ELS
Chapter 5
By Dawson E. Rambo

Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner and any other
tangentially mentioned characters created by Chris Carter remain
his copyrighted property, as well as the copyrighted property of 1013
productions and Fox Television, a unit of 20th Century Fox. No
infringement is intended.

Posting Date    : November 3, 1997
Archive Entry	: "ELS" Chapter 5/?
Classification	: SRA MSR
Chapter Rating	: R (Violence)
Story Rating	: NC-17 (Violence)
Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm
Summary         : Mulder and Scully, back in Washington, spend some
                  downtime together discussing thier new relationship.
                  Tony Littleton makes an appearance, and a demand.
                  Meanwhile, Dupree is on the prowl.
Spoilers        : All, up to the end of US4.
Casting		: Russel Crowe, "Mark Dupree"
		: Alec Baldwin, "Tony Littleton"
		: Barbara Barrie, "Estelle"
Content Warnings: EXTREMELY Violent content.

Second warning	: This chapter contains <EXTREMELY> violent content.
		  I'm not pulling any punches here, folks. BE WARNED.

Dedication	: To RW. Keep the faith, man.

NOTE: Violent scenes are set off with a "@" character at the beginning
and a "#" character at the end. If you do not want to read the
explicitly violent scenes, set your text reader/word processor to
search for "#", and when you encounter the "@" character, do a "Find
Again" or "Find Next" and the program will skip it.

Enjoy!
+=+=+=+=+===+=+=
New York City

	Hungry.
	Not on the prowl tonight, in the basement, working the case,
checking the angles, making sure it would all happen. But in his gut,
a gnawing feeling, a constant rumble that was distracting and just a
little bit scary. It wasn't a food thing; he'd eaten twice as much as
he normally did today. It was as if his body was running twice as hot,
twice as hard, a Formula One race engine stuck in a Ford Taurus. He
wanted to open it up, jam down on the pedal, listen to the roar as the
carbs poured gas in and the tires bit into the pavement, spinning
until they heated up, got sticky, and gave him some goddamned traction.
	Blinking, not nervous, but feeling like a ferret in his den,
Dupree stood and paced, dry washing his hands at chest level as he
moved back and forth in front of his computers. He could tell he was
losing it, that the need to do the Chosen was slowly overpowering him.
	And it was exhilarating. The raw energy that was crackling
inside him was heady, intoxicating. Dupree had never done drugs and
never would; the thought of sniffing, snorting, smoking or injecting
anything was beyond laughable. His body was perfect in every way. He
was average height, average face, average body. For his purposes,
perfect. He could blend into any crowd, anywhere in the city at any
time.
	It was also dangerous. Dupree could feel his control slipping.
Control was everything. Without it, he would be caught in a matter of
days. Every step of his plan had to be carefully thought out,
examined, dissected and then reassembled. Nothing could be left to
chance.
	Hunger.
	The word burned inside Dupree's mind, demanding attention,
drawing focus away from the problem, the plan. He stopped,
stock-still, his eyes flicking to the filing cabinets. He looked away,
as if they could see him staring, and then back again.
	He licked his lips.
	Maybe just a little taste, he thought. A tease.
	He moved quickly to the cabinets, reaching for a drawer, and
then froze, his fingers inches away from the handle.
	Idiot! he chastised himself.
	He straightened, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
You almost did it, you idiot. All that work, for naught. Walking
slowly back to his desk, Dupree pulled open the bottom drawer and
reached inside, returning with a cardboard box filled with surgeon's
rubber gloves. He'd never touched the filing cabinet or any of its
contents with his bare hands. There was not a single traceable
fingerprint on anything in those filing cabinets.
	Not a single one.
	Donning a pair of gloves, Dupree walked back to his library
and opened the top drawer. His hands flew through the files, looking
for the special ones, the ones with the little red mark on the top
right corner of the tab. They were his favorites.
	He found a good one and slid it out from between its brothers,
holding it up to the light. He tilted it sideways, reading the tab.
	Akiro, it said. He closed his eyes, remembering.
	Kim Akiro, aged 27. Second-generation American, her parents
had emigrated to the United States shortly after the Korean War.
	Dupree returned to his desk and sat down, opening the folder
with shaking hands. The DD5's were on top, the most recent one entered
two years ago. It was an old file, but a good one. He flipped past the
reports, going deeper, looking for it, for them.
	He found the coroner's report and detached it from the rest of
the file, moving it to the side to be savored later. And at the
bottom, in a 5x7 brown manila envelope was what he was looking for.
	He unwound the red string holding it closed and then lifted
the flap, extracting the half-inch thick pile of color crime scene
photographs.
	Dupree felt himself harden.
	The first picture was what movie directors called an
establishing shot. Taken wide-angle, from the door to Akiro's bedroom.
The body, nude, face-up, was on the bed. What had once been pristine
white sheets were dark red, almost brown, with dried blood.
	Dupree sighed, feeling some of the hunger abating. He could
use this, could close his eyes and go back to the scene and remember.
	Homicide had a working theory on this case. Kim Akiro was
known to frequent the popular, trendy dance clubs. She had met someone
there, they had come back to her apartment for sex and drugs, and in a
rage, her lover had killed her. It was the only theory that made any
sense, and Dupree knew that it was bullshit.
	He hadn't killed her, but he had known that it wasn't a normal
murder. The scene had spoken to him, the voices loud in his head. He
could see the murder, even if he couldn't see the murderer. In his
head, he saw them making love, saw Akiro making all those lovely
little passionate noises as her lover moved above, his hands grasping
her waist as he filled her again and again, making her scream and
wiggle and cry and moan.
	Dupree felt his anger, too. Felt the killer's anger about the
little naked slant-eyed slut beneath him, felt the anger and hunger
growing inside the man until it snapped.
	Closing his eyes, Dupree went back to the scene, his hand
flitting across the table to find the coroner's report. He slid it
over, lifting it and opening his eyes and reading the report.
@	Death, it said, had been caused by severe trauma to the chest
and abdomen, most likely with a kitchen knife the killer had found at
the scene. Kim Akiro had been slit open from throat to crotch, and
then the stabs had started. Over seventy-six separate stab wounds, all
deep, frenzied cuts. The killer was locked in a haze of angry
violence, trying to kill Akiro a thousand times over as he stabbed,
again and again and again.
	And then, the body bleeding, dying if not already dead, the
killer had tossed the knife over his shoulder and mounted her body,
his penis erect and throbbing again, and he had taken her as she died,
burying himself inside her. Standing over the body, he had ejaculated
into her wounds, performing one last act of violent desecration.     #
	Dupree sighed, feeling the release inside him. He flipped
through the stack of photos, peering at them under the bright work
light. Close-up shots of the wounds, and then of her face, eyes open
in surprise and shock, a blood trail across one perfect cheek, little
droplets moving away from her, towards the head of the bed. One drop
had landed directly on her left eyebrow.
	A close-up of the knife, sitting in a small pool of blood.
	A ruler next to the knife, giving it scale.
	Dupree returned to the coroner's report, reading about the
autopsy. The organs, dissected and removed, were weighed and cataloged.
	Semen in her stomach. The coroner, judging by the digestion
that had already taken place, estimated that she had ingested the
semen up to four hours before her death.
	At the club, Dupree thought. In the bathroom, or a dark
corner, she had done it, gone down on her knees and...
	And...
	With a shudder, Dupree spent. He felt the pooling wetness
inside his shorts, spreading to his thighs, already sticky. She
deserved it, he thought. She was not a Chosen, but she had deserved
it. Getting down on your knees for a man you had just met was asking
for trouble, all kinds of trouble.
	It gave a whole new meaning to the term "safe sex," he thought
with a grin.
	Focused now, the hunger momentarily abated, Dupree quickly put
everything back together and closed the file, returning it to the
cabinet. Leaving his gloves on, he moved back to the desk and focused
his considerable attention on the case of Nelson, John, AKA Jack
Nelson, AKA Jack Mack.
	Jack Nelson had first come to the attention of federal
authorities as a result of a sting operation run by the United States
Postal Police. The Child Exploitation Unit of the Department of Justice
had determined through unknown means that child molesters posed a
grave and severe risk to the children of the United States, and had
directed all subordinate federal law enforcement agencies to come up
with programs designed to identify, arrest and convict child molesters
and pedophiles. Special attention was to be given to the creation,
distribution and possession of child pornography.
	The United States Postal Police hit upon a grand plan. They
had seized a great deal of mob-produced child-porn in other
operations, magazines and photographs that were growing dusty in
evidence warehouses. They decided to place advertisements in the backs
of men's magazines such as Penthouse and Hustler, promising "exotic,
hard-to-get," erotica. Those two words were code phrases used by
pedophiles for their sleazy wares.
	When some unsuspecting individual answered the advertisement
and sent the twelve dollars off for a 'sample,' the Postal Police
would return a few photographs featuring children in explicit sexual
activities via registered mail. When the unsuspecting individual would
then greet his postal carrier (an undercover Postal Police officer,)
and sign for the envelope, he would promptly be arrested.
	The scam (some called it an 'entrapment exercise,') worked so
well that the Postal Police quickly discovered they were running out
of surplus child pornography. A senior supervisor realized that in
addition to the actual magazines, the US Government had also seized
the original negatives and printing plates from the magazines.
	Which is how the US Government found itself in the very odd
position of becoming the ipso facto largest producer of explicit child
pornography in the world. They needed the magazines to send to their
"clients," and once arrested, the material was kept as evidence until
trial, marked and stamped. It was unusable after that.
	John "Jack" Nelson was a pedophile, a pedophile being defined
in this case as someone who looked to young children for sexual
excitement. He answered one of those advertisements, and was promptly
arrested. During the execution of a subsequent search warrant, a
personal computer was discovered in his residence. A quick search of
the hard drive of that computer revealed over six hundred separate
digitized images of underage children involved in explicit sexual
activity.
	What worried the Department of Justice, the FBI and the United
States Postal Police was the fact that they had never seen any of
these images before. Pedophiles tended to trade the same five or six
thousand images over and over again, using computers to modem them
from location to location. As long as the computer was never examined,
it was an extremely safe way to move their illicit booty. And when one
"collector," as they liked to call themselves, sent another a color
print or magazine, they even went so far as to use Federal Express so
that they could not be charged with using the US Mail for illegal
purposes.
	These images were new. Judging by the backgrounds, the
clothing that could be seen, even the covers of magazines glimpsed in
the edges of the photographs, these were new pictures, taken within
the last few months.
	Which meant that there was a ring, or rings, of pedophiles
operating somewhere in the United States. Meetings were held, memos
written, and an offer was made. In exchange for a lenient sentence,
and the promise of a new life upon his release from federal prison,
John "Jack" Nelson was encouraged to provide the FBI and US Government
with as much testimony and evidence as he could regarding the
identities and activities of other pedophiles known to him. It was
made clear to him that this offer was only being made because the FBI,
after extensive investigation, was unable to prove that he, Mr. Jack
Nelson, had ever actually taken any of the photographs.
	Faced with the prospect of spending 25 to Life in a federal
penitentiary, Jack Nelson forgot all about the honor code of criminals
and sang like Pavarotti.
	Arrests were made, trials held, testimony given, convictions
secured. The Department of Justice, arbiter of the purse strings for
all federal law enforcement agencies, showed their pleasure by
increasing the budget of the Postal Police. The FBI showed its
pleasure by entering Mr. John "Jack" Nelson into the WITSEC program
upon his release from the federal prison in Marion, Pennsylvania after
serving eighteen months (with credit for time served.)
	Mr. John "Jack" Nelson was now Mr. John "Jack" Wagner,
gainfully employed as a graphic artist at a Midtown advertising
agency. No one there knew of his past as a convicted pedophile. None of
them knew that in his off hours, Mr. Nelson fantasized about taking
naked pictures of the children of his coworkers.
	Dupree closed the file and began planning.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Annapolis, Maryland

	They returned to the couch and sat down, close, as if they'd
been doing it all their lives. Scully tucked her legs up underneath
and snuggled into Mulder's shoulder, glad that she could now do
without guilt what she had wanted to for so long. For his part, Mulder
threw an arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer, using his
fingers to tease her hair.
	They fell asleep that way.
	In the morning, they woke, stretched, smiled at each other and
shared a brief, almost shy good-morning kiss.
	"So, what's on the agenda for today?" Mulder asked.
	"You," Scully said, pointing a finger at his chest, "are going
to go to your apartment and so some laundry. The idea of you spending
the next four days in those clothes is repulsive. When your laundry is
done, call me, and we'll...make plans."
	Mulder wondered what she meant by that, but decided to ignore
it for the time being. His mind was working overtime, and he had no
desire to make assumptions based on facts that were not in evidence.
	Mulder got up, donned shoes, grabbed his clothes and overnight
bag, kissed Scully at the door and took the cab Scully had called back
to his apartment and proceeded to throw himself into his work.
	Scully, suffering an attack of the guilts, showered, dressed
in a business suit, and drove herself to the office. The Jacksonville
case report had to be written and filed, and she wanted to get it done
as quickly as possible.
	Estelle was in the office when Scully arrived, glancing up in
surprise at the red-haired FBI Agent.
	"Agent Scully! Mr. Littleton said that you and Agent Mulder
were going to be gone for the rest of the week."
	Scully smiled. "Agent Mulder is, Estelle. I wanted to get the
case report done as quickly as-"
	Estelle held up a folder. "Just sign it, and it's done."
	Shocked, Scully walked over and took the folder, opening it
and reading. "Estelle...where did-?"
	"The Jacksonville Police were nice enough to fax over their
version of events. I transcribed it and added what details Mr.
Littleton was gracious enough to provide." She paused. "I figured that
you and Agent Mulder had been through enough without having to go over
every...detail...again and again."
	Scully quickly reviewed it. Everything was in place, just
where it should be. All that was needed was her and Mulder's
signature.
	"Thank you, Estelle. This is a big help."
	Estelle beamed at the compliment.
	"Well, I'd better be going then," Scully said, turning to
leave.
	"Have fun with your vacation."
	Scully froze, one hand on the doorknob. Something in Estelle's
voice had seemed different...odd. Turning back, she glanced at the
assistant. Did she know?
	Estelle smiled a beatific grin.
	She did.
	"Uh-"
	"It's written all over your face, Agent Scully."
	Oh, shit.
	"And by that you mean-"
	Estelle threw her head back and laughed, loud and long. "Oh,
you are just so precious, the both of you!" She wiped her eyes and
continued. "Agent Scully, I've been with the Bureau almost since
Hoover opened the damn place. I've worked for...oh, Lord, I couldn't
possibly begin to count all the hundreds, perhaps thousands of agents
that I've worked for. Back when only men could be sworn as Special
Agents, there were a few of them that were...bent, you get my
meaning?"
	Scully nodded. She did.
	"And even then, I knew it. Hell, we've got some women-only
partnerships like that these days, and you can always tell. I can,
anyway. I can always tell when partners are...close."
	"When did you first...? I mean, about Agent Mulder and
myself."
	"The first day I showed up here, of course." Scully breathed a
sigh of relief. That was normal; most people thought she and Mulder
were 'involved,' due to the overly-close nature of their working
relationship. That was nothing new. Scully had been afraid that
somehow, Estelle had determined what had transpired in her apartment
last night.
	"Oh, that...Estelle, Mulder and I are-"
	As Scully was speaking, her eyes had risen to rest on
Estelle's.
	Don't even try denying it, the woman's face said.
	"That is to say..."
	"Honey...I don't have a problem with it, and I'm not going to
tell anyone. You two seem...well matched."
	"Estelle-"
	"Agent Scully...I am assuming from reading the case file that
Agent Mulder was a bit...overwhelmed by the events in Jacksonville. I
think that as his partner, you should go to wherever he is and offer
as much...support as is possible. Agent Mulder is a valuable asset to
the Bureau, and his skills and talents are urgently needed. I have it
on good authority that you two are being moved from the Cold Case
Squad upstairs, to the VICAP Response Team."
        Scully's mouth fell open. VICAP RT's were the...elite of the
elite. Called on to fly to any part of the country on a moment's
notice (well, what was different about that?) to provide instant
support, feedback and profiling services for police departments in
urgent, dire need of such services, VICAP RT was a feather in the cap
of any profiler...hell, any agent for that matter. There were only
four Response Teams, two agents per team, in all of ISU.
	"Which team?" Scully asked.
	Estelle beamed. "Team One."
	Scully felt her world spinning out of control. Shuffled here
in disgrace, the black cloud of an OPR investigation hanging over
their heads, they had taken less than week to go from bastard
stepchildren to stars. Team One was...it. The highest plateau a field
agent assigned to ISU could obtain. They were referred to inside the
Bureau as the A-Team, or alternately, as the Jedi Knights.
	Oh, Mulder was going to love that, Scully thought, rolling her
eyes. So much for Skinner's promise of 'no profiling.'
	"I see. Well, I wouldn't start celebrating yet, Estelle. I
have the feeling that our real boss, Assistant Director Skinner-"
	"Who approved the transfer himself. I saw the paperwork, Agent
Scully."
	Well, there went that theory.
	"Estelle," Scully asked, glancing pointedly at her watch,
"isn't it time for...a coffee break?"
	Estelle nodded, getting it instantly. "I think I could use a
soda or something. Ten minutes enough?"
	"More than enough," Scully said, already moving for the phone.
	"Here, let me," Estelle said. "It always works better this
way." Estelle dialed Skinner's number (from memory, Scully noticed,)
and waited for someone to answer.
        "Hi, Kimberly. Estelle over at ISU." Pause. "I'm fine, dear.
How are you?" Another pause, longer this time. "I have Special Agent
Scully for the Assistant Director."
	Estelle nodded and pointed at Scully, who picked up the line
at her own desk.
	"Please hold for the Assistant Director," Kimberly said. There
was the click-hiss of being put on hold, and then a moment later,
Skinner's familiar growl.
	"Skinner."
	"Agent Scully, sir."
	"Good morning, Agent Scully. I'm surprised that you're at the
office today. I was under the impression that Agent Littleton had
given you and Agent Mulder some time off."
	"That's true, sir, but I wanted to get the paperwork on the
Jacksonville case finished."
	"I see. What can I do for you this morning, Agent Scully?"
	"Sir, it has come to my attention that Agent Mulder and myself
are being transferred to an active profiling status, as Team One on
the VICAP RT Squad, and I...well, sir, you did promise Agent Mulder
that he wouldn't have to perform active profiling."
	Estelle got up, excused herself quietly, and let herself out
of the office, leaving Scully alone.
	"Well, after Chicago and Jacksonville, I figured that Agent
Mulder had undergone a change of heart."
	"Sir, Chicago was a cold case. That was a special
circumstance. It was, sir if I may, pure blind luck on Agent Mulder's
part."
	"Scully, I think you underestimate your partner's abilities in
this area. If I may suggest something to you..."
	"Of course, sir. Always."
	"I would swing by the National Law Academy and pick up a copy
of Serial Murder Investigation, Volume 3."
	"Sir?"
	"Scully, do you trust me?"
	The big question, Scully thought.
	"Of course, sir. Implicitly."
	"Then trust me on this. This is the best thing for Agent
Mulder's career right now. I am trying to make sure that he still does
have a career after this OPR matter is resolved. The... political
situation has not improved very much since your departure. It would be
difficult for the OPR to press a full-scale investigation, complete
with depositions, background research, interviews...all that sort of
stuff that the OPR loves so much, against the star profiler of the ISU
and his capable partner."
	Scully had to ask. "Sir, what about the X-Files?"
	There was a pause. "Scully, I know the need for that
division's continued existence. Better than you might ever suspect. In
order for Agent Mulder to ever return to the X-Files, or you for that
matter, this OPR situation has to be resolved in a positive way. The
best way for this to happen is for you to nod, say thank you, and
continue on as you have been." He paused. "Is there a problem, Agent
Scully?"
	Scully debated how much to tell him. "Sir, Agent Mulder, as
good a profiler as he is, tends to get overly involved in these cases.
Sometimes I...worry about him, sir."
	Skinner accepted this without comment, waiting for Scully to
continue. "I'm not sure what continued exposure to these kinds of
cases will do for his...state of mind, sir."
	"Scully," Skinner said, searching for the correct words. "I'm
now going to speak off the record. Your partnership with Mulder is...
unique. I'm sure you don't have to be told that, and I only say this
to remind you that others are aware of it. It is the perception at the
highest levels of the Bureau that you and Agent Mulder are, in fact,
the single best field partnership that exists today. The reasons for
this are many, some of them well known, others only...suspected."
	His meaning was clear.
	Scully felt the color draining from her face. Jack, all over
again.
	"I hasten to point out, Agent Scully, that no one feels that
there is anything...inappropriate going on, anything that would bring
negative attention to the Bureau. But we do understand that Agent
Mulder's unique talents and capabilities do carry with them a
certain...price, if I may use that term."
	"That price being?" Scully asked.
	"Agent Scully, you are putting me in a very awkward position.
Suffice it to say that you and Agent Mulder are considered...elite.
Special. One-of-a-kind. And so, certain...irregularities in the
regulations relating to...partners...is overlooked in your case."
	So we have de facto permission for a relationship, if not de
jure, Scully thought.
	"Sir, we are off the record, is that correct?"
	"Of course, Agent Scully."
	"Please spell it out, Sir. Don't worry about being polite."
	Skinner snorted. "Very well, Agent Scully. I, and Tony
Littleton, and most of the seventh floor realize that you and Agent
Mulder are in fact closer than most partners. We suspect that there is
something more than friendship going on. We have no desire to have
this suspicion confirmed or denied. We realize that you two work best
together, left alone, doing things the way you have always done.
Simply put, Agent Scully, you and Mulder get results. And those
results are positive results as of right now. Three cases closed in
six days is an amazing accomplishment. The decision was made, Scully,
to look the other way when certain issues come up."
	"Like what issues?"
	"A report was made by certain members of the Jacksonville
Police Department that, while Agent Mulder was talking to the UNSUB,
you held his hand."
	Scully said nothing. Skinner continued. "And later, after the
suspect had been taken into custody, you and Agent Mulder were
discovered...embracing in the conference room."
	Scully rolled her eyes, glad that Skinner couldn't see her.
	"Sir, we were not embracing. This is exactly what I was
talking about. Agent Mulder was...overcome, sir, by the emotional
price of his participation in the investigation. He was...sobbing,
sir, and I was...holding him. It was not an embrace, sir."
	"Scully, I suggest you grab a dictionary and look up the word
'embrace.'"
	Annoyed now, Scully responded. "Sir, the situation may have
fit the definition of the word, but the connotation is that there is
some kind of...romance going on between Agent Mulder and myself. And I
resent that."
	Skinner said nothing for a long moment. "Scully, are you
denying that such a relationship exists?"
	Damn, he used the wrong tense. If he had said, 'existed,' she
could have denied it.
	And, truth be told, the word 'romance' was not what came to
mind when she considered her relationship with Mulder.
	"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I am denying that Agent Mulder and
I are...romantically involved."
	"Scully...I'm not going to go into that particular aspect of
your relationship. Frankly, it's none of my business. And the Bureau
has unofficially taken the same position. So, my advice to you is
this: Stay out of trouble, let Mulder do his thing, and you do
whatever is necessary to make sure that happens. That way, and only
that way, can I assure you that there will be an X-Files division to
return to when this all blows over. Do I make myself understood?"
	"Clearly, sir," Scully replied. Crystal clear.
	"Good day, Agent Scully."

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Alexandria, Virginia

	Mulder's phone rang just as he returned from the laundry room
in the basement of his building. Juggling the basket and box of
detergent with one hand, Mulder grabbed the phone.
	"Mulder."
	"It's me," Scully's voice answered. Mulder smiled, a wide,
genuine smile that felt welcome and yet, somehow strange on his face.
	"Hi, Scully," he said warmly.
	"Listen...can I come over?"
	Something in her voice gave Mulder pause. "What's wrong,
Scully?"
	"I'd rather talk to you about it there," she said softly.
	Second thoughts, Mulder thought immediately, but didn't know
why.
	"Sure. I'm still fighting the laundry battle. C'mon over."
	"Ok, I'm on the way."
	"Bye."

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=

	It took Scully a little over forty minutes to drive to her
partner's apartment. He really needs to move closer, she thought, and
then grinned. Or, we need to move in-
	No.
	Scully shook the thought from her head. For one thing, she
thought, Mom would absolutely die. Living in sin, without benefit of
marriage? It was enough to make an Irish Catholic mother spit fire and
brimstone. And for another, Mulder wasn't exactly living-together
material. I'm neat and fastidious; he's a slob. I like reading,
listening to classical music, being quiet and introverted. Mulder is
an extrovert who likes to play basketball in the apartment and watch a
lot of bad television. We're just too different to live together.
	Still, she thought. The idea of waking up next to Mulder every
morning wasn't exactly unattractive. It had been a long time since a
man, any man, has shared my bed.
	He's my partner, the logical part of her mind argued as she
drove.
	He's my...other half, the emotional side replied.
	It's against Bureau policy.
	Apparently, not as far as we're concerned.
	Mulder's...needy. He needs constant care, attention, feeding.
Like an infant.
	He needs me. Like he's never needed anyone in his life.
	It could damage him.
	I love him.
	I love him.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=

	Mulder was folding underwear when the knock came at his door.
"Open!" he called. Scully entered the apartment, shrugged her jacket
off and walked inside, finding Mulder buried under mounds of laundry.
	"When was the last time you did laundry?" she asked.
	He shrugged. "I do it as I need it," he replied. "I never
really just do it all like this."
	She nodded and took a seat. "Listen...I went to the office to
file the paperwork from Jacksonville. Oddly enough, Estelle had
already done it. I signed off on it and submitted it."
	He nodded, distracted by a pair of underwear he was folding.
	"And I got some news..." she said, trailing off.
	He glanced up, interested. "What?"
	"We're being reassigned."
	Mulder sat back. "Judging by the look on that beautiful face
of yours, I'm not going to like this, am I?"
	She shook her head.
	Beautiful?
	"VICAP RT."
	Mulder's brows rose. "Which team?"
	"One."
	He nodded. "I see." He returned to folding the laundry.
	"Mulder...?"
	"Scully?"
	"Are you ok with this?"
	He shrugged. "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"
	"What do you mean?"
	He sat back. "In the last five, six days, you and I have
solved three cases. That's got to look good to the seventh floor. If I
had to guess, I'd say that Assistant Director Skinner was playing his
little political games, only this time to our advantage. It would be
very hard for the OPR to investigate the star profiling team from ISU,
a team that has already solved two cold cases and one very live one,
all with suspects in custody, and the third with a recovered although
traumatized victim. Mr. Skinner, it is my assumption, is attempting to
make us politically untouchable so that when this entire Tucson affair
clears up, we can return to the X-Files with a skip in our step and a
song in our heart."
	Scully sat back, amazed. "That's exactly what Skinner said
when I called him."
	Mulder nodded. "I saw it coming, Scully."
	"When?"
	"As soon as I got off the phone in Chicago during the game. As
soon as I realized we were off cold cases and being sent to work hot
ones."
	Annoyed, Scully asked, "Why didn't you say anything?"
	He looked at her. "Because I was trying to mentally prepare
myself for the Jacksonville case. I wasn't trying to hide anything,
Scully. I was just...working, I guess."
	She nodded, accepting this. "OK..."
	"Did Skinner say anything else?"
	She debated telling him. In the end, her innate honesty won
out. "Yes, yes, he did."
	"Such as?"
	"He...intimated that our...working relationship...that is,
the.. er...closeness of our working relationship has not gone
unnoticed at the highest levels of the Bureau, and that, unofficially,
as long as we keep turning these kinds of results, nothing will be
said of it."
	Mulder nodded, absorbing that piece of information.
"Interesting. _That_, I didn't see coming."
	"What do you think it means? Your political instincts are a
hell of a lot better than mine."
	He laughed. "Oh, that's not true at all, Scully!"
	"What do you mean?"
	He grinned. "When you need to, you can be quite the political
animal. Remember your discussion with the OPR team the last time we
ran into them? 'Am I being accused of lying'? That was perfect
political maneuvering, Scully."
	She nodded. "So what do you think it means?
	Shrugging again, Mulder said, "I guess they know a good team
when they see it, Scully."
	"I guess so."
	"You sound like you're having second thoughts," he said
softly.
	After a moment she nodded slowly. "Sort of."
	He stopped folding laundry and sat back. "Do you want to cool
it for a while?"
	"Cool what? We haven't done anything."
	"Sure we have. We've cuddled. We slept together...sort of." He
paused. "We've admitted some feelings, Scully. I know that wasn't easy
for you." He glanced at his laundry. "I know that...when you were a
little girl, and you thought about the man you were going to be with
when you were older, I was not the type of man you envisioned yourself
with."
	She hunted his tone, looking for signs of self-pity, of
manipulation. There were none. He was being honest, direct.
	It was unnerving.
	"Mulder...you know I care about you. And I know you care about
me. And it's not that I don't want to...be involved with you. It's
just that...our lives are so...complex. Being promoted to Team One on
RT is a huge step up for me. It's a huge feather in my cap, and yours,
too."
	"I was scheduled for that slot when I left ISU for the
X-Files," he said softly.
	She accepted this with a curt nod. "I probably knew that,
somewhere in the back of my head. But what I'm trying to say is
that... I did this once before. I got involved with a fellow agent.
And, it didn't do my career any lasting harm, but it sure as hell
didn't do it any good, either."
	Mulder said nothing. He didn't have to, she thought. The look
in his eyes said it all. "I'm not saying that...we're done, or
anything Mulder. I'm not saying that. I'm not."
	"So what are you saying, Scully?" he asked reasonably.
	"I'm saying...I'm asking that you understand why there will be
times when I'm not exactly in a receptive mood as far as our
relationship deepening goes. There are going to be times when I want
to be alone, when I'm not going to want to play those particular
reindeer games."
	He smiled. "Scully, I expected that."
	Surprised, she asked, "You did?"
	"After a fashion."
	"Explain, Mulder."
	He shrugged. "What can I say, Scully? I know you. I know the
way your mind works."
	You know the way all our minds work, Scully thought.
	"So you're not angry? Not upset?"
	"I didn't say that," Mulder pointed out. "I'm... disappointed.
I know pretty much what's going to happen next, and I'm not looking
forward to it very much."
	Scully sat back, crossing her arms. "What do you think is
going to happen next, Mulder?"
	"With the number one slot on the RT Squad, we're going to be
doing a lot of traveling, Scully. We're going to be going places and
doing things much like Jacksonville. I'm going to operate the only way
I know how...the only way I can do this job. And that's going to mean
that...scenes like Jacksonville are going to be repeated. And I'm
going to need you. And you're going to be there for me, as you always
have in the past." He paused. "And it's going to tear you apart to
have to go through what we just went through. You're going to be torn
with wanting to help me, and wanting to remain...detached."
	Scully looked away. He'd pegged her.
	Again.
	"I'll always be here for you, Mulder," Scully said softly.
	"I know."
	"Just...not the way we planned right now."
	"But you're not ruling it out?" Mulder asked hopefully. Her
eyes found his.
	"No."
	"That's all I can ask for," he said.
	"I'm confused," Scully said after a moment. "Did we just break
up?"
	He laughed. "No." Then his voice turned wistful. "We were
never really together, Scully. We had...one night."
	"We've had a lot more than that, Mulder."
	She was right, and he said so. "Yeah, I know. But you know
what I mean, too."
	She nodded. She did.
	"You must hate me," she said, fishing.
	"Scully...I...I don't hate you." I love you, he thought.
	"Listen," she said, standing, "all I want to do is just cool
the moving forward part. I don't think we need to take a step back."
	"So that means?" Mulder asked. "Specifically? Remember, I'm a
man. I need explicit directions."
	She smiled again. "Kissing and cuddling are ok. Spending the
night on the couch is OK. Those looks you give me that turn my bones
to rubber are ok."
	He grinned. "Scully...I don't have a monopoly on bone-melting
looks, you know. Late-night phone calls?"
	"Still ok."
	"Suggestive remarks? Leers? Dirty jokes?"
	"Yes, yes and no."
	"Ah, rats."
	Scully laughed, a genuine laugh that made Mulder feel warm. "I
should get going," she said. "Call me, later. If I've stopped freaking
out about this, maybe you can come over and we can do another movie
pizza thing. Maybe, if you're good, I'll let you sleep the night on my
couch."
	Mulder stood, walking Scully to the door, his hand at the
small of her back. "I'll call you around six, OK?"
	She nodded, leaned up, kissed him softly, turned and let
herself out. Mulder walked back to the couch, hesitated, and then
walked to his window. Splitting the blinds with two fingers, he
watched Scully cross the street to her car. Just as she was about to
get in, she turned and looked up at him.
	Even from forty yards away, Mulder felt her look in the center
of his chest. "That's the look I was talking about," he said softly.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
444 Madison Avenue
New York City

	Out on the prowl, looking to get fed.
	Jungle-beast time, Dupree thought, glancing around. Everything
was bright, vivid, hyper-realistic again. Sounds were extra loud,
smells much more so. His eyesight was so vivid that he could see the
vapor trails left by people as they walked by.
	He'd decided to do Nelson as quickly as possible. He would
liked to have planned it more, but the need inside him was too strong.
Dupree promised himself that if this one came off without a hitch he
wouldn't wait so long to plan the next one. They needed to be clean,
to be precise, to be exacting in every detail. He couldn't risk
getting caught, couldn't risk ending his streak.
	He'd staked out Nelson's place of business, armed with a
recent photograph courtesy of the WITSEC database. Dupree planned to
follow him and strike at the first opportunity. He had everything he
needed with him.
	Including the note.
	The note was key. He had to make sure the note was found.
Nothing had been mentioned about the note last time, and Dupree was
getting frustrated. He knew they were holding the note, trying to use
it as a filter against the loonies and nutcases that would attempt to
confess to the King murder. Only the police and the killer would know
about the note.
	He had thought about mailing the note to the cops instead of
leaving it on the body, but that was too direct. It had no.. pinache.
He thought about leaving it in the victim's pocket, to make sure that
the crime scene unit found it.
	No, on the body was the best place for it, for a lot of
different reasons.
	Nelson was standing against a telephone booth, glancing across
the street every few moments, trying to pick Nelson from the crowd.
444 was a skyscraper; almost thirty-five floors. Several hundred
different companies rented space there. Nelson worked at only one of
them, a place called Omega Productions.
	Dupree glanced at his watch. It was already ten minutes after
five. He devoutly hoped that John Nelson wasn't one of those types
that liked to work late.
	Dupree was hungry.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Annapolis, Maryland
7:30pm

	Scully had indeed stopped 'freaking out,' as she put it, and
Mulder had called, and she had invited him over for pizza and a movie
and some couch-cuddling.
	Which is exactly what they were doing when Mulder's cell rang.
	"Gotta be Littleton," Mulder said, getting up to find his
jacket.
	"Why?" Scully asked as the phone continued to ring.
	"Because you're the only one that ever calls me on it, and
you're sitting here next to me."
	He found his phone and thumbed SND at the same time he
extended the antenna.
	"Mulder," he said, lifting it to his ear.
	"Littleton, Mulder. Where are you?"
	Mulder glanced at Scully. "I'm over at Scully's. What's up?"
	"I was going to wait until Monday-" Littleton started. Winking
at Scully, Mulder finished his thought.
	"But...you wanted to call to tell me that Scully and I are now
Team One on the VICAP RT Squad, and you have a really hot one, and you
hate to bother us, especially since you've given us the rest of the
week off, but you're getting a lot of heat from upstairs, and this one
really needs some attention now, and would I be a pal, a real team
player, a real member of the ISU community and jump on a plane to
somewhere and handle it?"
	There was a very, very long pause before Littleton responded.
"Jesus, Mulder...that's almost..."
	"Spooky?" Mulder finished, really starting to enjoy himself.
	"Yeah, I guess you could say that. You're right. God knows how
you knew that, but you're right. So...?"
	"What's the case, Tony?"
	"Serial murderer, like the others. It's in Portland."
	"Maine?"
	"Uh...yeah. Where else?"
	"Oregon, Tony. Portland, Oregon. If memory serves, it is the
capitol of the state. No...wait, the capitol is Salem."
	"Whatever. Anyway, I'm messengering over the file to Scully's.
Tickets for the both of you tomorrow morning. Open-ended return."
Littleton paused. "Catch this fucker, Mulder. It's what you do best."
	And with that, Littleton hung up.
	"We're off to Maine, Scully. Another sick twisted monster
threatening the populace. Villagers with pitchforks and torches at the
castle gate and all that."
	"Awful chipper for someone about to go into the great abyss,
Mulder."
	Mulder nodded.
	"Well...I guess I should have asked you if you were ready to
take on another case. He did give both of us the week off, Scully."
	Scully shrugged. "They need us," she said simply. "The both of
us."

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
New York City

	There.
	Dupree felt the rush hit his body as he spotted Nelson exiting
444 Madison Avenue. He glanced at the sky, smiling. The sun had
vanished a long time ago, leaving the city blanketed in darkness.
	Darkness, the time to hunt, Dupree thought and smiled.
	Darkness, when I can feed.
	Darkness, when the evil that dwells within me comes out.
	Dupree crossed the street and quickly fell in behind Nelson,
moving slowly, keeping him in sight. He walked with a purpose, not
wanting to attract the attention of the predators that roamed beneath
the surface of society; it wouldn't do to have to fend off a mugging
while stalking his own prey.
	This one was going to be quick and dirty, Dupree knew. He had
the outlines of a plan. Find a place, catch Nelson's attention, and do
him.
	Nelson, totally unaware of what was about to happen, thought
about calling a cab instead of taking the subway. The subway wasn't
crowded at this time of night, but there were other, more personal
considerations to take into account.
	Nelson spotted a bar up ahead and decided to stop in for a
cold one.
	Dupree followed him, his pulse quickening.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Annapolis, Maryland

	Mulder was in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Scully got
up from the couch with a sigh and walked to the door, peeking first
before opening it.
	Estelle stood on her doorstop, two thick case folders in her
hands. "Good evening, Agent Scully," Estelle said, a wry smile on her
face. Scully, blushing furiously, invited the woman in.
	"Mulder," she called. "The file's here."
	Mulder walked out of the kitchen, holding a sandwich in one
hand an a glass of milk in the other. With a mouthful of food, he
raised the sandwich in her general direction as a "Hello."
	"Agent Mulder," Estelle said, keeping her face carefully
neutral.
	Mulder swallowed. "So, Estelle...think we can catch this guy?"
	"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Agent Mulder."
	He grinned. "Estelle, you've been around the Bureau since
Hoover was wearing pinafores! Don't tell me you didn't...glance... at
the file on the way over!"
	She blushed. "Agent Mulder, I can assure you-"
	"Yeah, yeah," Mulder said, obviously teasing. "So, what's your
take on the guy?"
	Estelle straightened her shoulders and looked towards Scully.
Scully shrugged, her meaning obvious: You're on your own, kiddo.
	"Agent Mulder," she said again. "If you must know, I _did_ go
over the file to make sure that everything was there. However, I am an
administrative assistant, not a profiler. My opinion means-"
	"A great deal to me, or I wouldn't have asked," Mulder
insisted.
	Estelle closed her mouth, visibly pleased by Mulder's words.
"Very well. White male, 25 to 35, above average intelligence. Probably
has a blue-collar or an entry-level service job. Listens to country
music. Domineering mother, absent father. No siblings. Poor impulse
control. Childhood issues will have shown the classical sociopathic
triad. Hates women with a deep and abiding passion. Likes to humiliate
them. Is impotent with women that aren't under his direct physical
control. Is most likely a compulsive buyer of pornography. Likes to
come off in public as being sensitive and understanding of women's
issues, but it's only a smokescreen. That is all I have for you, Agent
Mulder. Good night."
	Estelle turned on her heel and left in what appeared to be a
huff. As Scully was closing the door behind her, Estelle glanced over
her shoulder, and making sure that Mulder couldn't see, winked at
Scully.
	Smiling, Scully locked the door, carrying the file over to the
couch. She let it fall onto the coffee table and regarded it, hands on
hips, wondering how close to the truth Estelle would turn out to be.
	"Probably pretty damn close," she mumbled.
	"Yeah," Mulder said agreeably, sitting down. "I'd bet serious
money on it. But, to be sure...let's go over it."
	Sighing, Scully joined him on the couch and opened the file.
	Together, they began to read.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
New York City

	Dupree scouted the bathroom. If Nelson came in alone, it would
be perfect. The bathroom locked from the inside, and contained a stall
and a urinal. He would need only seconds. He calculated the odds of
getting in and out unseen. The bar was for professional drinkers; this
was not a yuppified establishment serving potato skins and steak tips.
This place was for working men and women that wanted to get blasted.
	Which meant that most of them would be focused on their own
drinks, their own problems.
	Dupree studied Nelson, trying to decide if he was a regular.
The bartender didn't seem to recognize him. That was good.
	Dupree ordered a beer and watched as Nelson started on his own
drink, a Jack Daniel's and Coke.
	Ok, Dupree thought. Think. Think it through.
	It all hinged on whether or not the cops dug up Nelson's
background. If they realized that he was a WITSEC client, they would
know that I'm into the database and that I have access, that I can
find these people and track them. That's not good, but the chances of
them figuring it out are slim to none, mostly because the feds don't
like cooperating with the locals. Makes 'em look bad. Especially when
it's a protected witness.
	So...doing it here wasn't a good idea.
	Dupree felt the pull in his gut, knew that he wanted to do it,
that he had to do it soon. But this was not the place, nor the time.
The chances of someone walking in the middle, while slim, were still
too high to chance. He had to get Nelson in his house. Make it look
like a push in robbery. That would be best. Make it look random at
first, up until the moment they found the note.
	The note was key.
	They had to decode the note for it to make sense.
	And they would never decode the note.
	Dupree finished his beer and waited to see what Nelson was
going to do. Nelson finished his, paid, and left. Nelson waited ten
minutes before following. He knew where Nelson was going. He'd already
scouted the man's house.
	Easy, Dupree thought. Take it easy. Ten minutes and you can
leave. Twenty to his house. Half an hour from now, you'll be in the
middle of it.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
Annapolis, Maryland

	"So?" Mulder asked. "What do you think?"
	Scully shrugged. "I think Estelle was right on the ball. I'm
not sure why we need to go to Maine. We can phone this profile in."
	"Because," Mulder pointed out, "The senior Senator from the
great state of Maine sits on the House Judiciary Committee, which
controls funding of the FBI, which controls the funding of the ISU.
It's all political, Scully."
	"What makes you say that?"
	"Hunch."
	"Can you think of any changes to Estelle's profile?" Scully
asked, grinning.
	"Yeah. But I'll sleep on it and let you know in the morning."
Mulder yawned and stretched. "Speaking of sleeping on it, I should be
going. Gotta pack a bag and all that."
	Scully nodded, not sure if she wanted him to stay or not. He
made the decision for her, leaning over and planting another soft,
almost but not quite chaste kiss on her lips. "See ya, Scully," he
said softly, getting up to leave.
	Scully said nothing. She watched him leave, wondering why it
ached so much when he did.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
New York City

	Dupree exited the subway stop and looked around, orienting
himself. Two blocks south, turn west, third house on the left.
	He whistled as he walked, enjoying the brisk night air. Within
five minutes he was at Nelson's house. He walked up, ascended the
short brick and stone staircase leading to the front door and
knocked.
	"Who is it?" a voice called.
	"Police," Dupree responded.
	Nelson peered out from inside.
	"Can I see some identification?" he asked.
	Sighing, Dupree reached into his pocket. He held the small
black folder up so Nelson could see it. A gleaming gold NYPD
Detective's shield and matching ID card were displayed.
	"What is this about?"
	"Can we talk inside, Mr. Nelson? I don't think we want your
neighbors to hear this."
	Using Nelson's real name had it's intended effect. The man
paled, stepped back and opened the door.
	"How did you-?"
	Those were the last words he ever spoke.

+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=
END CHAPTER 5