stomach that might have been butterflies, but was probably anticipation. She could hardly wait until evening. She shut down the computer, watching the monitor go blank, but she could still see that picture in her mind. "Oh you must have been a beautiful baby," she sang, "because, baby, look at you now." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Monday 7:36 PM The plastic bags in Mulder's hands jostled each other as he pushed the door of the convenience store open with his hip. He'd either bought a lot more than he was planning to or the store got a kickback for every bag they sent home with a customer. Was it really necessary to put each item in its own sack? He paused to hold the door open for someone going in. That's when his phone rang. It figured. He'd been checking obsessively since four, waiting to hear from Scully, so of course it rang when there was no way at all for him to answer. He considered dropping the bags, but there were glass bottles in some and he just couldn't bring himself to do it. One person entering became three people, then four. Nobody wanted to spend more time than necessary in the driving rain. They were literally sprinting out of their cars in order to make it into the store while the door was open. By the time Mulder managed to move out under the overhang and put everything down, there was a message on his voicemail from Scully saying she was going to supper with the prosecutor and his wife, wouldn't be home until really late and she'd see him at work on Tuesday. He was tempted to throw the stupid phone against the car. Damn it! They hadn't talked since she called him Sunday night and he missed her. He wanted to talk to her, not play phone tag. Scully had been in Chicago all day. He understood she needed to testify since she'd done the autopsy, yet he wasn't happy about her going. They'd both been hoping she'd make it home by now. It looked as though the fates were against them once again. Mulder was willing to bet the defense attorney dragged out his cross examination until the end of the day. Scully was probably in court the entire time, which was why all of his calls were going straight to voice mail. He'd finally run out of witty things to say and started leaving messages that were just heavy breathing. He picked up the bags again and trudged out into the rain. His suit was limp, his shirt clinging to his chest, once he finally got everything dumped onto the passenger seat and sat down in his own. The drive home was a bit steamy, and not solely because of the moisture on his clothes. Mulder pulled into a space in front of his building, put the car in park and turned off the engine. Rain drummed on the hood, each closely-packed droplet hopping into the air off the hazy metal. He watched for a few minutes, not really in any hurry. Why rush? It was a major frog-strangler out there. He'd end up wetter than he already was, no matter what he did. And there was no one waiting impatiently for him, at his apartment or elsewhere. He hated working without Scully. He needed to hear her voice over something besides the phone. Maybe if he called in the middle of the night, she'd talk to him the way she had Sunday. Mulder smiled. He wondered if she knew what he was doing while they had talked. Did she even realize how much she turned him on? Years of conversing under every imaginable circumstance had made him especially vulnerable to her voice. Each little nuance was sorted, categorized and easily referenced. Except the variation she'd hit him with on Sunday. Her husky, smoky "So what are you wearing, Mulder?" caught him right in the groin. His dick was already stiffening before he came up with a reply. "I'll tell you what I'm wearing if you tell me what you're wearing," he growled back. "I asked first." He whispered, "I'm not wearing *anything*." Not true but he couldn't resist. "Ooh," she cooed. "My favorite outfit." "Now I'm touching myself." True. His hand gravitated to his crotch with the first word out of her mouth. She snorted a laugh into his ear. "Wash your hands before you finish that report for Skinner. He'll get suspicious if the pages stick together." Mulder unzipped his jeans and reached into the opening, curling his fist around his hardening cock. "You think Skinner would like what I'm wearing?" He eased himself out of the too- tight pants. "He'd probably take you right there on his desk." Oh baby. Sex on Skinner's desk. But not with Skinner, that's for sure. Mulder slowly stroked his length, stifling a groan. "But seriously," Scully said. The teasing tone was gone from her voice. She was all business and listen-to-me. "Don't forget to take the monthly report for the budget meeting out of the inbox on your desk. I left it there when you were in the john so I didn't know if you'd seen it." "Yeah." He tried to control his breathing so she wouldn't be able to tell what he was doing. "I saw it. But thanks for reminding me." "Just one of the many fine services I offer, partner. I'd better get my stuff packed for tomorrow." It wasn't easy to bring his attention back to the conversation. The tension was already coiling in his belly, waiting for release. "Okay. Hope you have a good flight and the guy in the next seat doesn't belch garlic breath when he hits on you." "Great. Now you've jinxed me." Her tone became softer, wistful. "I'll call as soon as I get a chance." She hung up, so he did, too. It hadn't taken more than a few more yanks on the crank before he was making a mess on his shirt. Wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last, but it still felt pathetic. Especially after several weeks of shared yanking. No point thinking about that tonight. He'd be flying solo again if he let his memories have their way. Mulder looked at his watch. He had plenty of time to dump his groceries and change before heading out to the guys' place. Frohike said he had some prime satellite images to share and Langly wanted him to check out a bootlegged copy of Quake III Arena. With Scully gone for the second night in a row, there wasn't anything to stop him. Not exactly a front row seat at a Knicks game, but it sure beat another night alone with the Playboy Channel and a beer. A tap on the driver's-side window made him jump. It was still raining and he could see someone standing under an umbrella. He turned the ignition key one click so he could roll down his window. "Can I help you?" "I hope so. My car won't start." The voice was extremely high, childlike--Dolly Parton but without the accent. Twilight was already settling in because of the overcast, so he couldn't see her too well, but she was definitely an adult. And wet. He looked at his watch again. Sure. Why not? He wasn't in a hurry. The guys weren't expecting him at any particular time. If it wasn't anything easy or obvious, he could call someone who actually knew how to fix cars and wait with her. "Hang on. Be right with you." He rolled the window back up, then turned off the ignition. He opened the door and reached behind the seat to grab his umbrella. Something stung his arm. He yelped and clapped a hand over the spot. The woman outside the car was holding a syringe. He made a grab for it but she threw it aside. He would have gone after it if he hadn't suddenly felt so drowsy. His muscles had become rubbery and uncooperative. He tried to ask what she was doing but it came out as total nonsense. What the hell? She'd drugged him! Mulder watched as she reached out toward him and pushed his shoulder. He toppled into the other seat. There was nothing he could do but lie there. As hard as he tried, he couldn't move enough to help himself. The woman ran around to the other side of the car and opened the door. He'd damned-well remember to lock them from now on, pouring rain or not. She pulled on his arms, dragging him across the center console until he was all the way in the opposite seat. The bags he'd placed there crinkled and crunched as they slid to the floor. His knees banged painfully on the hard plastic dashboard. She was stronger than she looked. He never would have expected her to move someone his size so quickly, yet she had him situated on the other side of the car in a matter of moments. Why didn't anyone help him? Did no one see what was happening? He was being kidnapped! The rain continued to beat on the roof of the car and the light was fading, making it unlikely that anyone would be hanging around outside or near a window where they might notice something amiss. It looked like he was on his own, but without any real ability to help himself. How the hell had he gotten into this situation? As consciousness dwindled and his vision rapidly faded to black, Mulder regretted that he hadn't been in a hurry tonight. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ J. Edgar Hoover Building Tuesday 8:27 AM Scully shut off the ignition and frowned. Mulder's car wasn't parked in his usual spot, but she was running late and the garage was almost full. Maybe he'd parked somewhere else. She gathered up her purse and briefcase, then exited the car. As she walked to the elevator, she scanned the surrounding vehicles. Mulder's wasn't anywhere in sight. He should be here by now. The office door was closed and locked. It took her a minute to find the key because she rarely had occasion to use it. She couldn't remember the last time she'd beaten Mulder to the office. Scully hung up her coat, stowed her purse, dropped her briefcase on the desk. Time to start a pot of coffee. She smiled at the note Mulder had taped to the coffee maker. "Attending paranoiacs' convention tonight. If not back by morning, was swept up in video game piracy raid. Send cake with file inside." When the coffee was finished and her partner still hadn't appeared, she sat down at his desk, picked up the phone and called his apartment. She'd been looking forward to seeing him. Finding the office empty was a disappointment. So was getting his home answering machine. She tried his cell phone. Voicemail. Scully considered for a moment, then made one more call. Frohike answered. "Lone Gunman, the one-stop-shop for all your conspiracy news." "Turn off the tape, Frohike," she said. "Your wish is my command, Agent Scully." The phone clicked in her ear, which could be the tape shutting off, or it could be Frohike tapping the keyboard to pretend he'd shut it off. Whatever. "So was Mulder the only one caught by the vice squad or did the rest of you break out and leave him behind?" "Langly will be highly offended to learn you've impugned our moral integrity in such a manner. We never get caught." Scully heard a faintly squawked "She WHAT?" in the background. "Yeah yeah," she said. "Save it for the judge. Could you put Mulder on? I assume he crashed there after your late night of debauchery." "I would if I could, pretty lady, but he's not here. I'm sure he'll be free soon, though. He always carries his lock pick when he visits, just in case." He wasn't there? "How late did he leave and what condition was he in?" Frohike sounded as puzzled as she felt. "I don't know. He never showed up last night." "He didn't?" "Nope. Didn't call to cancel, either. Do you think something's wrong?" The line cut out and then back in. There was another call coming through. Maybe it was Mulder. "I don't know. That could be him on the other line. I have to go. Thanks, Frohike." She switched to the new call. It wasn't Mulder. It was Skinner, asking where they were with the report on their last case. Scully flipped the page on Mulder's desk calendar. The appointment was written across today's date. He couldn't have forgotten. Could he? "I'm sorry, Sir. I was a little late this morning and Mulder's not here. I'll find the file and bring it up right away." She acknowledged Skinner's grudging agreement and hung up. Ten minutes of fruitless searching later, all trace of concern had been replaced by annoyance. "Mulder, if you don't get your ass here this minute, I will hunt you down like an escaped felon." She shut his desk drawer with more force than necessary. The file wasn't in any of the obvious places. She was rapidly running out of options and patience. "Where the hell did you put that file? Skinner wants to see us and I can't find the stupid file." The pencil holder jumped when she shut another drawer rather aggressively. "You'd better have a damned good excuse for leaving me in the lurch. I swear, if it's in your briefcase, I'll-- " A large envelope in the bottom desk drawer with his UFO videos stopped Scully short. For one thing, it was pink. For another, it was addressed to "Beautiful Fox" in elaborate curlicue script. Her conscience didn't suffer a single twinge as she pulled it out, opened the flap and dumped a stack of photographs onto the desk. Her first thought was "Nice pictures." Her second thought was "Good photography." Any remaining thoughts withered unborn as she turned over photo after enlarged candid photo of her partner. In the checkout line at a grocery store. Getting into his car outside his apartment. Shooting hoops at a playground. Stretching in the park before a run. Toweling himself off after a swim. The last picture in the pile drew a gasp from her lips. Mulder, naked in the shower. With his back turned, head obscured by spray, Scully still knew that body. She'd seen it often enough to have it memorized. The defined muscles across his shoulders from swimming. The dimples at the base of his spine. The tapered slope of his lean legs. Even the way his arms looked, raised to slick back wet hair. She'd witnessed all of it, up close and sudsy in her own shower. Someone had taken this picture, all of these pictures, without his knowledge. She was certain of that. So why hadn't Mulder told her about them? He obviously knew--the photos were in his desk. She stared at the last picture, her mind beginning to fit things together. Phone tag yesterday culminating in no direct contact. A no-show at the guys' last night. No call this morning, no Mulder at the office, extremely personal photos which he never told her about. Were all of those things linked or merely a coincidence? Was the twisting in her gut justified, or jumping the gun? Scully wiped suddenly-damp palms on her slacks. She'd handled the pictures already. There was no help for it now. But just in case they *were* connected to Mulder's tardiness... She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her briefcase and shimmied her hands into them. Picking up the envelope again, she peered inside. There were several pieces of paper at the bottom, smaller than the photo enlargements. She pulled them out, lips pursing in distaste at the same pink paper and flamboyant writing as the envelope. This time her conscience did prick at her a bit, but something about those pictures, besides the invasion of privacy, didn't sit right. Using the I- need-to-find-out-more-before-I-ask-Mulder rationalization, she scanned them once. Before she reached the last one, Scully grabbed the envelope and photos, shot out of the chair, and was racing for the elevator, Skinner's missing file forgotten. The report could wait. Mulder was in trouble, and she needed to find him. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location unknown The spicy aroma of coffee tickled Mulder's nose awake. It delighted him to think that Scully was finally bringing him breakfast in bed. She always said he spilled too much to be trusted with food anywhere near her sheets. Only something at the back of his mind was trying to get his attention-- He sat up, gasping, the previous night's events lurching into his consciousness at high speed. "Good morning, Beautiful Fox." Squinting against the ache in his head, Mulder tried to focus. Waist-length blonde hair framed a lovely, heart-shaped face. Bright blue eyes were surrounded by thick, black lashes. A button nose perched above a full, cupid's-bow mouth. Her petite body was lushly curved and definitely not a child's, in spite of the piping voice which made her sound like one. Her voice was vaguely familiar although he was pretty sure he'd never seen her face before. He did recognize the gun pointed at him, though. It was his. "Who are you?" he asked. "Julie." Straightforward, concise, no help at all. Maybe a different question. "Where am I?" "Where you belong--with me. Come and eat your breakfast." Mulder's stomach rebelled at the thought of food. He was dizzy, a bit nauseous and his mouth felt like he'd been sucking cotton balls. Besides, there was a more pressing problem that required attention first. "I need to use the bathroom." The woman beamed an indulgent smile, the gun's aim never wavering. "It's right through that door in the corner." Mulder looked down to gauge the distance to the floor and discovered that he was lying on a mattress. No platform, no frame. Just a mattress. At least he didn't have to worry about falling out of bed in his current woozy state. Apparently he also wouldn't have to worry about trying to fumble his zipper open. He wasn't wearing any pants, just his boxer briefs. No shirt, shoes, socks--not even his watch. Shit! Talk about getting caught with your pants down. He rolled to one side and stood slowly, waiting for his head to stop spinning. He took a step only to be brought up short by a group of photos on the wall in front of him. A cautious 360- degree turn revealed picture after picture after picture. There was a wide, chest-high photographic frieze around the entire room showing nothing but images of him. At work, at play, at home, in public and private moments, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of his doppelgangers watched as he stared back in amazement. What the hell *was* this place? Where did all the pictures come from? Did she take every one of them herself? When? The huge number of photos implied a long-standing obsession rather than a sudden, overwhelming urge. For how long? More importantly, for what purpose? Mulder tore his eyes away from the disturbing rogue's gallery and cast a speculative glance at his kidnapper, suddenly turned deranged stalker. He was in serious trouble. An insistent twinge in his groin recalled his attention to the urgent business at hand. It was a very short walk to reach the bathroom. Once there, he realized the room was missing a door. He looked at the woman in the bedroom again. She didn't seem to particularly care whether her scrutiny made him uncomfortable or not. She stood there with his weapon in her hand, smiling, not the least bit hesitant or awkward about holding a gun. Nice steady arm, good aim, rock solid gaze in spite of the vapid grin. If she showed the slightest sign of weakness or distraction, he wouldn't hesitate to take her down with his bare hands. But he wasn't seeing any kind of opening and he really didn't like to think about the consequences of doing something impulsive with her focused on him so firmly. Between his dopey brain and aching bladder, he wasn't thinking too clearly. Mulder turned his back to his audience. "Pardon me while I answer this call." He pulled down the waistband on the shorts and gently eased his cock over the edge. When he glanced down to aim, he blinked in surprise. There was no toilet lid. No seat. Not even any hinges. Just holes where the hinges should be. What the fuck? His bladder cramped in protest. Right. Pay attention and piss. As the pressure eased, Mulder bent his refocusing brain to observation of his surroundings. The bathroom proved to be miniscule and unremarkable. A toilet, pedestal sink, and tub/shower combo, all crammed into a minimum amount of space. No soap, shampoo, towels, or other amenities were visible beyond a roll of toilet tissue on the back of the commode and a pile of Kleenex without the box. No mirror or medicine cabinet. No window, either. He might be able to use the shower curtain against his kidnapper, but he'd need to check it out when he wasn't being ogled. It was time to get back to the bedroom and see if he could figure out what was going on. He flushed the toilet, rinsed off his hands and splashed cold water on his face. Icy droplets trickled down his chest, raising goosebumps as he returned to the other room. "There aren't any towels." From a chair near the door, the woman picked up a towel and tossed it to him. Mulder caught it, dried off, then threw it back when she gestured for it. His nausea was fading and his head felt clearer. He glanced around the room, taking in the lack of windows, decorations, lamps, furniture--anything that might have come in handy as a weapon or a tool. The only light came from recessed fixtures in the middle of the ceiling. He was either in an old house or one built during the '90's craze for really high ceilings. He wouldn't be able to reach those fixtures, not even with his best b-ball jump shot. The floor itself was solid sheet vinyl. No carpeting. The bathroom doorframe was bare of all molding and hardware; likewise the hole where the closet should have been. There wasn't so much as a rod to hang clothing on--which wouldn't be a problem since he apparently didn't have anything but his underwear. Except for the mattress and the chair by the door, the room was totally empty. A Styrofoam tray on the floor near the chair contained a foam cup and a pastry on a napkin. Those wouldn't be any help. He'd need something a bit more substantial if he wanted to spring himself--the door looked like reinforced steel. There was no knob on the inside, no visible keyhole, and the door opened outward. There weren't any hinges or locks to jimmy, provided he actually found a tool of some sort. A small circle of glass in one corner of the ceiling caught his attention. It looked like there was a camera inside the wall. Great. That meant she could be sure he wasn't near the door before she entered. He wouldn't be able to get a jump on her. The possibility that this strange woman might be planning to spend every waking moment silently watching him made Mulder break out in a cold sweat. He took in the numerous images of himself that ringed the room. "You're the one who sent me the pictures yesterday, aren't you?" "And the letters. Don't forget them." She sounded like she expected praise for a job well done. "What letters?" he asked. "I don't remember anything except the pictures." Her smile turned into a puzzled frown. "I sent those letters because I thought you'd enjoy reading them." "I guess I missed seeing them." He shrugged. "I got called to a meeting right after the envelope arrived, so I just glanced at the pictures and tossed them in a drawer." His stomach rumbled loudly and her smile returned. She managed to pick the tray up with one hand and move it next to the mattress without ever letting go of his gun. Then she retreated to the chair and sat down expectantly. Another hollow growl echoed in the room. Okay, so he should eat. It would give him something to do while he tried to figure out *what* he was going to do. He sat on the bed and picked up the cup of coffee. The smell of it went straight to his brain, clearing out more of the fuzziness. He took a sip and his eyebrows rose--it was prepared the way he always drank it. He glanced at the silent figure across from him, then looked at the food on his plate and almost laughed. Even after all the shitty circumstances he'd found himself in over the years, eating at gunpoint was something he'd never experienced before. If anyone had bothered to ask, he definitely would have delayed the pleasure. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ J. Edgar Hoover Building A.D. Skinner's office 9:05 AM "Slow down, Agent Scully. I can't understand what you're saying." Taking a deep, calming breath, Scully stopped pacing and waving the photographs under her boss's nose. She sat with a thud in the chair across from his desk. The pictures made a rustling sound in her latex-covered hands. She wasn't surprised to see they were shaking. "I'm sorry, Sir. I'll try to explain more clearly." "Thank you. I'd appreciate that. Does this have something to do with Mulder?" "Yes, Sir." Scully fanned out the photographs and placed them on his desk. "After you called this morning, I went looking for the file you wanted and found these instead." He looked at the pictures but didn't pick them up. "Am I to understand that you believe these are related to the reason why he's not here?" "Yes, Sir." She could feel the blood rush to her face. "I didn't realize there was a problem at first and handled some of the photos. I protected the rest as soon as I could." Skinner reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. "Then let's not disturb things any more than they already have been." He covered his fingers with the handkerchief before picking up the glossy images one at a time. He gave each a careful examination than laid it aside. His eyes widened in surprise when he reached the one of Mulder in the shower. He looked up to meet her gaze. "You're sure it's Mulder in all of these photos?" Scully kept her face bland although her heart was racing. "Yes, Sir. I'm sure." "And he didn't know they were being taken?" "I don't believe so. At least, he never mentioned anything of the sort to me." "But that's not what has you so concerned, is it?" She sometimes wondered how he could read her as easily as Mulder did. "No, Sir. There were also these letters, wedged down in the bottom of the envelope." She passed the pink sheets of paper to him. Skinner's eyes grew wider. She understood his reaction. Those papers were obviously love letters. Some simply had song lyrics written on them--You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby, Beautiful Dreamer, Everything is Beautiful. They all had the word "beautiful" in the title or body of the song. The others were more like diary entries, but they all began "Dear Beautiful Fox." Some extolled his physical attributes in a flowery, juvenile, romanticized manner. The rest of the letters went into pornographic detail about the writer's sexual exploits with him, providing dates and places for their encounters, all of them fairly recent. The language used, the style of script, the garish color of the paper, all led Scully to feel that the writer was a woman. Possibly a very young one. Someone more mature wouldn't write about Mulder's "enormous cock piercing the very heart of me." Scully hadn't read much more than that, but it sounded like a cheesy bodice-ripper novel, something women were more prone to read than men. But Scully knew Mulder hadn't been with some strange woman on the dates in the letters because *she'd* been with him. They'd been together most nights for months, ever since they'd become lovers. The last two nights were the only ones they'd spent apart in weeks. She should have known something was wrong the minute she walked into an empty office. She'd wasted precious minutes searching for a stupid file when in all likelihood he was already in danger. Skinner cleared his throat. "What do you suppose this means, Agent Scully?" "I don't know, but I intend to find out. With your permission, I'd like to go to his apartment and see if I can discover anything." "You do realize that it's not usually advisable for one partner to be involved in the investigation of--" She opened her mouth to protest and he held up his hand to stop her. "I know. This isn't a usual situation. I just want you to be clear about my position." Scully nodded and waited for him to continue. Skinner tapped his lips with one finger for a moment, then glared at her over the top of his glasses. "I assume you've already tried calling him, or you wouldn't be so worried." "His cell phone rings without being picked up. The answering machine comes on at his apartment. He was supposed be with some friends last night but he never showed." "And you weren't expecting him to leave town for any reason?" Scully's certainty wavered for an instant. He'd ditched her in the past but they'd recently come to an understanding. Neither of them would take off without checking in first. It was a failsafe for exactly this type of situation where someone else was questioning their whereabouts. It took only an instant for her mind to reject the idea that Mulder had gone off somewhere without telling her. "No, Sir," she stated firmly. "If he's not here, it's because something happened to prevent him from being here." Skinner used the handkerchief to gather up all the photos and letters into a neat pile and set them to one side on his desk. "All right. Go over to his place. Call and let me know if you find anything. For the time being, we'll treat this as confidential, just in case he comes waltzing in three hours down the road. Let's not panic just yet." Rising to her feet, Scully stripped off her gloves and stuffed them into a pocket. Her hand was on the door knob when Skinner called her name. "Keep me posted," he said. She nodded again, blindly leaving his office. As she got into the elevator, she was already running through all the avenues available to help her discover what had happened to her partner. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location unknown Julie. Her name was Julie. No last name, just Julie. Mulder had already learned that she would answer whatever questions he asked, but only in her own way and she wouldn't elaborate. She'd give an answer, then fall silent and sit gazing at him with a vapid smile on her face. The trick was in finding the right questions. Asking who she was and where they were hadn't gotten him very far. Maybe a new direction would help. "So, Julie, how did you get me into the house? I wasn't exactly in a position to co-operate." She giggled again, covering her mouth with her free hand. The sweet, innocent gesture unnerved him. "I picked you up at your apartment and we drove here. Don't you remember, silly Fox?" That wasn't quite the way he recalled it. "But how did you get me *into* the house?" He checked what he could see of his arms and legs. "I assume you shoved me out of the car but I don't see any bruises." She stared at him with a look of horror. "Why would I do that? You might get hurt if I pushed you out of the car. We wouldn't want your beautiful skin to be damaged, would we?" Terrific. He didn't remember anything past the getting- drugged-and-kidnapped part and apparently the only possible witness wasn't going to be any help. Didn't anyone see him being manhandled into the house? Was it still raining when they arrived? Did the house have a garage? How the hell DID she get him into this room? He had to assume she'd dragged him but she seemed to have a different version of events in her own mind. Sitting cross-legged on the mattress, he forced down the meal she'd brought. The fact that she'd provided coffee and a Danish--something he often ate for breakfast--made it hard to swallow food that turned sand-dry in his mouth. That made him think of a new question. "How did you know what I like for breakfast?" "I know everything about you." He suppressed a shiver. "Did you take all these pictures yourself?" She laughed, a liquid little-girl giggle. "Some of the things I had to go through to get them! But it was worth it. Do you know which one is my favorite?" Mulder shook his head without looking at the photos. It gave him the creeps to see so many replicas of himself staring back, like a funhouse mirror gone mad. Julie darted over to the wall opposite the end of the bed. She stopped in front of a life-sized enlargement of his face, placed slightly lower than the others surrounding it. In the picture, his eyes were closed, head tilted back just a bit. He couldn't imagine what he might have been doing at the time. She stroked the image's cheek and Mulder flinched as if she'd actually touched him. "They're all so beautiful, but I like this one best." Leaning forward, she pressed her lips to the slightly parted ones in the photograph. "Mmmm, you have the loveliest mouth. I could kiss you all day and never get tired." She continued rubbing her lips against the photo, moaning low in her throat, then sticking out her tongue to lick at the image's lips. Hoping she was sufficiently distracted, Mulder quietly uncrossed his legs and repositioned himself into a crouch. If he could catch her guard down for two seconds, he might be able to-- Her arm swung up, the gun's muzzle perfectly centered on his chest. Damn it! In the middle of her perverse obsession with his photo, she retained an uncanny awareness of his movements. He would never be able to get the drop on her at this rate. Mulder settled back onto the mattress and wondered if breakfast would stay where he'd put it with the way his stomach had started churning again. While Julie continued to manhandle his picture, a sickening thought popped into his head. She might not be satisfied with a photo at some point in the near future. The churning turned into outright nausea. Turning his head, Mulder pushed away his unfinished meal. He really wasn't all that hungry anymore. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hegal Place Apartments 10:10 AM Scully held the evidence bag up to the light and studied the mostly-empty syringe inside. She'd found it up against the curb out front. It might not have anything to do with Mulder but it was definitely something you didn't see every day in his neighborhood. If there were fingerprints, they could be matched to any found on the photos. She might be reaching, but it would be better not to take chances and risk missing something important. Sitting in Mulder's apartment, on his couch, brought back vivid memories that hadn't yet grown dim with time. Just over a week ago, they'd shared an entire afternoon on this couch. They called it a "working" Saturday but it was really an excuse to cuddle and fool around and they both knew it. Considering all the time they spent together during the work week, it surprised her how much she craved his company outside the office. She'd always enjoyed his amazing mind, but now she could benefit from his equally amazing body, too. That particular Saturday concluded with them twined together in his bed. Mulder, drowsy and sloe-eyed, indulged in his own peculiar brand of pillow talk about an article he'd read on spontaneous combustion and that week's supermarket tabloid headlines. He said it was his way of compensating for her dislike of pet names and endearments. Not every woman's idea of romance, but Scully wouldn't change a thing. Most of their evenings and weekends together ended that way, at one apartment or the other. How many times had they been watched in this very room? What about the bedroom? Could Mulder's stalker see through those windows, too? Was she still out there somewhere? Scully got up and looked out the window. There was a block of apartments across the street, about the same height as Mulder's building. Was that where she'd been? In one of the apartments? On the roof? How long had this mysterious interloper been observing Mulder? Weeks? Months? Surely for some time, by the number and variety of photos in the envelope. Had she followed him around or was she waiting somewhere across the street, lurking until there was something to record with her clandestine lens? Scully shivered, then closed the blinds before she sat back down. Her reflection in the fish tank caught her eye. She wasn't in any of the pictures, she realized. Was she excised from the images so that only Mulder remained? Or did she simply not exist as far as the stalker was concerned? How could they have guarded against this intrusion? "What if's" twisted Scully's stomach into knots. How could *she* have kept Mulder safe? Why hadn't she ever noticed what was happening? Each passing moment made her more certain that something was dreadfully wrong. When the phone rang, she jumped. She'd left a message with Skinner's assistant and had been waiting for him to call back. She picked up the receiver and his voice rumbled, "What do you have?" "I did a preliminary inspection of Mulder's apartment. There's no indication he had plans to be anywhere other than work." "Did you find more photos or letters?" "I haven't searched his desk yet, but there was nothing in his mailbox. His car isn't parked outside. I was out of town yesterday so I don't know what he was wearing. However, I was able to determine that his keys, wallet, and briefcase are missing. He may not have made it home at all last night. I'm planning to examine everything more thoroughly, but I wanted to give you my initial findings first." "Very well, Agent. Keep me apprised of anything else you discover. I think we both realize the police won't consider a missing person's report at this stage, but we can start an in- house investigation. I'll send out a team to give you a hand collecting trace evidence, doing interviews and whatever else you want covered. In the meantime, I'll get the photos and letters to the lab, see what they can come up with for us. Report back to me when you're through there and we'll decide what else needs to be done." "Thank you, Sir. I'll see you later." She hung up the phone and looked around. She couldn't just sit, doing nothing, until the other agents arrived. Where should she check next? Mulder's bedroom had only yielded a couple of paperbacks and a tube of Astroglide in the night stand. The rest of the room was the way she remembered it. The computer caught her eye. His email. Only last week she'd teased him about hiding Internet porn, so he'd told her the password and let her check it. He'd had surprisingly little mail. While the computer booted up, she rifled the desk drawers. There was nothing she hadn't expected to find, although the contents were a bit bizarre by anyone else's standards. Yellowed tabloid newspapers, print-outs of Internet sites about monsters and glow-in-the-dark alien key chains were all typical Mulder detritus. His email didn't yield anything new or odd. She'd have to check his office computer later. It was beginning to look like this mystery woman preferred the personal approach. Scully fed the fish then checked the kitchen trash for possible evidence. She looked in all the cupboards and peeked into the oven. She could have left it until the other agents showed up, but it gave her something to do. When she opened the refrigerator, it was time to admit that she was just being nosy. Mulder's apartment was a familiar link to him, possibly the last place he'd been before disappearing. She hadn't found any evidence to indicate that he'd actually made it through the door, but he felt closer here. It was irrational and she knew it. She squared her shoulders and forced herself to sit down. The other agents Skinner was sending would be there soon and they could get the investigation under way. She should be making note of the things they needed to do. First thing, they would talk to every person in the building, especially anyone who might have a view of where she found the syringe. Maybe somebody saw something last night. And there was still the question of all those pictures, many of them taken of this very room. That gave them just cause to question the residents of the apartment building across the street, search the roof for evidence. She wasn't going to leave until they'd covered every possible angle, "official" investigation or not. Maybe she was wrong, and Mulder *had* gone off on his own. If so, neither of them would hear the end of it from Skinner or the other agents, but future embarrassment wasn't enough to quell the alarm that gibbered at the back of her mind. The urge to tear around, mindlessly searching for clues, was almost overwhelming. Her years of training were the only things holding her back. Skinner could be certain nothing was missed if she followed the prescribed steps for an investigation. But that didn't mean she had to like the wait. She would come back tonight, maybe sleep in Mulder's bed. If he returned on his own, he'd be more likely to show up there. Scully felt in her heart that such an answer was too easy but she couldn't let go of that hope. Hope was all she had at the moment. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location unknown Hot water pounding on his head went a long way toward clearing Mulder's thought processes. It was obvious that he was going to need all his wits to analyze his current situation and find a way out. He'd probably been awake for only a couple of hours, and he didn't know much more than when he'd awakened. Her name was Julie and he was "Where you belong--with me." She wouldn't say how she brought him into the house, although he figured she probably dragged him somehow. Either his car was still here or she'd gotten rid of it while he slept. She wouldn't tell him anything more, no matter how many different ways he phrased the question. If he asked what she wanted with him, her ever-present smile widened. For some reason, that frightened him more than staring down the barrel of his own gun. He had a nasty suspicion that he already knew what she wanted. The idea sent trickles of icy fear squirming down his spine, even as the steaming water cascaded over his back. He glanced at the shower curtain for the umpteenth time. It had finally fogged over, which made him feel a bit less vulnerable. The fact that it was clear plastic hadn't registered until he'd asked if he could wash off. That's when he realized he'd be showering naked in front of a total stranger. After the lack of privacy afforded him while taking a leak, he didn't expect her to leave so he could wash, either. She hadn't. Sometimes, he really hated being right. Turning his back to the room gave him as much privacy as he was going to get. Once he was inside the tub, Julie placed soap and shampoo on the edge of the sink where he could reach them. Clean shorts and a towel were left on the back of the toilet. Then she retreated to the chair again, gun still in hand, and sat down to watch. Mulder ignored her as much as he could manage. Drying off presented new challenges. He couldn't very well climb out of the bathtub backwards. He'd be forced to allow her a gander at the goods until he snagged the towel. He decided to play it cool and not let her rattle him. The cooler he could be, the better. He would have to profile Julie in order to figure out a way around her and he couldn't do that if he was tense and nervous. Drying and dressing didn't take nearly long enough--it was hard to draw out putting on a pair of underwear. He really didn't want to leave the bathroom, but he couldn't stay there indefinitely. He played with the idea of using the soap or shampoo as a weapon until Julie indicated that he was to bring out everything she'd supplied and throw them on the bed. Mulder wondered what past experience had made her so cautious. He was pretty sure he wasn't the first person she'd abducted. She was far too assured and precisely organized to be a beginner. He decided not to think about what might have happened to her other victims just yet. That kind of speculation wouldn't promote calm, cool nerves. Julie waved him off before she gathered up his towel, dirty shorts and soaps. She placed them on the chair with his empty breakfast tray, then picked up the chair in one hand and walked backward to the door. Mulder was already beginning to despair of ever getting the drop on her. She seemed to have thought of everything. She pushed the door open with her hip and kept him covered while she backed across the threshold. Once outside, she shoved the door closed again, keeping him in her sights until the last possible moment. He heard at least two locks engage as he raced across the room. He knew it was too late, but tried to push it open anyway. Locked. He pounded the heel of his hand against the door in frustration and shouted a couple times without any real hope of being heeded. He mentally kicked himself for not realizing that the door wasn't locked even while he acknowledged that he'd never have made a successful break for it. Julie might sound like a child, but she was firmly in control of the situation and didn't seem to be the least bit hesitant about shooting him. He wouldn't get very far wounded. Or dead. He dug his fingers into the tiny gap around the door frame, looking for any kind of purchase to pry against. All he got was bent fingernails and-- What was that smell? He sniffed at the crack around the door and grimaced. It smelled like something had died out there. The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end. Jesus! He needed to get out of here! The slap of Mulder's footfalls echoed the frantic pounding of his heart. Up and down, back and forth, he paced the length and breadth of the room, searching for a way out, a weapon, ANYTHING. What had he missed in his first cursory inspection? There had to be something. There just *had* to be! The closet. Maybe... It proved to be exactly what it originally appeared--a totally empty hole without so much as a bracket to support a clothing rod. Okay, not the closet. How about the bathroom? It didn't take him long to realize the shower curtain was a bust. He'd been hoping for a nice solid rod to brain her with, but the curtain was on a track attached to the ceiling instead. He couldn't even remove the rings--they were some weird kind of lumpy contraption that was solidly seated in the track. The shower head appeared to have potential until he tried to take it apart with his bare hands. He stood in the tub, twisting it, turning it, yanking it back and forth, but to no avail. The damned thing behaved like it was welded on. Moisture slicked the smooth chrome, making it hard for him to obtain any purchase. He tried rubbing the water from his hands onto his boxers but quickly ran out of dry spots to use. He was panting and sweaty when he finally admitted defeat. The only result of all his hard work was palms rubbed raw and sore muscles. He sat on the side of the tub for a few minutes to catch his breath and check out the rest of the bathroom. The sink was a small pedestal model, the main pipes covered with a sleeve of porcelain where they ran up the wall to the bottom of the bowl. He'd try taking the faucets apart later. With any luck, he'd get what he needed from the toilet tank first. Maybe he could use a piece of the flushing mechanism as a shiv or a spike. No time like the present to try. His social calendar wasn't exactly packed. Mulder stood next to the toilet, got a firm grip on the tank lid and picked up. The jolt when it didn't move rocked him on his heels. He blinked, got a better grip and tried again. Nothing. Tank lids weren't *that* heavy, were they? He yanked. Nothing. He pried. Nothing. He got his fingers under the edge and pulled and tugged and pushed and swore. The fucking lid was glued to the tank! He couldn't open the damned thing no matter what he did! How the hell did you cement a toilet tank together? Slamming his interlocked fists against the tank repeatedly, Mulder shouted and cursed, pure frustration raging out of control. Again and again he pounded on the top, the sides, the front, anywhere he could reach. Shock waves jarred his arms. His shoulders and back ached from the strain but he didn't stop. Eventually, fatigue set in, his arms too leaden to lift anymore. Undaunted, he kicked the toilet. The bottom of his foot landed square on the flush handle. Fiery pain dropped him to the floor. He lay there for a few minutes, breathing hard, muttering imprecations against the ancestry of toilet manufacturers everywhere. His stomach let out a peevish grumble. God knew what time it was, but it felt like he'd been hammering away at his prison for days. Certainly it had been enough hours to require more nourishment. So where was his jailer? Even a condemned man was afforded a last meal. A glance at the door brought the video camera into his line of view. Was she out there watching? He hoped she was. Escape might not be easy, but he wouldn't stop trying. No way in hell was he going to roll over and be her pet FBI agent. Another growl from his stomach was the signal to get back to work. Keeping busy would make it easier to ignore his hunger. And his sore hands. Unfortunately, sitting up meant pushing against the floor with his hands, then grabbing the rim of the sink to pull himself upright. He tried to brush aside the pain but the throbbing in his foot was a little harder to dismiss. Mulder limped back to the bedroom, mind already running over new options for escape. It didn't take long to exhaust the list. He had no tools to force the door. There weren't any windows to crawl through. The light fixtures and heat registers were too high to provide raw materials for weapons, unless he could roll the mattress and use it to boost himself to the ceiling. That was a thought. He hobbled to the make-shift bed and nudged it with his toe. It felt damned solid. Picking it up by one end, he dragged it into the middle of the room, underneath the lights. When he tried to fold it in half, the whole thing flipped straight up, the blanket sliding into a heap on the floor. It was as rigid and unyielding as a plank. Maybe if he laid it on its side... That seemed promising until he tried to climb on it. Each time, the mattress would either slide out from under him or the edge would give way and dump him off. It looked solid, but in reality, it wasn't strong enough to stay upright and bear his weight. That didn't stop him from climbing it over and over and over. Around the fifth or sixth try, he banged his head on the floor and saw stars. Mulder got back up, then heaved the mattress against the wall in frustration. It fell to the floor with a thump and he threw himself on top of it. There were other possibilities to explore once his mind stopped screaming in panic, but at the moment, it looked like he wasn't going to leave unless Julie let him out. Barring any new discoveries, he'd have to find a different way. Talk her into letting him go. Figure out why she wanted him in the first place. What drove her to kidnap him? What motivated her? How could he make a connection, get her to listen to reason? Why him? That was the big question. Why him and not someone else? He looked at the pictures circling the walls, photo after photo of him, taken by a total stranger. Why? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ J. Edgar Hoover Building Basement office 8:03 PM Scully didn't know what else to do. There had to be *something*, but she couldn't think of anything. Staring at Mulder's bulletin board wasn't giving her any new ideas, although she could relate to his "I Want To Believe" poster more than usual. The machinery was already in motion to investigate Mulder's disappearance. Skinner had sent the envelope, photos and letters to the print lab. From there, they would go for handwriting analysis, then to be studied for clues in the background. Chances of finding anything weren't really good. Most of the pictures were close-ups and the far shots seemed to be of unremarkable surroundings. Scully took charge of the evidence team at Mulder's apartment. In spite of Skinner's reluctance to allow her into the investigation, there was no way in hell he could keep her out of it. She would have gone behind his back if she'd had to. She was sure Skinner knew this, which was why he didn't kick up more of a fuss. The interviews with Mulder's neighbors had turned out to be an exercise in futility--no one heard anything, no one saw anything, no one knew anything. Apparently, people didn't bother to pay attention to what went on outside their own little sphere of comfort. A couple of them were distressingly happy to hear that he was missing. The brain-storming session she'd just finished with the newly- formed investigative team was also frustrating. With almost no information available to them, there was very little brain- storming to do. The best idea had been to check for other crimes using the same MO. Scully wasn't sure why she thought there might be others, but the kidnapping was carried out so neatly, it seemed like a logical assumption. The perp couldn't be a beginner and leave so few clues behind. The letters and photos were the only evidence they had so far. If this woman had pulled off a similar crime in the past, it might be possible to find out her real name and location. Outside the office, the elevator dinged. Scully straightened in excitement. It only took her a few seconds to realize that the footsteps drawing closer weren't Mulder's. She heard the steps halt outside the office door and Skinner peered in. "I thought I'd find you here," he grumbled. "Go home, Agent. You need rest." "I can't." "You can. You're not going to be any help to this investigation if you're exhausted." She opened her mouth to continue arguing, but there wasn't any point. She knew he was right and she was too tired to argue. She decided to give in easily, the way Skinner had about her involvement with the case. "Yes, Sir." Scully saw the look of surprise on his face as she stood, then picked up her briefcase. "Thank you for allowing me to be on the task force," she added. Skinner peered at her over his glasses. "Did I have a choice?" She couldn't suppress the slight quirk of her lips. "Maybe not, but I appreciate it anyway." He cleared his throat and stared down at his feet. "When was the last time you ate?" The question caught her by surprise. Not only would she never have expected her boss to ask such a thing, but she couldn't remember if she'd eaten at all during the day. She knew she'd had supper the night before, but she couldn't be sure about any time since. He nodded. "That's what I thought. Come on. Let's find some food." That was even more unexpected than the question about her eating habits. She raised an eyebrow and he held up a file folder. "We're going to pick over these copies of the photos and letters until we come up with something we can use. Don't fool yourself into thinking this is a social meal. We've got a lot of work to do." She was touched. In spite of his words, Scully knew Skinner was trying to take care of her. He'd make her work her ass off during dinner, she had no doubt about that. He'd pick her brain until there wasn't anything left to extract. But he'd also make sure she ate and send her home to sleep instead of letting her sit all night in Mulder's office chair, quietly losing her mind. She let him maintain the illusion of hard-assed despot and waved a hand at the door. "Bring it on, Sir. After you." He stepped out of the way so she could shut and lock the door, then followed her to the elevator. Suddenly, Scully felt more hopeful. The other agents on the investigation team would do their job, but none of them was enthusiastic about looking for the joke of the FBI. She'd heard one of them whisper, "Better missing than dragging the Bureau through the mud." She'd tried not to take the other agent's words to heart, but they weighed on her. If it was only her against everyone else in the hunt for Mulder, so be it. She would fight tooth and nail to find him and bring him back. She wouldn't let their piss-poor attitude deter her for a second. But now she knew Skinner was willing to fight beside her. Maybe they actually had a chance of finding Mulder after all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location unknown As Julie backed from the room with his empty supper tray, gun firmly trained on him, Mulder stretched out on the mattress and stared up at the ceiling. He could think better if he didn't have to look at those damned pictures. It had been a long quiet stretch between breakfast and supper. Either she'd forgotten to feed him at noon or she'd gone to work. There really wasn't any way for him to tell the time, other than by the growling of his stomach. He'd actually been glad to see her when she brought his food, meager though it was. A burger, fries and a soft drink. She really had been watching him closely--it was loaded with all the things he normally liked. Of course, what he'd *really* like was a non-painful way to bust himself out. Mulder held up his hands and studied the red, swollen palms. He'd try again tomorrow. An unfamiliar protrusion on the side of his right hand caught his attention. He pushed on it with a finger and winced. Must have damaged something, beating on the toilet tank lid. Scully would have raised her eyebrow at him trying to break it with his bare fists, but he had to make the attempt. Apparently it was beyond the realm of possibility, as the bump on his hand proved. He pushed on it again, then decided not to do that anymore. With his luck it was fractured. Which reminded him... Mulder pulled his foot up to check the instep. Not so much as a bruise. That was a relief. Considering he already knew the tank was sealed, kicking the toilet hadn't been the best decision of his life. IF he'd managed to knock it apart, he still wouldn't have been able to open it. So far, there didn't appear to be anything he could MacGyver together as a tool or weapon to help himself. He'd spent a good bit of time crawling around the perimeter of the room, trying to pry up the edges of the flooring with his nails. He'd done it more to keep himself occupied. Sheet vinyl wouldn't make much of a weapon even if he *could* manage to rip off a hunk. His accommodations were every bit as stark and devoid of hope as he'd originally deduced. That wouldn't stop him from doing his damnedest to escape, but things were definitely not looking good. He yawned. Oddly enough, he was tired. He'd been relatively busy for someone who'd been kidnapped, but he didn't think he'd expended *that* much energy. In any case, he'd physically done what he could for one day without leaving himself crippled. Either he could spend the solitary hours until his next meal bemoaning his predicament, or he could keep busy. Maybe it was time to see what mental exercise would accomplish. Victim profile. Offender profile. Modus operandi. Evidence. Mulder decided there wasn't much he could do with that last one. He was probably lying flat on his back, in the middle of most of the evidence. He forced himself to look at the photos. There was plenty of information to be gained from their study if he could see beyond the personal invasion to locate the clues. The variety of activities she'd caught him in was staggering. And disturbing. She'd obviously used a telephoto lens. There were far too many pictures through the living room windows of his apartment. The ones of him in the shower couldn't have been taken there, though--his bathroom didn't have a window. Also the shower walls weren't visible in the photo, so it was larger than his. That fact niggled at his brain, yet he couldn't pin down why. It shouldn't be this hard to figure it out. His vision went blurry and he rubbed at his eyes. She'd watched him play basketball. A lot. There were pictures of him running in sweats, walking in a suit, standing around in his trenchcoat, buying groceries and carrying take-out home. In some, it looked like he was talking to another person, but there wasn't anyone else in the photos. Mulder wondered how she could have taken so many pictures without him noticing her once. The answer? She knew what she was doing. Considering the room set-up, the video equipment, the use of his own gun and the security precautions, Julie appeared savvy enough to avoid leaving clues behind. He suspected that Scully wasn't going to have much to work with. And he wouldn't bet on any prior arrests, other victims or not. He yawned again. Might as well start with the victim profile. That should be easy enough. Did the victim engage in any activities which left him vulnerable to violence? Um, duh. He was an FBI agent, a synonym for "moving target." Did the victim engage in any past activity with the perpetrator which might have led to the present circumstances? NO! Mulder pounded the mattress with his throbbing fists. That was the real pisser. He was almost certain he'd never met Julie before last night. He didn't always remember faces, but he certainly wouldn't forget that voice. It was high-pitched and childish, sort of like the ballerina Munchkins in Wizard of Oz. Her hair was extremely fair, but not enough to make it especially memorable. The same with her face. She was pretty, but in a Miss-America-common way. Nothing terribly unusual about her at all, except her voice and the way her mind worked. She was definitely a couple psychoses short of a straight- jacket. That was a very psychologically professional observation, Agent Mulder. Thank you for your expert opinion. He yawned a third time. Why the hell was he so tired? He hadn't been doing anything physically exhausting, yet he couldn't seem to stop yawning. Maybe it was the emotional shock. So where was he? Oh yeah. His profile. She wasn't anyone he remembered meeting on an old case or more recently. Which meant he probably didn't know her at all. He might have met her casually at a party or standing in line at the store. Why did she target him? What had he done to draw her attention that strongly? His jaw actually cracked on the next yawn. He could barely keep his eyes open. Damn. He needed to sleep. He wasn't getting anywhere and his brain felt fuzzy. Better leave it until tomorrow. Mulder couldn't remember the last time he'd been so tired. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location unknown Thursday 6:05 AM Julie rinsed the razor in the bowl of warm water one last time, then wiped the rest of the shaving cream off Mulder's face with a damp washcloth. There. All that ugly, scratchy stubble was gone. Momma always said a man with a beard was trying to conceal something. Fox had absolutely nothing he needed to hide. Julie caressed his cheek but he didn't stir. He was such a deep sleeper, her Beautiful Fox. He looked so peaceful, compared to the tension that always radiated off him at work. Being an FBI agent was too stressful for a sensitive man like Fox. Running around after criminals, waving his gun and shouting; that was no life for a beautiful person. He was much happier since he'd quit all that and come to live with her. Leaving his partner was the best thing he could have done. Julie bent to pick up the shaving supplies, but stopped when she noticed a dot of red on Mulder's jaw. She moved closer and gasped. There was blood on his face! The razor cut him! Julie recoiled, looking around the room frantically for help. How bad was it? What should she do? Would he be scarred for life? What a horrible thought! She grabbed the wash cloth out of the bowl and slopped it along the trickle of blood. Pink-tinged water drooled over the side of his face, down his neck onto the pillow. She did it again. And again. The bleeding looked like it had slowed down. She peered closer. Yes! It was stopping! Thank heaven. The nick was tiny, hardly noticeable at all. Fox was fine. It would be okay now. He was still as beautiful as ever. What a relief! Julie shakily carried the bowl of soapy water to the bathroom and emptied it into the sink. Then she took it back to the bed and piled the washcloth, razor and can of shaving cream into it. She peeked at his jaw. It was blessedly free of blood. Yes. Everything was all right. A mound of fabric at the foot of the bed caught her eye. She needed to continue with her chores or she'd be late for work. She rolled Mulder back and forth while she removed the bottom sheet and replaced it with a clean one. She pulled the pillow out from under his head, yanked the old pillowcase off, then jiggled on a fresh one. After she picked his head up to slip it back underneath, she stopped a moment to admire his relaxed features. He was always getting injured or beat up in the line of duty, and it was all his partner's fault. Julie had seen the medical reports in his personnel file. Agent Scully didn't try to keep him safe. She was nothing but a scheming, conniving tramp. She constantly showed up at Fox's apartment on some flimsy pretext, seducing him with her wicked lies until he couldn't keep himself from hugging and kissing her. It was absolutely disgusting the way she used him for her own lustful pleasure. Julie flipped open a fresh top sheet and started to cover him but changed her mind, dropping it at the foot of the bed instead. She couldn't get enough of looking at him. From his long, elegant feet to his commanding nose, Fox was the ideal of masculine beauty. Thick, dark lashes, the plumpest, most kissable mouth in the world, a slightly dimpled chin, the small mole on his cheek--he was absolutely perfect in every way. And he was all hers. Julie watched the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Her gaze followed the faint trail of hair from the patch on his chest, down his stomach to where it disappeared under the waistband of his boxers. The clingy fabric highlighted the soft swell of his penis and testicles, the springy pubic curls beneath giving a pitted appearance to the cloth. She tracked the length of his legs, the firm runner's muscles in the thighs and calves, all the way to the ends of his toes. One of his feet twitched. Julie giggled. Agent Scully didn't deserve such a beautiful partner. She deserved the jealousy she was going to feel after tomorrow. Let her regret treating him like any ordinary man. Julie hoped Scully was eaten alive by envy when she saw the pictures of Beautiful Fox sleeping so peacefully in another woman's bed. It served her right for not appreciating what she had before he got fed up and moved on. Julie lingered for one more look. Then she picked up the dirty sheets and took them out into the hallway. She returned for the bowl and the digital camera she'd used earlier, checking to make sure she wasn't leaving anything behind. It wouldn't do to forget something. Fox might hurt himself. She was going to take very good care of him from now on. He'd never have to worry about getting hurt again. She'd see to that. The sheets went into the laundry room. She took the shaving supplies into the kitchen and left them on the counter. She always saved the digital camera to deal with last. It was the best part of her morning. Time to see the beautiful pictures she'd taken. Julie inserted the memory card into her computer and clicked on the icon. She smiled as the new thumbnails opened. These were even better than the previous night's. Fox looked so contented and happy. He was almost smiling in some of them. She'd be sure to include those in the envelope she was sending to Agent Scully. She pointed her cursor at the fifth thumbnail and opened it. These next ones were her favorite kind. She never tired of watching him orgasm. Fox always said she knew exactly the right way to touch him. It wasn't easy trying to take pictures and stroke him at the same time, but she did it because he asked her to. Maybe she should invest in a tripod and cable release shutter. Then she could take a more-closely spaced series of pictures and she wouldn't have to worry about spoiling them because she'd moved. Of course, she wouldn't be sharing that set of pictures with anyone else. Those were just for her and Fox. They were his favorite kind, too. Julie checked the time. She needed to change and shower. She'd already been late to work once. It wouldn't do for anyone to start asking questions. She could sort all of the week's photos and print out what she wanted this evening. Maybe she'd stop on the way home and pick up that cable shutter. She wished she could take a picture of the look on Agent Scully's face when she opened the envelope of photos tomorrow. Julie could show it to Fox and they'd have a good laugh together. It was so nice to find someone who shared her sense of humor. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ J. Edgar Hoover Building Conference room 4B Friday 8:40 AM Four days. Mulder had officially been missing four whole days and they still didn't have any solid leads. The first forty-eight hours were the most important in any investigation and they'd already doubled that. After two days, the trail started to grow cold, eye witnesses were less likely and any remaining evidence could be too compromised to use. Scully tried not to let her worry take over, but every day that passed made Mulder's survival less of a certainty. The fingerprints had been a bust. The lab found plenty of prints on the photos and letters. A partial lifted from the syringe matched. They knew they were dealing with the same person but there was no record of a match in the database. That could mean Mulder's kidnapping was the perp's first, although Scully doubted it. More likely, the responding agencies to any past incidents hadn't sent the information to be entered in the database. It happened all the time as police departments were downsized because of financial cuts. Forwarding prints from every unsolved case wasn't a big priority for a lot of cash- strapped police chiefs. Or the prints could be sitting in a backlog somewhere, waiting to be added to the system. There was no way to tell for sure. They'd have to find another way to narrow the search. At least they could be sure of one thing--Mulder *hadn't* disappeared on his own. His DNA was found in the syringe's needle, pulled inside when it was removed from his body. Unfortunately, the contents of the syringe weren't going to be much help on their own. Valium. Seconal. Chloral hydrate, of all things, and a couple drugs they hadn't identified yet. It was a sedative cocktail, a classic Mickey Finn. Any one of those drugs would have been enough to knock him out in the right dose. Mixed together, who knew what kind of effect it would have? Where the hell was the kidnapper getting them? The damned Internet made things so easy to obtain these days. Locating her by tracing the drugs was worse than a long shot. If she knew the right place to buy, they'd find no trace of her. Scully glanced around the room. Agents Janis, Samuels and Hatter sat at computers in one corner, looking through online newspaper morgues for unsolved cases with a similar MO. Gardner, Pryzbyzki and Perkins each had a phone to their ear, tracking down photo paper manufacturers, printer ink dealers, outlets for pink stationary, police departments all over the country--anything they could think of which might provide a decent lead. It was slow, mind-numbing work, but Scully had to give them credit for sticking with it. Whether they liked Mulder or not, he was a missing colleague. With the DNA from the syringe as proof, even the biggest skeptic among them was willing to admit that he hadn't traipsed off on one of his snipe hunts. They were all putting out their best effort to find any tiny crumb of evidence that would help to bring him home. Scully had just finished talking with what seemed like the one- millionth small town police department she'd contacted since Tuesday. She tried not to think of it as busy work, but more along the lines of making herself useful while maintaining sanity. The bulletin they'd sent out should have already reached the major departments in the country. Skinner also thought it would be a good idea to touch base with the little guys who might not have the manpower to check into old cases right away. Nevertheless, it was probably just busy work. Her phone rang and she answered it wearily. "Scully." "Um, is this Special Agent Dana Scully?" a deep voice asked. She sat up straighter. "Yes, this is she. May I help you?" "Actually, I may be able to help you." He chuckled. "Sorry. Just not used to talking with the FBI. I'm Captain Dan Kinsner, with the Paducah, Kentucky PD. We got your bulletin and I think we might have something similar." Scully's heart sped up. "Thank you for calling, Captain. What do you have?" The sound of shuffling paper drifted into her ear. "About ten months ago, we got a call from a landlord on the edge of town. Seems one of his tenants skipped out on her rent. She was paying month by month and fell behind. He went to the house to check, noticed a strange smell, didn't like the look of things, and called us. Inside one of the bedrooms was the body of Dale Canner, age thirty-two, single, a short-order cook in a local diner." "And he'd received photos and letters, like the ones described in the bulletin?" Scully actually crossed her fingers. Pictures would indicate a solid link. "Yes ma'am. When he was reported missing, we searched his apartment, found a big pink envelope stuffed with pictures and letters, some of them downright embarrassing. Somebody had spent a *lot* of time watching and thinking about the man. The crime scene had a huge mural of those photographs. Well over a hundred, all printed out on a standard computer printer. A lot of the letters were worse than the photos--sexually explicit but total fabrications from what his friends and coworkers said. There was no return address on the envelope. We ran the prints locally but that was no help. If the landlord hadn't gone over to get his missing rent, we might not have found that poor guy for a couple more months. The house is in a newer development, not a lot of neighbors yet." Scully grabbed a pen and a pad of paper, wrote 'Isolated house. Victim single.' She thought for a moment, tapping the pen against her lips. "Did you run the renter's name?" "Sure did. Carrie Collins. It was just as big a lie as the letters. Good enough for the kind of surface check a landlord might do but otherwise a total dead end, if you'll excuse the expression. We also checked with the diner where the victim worked, but there wasn't any Carrie Collins employed there. We'd kinda hoped they knew each other. Woulda made our job a lot easier." Scully tried not to sigh in frustration. "What did you find at the scene?" She heard more paper rustling. "Small house, two bedrooms, each with an attached bath. The second bedroom--without the body--contained a used bed and dresser, but otherwise was completely clean and normal. Hair fibers were collected from the carpet, but that won't help unless the perp is found. On the floor behind the toilet there was a vial that contained barbiturate traces, a mixture of Xanax, Seconal, and you're not going to believe this one, Chloral Hydrate. Lord knows where she picked it up. No prescription label, unfortunately. That would have been too much to hope for, I guess." A tingle of excitement prickled across the back of Scully's neck. The Mickey Finn, including Seconal and Chloral Hydrate. Two similarities. A pretty strong sign that they were probably dealing with the same kidnapper. Maybe they were finally going to get a break. The sound of papers rustling again. Kinsner continued, "The rest of the house barely appeared to be lived in. There was a second-hand desk and a dining table with one chair. All the furniture was traced back to the Goodwill store that delivered it. The delivery guys didn't remember this particular run until I read them the landlord's description of his renter." Scully straightened in anticipation. "What did she look like?" Captain Kinsner snorted. "I'd better give you the cleaned-up version. Harold Greenlee was a bit vulgar in his upset state and he didn't exactly remember her face. According to him, she was short, blonde and stacked, if you catch my meaning. He wasn't much help with other details. But he *did* remember her voice--said it was high and child-like. Made him look twice to see if she really was an adult. Don't know if that's much help, but it's definitely distinctive." "I'm sure it'll be a big help if we can find her." Scully wrote, 'Rental. Used furniture left behind. Distinctive voice.' She asked, "Could you describe the crime scene?" "Sure thing." He paused as if gathering his thoughts, then continued, "The bedroom was about fifteen foot square, not including the bathroom and closet. Both of those doors had been removed. There was a hole in the wall near the ceiling and another one out in the hallway. We never figured out what that was for, although it could have been for some kind of monitoring system. Later, we discovered there were no windows because the frames had been ripped out and the opening covered over with drywall. A very nice, professional job, too, probably done by somebody outside the area who didn't know the houses are rentals. Harold sure was pissed about it." "I'll bet," Scully said. She tried to keep the impatience out of her voice but she couldn't avoid fidgeting. "There wasn't any bed frame in the room--just a mattress on the floor, sheets, blankets and a pillow still in use. The body was stretched out on the mattress, like he'd fallen asleep. Probably got weak from lack of food and eventually couldn't move. Looked like he'd beat on the door some and tried to pry it away from the frame. His fingertips were chewed up and there were bruises on his hands and arms. He didn't go down without a fight, but he didn't stand much of a chance either. She'd replaced the regular bedroom door with a solid metal security door." "Cause of death?" Scully held her breath. "Poor beggar starved. Nearest we can figure, she'd rented the house three months before. Paid the first and last month, plus a deposit. With the attached bathroom, he had water but no food. He'd been missing for over two months when he was found." So she didn't kill them right away. Thank God! Not that starving to death was a pleasant way to go, but it meant there was a good chance of finding Mulder alive if they hurried. Scully felt a rush of hope, the first in four days. "Could you send me a copy of the file, along with the landlord's name and a number where I can contact him?" "Can do, ma'am," the captain replied. "I hope it helps you find your missing man." You're not the only one, she thought. "At least we can run the fingerprints and see if they match." The man coughed. "Yeah. Sorry about that. What with budget cuts and all..." "I understand, Captain," she said. "I greatly appreciate you taking the time to check the bulletin and contact me." "No problem, Agent Scully. I was the one who answered Harold's call for assistance. Don't think I'll ever forget the inside of that room no matter how long I live." She jotted down his phone number on the pad of notes, thanked him again, and hung up. This was the most promising information they'd obtained so far. With the solid matches to Mulder's kidnapping, they had enough cause to enter the info into VICAP to check for any other unsolved cases. They could ask the landlord to work with a sketch artist, give them something more to go on than the perp's bust measurements. A hand and arm came into her peripheral vision and set a stack of folders on the desk. Scully sighed. More police departments to call. It could literally take months to work through all of the small-town departments in the country, but now they had a slightly narrowed focus to consider. She'd share this new information with the other agents. They could concentrate on Kentucky and work in a circle around the state. It was better than what they had less than an hour ago. Scully was vaguely aware that the clerk who'd delivered the files was humming as she continued to distribute material to the other agents in the room. The song sounded familiar, but Scully couldn't quite remember the words. She'd probably think of them later, when she was trying to sleep. She hummed a small snatch of the song. Catchy tune, though. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location unknown Mulder rubbed his throbbing elbow. Well, smashing through the wall was out. His continued attempts to take the shower head apart were simply chewing the hell out of his palms so he'd moved to tapping on the walls, looking for a window. It had to be there somewhere, covered over with drywall, maybe plywood. He thought he'd found it. If his hands weren't in such bad shape he might have succeeded, but it was his personal opinion that breaking through a wall using either fists, elbows or feet simply wasn't possible. Definitely not using bare feet. He was starting to suspect he'd broken a couple of toes. Sound body parts were becoming a shrinking commodity. He'd been a prisoner for five days already. Maybe. He really couldn't tell what day it was without access to a clock or a window to look outside. If he'd been kidnapped on Monday night, then the first day was Tuesday. Since then, he'd only seen Julie sporadically. Some days she brought him breakfast and supper. Other days supper was his only meal. There wasn't any way for him to keep track of time, so he had to guess. Five suppers *should* equal five days, which would make it Saturday. Theoretically. He wandered back to the bed and lay down, shifting around, trying to get comfortable. At first, he hadn't noticed how hard the bed was, but then he also hadn't spent much time on it unless he was sleeping. He'd occupied himself by searching the room over and over, looking for a way out, a weapon, a clue, anything at all that would help him to escape. It was a wonder he was able to do as much as he had so far. His brain felt dopey all the time and his movements clumsy. Headaches were frequent and his dreams were more vivid than usual. Some days it didn't seem worth getting out of bed. He was nauseous a lot of the time and he'd thrown up after breakfast twice. That was a waste of food he desperately needed. He couldn't seem to get rid of the cottony feeling in his mouth, either. It had taken him at least three days to realize Julie was drugging his supper. The fact that he was falling asleep without any problem should have been enough of a tip-off. He'd just assumed he was sleeping well because of all the exercise he was getting. After the second full day alone, he knew he'd go crazy if he didn't find something to do. It wasn't the same as running every day, but a couple hours or so of push-ups, crunches and jogging in place helped to burn off the energy he couldn't expend in other activities. Headaches, dizziness and occasional blurred vision made exercising the last thing he wanted to do, but it was better than going out of his mind from boredom, even when his heart was pounding and he felt like he'd run ten miles on a blistering summer's day afterward. On the third evening of his captivity, just before he'd passed out, he finally grasped the fact that he was as fuzzy-brained as when he woke up the first time. Mulder hadn't felt so stupid since he'd called a new girlfriend by a previous girlfriend's name in the throes of sex, thereby ending the relationship a tad prematurely. It was so obvious now--she was still knocking him out. He should have realized it the instant he noticed the clean sheets every day yet never saw her change the bed. Or how about his freshly shaved face? He certainly wasn't shaving himself but somehow he'd skipped right over that. For whatever reason, Julie was entering the room at night and taking care of him. Maybe it was part of her fantasy, maybe she had other motives. Even if she'd talk to him about it, Mulder wasn't sure he wanted to know. Also, the lights were always on. He passed out with them blazing away and they were still on when he awoke. Plus, she'd had to wake him on the mornings she actually showed up with breakfast. That simply wasn't normal for him. Big clues, stupidly missed. He blamed the drugs. If his brain was clear, he definitely would have caught on right away. He was a trained investigator! He was supposed to notice these things! While he now knew that she was drugging his supper, refusing to eat it wasn't really an option. Meals were irregular at best and starving himself wouldn't help him escape. The first rule of survival dictated keeping up your strength for any eventuality. It wasn't easy to eat with his own gun pointed at his head, though. She didn't seem to be uncomfortable handling it and, so far, she hadn't gotten close enough to make jumping her a safe option. He didn't see any way of overpowering her as long as she had his weapon. So far, there didn't seem to *be* a way out. Or if there was, he hadn't found it yet. That could also be the result of the drug. His brain was rather sluggish for most of the day and only really started to clear about the time she brought supper and drugged him again. She rarely spoke, even if he tried to engage her in conversation. But Mulder wasn't going to make the mistake of thinking that she wasn't paying attention. Not when she always kept his gun firmly trained on him. The best he could do was to keep physically and mentally active, so he spent several hours a day exercising and the rest of his time either pacing, assaulting the plumbing or stretched out on the mattress, thinking. She never showed up with his supper until it felt very late in the day, then left as soon as he was done eating, usually without saying anything. He always fell asleep within a short amount of time. Every day had been exactly the same--mind-numbingly lonely, hungry and hopeless. After however many days it had been, he was still no closer to understanding or escaping his predicament than he was on the first. Well, that wasn't completely true. With plenty of time to do nothing but think, Mulder was pretty sure he had a good grasp of Julie's psychological typology. Considering he couldn't remember ever meeting her before, he'd put her down as a love-obsessive stalker. Although they had nothing in common and no shared history, even her sparse answers to his questions made it obvious she believed herself to be in love with him, and he with her. She was clearly delusional, living inside her head, playing out whatever fantasy she'd created for the two of them. Some love-obsessive stalkers were content to remain in their own misguided reality while others escalated to deliberate violence. Which meant he had a fifty-fifty chance of being in worse trouble than he already was. Julie wasn't an amateur, either. Mulder was absolutely certain she'd kidnapped other men. He'd wondered when he first caught a whiff of something outside the door, but he was sure now. The number of security measures she'd taken, the small touches of paranoia, all spoke to him of past experience. She had the ability to adapt her plans in order to avoid the problems that cropped up with other victims. Did someone try to attack her with the bathroom supplies? Was that why she insisted on taking the soaps and towels out of the room? Had a former captive used the closet's clothing rod against her? Why were there no windows in the room? Had she boarded them over because someone tried to break out? Did she always carry some kind of weapon with her, or was that also the result of a previous abduction? It was nice of him to provide one for her this time. What, specifically, made *him* a target? That was the question Mulder really wanted to have answered. He needed more information, though. Personal information about Julie. He turned his head and reluctantly looked at the pictures of himself which circled his prison. She seemed to know an awful lot about him. It was time he asked some different questions, learned more about her, too. She hadn't told him why she'd taken him, where they were or what she wanted with him. None of that fit into her fantasy, but telling him about herself might. Badgering hadn't gotten him anywhere. He should see if playing into her fantasy of them as a normal couple would. Yeah. Normal. Normal couples didn't eat their meals with one of them holding a gun on the other. Normal couples didn't drug each others' food. Normal couples didn't keep each other locked up against their will. He and Scully were a normal couple. Sort of. They really hadn't been together long enough to have worked out their "couplehood" yet. But at least she'd never made him eat at gunpoint. She'd threatened to a couple of times, when he was engrossed in a case, but he knew she'd never follow through. He smiled. Thoughts of Scully were just about the only thing keeping him sane. He didn't have a lot to hold onto at the moment, but hopefully she would be enough. He had to believe that she'd find him or he'd go out of his mind. Possessing a special pipeline into the minds of sickos wasn't necessarily a good thing. He had a pretty clear idea about what had happened to his predecessors and the thought of being next in line didn't sit too well. Mulder tensed as he heard the door unlock. He'd stopped trying to rush her. His gun was always the first thing through the opening and moving closer would simply give her a larger target to hit. He suspected the video monitor was right outside because she never entered unless he was on the bed or in the bathroom. If she was watching every time he took a dump, he didn't know and didn't care. He *was* fairly certain she kept close track of him, though. It might not be easy to get the jump on her, but that didn't mean he was going to be caught unprepared if an opportunity arose. Whatever it took to survive. He had to focus on that. She set the chair down and pulled the door shut behind her before walking any closer. Mulder rolled off the far side of the mattress and stood with his back against the wall--another regular part of their routine which put him at a frustrating distance. She never advanced more than halfway into the room until he was on the other side of it. More evidence of prior experience. "Hello, Beautiful Fox. How are you today?" Her smile acknowledged his existence without admitting the bizarre nature of the situation. That smile was grating on his nerves more and more as the days went by. He wasn't sure how she expected him to answer her question, but he was pretty sure it was purely rhetorical anyway. She'd said the same thing every time she brought his breakfast, and that was the only thing she said. If he talked to her, she simply smiled wider without responding. But so far, he'd only asked questions. It was time to see what fitting into her dream world did. Mulder suppressed his rising irritation and smiled back. "Breakfast looks good, Julie. Did you make it yourself?" She should have appeared surprised by his response. For one thing, he'd never replied in quite that way before. For another, she'd brought him an egg-muffin sandwich and hash brown patty, still enclosed in the fast food wrappers. Anyone else would have been offended by his question. Instead, Julie took it in her stride, like they had a similar conversation every day of the week. The way she was able to fit everything into her fantasy creeped him out. Anything that contradicted it would be ignored or rationalized. Which would she do this time? Neither. She set his tray down on the bed and backed away to sit on the chair. The ever-present gun, firmly gripped in one hand, perched on her knee while she waited for him to eat. This wasn't working any better than asking her where he was. A different approach. "Do you have any special plans for today?" No answer, but her smile got bigger. Mulder hated when she did that. Keep trying. "Tell me about your week. How was work?" Still no answer. What was going on inside her head? Was she incorporating his words into whatever weird scene she had running? Did they register in her conscious mind at all or was his voice like the buzzing of a mosquito in a quiet room? Well, this mosquito was tired of being locked up and ignored. Mulder sat on the bed and unwrapped his meager breakfast. At least he didn't feel nauseous. With any luck, his food would stay down. He had plans for all that energy. The minute the door closed behind Julie, he'd return to bashing on the walls. His left foot was still in pretty good shape. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ J. Edgar Hoover building Conference room 4B Monday 3:22 PM Scully looked at the photos once more. It wasn't like she hadn't seen them dozens of times in the last two days, but she felt closer to Mulder while looking at them. God. Mulder. Why can't I find you? The pink envelope addressed to her had been hiding in the stack of folders delivered on Friday. She hadn't noticed it right away. When she did, the blood literally drained from her face. She'd always heard that phrase, but she'd never actually felt it happen before. Skinner was suddenly at her side, supporting her by the elbow. She didn't remember standing up. He barked out a command to one of the other agents--she knew that much, but the words didn't register. Latex-gloved hands reached to take the envelope from her grasp. She automatically held on tighter. "Let him have it, Agent," she heard Skinner say. "We need to see what's inside." She didn't want to see. Except she did. But she didn't. What if they were pictures of Mulder, dead? What if he was bleeding? Or skeletal from starvation? What if-- Stop it! Knowing would be better than speculating. She released her hold without warning, causing the other agent pulling on the packet to stagger. Scully realized she was in shock. She had to get a grip or Skinner wouldn't let her continue on the investigation. They needed to see what was in the envelope, and this time she wouldn't be contaminating the evidence first. "Sorry, Sir." She straightened her shoulders and looked him in the eye. "I'm fine." Skinner nodded. They stood side by side and watched as Agent Janis carefully slit the envelope on one end, then pulled out several large photos. He passed them to Skinner one at a time. Scully wondered when he'd put on latex gloves. Skinner held the pictures out for her to see. It was Mulder. He looked like he was asleep. Or dead. But she wouldn't think like that yet. One hand was palm down on his bare chest, the other lying straight at his side. She couldn't see his legs in the first one. Or the second. The poses were varied because of distance and angle, but some were full-length shots, some were torso-and-head only and others were facial close-ups. In the longer shots, his boxers were different colors. So the pictures covered several days. She couldn't say exactly how many, but certainly more than two or three. Possibly every night since he'd gone missing. There were certainly enough of them. Skinner caught her eye when he reached the end of the pile. "We need to send these to the lab, asap. Have you seen enough?" Scully wanted to say "no." In fact, she wanted to scream it, to hug the photos to her chest and never let go. She also knew the faster they were run through the lab, the better their chances of finding new evidence to work with. So she said "Yes" instead. The pictures were back in her hands in less than twenty-four hours. She'd barely set them down since. The print lab came through in record time, finding and matching several impressions, not only with the original photos, but with the syringe and the photos Captain Kinsner had sent from Kentucky. There was no doubt in Scully's mind that they were dealing with the same kidnapper. Inside the Kentucky file were pictures just like the ones she was holding. They'd been sent to the victim's girlfriend. There was the name in the file, too. They should have been able to do something with that. Scully had arrogantly assumed Captain Kinsner's department simply neglected to look hard enough. After all, people didn't vanish without a trace when they left behind a name. Well, they did if the name was totally bogus. The most rudimentary background check would have revealed the fake. The Paducah PD couldn't find what wasn't there. Everyone had lost a little hope at that point. They were continuing with their busy work and waiting for the results of the landlord's computer composite but morale was ebbing. Scully tried not to let it faze her. Before, all they had was one missing agent and a bunch of pictures. Now, they had an identical file and twice the evidence to work with. As morbid as it sounded, the more victims they found, the better their chances of turning up a decent lead. Slowly, she turned over each photograph, drinking in the sight of Mulder's face--the relaxed jaw, the smooth forehead, the closed eyes. In the weeks since their relationship had blossomed into something deeper, she'd spent many hours watching him sleep. She loved to sift her fingers through his hair while he drowsily tried to swat her hand away. Mulder wasn't exactly a nervous sleeper, but years of late-night alarms had made him subconsciously aware of his surroundings. In the photos, he looked peaceful. He looked content. Scully stopped leafing through them and brought one closer to her face. He looked drugged. She grabbed the pile of photos and fanned them out on the table. Why hadn't she realized it before? The colors were so clear, the photographer must have used a flash. He'd never sleep through that. He might have woken up after it went off, but it was obvious that some were taken in quick succession and Mulder remained asleep in every one of them. He would only do that if he were unconscious. The kidnapper must still be drugging him, and on a daily basis if the photos were anything to go by. What if she was using the same thing he'd been injected with when he was kidnapped? Those side effects... They flashed through her brain, a horrible slide show of what Mulder might be going through at that very moment. Dizziness, blurred vision, nausea, muscle spasms, irregular heartbeat. He could be having an allergic reaction or something totally unrelated to normal usage of each individual drug. How was she giving it to him? Was he still being injected? Scully couldn't imagine Mulder putting up with that. He'd fight back if he had the chance. So he must be getting the drug through a different means, probably orally. If the kidnapper was using the sedative concoction they'd found in the syringe, he was ingesting chemicals that weren't supposed to be administered together. Who knew what it might be doing to Mulder, physically and psychologically? They needed to find him. Scully looked around for Skinner but didn't see him in the room. He should know about this right away. She didn't see how the information would help them at the moment, but it was another clue and they were sadly short on them. She picked up the envelope to put the pictures back and stopped short. There was no stamp on the outside. That was odd. She turned the envelope over and checked the back. Nope, not there either. What did it mean? Well, you couldn't mail anything without a stamp, so it wasn't mailed. But it was addressed to her, in care of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. Her title and full name, full address with city and zip code. So why write all of that out if you didn't intend to mail it? To make sure it was delivered by hand to the right person. Her chair fell over with a crash as Scully leapt to her feet. The envelope was hand delivered. Was the first one that Mulder got mailed? Everyone in the room was staring at her so she took advantage of it. "Who has the first envelope?" she shouted. "The one that Mulder received." Five seats down, Agent Pryzbyzki waved a piece of pink paper in the air. Scully would have climbed over the people sitting next to her if it hadn't been passed along immediately. She studied all four corners, front and back. It hadn't been mailed, either. It was fully addressed, just like hers, but there was no stamp or postmark. Just like hers. She looked up and saw Skinner walk through the doorway, headed for the coffee pot. She intercepted him halfway there. "These envelopes were hand delivered," she said. Skinner blinked for a moment, then nodded. "It was in the lab report on both envelopes. They never went through the mail system." "So who brought them into the building?" "They were probably handed in at the front desk." He made a move to walk around her. She put a hand on his chest. "Did anyone ask?" He stopped so fast he rocked on the balls of his feet. "I don't know. Isn't it in the report from the initial meeting?" Scully shook her head. She'd read that report so many times, she could remember almost everything in it. There was no mention of interrogating the front desk clerks. Skinner strode to the nearest phone and snatched it up. He punched a couple of buttons. "Give me security." While he was trying to get some answers, Scully rooted around in the photos on the table. There was something else. Something she should have realized sooner. "The shower photo," she said to no one in particular. "Where's the one of Mulder in the shower?" At first, she'd been embarrassed to think that other people were seeing Mulder's naked body, even if it was only from the back. Now, she didn't care who looked provided she could get her hands on a copy. Agent Hatter pulled one out of a pile and held it up. She snatched at it, then studied the background of the picture, looking at it with new comprehension. There were billows of steam curling around the edges of the photo, not close to Mulder's body, the way there would be in a shower stall or tub and shower combo. It was chopped off by the frame. She could see an unusual-looking faucet head above him, but she also thought she could make out another one farther down in the mist. He was in a public shower room. Maybe a locker room. And the photographer was *above* him. The angle should have been obvious. Mulder was visible from the backs of his knees to the top of his head--the crown of his head, not just the back of it. If the picture had been taken from behind him, she'd only be able to see the rear of his head. But she could actually see the end of his nose and the tops of his ears as he tilted his head back to wipe the hair from his face. Dear God, the kidnapper had been *inside the ceiling* of the shower room! She'd opened a vent or something, well back from Mulder's position, and taken his picture. How the hell did she get up there? If they could find the right one, maybe there would be useable evidence left behind. Skinner slammed the phone down and wiped a hand across the top of his head. In Scully's experience, that was never a good sign. The expression in his eyes was apologetic. "They can't be completely sure, but it looks like the envelopes weren't turned in at the front desk." She opened her mouth to ask a question but he held up his hand. "A couple of the guards are off duty, but they checked the log book for incoming packages. There was nothing. I'm sorry, Agent Scully. I hoped we might get a description, or a time-frame for the security videos." "I think we've got something anyway, Sir," she replied. The pieces were starting to drop into place, faster and faster, the more she thought. If she was right, this could be a biggie. Scully handed him the shower photo. "Do you use any of the locker rooms in the building?" The frustrated look in his eyes changed to interested. "A couple. Why?" "Does that one look familiar?" Skinner studied her for a moment before turning his attention to the photo. She tried not to rush him, but it wasn't easy. "It's hard to tell with all the steam, but it could be the one by the pool. Mulder uses the pool, doesn't he?" "Yes." Scully explained about the angle of the photograph. Skinner looked impressed. "That means she has access to the Bureau pool," he said. "It means more than that," she replied, holding out the envelopes. "Hand delivered, but not turned in at the front desk." Skinner's gaze jerked to Scully's face and she nodded solemnly. "She works here." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location Unknown Tuesday 7:50 PM Julie sorted through the pile of mail in disgust. Gas company. Electric company. Water company. Letter from the landlord. What on earth did they all want? She slit each of the envelopes in turn, then pulled out the contents. The landlord was threatening to have her evicted if she didn't pay her back rent and all the utility companies had sent shut-off notices. The nerve of some people! Momma always said a woman couldn't let people boss her around or they'd take advantage just because she was female. The handful of bills was added to the pile on the kitchen counter. They'd get their money when she was good and ready. She had better things to do than listen to their whining. She needed to make supper. Stupid work had kept her late, looking up more of their dumb files. Now Fox would be hungry and it was all their fault. She'd brought him a chicken sandwich, onion rings and a milk shake. The shake was almost melted, but it was okay. Fox liked it that way. Picking up a bottle from the counter, she popped the lid on the shake, then poured a thin stream of the clear liquid from the bottle into the cup. She stirred with the straw as she thought about how much he was going to enjoy it. She'd gotten mocha because he liked it best. The sandwich and rings went onto a plate, then she placed the plate and drink on a Styrofoam tray. She pulled the straw out of the cup and threw it into the kitchen trash can with the lid. Straws really shouldn't be sold with drinks. The edges were sharp and could hurt if they poked someone in the eye. She didn't want Beautiful Fox to injure himself on something as silly as a straw. Julie carried the tray through the living room and into the hallway. She set it down on the chair outside the door and smiled at the picture on the video monitor. Fox was exercising again. He exercised constantly, except when he was pacing. He was a very active man, her Beautiful Fox. Sometimes he pulled the bed around the room or pounded on the walls, just because it made her laugh. He was thoughtful in so many ways. He never yelled at her or called her names. He didn't get angry or throw things. He hadn't raised his voice to her, not once. She looked over her shoulder at the plastic-covered door on the other side of the hall. The same couldn't be said for Ron. She'd been so sure he was perfect. Thankfully he'd finally stopped smelling bad. The extra plastic over the door seemed to have done the trick. Julie looked around at the hallway, then out toward the living room. It had been an incredible stroke of luck that she'd taken a house with three bed-and-bath suites. It seemed like such a wasted expense at the time, but Momma believed everything happened for a reason. This time the reason was so Julie didn't need to move and find another house before Fox could be with her after she discovered her mistake about Ron. Well, Momma always said, "What's over and done has finished its run." Julie glanced at the door behind her again. Ron was certainly finished. She wasn't going to think about him anymore. She returned her attention to the monitor. Fox was doing crunches. He usually started with warm-up stretches, then push-ups, then crunches. He always jogged in place to cool down. She really enjoyed watching his muscles while he exercised. His stomach was already becoming tighter and more defined. She worried that he might tire himself with so much activity, but he seemed to like it. Julie watched Mulder finish his routine and head for the bathroom to rinse off. She appreciated the fact that he cared for her enough to wash after he exercised. It was one of the many small, loving things he did for her. After a few minutes, he walked out of the bathroom, water droplets glistening in the patch of hair on his chest. More drops ran down his sides, dampening his already-clingy boxer briefs. The result left very little to the imagination--especially for someone who had already seen what they covered. Like last night. She'd enjoyed his naked body for hours. His skin was softer than it looked, silky under her fingers. Fox loved the way she touched him, said it set his blood on fire. They'd made love all night long. Kissing and touching and murmuring to each other. He cried out her name when he came, slurring the letters until they sounded like an "s" instead of a "j." It made her giggle whenever he did that. Silly Beautiful Fox... She watched the monitor as he swiped water off his chest. She could hardly wait for tonight. Fox was such a romantic lover. Kind, patient, passionate. He was always running his hands through her cascading tresses. Julie trailed her fingers through the ends dangling over her shoulder. She should get ready for tonight. Her hair needed washing. She could wear that new negligee Fox bought for her, the blue one he said matched her eyes. He hadn't smelled her new perfume yet, either. Yes, she should hurry and get ready. She wanted tonight to be perfect. Brushing a hand along the wall, Julie walked down the hallway to her bedroom, humming to herself. Behind her on the tray, Mulder's supper slowly cooled. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location unknown Mulder loved being groped awake. Scully knew exactly how he liked to be touched, and he *really* liked what she was doing right now. He kept his eyes closed so she'd think he was asleep. Guys got hard-ons in their sleep all the time. She wouldn't be able to tell if he was reacting to her stroking his dick or just having an autonomic response. Ooh, she was massaging his balls, too. That was a challenge. He wouldn't be able to hold still much longer. A breathy giggle made him open his eyes to see what was so funny. "NO!" He threw himself off the mattress and scrambled into a corner before the face above him completely registered. His head swam as he turned to see who it was. He knew it wasn't Scully, but it took a few seconds before his foggy brain pulled up the right name. Julie. She'd been touching him in his sleep. He wasn't at home and this wasn't a dream. She'd actually been fondling him. Now she was staring at him with a puzzled look on her face. "What's wrong, Beautiful Fox?" "Don't touch me." He pressed as far into the corner as he could manage. The photos on the wall scratched and prickled his back. Damn it. There was no place to hide in this fucking room. She looked even more confused. "You never minded before." Oh God. Did that mean... ? He swallowed. "You've... you've touched me before? While I was sleeping?" "Almost every night." She beamed at him. "You're so beautiful when you come. Wait. I'll show you." Before he realized what she was doing, Julie jumped up from the bed and left the room, closing the door behind her. She'd touched him. Mulder scrubbed his palms over his arms, trying to rub out the feeling of strange hands on his penis. He stopped and looked down. His boxers were still pulled up, his erection already deflating. Thank God. He shuddered. Jesus. She'd touched him! How many times? No wonder he'd been having erotic dreams every night. He'd put it down to whatever sedative she was using because those types of dreams only happened if he was drugged up in the hospital. He never considered that dreams of Scully touching him might be caused by-- Why hadn't he stayed asleep this time? No supper last night. Now he remembered. The queasy feeling in his stomach couldn't completely hide its emptiness. For the first time, Julie hadn't brought him anything to eat all day. He must have fallen asleep at some point, in spite of his gnawing hunger and without the drug. Why couldn't she have drugged him last night, too? It would have been better to stay asleep and not know. No it wouldn't. Knowing, not knowing--it didn't matter. It only mattered that she'd sat next to him on the mattress so she could pump his dick and watch him orgasm. She'd been sitting right next to him. Could he have overpowered her while she thought he was still asleep? Days of ingesting sedatives had made him slow. He even forgot to see if she had his gun with her. She carried it constantly. Did she bring it with her when she jacked him off? Mulder wrapped his arms around his middle and squeezed. He had to quit thinking about it. But he couldn't. She'd touched him. Without his permission. Who gave her that right? She *had* no right! God DAMN her! He jumped when the door opened again. Julie had a thick sheaf of paper in her hand and a huge smile on her face. She also had his gun. He could kick himself for not checking before. "Here." She tossed the papers on the bed and backed away. "I was saving those just for us." Mulder waited until she was standing by the chair before he approached the mattress again. He could see the papers were actually photographs, bound along one side into a type of booklet. He picked it up and recoiled at the first image. A woman's hand with pink-painted nails was wrapped around a naked, erect penis. His penis. He wanted to convince himself that it might belong to just about any other guy. Under the circumstances, though, he knew he'd be a pretty poor kind of man if he couldn't recognize his own dick. He also wanted to believe the hand was Scully's but he knew her hands almost as well as he knew his own dick. That *wasn't* Scully's hand. The only other possibility made his flesh creep. The next picture was almost identical. And the next. "Flip it," Julie said. Her eyes held a disturbing glitter. "Flip through the whole thing at once, like you're leafing through a magazine." It was like watching someone jerk off in a silent movie. Everything was there, from her hand moving up and down as she milked his cock to the splatter of spunk on his naked chest and his penis starting to soften and he was gonna be sick. Mulder couldn't have dropped the packet faster if it had burst into flames. "I need a shower." He stumbled into the bathroom and stripped off his shorts without waiting to hear if she replied. He didn't care if she was watching or not. She'd already seen it. Touched it. Played with it. What the hell did it matter if she copped one more look? Let her look. Let her look all she wanted. He didn't have any say in it. The water was hot. Too hot. He needed to boil her touch out of his pores. Every place she'd put her fingers made his skin feel like it was covered in battery acid. Exposed nerves screamed in the stinging spray, but that was good. If it hurt enough, he could be sure her touch was burned from his skin. He scrubbed as hard as he could with his fingernails, not bothering with the soap or wash cloth she'd already left on the sink. His stomach clenched over and over again, only he couldn't puke--he hadn't eaten anything. Mulder laughed, sounding slightly hysterical even to himself. He wondered if he'd ever be hungry again. In fact, he probably shouldn't eat anything else while he was Julie's captive, whether it meant starving to death or not. He could last for a few weeks without food assuming that he had water. He just needed to hold on until he was rescued. How long would that be? Would Scully ever find him? He knew she'd be looking, but would she know *where* to look? Scully. Just the thought of her made him calmer. He stopped scrubbing and let the water wash over his raw skin. Angry red lines testified to how hard he'd tried to rid himself of Julie's touch. But he knew scrubbing wouldn't work. First he needed to escape. Then he could think about what had happened and how to deal with it. Not right now. He shut off the water and got out of the shower. He'd stopped trying to cover up days ago, but he didn't need to worry about being ogled. Julie was standing by the bed, flipping through her obscene little booklet. Over and over she riffled the pages, a rapt smile on her face. Mulder turned his back to dry off and dress, but also to block out her expression. He'd stop eating supper. Now that his initial shock was over, he needed to be reasonable. She wasn't drugging his breakfast, on the days she remembered to bring it. Supper was the culprit and would be avoided from now on. If Julie asked why, he'd tell her. But he had a feeling she wouldn't ask. If something didn't fit into her fantasy, she'd ignore it or rationalize it. He was going to get awfully hungry on one meal or less a day, but there was no way he'd put himself in a position to be molested in his sleep again. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. No more panicking. Keep a clear head and come up with a plan. When he turned to leave, his eye was immediately caught by the photo on the wall at the end of his bed. Her "favorite." Plan A: find a way to get those fucking pictures off the wall. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dana Scully's apartment Thursday 2:15 PM Scully held her breath and threw open the clothes hamper. It really wasn't wise to leave dirty laundry in an enclosed container for over a week. It was her own fault for not washing them, but she'd had more important things to think about recently. She wouldn't be home at such an hour if Skinner hadn't threatened to drive her himself. Finding her asleep at the conference table first thing this morning hadn't made him more receptive to her declarations of "I'm fine." At least she wasn't the only one sent home. Skinner had called the task force together and dismissed half the members for the day. He said everyone else would continue on with their assignments and then be allowed to stay home tomorrow. They'd been hammering away at the evidence for nearly two weeks without getting any closer to finding Mulder or the kidnapper. Skinner thought some time away from the case would do them all good. Scully had simply brought it home with her. She pulled a pile of clothes from the hamper and tossed them into a basket at her feet. How was she supposed to think about anything else with her partner missing? Partner? No. He was so much more now. Friend, lover, the person she relied on most, trusted most, whose opinion mattered more than anyone else she knew. Maybe that was part of the reason why she'd been running herself into the ground trying to find him. She felt slightly rudderless. She was still a competent agent, capable of doing her job, but a vital part of her investigative ability was bouncing ideas off Mulder. How was she supposed to get her thoughts in order while her sounding board was missing? Missing and drugged. Those drugs worried her. She'd done more research, and if Mulder was still getting them on a daily basis, as indicated by the photographs... Behavioral changes, depression, vomiting, headaches. Those were the least harmful symptoms of growing barbiturate dependency. He could have ulcers in his mouth or throat, vision changes, hallucinations, an allergic reaction and breathing difficulty. It would all depend on exactly which drugs he was getting, in what form and the dosage. Each of the chemicals they'd already identified would be enough to cause problems. Combined, there was no way to know what they were doing to his body. She pitched more clothes into the basket. So much evidence leading nowhere. The few witnesses hadn't been any help at all. Landlords normally had minimal contact with their tenants. The one in Kentucky only seemed to remember the voice, hair and bustline. His facial description could include half the blonde women under the age of forty in a five-state radius. Another armload of dirty clothes and the basket was overflowing. Scully peered into the hamper. It was still a third full. She was going to need another basket. They hadn't located an employer in Kentucky yet. That fact bothered Scully. So far, the Bureau was the only employment hit they'd had and they weren't completely certain she actually worked there. Skinner was personally conducting a side investigation but it was proving to be an uphill fight. Due to retirements and a really nasty flu sweeping through the building, the past six months had seen an unusually high number of permanent and temp employees. They had no idea which she was or in what department to look. Taking all their current information into account, chances were very likely that she'd supplied false information. So how had she gotten past the rigorous FBI screening in the first place? Scully picked up the full basket, bumping against the hamper as she turned to leave the bedroom and knocking it away from the wall. She staggered from the force of the blow, surprised by how much it threw off her balance. Okay, so Skinner was right. She *was* tired. Getting away from the investigation made sense. She didn't have to like it or sit around and twiddle her thumbs. She needed to keep busy, keep going over the evidence, keep doing something to avoid losing her mind. She needed to stop thinking and wash her underwear. The full basket she placed on the washer before snagging another one from the shelf. She'd sort everything into the washer rather than doing it at the hamper the way she usually did. There were too many clothes this time. She'd never let them go for so long before. The dwindling pile of underwear in her drawer should have been a clue, but she'd had other things on her mind. Back at the hamper, Scully filled the second basket, then tried to straighten the hamper. It wouldn't move. There was something keeping it away from the wall. Pulling it out farther, she fished behind it and brought out a wad of green fabric. A T-shirt. *Mulder's* T-shirt. She gathered it up, rubbing her fingers over the cloth. It was soft, worn. Sense memory kicked in. She could feel it under her hands, stretched over Mulder's chest and back, clinging to his contours. Suddenly, she remembered how it got behind the hamper. It was the Saturday night before her trip to Chicago. Mulder wanted to spend some quality time together. They watched a really bad sci-fi movie with Mulder providing commentary that was much better than the original dialog. When it was over, she pulled him into the bedroom for *her* idea of quality time. He stopped at the foot of her bed and peeled his T-shirt off. Wadding it into a ball, he bent at the knees, then bobbed up and launched a hook-shot at the open hamper. The shirt hit the edge of the lid and toppled over the back, sliding down between the hamper and the wall. Mulder clutched his head and groaned. "He chokes! His career is over! Oh the agony!" He continued to babble nonsense but Scully wasn't paying attention. She was too busy tackling him around the waist and knocking him onto the bed. She'd always preferred full-contact sports. The sex had been energetic, fun and playful. They both knew it could be a couple days before they would be together again so they'd made the most of the opportunity. It wasn't surprising that she'd forgotten about his errant shirt in the afterglow. It was the last time she saw him. Mulder reluctantly agreed to leave her alone on Sunday so she could get things ready for her trip, but not before she'd accused him of being clingy. She regretted that. He really wasn't any more needy than he'd ever been, but she had a tendency to read more into his actions these days. She'd tried to make it up to him by calling before bed Sunday. She knew he was masturbating while they talked, but she didn't let on. Now she wished she had. A spot of water landed on the shirt in her hands, a small dark circle on the lighter cloth. It spread, blurring along the edges as it soaked in. She blinked and felt another drop of moisture fall over the edge of her lashes. NO! Scully dashed the tears from her cheeks with angry swipes of her hand. What the hell was she doing? She had no business behaving as if Mulder were dead. He WASN'T. She refused to believe it, and if she didn't believe it, she shouldn't act like she did. The evidence was in favor of him still being alive. All the victims had died of starvation, which meant they survived for a long time. A human male in good shape could live for at least a month, maybe longer, if he had water available. All the crime scenes they knew about had attached bathrooms. It was part of the kidnapper's MO, there was no reason to think she would have changed this time. So Mulder had water. He was alive. All they had to do was find him. Scully took a steadying breath. No more tears. No more hand- wringing. No more giving up, not even for a second. End of discussion. She looked at the T-shirt in her hands, crumpled by the force of her grip. Balancing the ball of fabric on the edge of the open hamper, she stripped off her shirt, then tugged the wrinkled jersey over her head. They were together again, her and Mulder. His presence wrapped around her, comforting and supportive, believing in *her* ability to unlock the secret of his whereabouts. He was counting on her. He knew she could find him. She wouldn't allow herself to doubt it again. Scully slammed the hamper lid and picked up the full basket. Maybe Skinner knew what he was doing. She should stop thinking about the case, give her mind a rest for a few hours. She needed a break as much as she needed to find Mulder and she wasn't going to do that if her brain was running on fumes. Laundry first, then a decent meal followed by a good night's sleep. Check the TV guide for a movie to pass the time. Think about Mulder but not the investigation--she'd allow herself that much indulgence since she couldn't seem to stop thinking about him anyway. Tomorrow she'd go back to work, with a fresh viewpoint. She'd be damned if she'd let his kidnapper win. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location unknown Mulder curled his toes around the edge of the bathtub rim, hoping that would stabilize his balance a little more. One hand supported him against the wall next to the tub, but he needed the other one free to grab the shower head. Then he could let go of the wall and use both hands to wrench the shower head off the fixture. That was the theory, anyway. If it worked, he might be able to break through the drywall or the door using the shower head as a hammer. If it didn't work, the shower would most likely be unusable, in which case he was going to start smelling pretty gamy in a few days. It felt like he'd been trying to take the damned thing apart for weeks. Considering how often he'd experienced wobbly shower nozzles in motel bathrooms, he thought it would be a cinch. But so far, no amount of turning and twisting had budged it an inch. All he'd gotten for his labor was raw palms and a renewed determination that no stinkin' shower head was going to get the better of Special Agent Fox Mulder. If he couldn't wrench it off, he'd rip it apart. A sudden dizzy spell caught him unaware. He'd been having them on a regular basis but this was different from the light- headed feeling he'd experienced since his kidnapping. Something had changed. His headaches were becoming less frequent, he wasn't as hungry as he should be and his mouth wasn't dry anymore. The vivid dreams had stopped but that could simply be the result of natural versus drugged sleep. If he slept at all. He was having problems with insomnia, in spite of continuing to exercise. He simply didn't feel tired the way he had before. The unfortunate trade-off was dizziness, persistent nausea and increasing stomach pain. He felt restless, shaky and anxious, too, worse than he would have expected, even under the circumstances. Some of it had to be caused by withdrawal from whatever Julie was using to dope him. Without it in his system every day, the side effects were lessening as the withdrawal symptoms kicked in and overlapped. Just his luck. It took several minutes for the spinning sensation to subside. Once he was feeling clear-headed again, Mulder pushed the shower curtain to the side and leaned toward the protruding nozzle. Grasping it firmly with one hand, he leaned away from the wall and swung his other hand over to grab it also. Success! So far. Now, if he could only... Unfortunately, the shower head was designed to rotate, so all of his manipulating only resulted in normal movement. Up, down, side to side, there was plenty of play in the fixture. It looked like he'd have to apply a lot more pressure or this was going to be a waste of his time. He couldn't get enough purchase going up or down, so he opted to push away from himself using the full force of his arms. A couple of small cracking noises and he felt the nozzle jerk. It was working! A little more pressure... Another wave of dizziness hit. It was worse than the last one. The whole room seemed to tilt, although he didn't remember moving his body. He tried to stay still, but couldn't suppress the instinctive need to rebalance. One hand let go of the shower, flailing toward the plastic curtain to steady himself as he waited for the world to stop leaning. Instead, his other hand slipped and the whole damned room canted sideways. Shit! He was falling! He latched onto the shower curtain, but his weight and momentum ripped it off the hooks, pitching him forward rather than acting as an anchor. Tile and chrome rushed into his line of vision. His face bounced off the nozzle before he tumbled into the bathtub. It all happened so fast. One minute he was teetering on the side of the tub, the next he was crumpled up in the bottom of it, watching explosions of stars while water dripped down his cheek and off his chin. Everything hurt. The back of his head, an elbow, right side, both knees--his ass. And what did he do to his face? It was stinging like a son-of-a-bitch. As much as he wanted to simply lie there, he had to get out of the tub and assess the damage. Mulder pushed himself upright, groaning when his ribs protested the movement. Terrific. He'd probably cracked one. He took a deep breath and winced. Or two. Damn it! Just what he *didn't* need. Getting out of the tub was painful but he kept going until he'd managed to hook his legs over the side and sit up. He couldn't very well stay in there with water dripping on his head. Hang on a minute. The top of his head wasn't wet. He looked up at the shower, expecting to see a trickle coming from the broken fixture. But he hadn't caused nearly as much damage as he was hoping for. In fact, it looked just fine, if a bit crooked. So why did it feel like there was something running down his face? He looked into the tub. Blood. Not a lot, but more than he liked to see, considering he was the only potential bleeder available. Holding his breath, Mulder touched the side of his face. His fingers came away slick and red. The open edges of a long cut stung from the salt on his fingertips. His eye felt heavy, like it might be swelling. His hands were a mess, too. The old raw patches had split open. New, ragged tears on his palms attested to the strength of his hold on the shower head when it all went to hell. He'd also lost a couple chunks of skin on the insides of his knuckles. It appeared his luck was still going downhill. He needed to clean up, which was going to be difficult since he couldn't see the damage to his face. How was he going to do this without a washcloth or towels? There was plenty of water but nothing on which to dry off except tissues or toilet paper, and those would just make a mess. The easiest way would be to see if the shower still worked, but at the moment, he was fed up with it. He'd wash in the sink as well as he was able. Bending carefully over the sink, he gingerly splashed water onto his face. Fuck, that hurt! Teeth gritted, he did it again. And again. Using the tips of his fingers, he gently swiped water over the cut. There was no way to know if he was cleaning it or not. He was just doing what he thought Scully would do under the circumstances. God, he hoped she never ended up in a situation like this. He kept rinsing, watching the water swirling down the drain become less and less pink until it finally ran clear again. If the pain in his face was any kind of gauge, the cut should be as clean as he was going to get it. When he shut off the water and stepped back, cold droplets squirmed down his neck and chest, tickling his naked torso. Turning his arms this way and that, he checked for bruises, bumps, anything that looked abnormal. His arms were fine except for a small knot in front of one elbow. Knees were about the same. There was a purple patch developing on the right side of his chest. X marks the cracked ribs. He pulled his boxers down--nothing unusual on the hips, surprisingly enough--and back up again. It looked like the main damage was to his face, his ribs and his manly pride. Mulder's teeth chattered. The water on his skin was cooling. Plus he'd have to sleep in damp boxers if he didn't find a way to get dry. He walked to the bed and pulled the top sheet off. Scrubbing the stiff fabric over his chilled body felt good. He thoroughly blotted his hair since most of the water seemed to be coming from there. When he gingerly patted the sheet on his cheek, it came away with only a couple bloody streaks. Good. At least the gash was clotting and not dripping down his face anymore. His sheet was a bit of a mess, but that was the least of his worries. He studied the raw skin on his hands. His shower- head-dismantling days were over for the moment. He should probably give his body a break, but that wasn't going to get him out of this situation. Not that anything he'd done so far had helped. The sound of the key in the door caught his attention. Julie must be bringing his supper. It felt late enough to be evening. Sitting in front of his food without touching it was going to be harder than yesterday. It seemed like a long time since breakfast. He was really hungry after his bathroom gymnastics. As always, his gun was the first thing he saw. She'd never left it behind or dropped her guard. Not even once in all the time he'd been there. He was beginning to think he'd never find a way around her. After the door was open far enough, she eased the chair through with his supper tray balanced on the seat. The drug du jour for tonight. Pizza and garlic bread. What a shame. Just the sight of it made his mouth water. He had no way of knowing exactly what she was doping so he couldn't eat any of it. Looked like she'd gotten pepperoni, mushrooms and green peppers, too. She stopped in the doorway. Mulder tore his gaze away from the tray. She'd never done that. What...? The look on her face was like nothing he'd seen on her before. Horror, revulsion, panic, disgust--he couldn't quite tell exactly what emotion was winning. But it didn't look like she was happy to see him. She backed up and pushed the door open farther. It took Mulder a second to figure out what was going on. Then she set the chair down in the hall and grabbed the door. She was leaving! "Julie! Wait!" He reached out to stop her but his ribs protested the movement. Mulder cradled his side in reaction. Before he could say another word, she was out in the hallway and had slammed the door. She'd never closed it that hard. Usually she simply pushed it shut and locked it. He wasn't sure why he tried to make her stay, but something didn't feel right. He'd never seen that kind of emotion on her face. She looked horrified. Why? His cheek twinged. The cut on his face? Was that what bothered her? He touched the area gently. What did it look like? He knew the skin was broken, but was there bruising? It felt a little swollen. It couldn't look *that* bad. Could it? Mulder sat down gingerly on the bed. It was going to be a long night. He frowned at the door. What was wrong with Julie? Why hadn't she stayed? He doubled over, the sudden pain in his stomach almost overshadowing his aching ribs. That sure didn't feel like hunger pangs. What the hell was going on? It seemed to last a long time; there was no way for him to judge. Once it eased up, Mulder lay down, panting and sweaty. He was dizzy again on top of being hungry, nauseous and in pain. It probably didn't matter in the long run whether Julie had stayed or not. After all, there was no fucking way he would have eaten the food. Still, pathetic as it sounded, he was tired of being alone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ J. Edgar Hoover Building Conference Room 4B Saturday 2:54 PM Scully tried to block out the chatter of everyone around the conference table while she read. Fifteen minutes ago, Agent Dan Samuels had found several old news articles online, a missing person story out of California, dated just over four years ago. Same MO, same crime scene details, same photos and handwritten letters to the victim, same careful planning leaving little evidence with which to solve the case. It was enough to prove a connection with the other victims they'd linked to Mulder's kidnapper, though. Skinner was already on the phone with the chief of police out there, trying to get anything else they could use. This made three victims other than Mulder. A police department in Iowa had called the day Scully stayed home. She would have been upset about missing the call if there had been anything new to learn. The name they'd gotten from the landlord was completely different from the previous one and totally useless so far. The one in California would probably be more of the same. How did someone manage to leave a trail of bodies and crime scenes across three states without a single person noticing that her aliases were fake? In these days of instant identity theft, Scully couldn't believe so many landlords continued to neglect background checks. Once the woman chose a victim, she probably went from house to house until she found one where they didn't ask too many questions. She obviously knew what she was doing and simply waited until someone inadvertently helped her do it. Part of the problem was the ordinariness of the names the kidnapper used for renting houses. Beth Reynolds wasn't any more uncommon than Carrie Collins. Every time they found a new name, the phone lines hummed with calls to rental agencies within a fifty mile radius of the Hoover building. Unfortunately all they had to show for it was sore ears. Discovering the name the kidnapper used when she was hired by the FBI didn't help, either. They'd finally narrowed down the likely employees to Jeanie Wilson, file clerk, hired through a temp agency during a flu epidemic six weeks ago. Her immediate supervisor recognized the description but Scully suspected it wasn't going to do them any good. Jeanie Wilson hadn't shown up for work yesterday or today. She could have run off or she could be holed up with Mulder. Skinner sent a team to the address in her personnel file. She didn't live there, had never lived there. The elderly couple the agents encountered was quite adamant about having owned the house for forty years. Everything led to a dead end once they started checking out the kidnapper. Scully couldn't imagine how the woman had managed to create a false driver's license and fake social security number with enough validity to fool the temp agency, but considering the whole snafu surrounding her Federal background check... Someone was in really big trouble. Scully had never seen Skinner in such an icy rage before and she would be perfectly happy never to repeat the experience. A separate investigation was already underway, looking into how someone was hired without a thorough background check. Even the most rudimentary security precautions would have caught the false address. Yet "Jeanie Wilson" had been hired by a government organization that is synonymous with background checks! She never should have made it past the first round of screening, let alone through the front door. Heads would be rolling down the halls like marbles the minute Skinner determined where to swing his axe. More phone calls were made, but no rental was forthcoming under the name Jeanie Wilson. Scully hadn't expected them to find anything. This woman was either clever, lucky or both. She seemed to have a knack for skirting obvious traps which would lead to revealing her true identity. Conversations stopped upon Skinner's return to the conference table. Scully set down the article print-outs and hoped for good news. "Listen up, people." Skinner consulted a legal pad in his hand, then continued, "Another victim has turned up in California, the earliest one we're aware of. According to the detective in charge of that investigation, the crime scenes and circumstances match up with all the other known cases. This time, though, we have a little something extra. A second name, used to get a job in a grocery store. The same grocery store where the victim worked." Excited murmuring rose around the table. Jane Hatter raised her hand. "Sir, that matches Agent Mulder's case but neither of the other victims worked with the kidnapper." "Good point, Agent Hatter. Who talked to the victims' employers in Iowa and Kentucky?" A hand went up on the far side of the room. "And you are?" "Tim Gardner, Sir. I usually work the bomb squad." Skinner frowned. "What are you doing here?" Gardner cleared his throat. "Well, my SAC said you needed bodies for a manhunt and since there haven't been any bombs reported lately..." The agent sitting next to him muttered, "Business has been slow." Several people laughed. "Right," Skinner replied. "So go back over what you found out from the employers." Gardner spread his hands. "Nothing." Skinner raised his eyebrows. "I mean, nothing more than what the police found at the time the bodies were discovered. No one by that name was working or had worked with the victims at any time." "Nobody recognized her description?" Scully watched the man blanch. "Description?" he croaked. Skinner planted his hands flat on the table and leaned forward. "You didn't give them her description?" His cold, clipped tone sent a chill down Scully's spine and his words weren't even directed at her. She'd been on the receiving end enough times to know the effect it was having, though. Agent Gardner visibly swallowed. "I'm sorry, Sir. The police had already questioned the coworkers so I was just following up their reports. No one told me to give her description, just to ask if they knew her. I thought they meant her name. I work with bombs, not missing persons. I didn't know--" "Well you know now. Don't you?" Skinner's smooth purr was extremely deceptive and in some ways worse than before. Gardner jumped out of his seat and scurried for a phone. Samuels joined him, solely on the basis of Skinner's pointed glance. They both pawed through copies of the file for the employer phone numbers with one hand while beginning to dial with the other. "I don't care who you have to call," Skinner ordered, "don't let them hang up and don't leave a message. There must be *someone* you can talk to. She could have been working there under a different name, so describe her carefully. Make sure they know how urgent this is. Throw your weight around. Just get those names!" Everyone in the room seemed to be holding their breath. When Skinner turned to look at Scully, she saw in his eyes the same thing she was feeling. It was about damned time for some good luck. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location unknown Mulder concentrated on the photograph in his hand, unsuccessfully attempting to ignore his throbbing face, aching ribs and spasming gut. His hair in the picture looked about the same length as it currently was, so it hadn't been taken that long ago. He was carrying a grocery bag from his car. It was light out, but not for much longer. Wearing a suit, so he was on his way home from work... He dropped the photo onto the pile at his feet and frowned. Hell, it could have been one of any number of days recently. Julie had obviously been watching him for a long time. Probably a couple of months, judging by the variety of clothing and scenes in the pictures. He'd been trying to pinpoint the dates, give his mind something to think about, but they'd all blurred together under the weight of one thought. She wasn't coming back. Granted Julie's visitation schedule had never been all that reliable, but he was pretty sure she hadn't left him alone for such a long stretch before. Skipping an occasional meal was one thing. He'd almost gotten used to being hungry. Now the feelings in his stomach went beyond simple I-didn't-eat-supper hollowness. Besides the increasing grumbling, sometimes the nausea and cramps bent him double. He filled up on water to help, but with only his cupped hands to drink from, it took a long time and simply made him pee more. There was also the fact that he hadn't heard any movement in the rest of the house recently. The noises were never very loud, but he'd heard them. Doors closing, dishes rattling, a shower going on. It seemed like an awfully long time since there'd been any noise, even taking into account his currently faulty sense of time. Something must have happened to her. Perhaps she'd been in a car crash. Gotten sick. Gotten bored, distracted, maybe disgusted. He tentatively probed his sore, swollen cheek. Considering the look on her face the last time he'd seen her, that was the most likely possibility. His front-runner-favorite scenario was that she'd been arrested. By Scully, for preference, but anyone at all would do, provided they realized who they had and who else was in need of their help. He wanted to be glad she wasn't coming back, to feel that it served her right if she'd been hurt or caught. Nevertheless, he knew he would be the one to ultimately suffer, whatever the reason for her sudden abandonment. She was his only source of food, erratic though it was. If she didn't come back, he'd eventually starve to death. He stopped removing the photos from the wall to glance at the door. Was that what had happened to the poor bastard across the hall? How long could a man live on nothing but water? Mulder had caught the stench of death on his first day of captivity but he'd tried to ignore the implications while there was hope of escape. Now... He yanked another photo off the wall but didn't bother to study it. Looking at his own face had lost its charm a long time ago and trying to figure out when they were taken was an exercise in futility. Every bit as useless as speculating about how he was likely to die. Once he finally realized that he'd been discarded, he made good on his silent threat to take down every fucking picture in the room--starting with Julie's "favorite" at the end of the bed. THAT one he'd figured out after seeing her disgusting little flip book. Head back, eyes closed, lips parted, brows furrowed, beads of sweat on the upper lip--it didn't take a genius to recognize the look of impending orgasm. He couldn't tell if it came from the same collection of pictures in the flip book or not, and he really didn't care to know. All he wanted was to get it off the wall and tear it into a pile of confetti. He might have gotten a little carried away with the tearing part. Once started, he'd found it hard to quit. Those hateful images had mocked him every waking hour of his captivity. One photo became two, became three, became more, until the combination of drug withdrawal, lack of food and sheer rage forced him to stop. He'd needed to rest from the physical and emotional strain, but the result had been worth the exhaustion. The glossy bits of paper were piled on the toilet tank and a few of them disappeared down the john every time he took a leak. Childish, but satisfying. His investigator's conscience pricked him about the wanton destruction of evidence, but he couldn't bring himself to care. It wasn't like pictures of Fox Mulder were in short supply these days. He pulled yet another photo down, then dropped it onto the floor and braced his hands against the wall while he rode out a wave of dizziness. The pressure of leaning on the wall intensified the pain in his ribs. The vertigo didn't last long, but it left him feeling drained, trembling and tired. Time for more water. His banged-up ribs had necessitated an end to exercising. At least peeing gave him something else to occupy his time. He wandered into the bathroom and crouched over the sink, cupped hands dipping from the flowing spigot to his greedy mouth. His stomach wanted something with a bit more substance but the water was all he had to offer. It was too bad the developing chemicals made the pictures inedible. He had enough to last a couple of weeks or more. Once he'd swallowed all he could bear to drink, he shut off the faucet and dried his hands. He'd torn his sheet in half to use for towels. It had taken a bit of effort to rip it in two, but he managed. One half he left on the sink for drying his hands. The other one he used for his shower. That half was currently spread out on the bedroom floor to dry. His impromptu swan- dive onto the shower head had bent the fitting and cracked the connections. Water sprayed out around the base of the head instead of out the nozzle holes, but it was easier to clean his cuts in the shower than bending over the sink. He was rather proud of his own attempts at normalcy when by all rights he should either be gibbering in panic or curled into a catatonic ball. And since he was in the bathroom... Mulder peeled off his boxer briefs, then tossed them in the sink. Julie always brought clean ones with her, but she hadn't been back for a while. They probably weren't dirty enough to need washing but it would give him something to do besides peeing. He'd have to lay them on the floor like the sheet, hope they'd dry out before the cavalry showed up and caught him with his assets showing. Because Scully would find him. He had no doubt about that. He couldn't, or he might as well stop drinking water and die. He had to believe that she wouldn't give up. That she'd locate him before he was beyond help. And when she did, he didn't want her to find him in dirty undershorts. There wasn't any soap but he cleaned his boxers the best he could, scrubbing and wringing as much as the pain in his ribs and torn hands would allow. The tears on his palms were definitely infected, the skin around them puffy, red and tender. His face was probably as bad. Heat radiated from the cut's edges when he touched it and the skin felt tight. There wasn't much he could do other than wash all his injuries and hope for the best. The right side of his chest had already passed the purplish stage and was headed toward Technicolor. Definitely a couple badly damaged ribs, maybe even cracked. He tried not to move too fast, bend too much or breathe too deeply. Being more careful had put a crimp in his continued attempts to bust out, but he had no plans to quit completely. Satisfied with the results of his laundry attempt, he spread the wet garment on the floor in the bedroom. It would take some time for them to dry out, but it wasn't like anyone was around to be shocked by his nudity. If Scully's rescue team showed up soon, he'd wear the boxers damp. It wouldn't be the first time. Better damp than dirty. Naked, he shuffled back to the stack of photos on the floor. There really wasn't any rush to deal with the ones he'd taken down but it made him feel better to put them completely out of sight. He slowly bent and gathered everything up, then carried the bundle to the bed where he stuffed it under the mattress. He yawned. Time for a nap. Exhaustion was beating him on the head and he wanted to be somewhere comfortable when it won. Crawling onto the mattress, Mulder pulled the quilt over himself. The pictures under the bed crackled as he curled up to conserve warmth. The room felt chilly, something he hadn't noticed before. He'd never paid attention to the atmosphere of his prison, but now it seemed to have gotten colder. Maybe the outside air was cooling. That could mean it was night. Or the heater had malfunctioned. Or maybe his body's thermostat was off. Whatever. He looked around the room and smiled at the blank spaces on the walls. He was more than halfway done. If only he'd had enough energy to finish. He could hardly wait until his own image no longer stared at him every hour of every day. If Julie *did* return, he'd deal with the repercussions. But he was pretty sure she wouldn't be coming back anytime soon. Mulder yawned again and massaged the gnawing in his gut. Just as soon as he rested a bit, he'd get back to those pictures. After he was finished with them, he'd find a way out. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ J. Edgar Hoover Building Conference Room 4B Sunday 1:14 PM Two steps forward, two steps back. All this evidence and they still weren't making any progress. Scully stared at the names scrawled across the surface of the whiteboard. Sally Jensen, Jenny Singleton, Carrie Collins. She'd had such hopes for the new set of work aliases but the response was the same at each place. Sure, they remembered her. Quiet, a loner, inclined to daydream, unusual voice. She had an erratic work history, coming in late a bit more often than they liked. She'd quit suddenly, no notice given, no forwarding address left behind. No one recalled her interacting with *any* of her coworkers, let alone the victim. Three identical situations, three different names, three new dead ends. None of the aliases yielded anything they could use. Scully thought they might have something when the name Carrie Collins turned up at back-to-back crime scenes, the first time to rent a house, the second to get a job. That was a bust, too. There was no pattern to the names, no connection between the victims, no link to a particular type of job, no preference for a certain part of the country. She'd worked at a bar, a diner and a grocery store from California to Kentucky to Iowa. Now she was a Federal file clerk in DC. And yet they had no idea where to find her. There was something in the evidence they weren't seeing. Granted what they had wasn't much, even taking the cases together. They now had three known victims and the evidence from Mulder's kidnapping. With that many crime scenes, they *should* have more to go on, but they'd been at a standstill almost from the beginning. There was a full set of matching prints, but no one to match them with. The drugs were consistent, or nearly so, for the cases where traces were left behind. The exact sedatives differed but it was a similar mixture, probably whatever was most available on the Internet at the time. Drugs couldn't be ruled out where they weren't actually found at the scene. Barbiturates tended to break down rapidly after death and decomposition would have further muddied the likelihood of finding any residue. Scully looked away from the board when Agent Jane Hatter entered the room carrying two Styrofoam cups, a file folder tucked under one arm. Scully was surprised to see that everyone else had left. They'd probably gone to lunch while she was busy trying to wring Mulder's location out of the meager evidence. Agent Hatter walked over to her and held out one cup, then set the other on the table. "What's this?" Scully took the cup and peered into the steaming liquid. "Tea. I thought you might prefer it to the compost-grade sludge currently inhabiting the coffee pot. I saw a couple of guys from the landscaping crew headed toward it with pickaxes." "Thanks." Scully took a gingerly sip then nodded at the folder in the other agent's hand. "Something new?" The other woman grimaced. "More victims. Two at once this time." Dear lord, when was it going to end? Agent Hatter pulled a sheet of paper out of the file and handed the rest to Scully. "AD Skinner thought you'd want to read the autopsy findings. I'll add the new names to the board and see if they help." For several minutes, the only noise in the room was the squeak of the dry erase marker. The information in the file looked like a clone of the others. Fingerprints matched. Envelopes of photos were hand delivered to each victim, more photos used to taunt the victim's wife or girlfriend. Yet another set of names for work and rental purposes. Similar crime scene evidence, including the used furniture, attached bathroom, hole near the ceiling in the hallway. Except for the extra body, the cases were nearly identical. Scully skimmed over the internal exam but her eyes kept drifting back to one area. There was no mention of muscle atrophy or lessened fat reserves in the omentum and mesentary/peri- colonic tissues. Was she reading that right? Such a finding could only mean one thing. The victims hadn't starved. The body fat and muscle hadn't been utilized the way it would during the process of starvation. So how did they die, then? Scully flipped to the end of the report. "Respiratory paralysis/cardiac arrest due to possible overdose of undetermined chemical substance. Lab results pending." The kidnapper poisoned them? Accidentally or on purpose? Like the others, they weren't found until at least a month after they'd died, so the drugs had broken down by the time the bodies were autopsied. She could have been drugging them every night and miscalculated the dosage. Scully felt suddenly cold. Mulder was not only in danger of starvation, but of overdosing, too. Granted none of the other victims they knew about had died that way, but still... She checked the date on the front of the folder, then looked at the names on the whiteboard. The new victims were listed as second and third. Early casualties. Hopefully that meant the kidnapper had either changed drugs or hadn't learned the correct dose until later. Maybe she'd been careless, combined the wrong sedatives. Any reason other than deliberate poisoning. Because if she'd done it on purpose-- Agent Hatter's voice drew Scully's attention away from her dark imaginings. "No. This can't be right." "What is it?" Scully asked. Anything to avoid going where her mind wanted to take her. The other agent held up the paper. "Someone wrote the names in the wrong order. Hang on. Let me..." Scully watched the other woman erase the entire list and start over. California, one victim, Jill Simmons rental name, Sally Jensen work name. Utah, two victims. Those were the new ones. Sally Jensen rental name, Beth Reynolds work name. Iowa, one victim, Beth Reynolds rental name, Carrie Collins work name. Kentucky, one victim. The one before Mulder. Carrie Collins rental name, Jenny Singleton work name. Jane Hatter gasped. "My God! Do you see what I see?" Scully felt like she was moving through water as she rose from her chair. She picked up a marker and drew a line from the work alias in California to the rental alias in Utah. Another line from work in Utah to rental in Iowa. A third line from Carrie Collins in Iowa to Carrie Collins in Kentucky. "This is it," she whispered. "I was right. There IS a pattern." "No wonder we couldn't find it!" Hatter exclaimed. "Whoever wrote the names up must have read the year wrong for the Kentucky victim. They had him second instead of last." Scully shook the marker at the list. "The kidnapper used one alias to get a job and a different one to rent a house. When she moved on, she would use the work alias to rent the next house in another state. We've been looking for patterns and connections in all the wrong places, but we never would have seen it without these last two victims." Scully reached out with the marker, circled the name Jenny Singleton. "THIS is who we need to look for! Find a house rented to that name and we'll find Mulder." She whirled and pointed the marker at the other agent. Energy shot through her veins for the first time in two weeks. "Get Skinner! We need to start calling real estate and rental agencies again. Put out an APB on that name. Leave messages, knock on doors, do whatever it takes. We've finally got her this time!" Agent Hatter didn't bother to reply, she simply took off running. Scully threw down the marker. Hands on hips, she studied the whiteboard with its damning evidence. So simple, and yet all it took was a glitch in the pattern, one set of names in the wrong place, to throw them off. Well, they had all the pieces now and the pattern was there for everyone to see. It didn't take an expert to know the next step. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Hang on a little longer, Mulder. We'll be right there. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Location unknown The darkness was a shock after so long with the lights always on. For a moment when he'd first awakened, Mulder thought he'd gone blind in his sleep. Then he spotted a faint line of light under the door and could breathe again. His eyes were okay. The power was out. There was always a possibility that Julie had come back while he was sleeping and turned off the lights, but Occam's Razor said it was more likely to have been the power company. As immersed as Julie was in her fantasy world, she'd probably forgotten to pay the bills. If Scully didn't find him soon, the water could be next and then he'd *really* be in trouble. It was getting harder to crawl out of bed and go to the bathroom for water, especially in the pitch dark, but he forced himself to make the effort. He didn't want to be dehydrated AND malnourished when rescue arrived. The more water he took in, the easier it would be to recover once he was home. Of course, it would also take him longer to die, but he didn't want to think about that. He tried to keep his mind off his fellow victims, especially the one in the house with him. Mulder knew the two of them weren't Julie's first, or even her second. He would bet good money on a path of bodies, probably stretching across several states. There would be one, maybe two victims at each location. A couple would have accidentally overdosed on sedatives as she was learning to calculate a non-lethal amount. The rest died of starvation. Did they cry? Scream? Throw themselves against the door, prying at the unyielding edges of the frame in an attempt to be free? Mulder ran the tips of his fingers over the nails on his other hand. They were ragged; what was left of them. He knew pulling at the door wouldn't work but he'd had to try. Without any kind of tool to help, he didn't have much chance but it had given him something to do. It would have been so easy to give in to the depression and despair crouching along the edges of his psyche. Morose demons whispered that Scully didn't love him. She wasn't looking for him. She'd never cared about him at all. He was alone and likely to remain so until he died. In the long, silent hours, he almost allowed them to convince him it was true. Then he realized it was most likely the withdrawal symptoms talking. The demons could all go fuck themselves. His partner would never stop looking for him. She loved him at least as much as he loved her. There was no purpose to be served by despair, wasting precious energy on crying or berating the fates. That would imply he didn't believe in Scully's ability to track him down. Losing hope would be worse than dying alone. He was used to being alone. At least he had been until Scully came along with her sorority-girl hairdo and her scientific skepticism and her grudging willingness to follow where he led. His very own Doubting Thomasina. Mulder lay on his side, watching the thin strip of light under the door. It was both comforting and maddening to know there was a world continuing on without him. A world which included fresh air, light, plenty of food, open doors and Scully. Where was she? He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her so badly it hurt. Mulder rolled away from the light and curled around the ache in his heart. His ribs didn't like that at all. Pain stabbed his chest, catching his breath on the jagged edges. His limbs suddenly felt heavy and disconnected, like they didn't belong to him any longer. He broke out in a sweat, mouth dry, heart rate soaring at the same time his thoughts began to fuzz around the edges. He was losing consciousness. He didn't need to see the already-dark room turning black to recognize what was happening. One more time. He just wanted to see Scully once more before he died. Was that too much to ask? Please, don't let it be too much to ask. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 247 Willowbrook Drive Monday 2:58 PM The SWAT team leader inserted the landlord's key and eased the front door open. Scully had vehemently protested the addition of a SWAT team to the rescue mission but Skinner insisted. He wanted the advance team to quietly sweep the house, checking for the kidnapper, traps and other dangerous situations before they allowed anyone else in. Scully pointed out that there hadn't been any evidence of booby traps at the previous crime scenes, yet Skinner was adamant. The kidnapper might have left the scene but they didn't know that for sure, he said. They weren't going to take any chances. Scully would do it his way or she wouldn't be going along. She didn't have any choice but to agree. Scully remained outside, cell phone clamped over an ear while she waited for Danny to check on the cars they'd seen inside the garage. Two cars, two license plates. One she knew was Mulder's. The other was a surprise. It wasn't the kidnapper's car because that had already been found and impounded two days ago for parking in a short-term lot. She'd leased it under the same name as the house. It was assumed she took a cab or walked to another rental agency for a new car. Using what they knew about her name pattern, people were already scouring the rental agencies, but Scully suspected they wouldn't find "Jeanie Wilson" that easily. She would probably use a completely different name, maybe even her real one, until she got to her next stop. Then she'd get rid of that car and lease a new one under a new identity. Once again, the kidnapper had chosen an area of rental houses. That helped to explain why no one noticed any odd activity or bad smells--everyone moved around so much, they never got to know their neighbors. Unfamiliar neighbors leads to disinterest in their goings-on leads to ignoring whatever doesn't directly concern them. When Danny got back to Scully, he simply confirmed her suspicions. One car was definitely Mulder's. The other belonged to a lawyer from Arlington Heights. It appeared they might have more than one victim, like in Utah. But was Mulder taken first or second? The kidnapper hadn't traveled far to locate her targets--the house was an easy walk from Mulder's apartment and Arlington Heights was almost the same distance in the other direction. The two places were so close, the woman had probably seen Mulder on one of his runs. He could have passed right through the neighborhood at some point. Maybe that was how she'd singled him out. It felt like hours before they gave the all-clear and Scully was able to rush through the doorway, pushing other agents aside in her hurry. It was dark inside. She flipped a switch but nothing happened. Someone held out a sheet of paper, illuminated by a flashlight. The name Jenny Singleton was on the paper. "The power's been turned off. She stopped paying the bills. We've already called the electric company to get it turned back on." No electricity meant no heat, no light. What must Mulder be thinking, trapped in the dark? "Where's Mulder?" Scully demanded. Let's cut to the chase. I want my partner back. The other agent pointed to a hallway where several people had congregated. They were blocking her view. She shoved through the crowd. The hallway was empty. Two closed doors faced each other with another door at the end of the hall standing open. She could see FBI jacket-covered backs milling around inside the room. There was a wooden chair standing against the wall next to one door and a USB cord dangling from a hole near the ceiling. Agent Janis climbed onto the chair and shone a flashlight into the opening. Scully could feel the tension rise as he reached into the hole and pulled out a small, round object. A mini web camera. So that's why every crime scene had a hole in the drywall near the ceiling. The kidnapper used a web cam connected to a computer monitor to watch inside the rooms. Scully checked the other side of the hallway. Yes, there was another hole in the wall, but without the dangling cord. The the camera had been there at one time but she moved it after-- God! Where was Mulder? The doors on either side of the hall were obviously locked, one with two slide bolts and a keyed knob. The other was completely covered with multiple layers of plastic and duct tape. A faint smell of death hung in the air. "Which one?" Scully asked no one in particular. Please, she prayed, don't let it be the plastic-covered door. Agent Pryzbyzki indicated the other one. "We're pretty sure he's in there but we haven't detected any movement. Unless he's unconscious, he should have heard us by now." "Then let's get him out of there!" Scully grasped the doorknob, but Pryzbyzki pulled her back. "We don't know if the kidnapper is with him! We can't simply go barging into an unknown situation. Perkins went to get a torch. We'll cut the door open as soon as we can." He was right. Scully knew he was right but that didn't make it any easier to wait. If Mulder was in that room, he should have given them a sign that he'd heard all the noise they were making. Yell, bang on the door, scream at them to hurry up. But so far, there'd been nothing. Agent Gardner, stethoscope pressed to the door, indicated that he didn't hear anything inside, either. The door was thick so maybe it didn't mean anything. Mulder was still alive. He HAD to be. She watched Janis try to work a cable camera through the hole left by the web cam with one hand while staring at a tiny video screen in the other. "There's something blocking the bedroom side," he said. "Maybe a piece of glass or plastic covering the peephole. I can't get much light into the room, but it looks like the door is clear of wires." "Can you see Agent Mulder?" Jane Hatter asked. Janis squinted at the screen. "There's someone on the bed but they're too far away to tell who it is." Scully looked around at the overwhelming evidence. The kidnapper had abandoned her victims. Did she leave because she got angry, or because they were both dead? Scully needed to know, right NOW. "Mulder, we're here!" she yelled. "We're going to cut the door open. Are you okay? Can you answer me?" Still no sound. She ignored Agent Gardner's yelp as she pulled the stethoscope off his neck. Ear buds inserted, she flattened the scope to the door, straining for any sign of her partner's presence. She thought she heard a faint rustling, but nothing else. Where the hell was Perkins with that cutting tool? As if summoned by her very will, an acetylene torch hissed to life behind her. "Clear the area," Perkins demanded. Everyone moved toward either end of the hallway, but nobody went far. Scully turned to Pryzbyzki while the bright blue flame of the torch did its slow work of cutting around the knob. "Could you see any movement at all?" she asked. "Even a slight reaction to the noise out here?" He thought for a moment. "There may have been, but the light didn't reach very far. I don't want to say for sure, Agent Scully. I mean..." Her shoulders sagged. "I know. It's okay." He didn't have to say any more. She had a good imagination. Cutting the knob loose took an eternity and yet no time at all. Perkins turned off the torch and set it down before sliding back the deadbolts. Leaving the knob locked into the frame, he tested to see if the door would move. It did. He hooked a pry bar into the gap around the knob and pulled. The door flew open, slamming against the hallway wall. If Mulder was conscious, that would get his attention. Agent Gardner held up a hand to keep Scully back, allowing the SWAT leader to enter first. The light mounted on the barrel of his rifle swept the room, painting the walls left and right, until it settled to one side of the door. Scully heard a murmur, then Gardner beckoned her into the room. Flashlight in hand, she stepped through the doorway. Her gaze passed over the empty bed. He wasn't there! Heart pounding, she followed the SWAT leader's beam of light. Mulder. He was alive. Arm raised to shield his eyes, he'd scrambled into a corner, back to the wall. Dressed solely in boxer briefs, he seemed thinner than she remembered. In the glare of the beam spotlighting his face, she could see beard stubble on his chin, but the rest of him was in shadow. "Get that light out of his eyes!" She pushed the rifle aside. What was the idiot thinking, pointing a gun at an obviously unarmed man? Several flashlights were also turned off behind her, plunging the room into a state of subdued twilight. She hadn't realized so many people had followed her in. "Scully?" Mulder lowered his arm and blinked at her. His voice cracked, sounding rusty, underused. "Scully." He stumbled forward, kicked the edge of the mattress and dropped to his knees on the blankets. "Scully!" She rushed to him, flashlight forgotten on the floor. "Mulder!" Falling to the mattress, she opened her arms. He laid down in her lap and curved his legs around her back, burrowing his face into her stomach. He grunted as she gathered him close, not caring who might be watching. "Are you okay?" she asked, fingers already mapping the prominence of his ribs, noting the lumps and bumps on his arms, back and head. "I'm okay." "You're okay?" "Yeah. You're here. Knew you'd find me. Never stopped believing it." "I called to you before. Why didn't you answer?" His arms tightened around her waist. "I thought I was hallucinating... the drugs... didn't want to raise my hopes." She hugged him back, mind reeling at all the unspoken implications in his words. "I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner." "Told you not to take the beltway. Crazy at rush hour." She couldn't hold back a watery chuckle. "I should listen to you more often." "Been telling you that for years, too." It felt so good to have his arms around her again, hands rubbing up and down her back, she almost missed his whispered question. "How'd you find me? I was afraid she hadn't left enough clues." Her heart ached at the fear in his voice. Despite his earlier words of faith, she knew he must have been dangling from the ragged edge of despair by his fingertips. "The clues were there, Mulder. It just took time to find them. I'll tell you all about it later." They remained on the bed for several minutes, not saying anything. The other agents kept their distance but went about the business of collecting evidence. Hatter and Janis crowded each other inside the miniscule bathroom, dusting every surface for prints. A mini vacuum hummed along the floor behind Scully, sucking up fibers and whatever else it could find. Duct tape ripped out in the hallway. Plastic rattled as it was torn off the other bedroom door. Team members passed the hall on their way to other parts of the house, voices fading in and out. Scully heard Skinner issuing orders from the kitchen. And still Mulder silently clung to her. He finally stirred, turning his head in Scully's lap, giving her a look at the rest of his face. She gasped. "Mulder, what happened?" He reached up to touch the puffy, red flesh but she intercepted his hand. "Fought with the plumbing. It hit back." "Well next time, duck. We need to get you out of here." She glanced at the doorway, wondering what was taking the ambulance so long. It should have been right behind the SWAT team. She yelled over her shoulder, "Where the hell's that stretcher?" A voice called in from the hallway, "There was a pile-up near the airport and it took some time to free a unit. It's just coming around the corner." Mulder struggled to sit up. "Don't bother with a stretcher, Scully. I can walk." She pushed him down. "No, you can't." "Yes. I can." He proved it by jerking out from under her hands and wobbling upright. Even in the dim light, a large mottled patch was visible on his chest, extending under his right arm and wrapping around to his back. Scully shot off the mattress and retrieved her flashlight from the floor. She slowly circled her partner, cataloging every hiss and flinch as she explored the damage. "How did this happen?" she asked. "Like I said, the plumbing was in a feisty mood." "Can you breathe okay?" He didn't seem to be struggling for air but she still had to ask. "I won't be belting out arias for a while, but I'm fine." "Does it hurt when you move?" "If I move quickly, yeah. Can't bend fast or do cartwheels, but otherwise it's not too bad." He was probably telling the truth. He'd laid down in her lap without complaining and also managed to get off the mattress on his own. She wouldn't bet against at least one fractured rib but apparently there weren't any severe breaks. Mulder must have sensed her continued determination to haul him out on a stretcher. "I'm not gonna race straight out the front door, Scully. I just..." He glanced around at the activity in the room but she got the impression he was seeing something else. "I want to get out of here." She'd been so pleased to find him, she'd almost forgotten why they were there. He was moving around all right and seemed sufficiently stable. His request wasn't unreasonable, especially under the circumstances. Maybe he *would* be better off someplace where they had more space. She removed her FBI jacket and draped it around his shoulders. "Okay, Mulder. But only to the living room for now. Happy?" "So happy I could barf. Oh wait. I'm running on empty. Better take a rain check." She had to smile. By all rights, he should be sobbing on the floor or in a catatonic stupor. But no. This was Mulder. Even being locked up for weeks hadn't dulled his sense of the absurd or his ability to surprise her. He rolled his eyes when she took his arm to guide him from the room but she wasn't really trying to hold him up. She simply couldn't stop touching him. They came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. Mulder was staring at the door across the hall. Agent Gardner had his stethoscope against it. He looked up at Scully and shook his head. "Come on, Mulder," she murmured. "Let's get you out of this place." The sound of the acetylene torch firing up followed them down the hallway. While they moved slowly out to the other room, Scully blinked back tears as every person in the vicinity greeted her partner with a touch on the arm, a gentle pat on the shoulder, and the words "Good to see you, Mulder." Or "Nice to have you back, Agent." Some of these people were the same ones who hadn't wanted to search for him in the first place. Now they were welcoming him as one of their own. She saw him smile faintly, nod, swallow a couple of times, but he didn't speak. He looked dazed, like he couldn't quite believe he was free. She guided him to the worn sofa in the living room where the curtains were open. He squinted in the bright sunlight. Scully beckoned to Agent Samuels, standing guard near the front door. "Could Mulder borrow your hat, please?" "Sure, Agent Scully." Mulder peered up at his partner. "Do I know these people? Have you checked the Hoover basement for pods recently?" Samuels laughed and plunked his FBI baseball cap on Mulder's head. "Technically, we're possessed. Here. Squinting will give you unsightly wrinkles." Mulder tugged the hat down over his forehead and sent him a small nod. "Thanks." "My pleasure." The other man flipped them a little wave then went back to his post and let in the paramedics. Scully would have liked to stay and supervise the exam, but Gardner was calling to her. Reluctantly, she told Mulder, "Be right back," and went to see what he needed. The other bedroom was unsealed and the door stood open. The odor of death greeted her at the threshold. Sickly-sweet, it clung to the back of her nose and throat. Agent Gardner pointed toward the dark room behind the door. "We thought you'd want to take a look." Scully pulled latex gloves from her pocket and tugged them on. "Has anyone been inside yet?" "Just to peek around the door and check the layout. There's a body on the mattress, no sound or movement." She took a handkerchief out of her pocket and held it over her nose. "Call the coroner and another ambulance. After I'm done, close the room up again so it stays undisturbed until he gets here." Pulling the door open just enough to give her room to pass, she stepped through and turned on her flashlight. Was this how Mulder's room had looked? She'd been so focused on the man, she hadn't really paid any attention to the scene. That's what all those other highly-trained people with her were for. She was just there to find Mulder. Now, she took in as much of the room as she could with the aid of a flashlight. The beam glinted off porcelain fixtures in an adjacent room that didn't seem to have a door. Photographs ringed the wall, three feet wide at least. They bore no resemblance to the sunken face of the man curled up on the mattress. She approached the bed solemnly, then squatted down near the head and extended two latex-clad fingers toward his neck, although she already knew what she'd find. Life was extinguished, long gone from this poor, tortured creature. Just as his murderer was gone, escaped beyond the reach of retribution. For now. Scully stood and contemplated the signs of decay on the corpse. Death by starvation was her opinion, but that determination would be the coroner's call. Hopefully they'd be able to notify his family soon. Did they know he'd been kidnapped or did they think he'd run off? It was a bittersweet day, to have found one lost man only to discover another they hadn't known was missing. She whispered into the shadowy room, "We'll be looking for her. I promise," then turned and walked out the door, pushing it closed behind her. Compared to the silent room of death, the rest of the house was like a prairie dog town. Agents swarmed over every room, dusting for prints, photographing surfaces, removing whatever had been left behind. The paramedics were helping Mulder onto a stretcher, apparently having been more persuasive than she'd been. Someone had traded him Scully's jacket for a bigger one. He made an incongruous picture with his borrowed coat and hat topping bare legs and boxer briefs. He was the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. Scully walked out to the living room, intent on following her partner. There were plenty of trained agents around. The investigation could continue without her. She'd gotten what she came for and she wasn't going to let him out of her sight. She stopped at the front door on her way out. "If anyone needs me--" "We know where to find you," Agent Samuels replied. "Go make sure they take care of Mulder." He didn't have to tell her twice. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dana Scully's apartment Tuesday 7:18 PM Mulder jerked awake, heart tripping double-time in the first few seconds of panic as he sat up and scanned his surroundings. Beige walls. Sunlight filtering through drawn blinds. Faint sound of movement through the open door. Scully's place. Safe. She'd found him and he was safe. He flopped back onto the pillows, consciously willing his heart rate and breathing to return to normal. The doctor had told him to take frequent naps, but jolting awake every couple of hours appealed to him less and less. He'd be grateful when his mind finally caught up to reality and accepted that he wasn't a prisoner anymore. Pans clattered softly in the kitchen. He wondered if Scully was still upset with him. He understood why the doctors wanted to keep him hospitalized. Really. He did. The residual effects of the sedative cocktail he'd been getting continued to make themselves known and lack of food had left him weak. It wasn't like he could ignore the withdrawal symptoms or stop at the nearest burger joint on the way home and start chowing down. But he couldn't stay there. He couldn't bear the thought of giving up control to anyone else so soon after being rescued. Not even when the control was benevolent. Staying in the hospital meant someone else telling him when to eat, when to sleep, when to shower, when to take a leak, sticking him with needles, listening to his heart, poking at his aches. He needed to regain control of his life as quickly as possible. His waking panic attacks were mild compared to the feeling of utter terror which had overwhelmed him at the thought of remaining cooped up. Two of his ribs had hairline fractures, but the hospital taped them and he wasn't having as much trouble breathing. He wasn't dehydrated, thanks to the nature of his accommodations, so IV fluids weren't necessary. The drug withdrawal was much better than it had been. He understood the need to reintroduce foods slowly, especially after the first round of stomach cramps. But Scully could monitor him at home. He didn't have to be confined to recover. He couldn't. He wouldn't. And he'd made his feelings on the matter as clear as he was able without succumbing to hysteria. Scully hadn't been happy with his decision, but once she agreed, there was nothing the doctors could do about it. They gave him some clear broth to start building his strength, observed him for a few hours, explained his eating schedule for the next week, then reluctantly turned him loose. If he'd been capable of running to the car, he would have. Mulder stretched under the sheets, enjoying the idea that he could get up and walk out the door, out of the apartment building itself, head anywhere he wanted to just *because* he wanted to. He wanted to pee. Provided he could make it there and back on his own. He'd needed help last night, but Scully had plied him with small cups of broth and protein drinks all evening and he felt much stronger by the time they went to sleep. He'd have liked to do more than just sleep but it was going to take him a while to get the memory of Julie and her pornographic flip-book out of his head. He needed to regain his emotional equilibrium every bit as much as his physical strength. More work for the Bureau shrinks. Sitting up wasn't too bad. No dizziness or swimming head and the binding around his ribs made it easier to move. The doctors said it might take another week to be rid of the withdrawal symptoms. The stomach pains and nausea were better. The headaches had already stopped by the time Scully found him and he was pleased to realize that he wasn't shaking anymore. He would definitely think twice before ingesting any type of medication from now on. Scully'd already had a rotten time convincing him to accept antibiotics for his infected cuts. He stood and tested his legs for a few seconds before moving in the direction of the bathroom. Nice firm gait. Perhaps a tad shuffly, but not bad, all things considered. Standing at the toilet required bracing his hand against the wall, but lots of guys did that. Nothing unusual there. He stopped to check out his reflection in the mirror while he gingerly washed his hands around the bandages. His face was looking a bit better since yesterday. His first glimpse in the hospital bathroom had been a shock. That shower head did a real number on his cheek. The cut was shallow but ragged, longer than he would have liked to see. The puffy pinkness around the edges had gone down and the scabs looked cleaner. Well, they should, considering the industrial-strength antibiotics coursing through his veins. Too bad they wouldn't help with the extensive bruising. His eye wasn't swollen shut, but there seemed to be every color of the rainbow laid out across one side of his face from eyebrow to jaw line. He'd probably looked worse the last time he saw Julie. No wonder she'd run off. He pulled up his t-shirt and turned to the left, then the right, studying his body. Rows of athletic tape overlapped each other as they wound around and around his chest. Blurry edges of the bruise peeked out over the top of his bandaging. At least he didn't appear to have lost a lot of weight. Not ordinarily a vain man, he was still grateful that he didn't look like a concentration camp survivor. And all the exercising the last couple weeks had redefined his chest, tightened his abs, bulked up his biceps. Not bad. Maybe he should keep exercising. Scully might like it. He opened the bathroom door to find her waiting for him in the hallway, fists on hips. "What are you doing out of bed?" "I haven't wet the bed since I was five. I didn't think now would be a good time to regress." "Why didn't you call for help?" Mulder threw his arms out wide. "Help with what? I'm up, I'm mobile, I don't need help holding my--" "Get back into bed." Her pointing finger stabbed across the rest of his words. He lowered his arms and shrugged. "Whatever you say, warden." He tried to put a spring in his step on the return trip, just to show her that he was perfectly capable of taking a leak on his own like the other big boys. Scully walked as close as she could beside him. He got the feeling she was waiting to catch him if he teetered the slightest bit. "Come on, Mulder, don't be like that. You'll recover faster if you follow the doctor's orders. He said you need lots of rest. Don't you want to get well quickly?" He stopped next to the bed and faced her again. "I didn't realize this was a race. Besides, you know I work best under pressure." She pointed to the bed. "That's not what I heard from Janice in Accounting when I first started working for the Bureau. Now get back in." He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at her instead. "Scully! I am appalled by this previously unseen nasty streak in your nature." "You're just jealous that I got in a zinger while you weren't looking." "That, too." He finally climbed under the covers, to show her that he was doing it on his own terms, not hers. Scully sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed the hair out of his eyes. "Can't catch it as fast as you throw it out, Mulder?" "I'm just not used to having it flung back at me. I'll have to sharpen my reflexes so I can counter with my fastball." He grabbed her hand, then kissed the palm. She smiled at him. "You ready for a snack, Nolan Ryan? We've got some yummy applesauce and juice to get you closer to solid food." "Sure. It will give me a chance to come up with a biting reply at some point well after the fact." "A dull mind is the first sign of aging, you know." His leer was automatic and lop-sided but no less sincere. "Get under these covers and I'll show you *exactly* how well I'm aging." Mulder leaned toward her, lips puckered, but was interrupted by a knock on the apartment door. He flopped back on the pillow. "Were you expecting someone?" Scully patted his leg and stood. "Skinner said he'd stop by to check on you and bring some paperwork I need to fill out. Looks like he showed up not a minute too soon." As she walked out of the room, Mulder called to her retreating back, "Statements like that could damage a guy's self-esteem." "I'll tell him you think his timing stinks," she hollered. Rather than let Skinner find him tucked in bed like an invalid granny, Mulder decided to meet them in the living room. They were so engrossed in some papers, he was almost to the armchair before Scully saw him. She might not want him walking around but he wasn't comfortable talking to his boss while flat on his back in her bed. "Mulder." Skinner advanced, hand outstretched. "It's good to see you. How's the face?" Their handshake was firm. Mulder tried not to wince at the pressure on his torn palm. "Better," he replied. "I won't be winning any beauty pageants in the near future, though." "You wouldn't have won any before either." There was a definite smirk on Skinner's face and Mulder could feel his own mouth responding. A traditional, manly exchange of glad-you're-alive and thanks-for-finding-me. Skinner picked up a thick folder from the coffee table and held it out. "I thought you might want to see this." Mulder took the file, but didn't open it. He looked at it for a few minutes, wondering if he was ready to discover what Pandora's box held. It wouldn't be pretty, he already knew that. But was he mentally up to seeing the kind of damage one small woman was capable of wreaking? Finally, he set the folder back on the coffee table and turned to Skinner. "How many?" The other man sat down on the couch before answering. It must be bad. "You were number seven," Skinner said. "One other scene yielded two victims, three had one each." Mulder snorted a mirthless laugh. "Lucky number seven. Who was unlucky number six, in the other bedroom?" Scully perched on the arm of his chair. "You knew?" He couldn't stop the involuntary wrinkling of his nose. "Let's just say I had my suspicions." Skinner leaned forward, arms on knees. "His name was Ronald Kilgallen. A chef in one of the trendy DC restaurants we can't afford to eat at on a government employee's salary. He'd been missing for about two months." Turning to Scully, Mulder asked, "How did he die?" "Starvation." He closed his eyes and felt her rub his shoulder. "Time of death was hard to pin down because of the body's condition and the interior crime scene, but probably three to five weeks ago." Mulder did the math in his head. If this other guy was missing for two months and Mulder'd been a captive for nearly three weeks, then his housemate must have-- His eyes popped open in horror. "Jesus! She probably abandoned him right after he was kidnapped! He'd be able to survive on water for a while, which means he was still alive when Julie was stalking me. He must have died during the week before my kidnapping. She deserted him in order to fixate on ME." Neither Scully nor Skinner questioned how he knew or denied that he was right. The evidence was probably in the folder and easy enough for them to figure out, too. Julie had called him "Beautiful Fox" more than once. And then there were the letters Scully told him about, with their fixation on "beautiful" songs. He'd been abandoned after his sudden disfigurement. It all fit together far too perfectly. Here was something else for him to deal with: another man died simply because their kidnapper thought Mulder was more "beautiful." New baggage to carry around. Soon he'd need his own personal luggage cart to haul all of it. Skinner cleared his throat, breaking the silence. Mulder was grateful. He wasn't really up to wallowing inside his own head yet. He'd had weeks of nothing else. Now he needed some answers. Scully had told him what she knew last night, the most important thing being the fact that Julie had escaped capture. Maybe Skinner knew more by now. "Any leads on where she might have gone?" Mulder asked. "Not yet." Skinner leaned closer. "But we know her pattern now. We have the name she used at the Bureau. We've sent that out along with her description to law enforcement in the surrounding states. As soon as you're ready to work with a sketch artist, we'll send a picture out, too." "What about her employee ID photo, Sir?" Mulder asked. "That would be a lot faster than a sketch." Skinner looked down at his hands. "Gone. It's not in the system anymore. Whoever this Julie is, she knows what she's doing." "How the hell did she end up at the Bureau in the first place? Her personal info must have been completely bogus. Didn't anyone think that was significant enough to preclude employment?" Skinner's jaw muscles tightened. He always did that when he was especially peeved. This should be good. "They never ran a background check," he replied. "What?" Mulder didn't know why he was so surprised. Julie seemed to have the luck of a thousand leprechauns. Skinner waved a hand in acknowledgement. "I know. Somebody dropped the ball, big-time. They're still trying to sort it out. Short answer--five women were hired on an emergency basis at the same time from the same employment agency, and whoever was supposed to process their applications at *both* places fucked up. The employment agency verified that her address was valid, but didn't check to make sure she lived there. She didn't. The Bureau's foul-up can only be described as a complete pooch-screw. The person in charge had a sudden medical emergency and whoever was supposed to take over, didn't. They were thrown into such an uproar, none of the background checks were done on those new hires. In the meantime, we were trying to figure out who inside the Hoover was most likely to be your kidnapper. By the time we did, she was long gone. The information on her application turned out to be totally useless." He yanked off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "My God! We're the Federal Bureau of goddamned Investigations! Could things have gone more wrong?" Mulder had never seen his boss so upset. It was comforting to know it was on his behalf. Nevertheless, he couldn't resist a dig. "That's why they put the 'F' in FBI, Sir." Skinner snorted and replaced his glasses. "Thanks for your understanding, Agent Mulder. As you can imagine, the higher- ups are somewhat red in the face at the moment and they strongly advised me to pick your brain. Is there anything more you can tell us about your kidnapper? Anything she might have let slip during conversation?" Mulder shook his head. "She hardly talked to me. Every time I saw her, she was deep inside her fantasy. I'd ask questions but the answers didn't match up with reality. She registered my movements but she rarely responded to me verbally. I know her first name is Julie and that's pretty much all I know. I'm sorry I can't be more help, Sir." Scully gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "The fact that you're alive is a big help, Mulder. You're the only eyewitness we have who's been trained in observation. No one else remembers much about her appearance other than her voice and hair color. With your sketch and the descriptions we've gotten from landlords and coworkers, she won't be able to hide for much longer." "But she's still out there. What if she comes back?" He'd been trying to suppress that particular fear ever since his rescue. Now it was hanging in the middle of the room for all of them to gawk at. His kidnapper was on the loose. What did that mean for him? They should have gone to his apartment from the hospital. His clothes were there, after all. But he simply wasn't ready to face the scene of so many of Julie's pictures. It wasn't rational, but his apartment felt tainted. He wouldn't be able to sit on his own couch without remembering that revolting flip-book. It made him queasy every time he thought about it. He hadn't asked Scully if they'd found it in the house and she hadn't volunteered the information, but then she might not know yet. It could take them days to process the scene. Maybe Julie had taken it with her. Maybe she was in the building across from his apartment, waiting for him to come home. There would probably be surveillance all over the neighborhood exactly for that reason, but it didn't comfort him enough to make him go back to his own place. "There's no indication that she returns to her victims," Skinner said. "They're dead," Mulder replied. "I'm not." "As far as she's concerned, you are." Oh. Why hadn't *he* thought of that? He was supposed to be the hot-shot former profiler, yet he couldn't seem to profile his way through a wet tissue when it came to his own case. He shouldn't have needed someone else to point out the obvious. If she'd left him to die, then to her, he *was* dead. Maybe he didn't have anything to worry about after all. Other than working through the fresh damage to his psyche, which was going to be loads of fun. Skinner stood. "Take your time reading the file, Mulder," he said. "That's a copy of everything we found during the investigation. If you have any questions Agent Scully can't answer, feel free to contact me. Otherwise I'll see you at work in a few days." While Scully escorted their boss to the door, Mulder carried the file to the dining room table and sat down. He wasn't ready to look at it yet, but he couldn't bring himself to leave it behind. Maybe he'd be better able to deal with it after some food. His brain was finally beginning to register the hollow echo in his middle. He was so focused on the closed folder, he didn't notice Scully's return until she stood next to him and put an arm around his shoulders. "We'll find her, Mulder. It's only a matter of time." "But will it be soon enough to help the next poor bastard who catches her eye?" "I don't know. All I can promise is that we'll do our damnedest to prevent another kidnapping. You know that." "Yeah." He gave her a small smile and got one in return. "I just hate to think of anyone else going through such hell." "Me too." She touched the file folder gently, almost reverently. "Here's a thought. When you feel up to it, look through the information. See if there's anything else we could use to find her. You have special insight. You might be able to help." Scully kissed the top of his head, then went into the kitchen. Mulder rubbed his hand over the manila cover of the file folder. They were all in there. Him, Ron, the other five men who'd caught the attention of a killer. How did she choose her victims? Was it something about them, or something about her? Or were they simply at the wrong place when their kidnapper's particular delusion kicked in? How many more would fall victim to her twisted fantasy? Scully was right. Maybe he could help. He flipped the folder open and saw the photo from his FBI personnel file staring back. Lord have mercy on all "beautiful" men until Julie was found. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Two Months Later Hilton Elementary School Kent, Ohio 2:35 PM High-pitched squeals mixed with baritone encouragement drew Julie's attention from the copier back to the open window. "Come on, Cedric! You can run faster than that. Jay, this isn't hurdles. Run around the cones, don't jump over. Good job, Keesha, keep going, keep going!" She watched the group of children race around an obstacle course on the playground while the machine in front of her spit copies into a tray. Julie giggled. She'd almost forgotten to switch originals with so much to distract her. She would lose her job if she didn't finish her work and that simply wouldn't do. Julie's face flushed as she watched. The physical education teacher was so beautiful, loping along behind his students, tall, thin frame moving loosely and confidently. His dark hair shone in the sun. The pitch black mustache and goatee made him look like a pirate. She was so intent on her observation, she almost missed someone speaking to her. "Do you have Miss Smith's copies ready, Kimmie? She was hoping to pick them up when she brings her gym class back inside." Julie turned to the school secretary and pointed at a shelf, even though she hated to relinquish her wonderful view. "They're all set, Mrs. Irman. I'm working on Mrs. Dison's copies now." The older woman gathered up the stack of papers. "Bless you, dear. I don't know what we did without you, standing here hour after hour making copies. I just wish we had a better place for you to work besides the old gym equipment storage room. It's so cramped and musty in here." "I don't mind." Julie looked out the window again. "I enjoy watching." Mrs. Irman moved to stand next to Julie. "They are beautiful little monkeys, aren't they?" "Oh yes." Julie smiled at her private joke. She wasn't looking at the children. "And Mr. Baines is so good with them," the secretary continued. "He's a real prize." "You mean Sean?" Julie asked. Beautiful Sean. It was such a nice name. The other woman touched her sleeve. "Try not to call him that around the children. It's a matter of losing authority. What if they decided it would be funny to call him by his first name? You understand, Kimmie. Don't you?" A phone rang in the distance. The secretary tsked. "I have to run," she said, hugging the pile of copies close. "Don't forget!" "I won't forget, Mrs. Irman," Julie replied. Remembering all the rules was turning out to be harder than she'd imagined, but she wouldn't need to worry about it much longer. Getting hired as an elementary school assistant was a lot easier than she'd expected. Easier than the FBI. The school hadn't asked a lot of dumb questions or run background checks. That was a good omen. She was sure of it. As she continued to watch the phys-ed teacher leading his charges, a young woman exited the building and walked toward the group. Miss Smith, retrieving her class. Beautiful Sean saw her, too. "Okay, everybody," he called, "come back to the circle and have a seat. Cedric, you can stop running now. Join your class in the circle. Time to cool down." Julie had seen Miss Smith hanging around the gym a number of times. She seemed to think Mr. Baines was attracted to her, always laughing and smiling at him, flirting like a tramp. Julie knew better. Especially after she saw the two of them arguing last week. You didn't raise your voice to a beautiful man that way. Miss Smith obviously didn't know how Sean should be treated. Today the hussy was all smiles and batting lashes but it was too late. The packet of photos was almost ready. Julie had been taking pictures of Beautiful Sean for weeks and she almost had enough to decorate the room. Only a few more days and she'd leave the envelope in his office mailbox. Then she'd meet him at his house and they'd drive to their new home to be together. Forever. The clanging of the period-change bell reminded Julie that she had a job to do. She reluctantly returned to her copies. They were going to be so happy. Momma had always wanted her to marry a teacher. She said they were sensitive, stable and made good fathers. It was easy to see that Beautiful Sean was wonderful with children. She really couldn't have chosen any better. He was perfect. She watched the noisy group file through the doorway. Mr. Baines herded them left and right, trying to keep the line moving and prevent pileups. He looked at the copy-room window in passing and waved. Sean was always doing special little things like that because he knew they made her happy. And when Julie was happy, she liked to sing. "You must have been a beautiful baby. You must have been a beautiful child..." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE END Feedback: mimic1172@gmail.com