ELS Chapter 11 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 : December 12, 1997 Archive Entry : "ELS" Chapter 11/? Classification : SRA MSR Chapter Rating : R (Violence, Sexual Situations) Story Rating : NC-17 (Violence, Sexual Situations) Missing Chapters: http://www.sonic.net/~drambo/els.htm Summary : In the aftermath of the Portland case, Scully and Mulder continue to have problems regarding the relationship. Meanwhile, Dupree stalks another victim, and Captain Cahill shows her true colors. Spoilers : Skyzy, Lazarus Casting : Russel Crowe, "Mark Dupree" : Helen Hunt, "Captain Alex Cahill" : Matthew Modine, "Detective Cross" : Garth Brooks, "Detective Hicks" +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Grand Union Supermarket Sixth & Pine Portland, Maine Mulder turned onto Pine from Main and moved south, counting off the streets as he drove. He saw the sign for Fifth a moment before he saw Scully standing by the curb. Mulder slid the car to the curb and shifted into Park. The passenger door opened just as he was opening his own, and Scully slid into the seat, slamming the door behind her. "Hey," she said, her mind obviously elsewhere. "I'll ask once," Mulder said quietly. "You OK?" Scully opened her mouth to say "I'm fine," but shut it without speaking. The truth was, she didn't feel fine. "The Bureau is sending a shooting team to St. Mary's. I told them that's where I'd be. I have to go through that entire mess. And I have to file a report with the Portland Police Department, the Maine Medical Association and the Medical Director of Emergency Services for Portland explaining why I used a boning knife to cut into a woman's chest in a meatlocker. I'm sure that the paramedics that responded are by now blowing the entire thing out of proportion and making it sound like I used a rusty chainsaw to open the poor woman's chest." She paused. "Mulder, I'd like to say that I'm fine, but the truth of the matter is that I'm not fine at all. I want to go to the hospital, get cleaned up, file my reports, and then go back to the motel and sleep for a month." Mulder nodded, not exactly sure if he was happy or not that Scully was telling him how she really felt. It was strange, in a way. Comforting, but strange. "Well, the sooner we get going, the sooner you can get into bed." He put the car in gear and pulled into traffic. "One more question?" Mulder asked. Scully shrugged. "Do you have any idea where the hell St. Mary's Hospital is?" +=+=+=+=+===+=+= Saint Mary's Hospital Emergency Room Portland, Maine Scully entered through the ambulance doors, striding briskly through the corridor leading to the trauma bays. Doctors, nurses, physician's assistants and orderlies, all wearing different color- coded scrubs and lab jackets, scurried this way and that, pushing gurneys to and fro, carrying surgical and instrument packs, or just looking generally harried. Finding the front desk, Scully offered her ID to the admitting clerk. "Special Agent Dana Scully, MD," she said. "I...ah..." "Operated on a patient in a meatlocker? We heard. Dr. Stevenson would like a word with you. There are also two gentlemen from the FBI here to speak with you about the other...matter." Scully nodded. "Is there a place I can clean up?" She held up her arms, showing the clerk the blood streaks reaching just above her elbows. "Sure. Doctor's lounge, third door on the left. You'll find some scrubs in the cabinet under the sink." Scully nodded her thanks. As she walked towards the lounge, two agents she'd never seen before approached her. "Agent Scully?" "Just a minute," she said, pointing at the door. "I want to get cleaned up. I'll be with you in about five minutes, OK?" "Sure," the older one said. "Take your time. I know it's hard." Scully stopped and turned to face the man. "Agent...?" "Johnson. This is Agent Armfield." "Well, Agent Johnson, have you ever had to take a life in the line of duty?" Johnson shook his head. "No." "Well, then, I doubt you know how hard it is." Johnson's jaw tightened. "I see. Well, Agent Scully, since you point it out, I ran a quick records check on you before coming over here today. It seems that you're quite the gunslinger. How many is this now? Six? Eight?" Scully was saved from ripping the man's throat out by her partner. Mulder appeared at the tail end of Johnson's statement and slid between them neatly. "Why don't you get cleaned up, Scully, and I'll talk to the nice gentlemen?" "Fine," she growled and stalked off, slamming through the door to the doctor's lounge. Mulder turned to face Agent Johnson. "And you are?" he asked. "I was just about to ask the same question," Johnson replied. "Special Agent Mulder. I'm Scully's partner." "Were you at the scene?" "No, I was back at the Homicide Task Force interrogating an accomplice." "Then you have nothing to say that I want to hear," Johnson informed him. Mulder looked around the corridor, making sure they couldn't be overheard. "Yes," he corrected him, "I do. Special Agent Scully has just been involved in a traumatic incident. Since, as you just admitted to her, you have never used your weapon in the line of duty, I think it behooves you to give her a break. It doesn't get easier, you know." Johnson stared at Mulder. "Since you brought it up, have you ever had to shoot anyone?" "Yeah," Mulder said evenly, staring at Johnson's face, wondering why the Bureau would send such a prick to investigate. "I have." "Well then, you know the drill. I have to get her statement and her weapon. I have to make arrangements for her administrative leave-" "Uh," Mulder said, holding up a finger. "Agent Johnson, how long have you been assigned to a field office?" "Since I was sworn. Almost sixteen years, Agent Mulder. Why do you ask?" "Because Scully and I are assigned to headquarters. ISU, to be specific. The...rules are a little different for us. When Scully gets back to Washington, she'll go to SciCrime and have her weapon test-fired, and as far as mandatory administrative leave, I'm sorry, but that's not going to happen." "The hell it isn't!" Johnson objected. "Johnson, if you have a problem with this, I suggest you call Division Chief Littleton over at ISU, and if you still aren't satisfied, call Assistant Director Skinner." At the mention of Skinner's name, both Portland agents exchanged a quick glance. "You work for him, huh?" Mulder nodded. "I heard about Skinner. Supposed to be a real hard-ass. Any truth to that?" "Depends. If you get on his bad side, he'll get neck deep in your ass, Johnson." Johnson nodded. "She's going to make a statement, right?" "Of course." "Good. My ASAC will have my ass otherwise." Mulder nodded just as he heard Scully's voice calling his name. "Excuse me," he said. Johnson tried to follow him into the doctor's lounge, but Mulder moved to block his way. "Don't take this the wrong way, but she...might not be decent." "And you're going in there?" Johnson asked. "Uh...yeah." Mulder turned and pushed his way through. He'd been right; Scully had removed her jacket and blouse and was standing in front of the sink in nothing but slacks and her bra. "Gotta stop meeting like this," Mulder joked quietly. "What?" Scully looked down at herself. "Oh. Sorry." "Don't worry about it. What's up?" "Did I get it all?" Scully turned and faced Mulder, holding her arms straight out. "There's no mirror in here." Mulder looked at his partner, his mouth suddenly dry. God, but she was a gorgeous woman. He sighed and attempted to focus his attention. "No," he said. "You missed some on your neck and cheek." "Get it, please?" Scully nodded towards the sink. A washcloth sat on the edge, visibly damp. Mulder walked over and grabbed it and then turned to face his partner. "Don't let Johnson get you down," he whispered. "He's a prime-grade asshole." "Aren't they always?" Scully asked. She was looking off to the side, offering Mulder access to her neck. "Well...just so you know..." "Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke," Scully said softly, smiling gently. Mulder laughed. He heard the knob rattling a moment before Johnson burst into the lounge. "Agent Scully, I must insist that you..." He trailed off as his eyes took in the scene. "Oh. Excuse me," he said, turning to leave. "Come in, Johnson," Scully said. "I'm sure you've seen a woman in her bra before." "Don't be too sure," Mulder said just loud enough for her to hear. Scully smirked at him. "Did you get it all?" she asked. "Almost," Mulder said, leaning down to get the last little bit off her cheek. Johnson was busy studying the walls, the floor, his shoes, anything to keep from looking at a shirtless Dana Scully. Scully bent down and opened the cabinet underneath the sink and found the pile of fresh scrubs that the admitting clerk had promised. She rifled through them quickly, locating her size. Extra medium, she thought with a smile. Donning it, she turned and smiled at Johnson. "Fire away, Agent Johnson. Oh...sorry. Pardon my pun." Johnson smiled thinly at her and grunted. He pulled a small tape recorder from his pocket, tested it, and then started the recording. "Special Agent Daniel Johnson, shield number JTA 40129491, taking the statement of Special Agent Dana Scully..." Scully read off her shield number, the date, time and location, and then mentioned that Special Agent Mulder, her partner, was in attendance. The interrogation proceeded fairly quickly. Johnson asked her to set the scene, and Scully did so quickly and professionally. "The suspect informed me that he was going to quote "take one with me," and then he proceeded to thrust the knife towards Juanita. It was my judgement at that time that he intended to do her grave, possibly fatal bodily harm, and I shot to defend the victim. I shot the suspect twice, once in the right shoulder, and once in the face. The second bullet killed him instantly." "How do you know you killed him instantly?" Johnson asked. Scully gave him a withering look. "Because first of all, Special Agent Johnson, I'm a medical doctor. And secondly, the first thing they taught us on the first day of medical school is that when a donut-sized chunk of brain goes flying out through a hole in the skull and lands on the floor, the person whose brain that was is usually dead." Johnson nodded. "Take it easy; I had to ask." Scully nodded. "Sorry. I'm a little tired. Where was I?" "Brain donuts," Mulder said, trying to hide his smile. "Right. Anyway, I saw that the wound to Juanita was possiblyfatal, and that I had to act right away. So, I did what I had to do. Since that's not pertinent to the shooting investigation, I'm going to save recounting that for the medical investigation. If that's all, I believe we're done." Johnson nodded and stopped the tape. "I'll have this transcribed and messengered over to your motel room. Sign it, and we're done. Just so you know, we'd already interviewed the detective that was in the meatlocker with you. His account of the situation matches yours exactly, so I don't think they'll be any problem." Johnson paused. "He also mentioned that you did a hell of a job saving Juanita's life." "Thanks," Scully said. "Well...take care," Johnson said, preparing to go. "Thanks," Mulder said, offering his hand. His smile was genuine. "Not nearly the prick you thought I was going to be, huh?" Johnson asked. Mulder couldn't resist. "No...exactly the right amount of prick." Johnson grinned. "I heard you were a smart-ass. Glad to know that some rumors aren't all false. Take care, Agent Mulder." Dropping his voice so only Mulder could hear, Johnson added, "You've got a hell of a partner." Mulder grinned wider. "I know." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Stop-n-Sleep Motel Scully came out of the bathroom wearing the obligatory bathrobe. She was glad to see that the door between the rooms was open. She was doubly glad that the damn case was over and that they were scheduled to fly back to DC the next afternoon. The medical portion of her statement had gone much better than the shooting team interview. The director of emergency medicine had been quite impressed with her handiwork, and had managed to mention at least half a dozen times that she had saved Juanita Carter's life with her fast actions. Scully had thanked the man each time, and each time she had remembered one of the reasons she had gone into law enforcement rather than private practice. Most doctors were so impressed with themselves and each other that they lost sight of what was really important. She wandered into Mulder's room and found him channel surfing. Lying on the bed, his shoes off, Mulder had one arm curled around his head. His eyes stared at the television, but they saw nothing, Scully noted. He was staring off into space. "Hey," he said mechanically, finally detecting her presence. "Hey yourself," she replied softly. "How do...how was the shower?" he asked. Scully smiled at his utterly Mulderesque attempt at diplomacy. "Fine," she said after a moment. "So, what's on the schedule, Mr. ISU?" Mulder thumbed the TV off and grunted. "The usual," he sighed. "File a report, sign my name, give interviews to screaming throngs of fans, get my own recording contract, then it's on tour, videos, Lettermen, Leno...you know." Scully nodded, half of what might have been a grin twisting her face. "No," she said softly. "Really." "File the report tomorrow morning. Final interview. The chief of the Portland cops wants to do a sit-down in his office. Then you and I go to the airport, jump on a plane, and fly back home." His eyes, which had been fixed on the blank, mute television, found hers. "After that, we...we aren't due back at work for a few days, Scully." He looked as if he was going to say more, but at the last moment, his eyes slid from hers. When, they seemed to ask her, are you going to forgive me? I wish I knew, Scully thought. I truly wish I did. Scully looked at the floor, fixing her expression into a carefully blank mask. "Mulder," she said softly. He grunted. It was a Mulder grunt, a sound Scully knew well. She tried not to smile, failed, and then tried to hide it, and failed at that. This particular MulderGrunt was the noise he made whenever Skinner called him out on the carpet, the sound Mulder made when he knew was wrong, knew he had been caught, and was desperately trying to think of a massive rationalization to cover his tracks, or at least justify what, to him, had seemed like a perfectly normal choice at the time. It sounded like the sound a trapped animal would make, Scully thought. "When we get back to DC, I'll need some time." He made an assenting grunt, another familiar and strangely comforting non- sound. That grunt seemed to say, 'Yeah, I know I screwed up; if I were you, I wouldn't want to be around me, either.' "Mulder," Scully said slowly. "It's not about you this time. It's about me. I...need time to figure out where I am with this." "Still friends?" he asked quietly. His voice sounded afraid, Scully realized. Afraid, tentative, like...like a lost little boy whose last friend is packing to move away forever. And for a reason Scully could never identify, that tone in Mulder's voice made her want to grind her teeth. She felt the muscles in her jaw tighten and she fought the urge to spin and tell the damn man to grow the hell up. That was not what he needed to hear. And then she could, suddenly, identify the reason why it made her so damn angry. It was just another way Mulder had of turning every issue, no matter what it was, back to him. Everything always had to be about him; his needs, his wants, his way of investigating a case. She had worked long and hard to make him see her as an equal professionally. She'd be dammned if she was going to do it in a relationship. "Of course," she said. "Always." His answering grunt seemed to indicate that he would have liked a more forceful statement of her feelings, one way or the other. Scully felt her head nod as she thought about it; Mulder didn't mind if you hated him or if you loved him. He just wanted to know how you really felt, no bullshit, no sugar-coating it for delicate emotions. He just wanted, as in all things, the truth. Scully felt the stray tendrils of a thought teasing her mind, and she nibbled her lip, chasing the thought down, pinning it against the wall of her mind. Or did he? she wondered. The fact that with his body language, his words, his non-word grunts, Mulder seemed to force you to expand on whatever you yourself were trying not to say had an opposite effect sometimes, Scully realized. Because she knew him so well, she realized that he wanted her to say more, to comfort him, to tell him that everything would be all right. In the guise of finding the truth, he was forcing her...no, encouraging her...yes, that was better... encouraging her to perhaps say things that were not one-hundred- percent true. By making it look as if he could take anything, emotionally speaking, you wanted to dish out, you felt like a jerk for not telling him the truth. Scully felt another notch click into place as she realized that she had figured out a little more of the way her partner's mind worked. They weren't always pleasant discoveries, but they did come in handy. Mulder waited for Scully to say something more. It took him a few moments to realize that she wasn't going to. And then he realized what had happened. How odd, he thought. How totally strange that we reached this place, this strange place that is just so totally us without any words. This is about me not saying what I need to, about her not saying what I want her to, and both of us knowing. They each waited for the other to break the silence. Power politics, Scully thought idly. "I'm going to sleep," she finally said, standing. "It's been a hectic day-" "To say the least," Mulder said, his tone reaching for teasing and not quite making it. Scully slid a long breath out, tracing her bottom gum with her tongue, fighting for control. God, sometimes he makes me just want to smack that insolent little- "Good night, Mulder," she said shortly, walking back through to her room. "'night, Scully," he called after her. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Four hours later Scully sat up in bed, fuming. She could never remember being so angry at another human being. No, she corrected herself, she had been plenty angrier. But she had never felt this infuriating combination of anger, frustration and disappointment. Mulder, the great profiler, Mulder, the Oxford-educated psychologist, Mulder, the Seeker of the Truth, Don Quixote on his Quest. Mulder, she thought, letting some of the anger seep out of her pores...my partner, my best friend, and...what? Flipping the covers back, Scully stood and marched across her room towards his, her hands balled on her hips, ready to give him a serious What-For. She stopped, her hand reaching for the knob, her thoughts jumbled together. Think, she instructed herself. You go through that door, you tell Mulder what is on your mind, and there is no going back. There are no second chances. There is no way you'll ever be able to unsay those words. The next two words through her mind settled the issue: Fuck it. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= "Wake up," Mulder heard. The voice was low and dangerous, laced with steel and ice. He froze, trying to identify the speaker. The voice sounded familiar, but not overly so. "Mulder, wake your ass up before I drag it out of that bed," the voice whispered. Scully. What the-? "You wanna climb in?" he teased, flipping the sheets back. He sensed the movement, the rush of air, a moment before the flat of Scully's palm impacted against his face. "You son of a bitch," she said slowly, evenly. Mulder worked his jaw, feeling for loose teeth with his tongue. In the darkness, he could see her standing by his bed, her shoulders shaking with the effort of holding her arm up, ready to strike. "I take it I have offended," Mulder said slowly, feeling a small ball of ice forming in his heart. He was suddenly infuriated at the fact that if a man offended a woman, if he hurt her, made her feel bad, she was free to whale on the guy. God knows his mother had often enough. But God forbid he ever do the same when he was hurt, when he was angry. A woman hits a man? High drama. A man hits a woman? Assault and Battery. His dry words, spoken behind a sudden veil of wariness and pain, shattered Scully's carefully constructed rage. Her arm trembled and then fell. "Goddamit, Mulder, why is nothing, not one single thing, easy with you?" Mulder was about to reply, 'Just part of my charm, I guess,' but thought better of it at the last possible moment. Instead, he just shrugged. "Do you know why I came in here, Mulder?" His hand reached out and Scully flinched. A short, frustrated little bark of a breath honked through Mulder's nose as he found his original target: the lamp on the bedside table. He turned it on, wincing at the sudden brightness. "Obviously, with malice in your heart and dirty deeds on your mind, Scully." He ran a finger inside his mouth, along the gumline. It came back tinted pink. "See?" he said, showing her the finger. "Blood." Scully felt a tiny shard of her resolve break away and float free. She'd hurt him. And then the frustration, the anger, the rage of the last few days forced that feeling from Scully's mind and from her heart. "Do you know how hard it is to have any kind of relationship with you, Mulder?" He shrugged. "I thought we'd already settled that, Scully." She shook her head, moving to the chair in his room and collapsing into it. "I'm not talking about that kind of relationship, Mulder. I want to know if you have any idea how hard it is just to be your friend. To be your partner." Mulder glanced at the ceiling, rolling his eyes. "For you?" "For anyone," Scully corrected. "You hide behind this..." She faltered, looking for the words. Words she could use were right there, right on the tip of her tongue, but something, some vestige of wanting to preserve his feelings was holding Scully back. "...attitude," she finally finished. Her brow creased as she dug deep and found the words. "This eerie, fucked up combination of this holier-than-thou, superior, mocking sneer...and underneath that, the most complete and comprehensive inferiority complex I've ever seen. But you know what? That's not really what's driving me up a wall, Mulder. That is not what's causing this problem between us." Scully's hand waved back and forth between them. "Then what is it?" Mulder asked quietly. "Your attitude towards women," she finally said, "and by extension, your attitude towards me." Mulder glanced away. "I don't accept that," he said. "I've always treated you...personally, anyway...with the utmost respect. I know my job performance hasn't always been what you expected or what you wanted, but..." "So, the videos, and the magazines, and all the snide little remarks. What was that, Mulder?" He glanced back at her, confusion clouding his features. "What....do you mean?" "Mulder," she sighed, wondering if she really, truly had to tell him, if he really didn't know. "the girlie magazines you keep in the bottom drawer of your desk, right next to your pencils. I know you keep the pencils there. I need a new pencil, I go and get one. And I have to see it, Mulder. I have to pull open that drawer and see those magazines. Don't you know...what that does to me?" Mulder pulled at his lip with two fingers. "If it bothered you that much, why didn't you say something? Before now, I mean?" Scully spread her arms. "I shouldn't have to," she pointed out. "You should know better, Mulder." "So...we're back to this...issue again, huh?" Scully sighed slowly. "We never left it, Mulder. Don't you get it? Your attitude towards women is...immature, in a way. Unformed. Adolescent, sometimes even childish. Some of the remarks you make, I know you're trying to distance yourself from women as emotional partners, as equals. You want to be able to treat it...them...us... me, as a kind of...object. Not in the way that word is normally used, at least not consciously. I really don't think that you see women the way that word normally means, Mulder. But...we've been on cases, and encountered women....women that fit the stereotypical definition of what the magazines and the videos represent, and you're always there with a remark, a comment, an observation." "Do you feel threatened?" Mulder asked. "Inadequate?" Scully frowned, wanting to bite his head off but having to admit that it was an honest question. It was also, she realized, a rather common question, a question asked in preparation for some kind of defense. "Sometimes," she finally admitted. "But...not really. In a way, sometimes, it does hurt to know that your standard of beauty and sexuality is some artificially inflated bimbo. But, at the same time, Mulder, because you are such a complex, complicated man, I know that on some other level, you don't see me that way. And on multiple levels of my own personality, there are times I wish men did look at me the way you look at those women. All women, at one point or another, want to be looked at that way. It's human nature, the desire to _be_ desired. "But it's still just not that easy. Mulder, I've spent my entire life trying to achieve a true sense of who I am. That sense is constantly changing. But one thing I know for sure. You'd never find me posing between the pages of one of those magazines. When I share myself with someone that way, it's between me and him. It's an incredibly private thing, Mulder. Your actions, the way you flaunt it sometimes, brings that portion of any relationship that you and I could have, and makes it...public." She shrugged, knowing that she was doing a bad job of explaining herself, but unable to find the true words she wanted to use. "What," Mulder asked. "You think I'd want to take pictures of you or something?" She shook her head, smiling. "No, Mulder. I really don't think you want to be shot again." He grinned. "But I guess what I'm trying to say, Mulder, is that I don't get the overall sense from you that you take relationships seriously. Not romantic, physical ones, anyway." He seemed to consider this. "I think I'm offended," he finally said. "I mean, I don't really know how I feel about what you said, only because no one's ever said that to me before." He paused, and seeing that she was about to say something, hurried to add, "But maybe it's time that someone did say something to me about it." "Let me give you my feelings in a nutshell, Mulder. I'm angry at you for trivializing the way you deal with women as a whole. When you're working a case, the women you deal with fall into separate categories. If they're victims, you deal with them as female victims, not as women. If you encounter a female agent or local law enforcement officer, then you file them away in that pigeonhole, and you deal with them accordingly. Me? I'm your partner, your friend, and you deal with me that way. But women...just women...you have a problem with." She paused, sighed, and continued. "Maybe it was your mother. Maybe it was Phoebe. I'm not sure what the causation was, but the fact is, Mulder, when it comes to dealing with women on the intimate emotional terms I'd need you to, you're..." She didn't want to say it. "Immature," she finally finished. "And I can't handle that. I... the men that I want to be with...when I let myself think about it... the men I want to be with are mature. They know who they are. They have a deep respect for women...all women, in all walks of life. The relationship isn't a joke to them, isn't a source of humor. I mean, I like to laugh just as much as the next person, but I need a bedrock of seriousness, Mulder. Commitment. And not to me, but to the relationship." She thought about it and then added, "To the process, I suppose. Treating the process itself with respect." Mulder had a sudden mental image of Scully performing an autopsy. He saw the way she moved just so, her fingers describing precise little arcs as she sliced and diced. She proceeded the same way every time, starting with the head-to-toe physical examination, then moving inexorably closer to the middle, dissecting the body, extracting and examining internal organs, finally finishing up with the craniotomy and the gross physical examination of the brain. A ballet, he thought, a dance that has certain prescribed steps. Scully had been taught to do things just so, first as a child with a ramrod-straight Naval officer as a parent, and then again as a student, a student of both physics and medicine, disciplines that demanded orderly, algorithmic approaches to any problem. Differential diagnosis, he thought. Take the symptoms and then proceed in an orderly fashion to a diagnosis, discarding anything along the way that was not pertinent or relative. Hear hoofbeats? Think horses, not Zebras. He remembered the way she had been on certain cases in the past, cases that intersected with her professional training and personal experiences. Orderly. Mature. Professional. And now, she was telling him that in her life, in her romantic life, she needed the same thing. A logical progression from position A to B. No frivolity. Scully, he knew, valued the ability to be able to classify, quantify and qualify every single thing in her life. A place for everything, he mused, and everything in its place. "Rigid, but in a really wonderful way," he'd mentioned about her once. To a woman that fit the description that Scully had just provided. "Scully," he sighed. "Mulder, I'm not asking you to change. I'm not expecting it, even if you offered it. I'm just saying that...as much as I care about you as my friend, as my partner, and as the single most important person in my life, that I can't just jump into this relationship the way we both want. I can't." Mulder nodded, accepting her logic. At the very least, he thought, she's given me something to deal with, something tangible. Because now, he knew, now the question had become something else. She had just said that she didn't expect him to change. But she wouldn't resist it, either. If he managed to change, if he managed to find a way to deal with the women in his life, the women he always saw as having the potential to hurt him, like his mother, like Phoebe, and God help him, like Scully herself -- if he managed to find a way to deal with those women in a way that Scully found acceptable, she was telling him without words, signaling without actually coming out and saying it, that the issue of a relationship between them could be reopened. So, was he willing to change? Was he even willing to try? "Mulder, I've said my piece. I'm going back to bed." Scully got up and crossed to the door, her hand on the knob. Impulsively, she turned and went back to the bed, leaning down, her hand finding his face. "There is nothing particularly wrong with you, Mulder," she said softly. "I just need...more." He nodded, unable to meet her gaze. Tenderly, Scully kissed his forehead, ruffled his hair, and quickly returned to her room. She was asleep within minutes. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City The Next Afternoon Mark Dupree glanced at the words on the computer monitor. He had decided that the first one had to be easy. It had to be easy, but not too easy. It had to tell the reader that a superior mind was at work. A mind worthy of the battle that was to come, for Mark Dupree held no illusions about what the next few weeks and months would bring. A battle of wits between the NYPD and himself. He read the note again. First, the ELS code. 9125:126 Then, the NYPD booking number. Then, beneath that, the puzzle. "How many birthdays does the average man have?" A delicious puzzle. The kind to cause most cops to answer it automatically. An oft-quoted statistic, available on the health segment of most nightly national news broadcasts. But the answer they would automatically give would be wrong. Perfect. Dupree turned to the laser printer after clicking the small icon on the toolbar. He'd been wearing heavy winter gloves when he'd purchased the paper at Staples. He hadn't handled anything having to do with the printer without wearing latex examination gloves. The paper was as generic as possible, the font used was Times New Roman, 12 points. It came with the operating system. The same operating system that was used on 90% of the world's computers. The note was clean. As the jet-engine whine of the printer's engine spooling up filled Dupree's ears, he thought ahead to the rest of the day. Tommy Two Chins was waiting for him, waiting for Dupree and his destiny. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Alexandria, Virginia Special Agent Fox Mulder unpacked his suitcase slowly, intending to get everything he could into the laundry as quickly as possible. He found two pairs of wadded-up socks at the bottom of the carry-on, and yanked them out. Underneath was a copy of this month's Playboy magazine, untouched since he'd covertly purchased it at an airport on the way to a long-forgotten case. The socks forgotten, he lifted the magazine out of the nylon bag and regarded it. A picture of airbrushed perfection stared back at him from the cover. He flipped it open, moving by habit to the centerfold, turning the magazine to let the page unfold. His eyes took in the picture. Hourglass figure, subtly enhanced by the pose the model had struck; one hand on her hip, the other held shoulder high as if about to wave at the photographer. Wearing a wisp of nothing, her smile wide and genuine as if to say, "You like what you see?" But she wasn't real. Not an object, but...not quite a person either. A symbol, maybe, Mulder thought. But of what? Ask yourself this, his mind announced. Would you want Scully to pose? For you? For all the men that read this magazine? Would you want sweaty-palmed teenagers poring over her picture, gasping as they touched themselves while they looked at her? No, he thought, of course not. So why was it OK for you to look at this woman? At all the women? They were all someone's daughter, perhaps a sister or an aunt or a cousin. Someone cared as much about them as you do about Scully. Mulder reached into the back pocket of his jeans and found his phone. Without looking, he hit the speed dial for Scully's cell. Two rings later, her warm, familiar voice. "Scully." "Scully, it's me." "What's up?" she asked. "I'm standing in my apartment, staring at the centerfold of a Playboy." Silence. Scully wondered why Mulder had called to tell her this. Not always the most sensitive of individuals, Mulder wasn't the type to call her just to torture her. Mulder realized what he'd just said and hurried to add, "I'm getting ready to throw this magazine out." "Mulder, I'm not asking-" "Scully, let me finish, please. It was..." He wondered if he should tell her where he'd found it. Honesty, he reminded himself. Honesty. "I...it was in my bag. I didn't read it in Portland. I bought it a while ago and completely forgot about it. I was unpacking to do laundry, and found it underneath some dirty socks. I just wanted to tell you that I opened it and looked at the centerfold, and...I think I understand a little more." Scully said nothing, letting her silence speak for her. "She's someone's sister, Scully. Someone's daughter. But not to me. Not before, anyway. She was just...a picture. A symbol." Scully remained silent. "I'm not there yet, Scully," Mulder said softly. "But I'm trying." "I know," she finally said. "Thank you." Without another word, Mulder disconnected the call. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Tommy Two Chins had an odd hobby, Dupree realized. He sat out in his back yard with a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes, scanning the trees. At first, Dupree had thought that the man was beyond paranoid, that he was looking for assassins in the trees. With a start, he'd realized that Two Chins was a birdwatcher, that he was relaxing. The straight razor, honed to a killing edge, rested in the flat of Dupree's palm as he slowly walked up the driveway. Surveillance had revealed that Mrs. Two Chins had left for the afternoon, possibly to go shopping at the malls, possibly to visit her friends. Tommy Two Chins was alone. There was a small chainlink fence separating the driveway from the backyard. Dupree stopped and studied the gate. He wondered how many years that fence had withstood the brutal New York winters. He decided the chances were pretty damn high that if he pushed it open, it'd squeak, giving Tony Two Chins more advance warning than Dupree was comfortable with. Without giving it another thought, Dupree mounted and cleared the short fence. He continued walking, turning the corner and finding Two Chins right where he expected: Sitting on his deck, binoculars plastered to his face, scanning the trees. Time slowed to a crawl for Dupree. The world once again slid into black and white, with only Two Chins standing out in colonized, stark relief against his background. Dupree changed his angle of attack only slightly, wanting to make sure one last time he was at the right house. There. Across his forehead, the letters crimson red, dripping with blood, as if the words had been carved into his forehead with the same razor that Dupree was only now slowly opening with his fingers was the word CHOSEN. Dupree faded back, moving even slower now, not wanting to push any air in front of him and give Two Chins a warning. He slid up behind the man. Closing his eyes, Dupree titled his own head at the sky, his left hand coming around, reaching for his target's forehead. Wait. Dupree froze, a confused frown on his face. He waited for his mind to speak to him, waited for direction. No. Use the other hand. With a grin, Dupree switched the razor to the other hand. He hunched his shoulders, once, twice, loosening the muscles. His right hand came down on the man's forehead, hard, pushing the head back, revealing the fat, pulsing arteries in the man's neck. @ A single swipe was all it took. Dupree felt the metal cutting into Tommy's skin, felt the flesh separating under the pressure of his fingers. A momentary moment of resistance as the sharp edge sliced through the right carotid artery, and then it was easy sailing, the blade cleaving the skin. # Tommy dropped the binoculars with a gasped "awk!" as his hands went to his throat. Tommy felt his lifeblood oozing and then spurting between his fingers. He twisted in the seat, wanting to see the face of his murderer. Dupree adroitly sidestepped, moving out of the spray. Tommy didn't know the face of the man who had just sliced his throat. Why? his eyes asked. "You were Chosen," Mark Dupree explained. "It's nothing personal," he added, although it was. Secure in the knowledge that when Tommy Two Chins got to where he was going it would all be explained to him, Dupree waited for him to die. It took only moments, really. Tommy stood up and took one, two lurching steps towards the house. Dupree's arm flashed out, the sleeve of his jacket catching Tommy in the face. Tommy landed flat on his ass and died. Dupree glanced around, his eyes and ears searching for any sound, any indication that the act had been witnessed. There was none. Time to get to work, Dupree thought with glee. Clutching the razor in his gloved hand, Mark Dupree leaned over the corpse of Tommy Two Chins and began. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Annapolis, Maryland Dana Scully sat on her blue and white striped couch and stared at the television. TCI of Maryland had been running a special for the entire month; try out any pay-per-view or premium channel at half price, no questions asked. Just use your remote to buy the service you want, and you'll be billed. The TV was playing a heavily-edited adult movie on the Spice! channel. If Mulder can make the effort, Scully remembered thinking, then so can I. Those words seemed hollow now as she watched the movie. Nameless, faceless bodies, actresses with names that defied comedic description, actors endowed so far beyond the norm as to become cartoonish writhed on the screen in impossible, spine- stretching, eye-popping combinations. A close-up appeared of an actress as she pretended to reach for orgasm, her partner moving above her. She has dead eyes, Scully thought. Lifeless. How could Mulder...watch this? What was the attraction? Middle ground was a concept that was very important to Dana Scully. She had a rule about relationships, a rule she realized she'd never shared with Mulder, at least not vocally. She called it the "Two C's Rule." Compromise & Communication. If you adhered to both concepts, then any relationship, be it business, personal, familial or romantic, had a better than average chance of working. Could she compromise? Should she? Shaking her head, Scully continued to watch the movie. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= New York City Angela Conners, who had been born Ann-Marie Ferucci, pulled her Cadillac Cetara into her driveway and shut off the engine. She closed her eyes and listened to the soft sound of the engine ticking as it cooled. Queens wasn't so bad, she told herself. There was culture, food, shopping. Sure, none of her friends from California were here, and most of them thought she had been killed by the vengeful employers of her husband, but Queens wasn't so bad. It wasn't California, but it also wasn't traveling hundreds of miles every weekend to go visit Tony in some shithole federal pen. All in all, he'd made a good deal. They had a house, they had nice cars, they had money to spend on nice things. Queens wasn't so bad, she repeated. Getting out of the car, the woman who had been renamed Angela Conners by a clerk in the WITSEC program she'd never met grabbed her packages and headed up the walk to the front door. After letting herself in, shutting and locking the door behind her, Angela went looking for her husband. She glanced at the antique grandfather clock in the hallway as she passed it. Judging by the time of day, Tony would be in the back yard, those damn binoculars plastered to his face, looking for his birds. Or, "boids," as he called them. Funny man, she thought, not unkindly. Stepping into the kitchen, Angela peered through the sliding glass door. The deck was empty. Curious, she leaned forward a little, wondering if Tony was out in the yard, trying to get a better angle on some "boid" that he'd spotted. Angela froze. Something was not right. Red. She glanced down and saw a puddle of red just at the edge of her vision. Taking another step towards the glass, Angela craned her neck and tried to see what the puddle was. When she saw, she began to scream. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Headquarters, Major Case Squad One Police Plaza Alex Cahill was nose-deep in monthly manpower reports when the portable radio perched on her credenza began to squawk. Tuned to the Citywide Special Operations Division (SOD) frequency, Alex could hear jobs being assigned to the six or seven Citywide SOD units."Mike Six, on the air, K," the dispatcher's voice called. Any MCS supervisor on the air, please respond. "Central, Mike Six," Alex said. "Mike Six, in the confines of the 1-13 precient, Queens Homicide Task Force requests MCS response for an 89 via radio." Alex frowned. "Central, show Mike Six in on that." "Ten-Four Mike Six." Alex twisted the frequency control knob on the radio to the SOD(South) Frequency. "Mike Six, on the air," she called. "Mike Five," Daryl came back. "Mike Three," Sam came back. "Three, Five, in the confines of the 1-13, we have an 89 from QHTF. I'm enroute. Meet me there, K?" "Mike Five, Ten-Four," Daryl called. "Mike Three, Ten-Four," Sam added. +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= En Route To Conners Residence As Alex was crossing the TriBorough Bridge into Queens, she heard Sam come up on the radio. "Central, Mike Three, K?" "Go, Mike Three." "Show us sixty-two at the scene. Five and three in on that." "Ten-Four, Three." Alex peered through the windshield at the traffic ahead, still amazed that not many people were trying to edge to the curb, despite the fact that she had the red bubble-light on the dash going full blast, as well as the red and blue alternating grill lights, and the wig-wag highbeams, and the car's siren. Four minutes later, Cross was up on the air again. "Central, Mike Three, K?" "Go, Mike Three." "Ah, can you see if Mike Seven is up?" Mike Seven, also known as Pamela Renyolds, was one of the two female detectives First Grade assigned to the squad. About forty seconds passed before Alex heard Pamela's voice. "Mike Seven, Mike Three." "Three. Seven, we need you in on this job in the 1-13. Can you respond forthwith?" "Ten-four, Three. Central, show me enroute and in on that Queens job." "Ten-four, Seven. Mike Six, on the air?" "Six," Alex answered. "You catch all that, Captain?" "Ten-four, Central." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= Conners Residence Alex parked her Caprice Classic at the curb and got out, her shield swinging from a chain around her neck. She saw both Daryl's and Sam's cars parked up the block a stretch. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off a driveway and the walkway leading up to a two- story, brick-faced row house. Must be the place, Alex thought. She smiled at the uniform guarding the scene and ducked under the tape. Another patrolman was guarding the front door. "Cahill, Major Cases," she said to him, and he dutifully entered her name into the record of every person that entered or left the crime scene. "ME here yet?" Alex asked. The cop shook his head. "CSU, HTF and your guys," he said. Alex nodded. Good. Crime Scene was here. She followed the activity outside and found Detectives First Grade Daryl Hicks and Sam Cross working the scene. Two disgruntled- looking Queens Homicide Task Force detectives stood on the corner of the deck, talking to themselves. Alex glanced down at the body and then quickly averted her gaze. The victim, at this time unknown to her, had been worked over with a knife. Extremely worked over, Alex thought. In addition to the rage cuts she was growing used to seeing, her half-second glance seemed to confirm her suspicion that the man's eyes had been cut out. "What's up?" Alex asked, keeping her gaze away from the body. "CofD sent a teletype to all Task Forces and PDU's this morning about homicides that match a specific pattern," Sam started. "These two guys caught this one off the wife, who came home and found him this way, discovered the note and phoned it in to Dispatch." "Note?" Sam nodded, standing, holding her the clear glassine EVIDENCE envelope. "Yup...with something new." "What?" "Two new things, actually," Cross said as Alex turned the envelope over in her hands, tilting it so she could read it. "An NYPD booking number, and...well, you can see." "How many birthdays does the average man have?" Alex read. "Seventy-two?" Daryl offered. Alex shook her head. "No. One." Cross and Hicks shared a smile. "Told you," Cross said, holding out his hand. With a good-natured grumble, Hicks handed his partner a five dollar bill. "So what does it mean?" Cross wanted to know. Shrugging, Alex handed Cross back the bag. "Fuck if I know, Sam. BCI come back with a name off the booking number?" Cross nodded. "Thomas Montoya, arrested a long-ass time ago on a bogus weapons charge. He walked, moved to the coast. He was mobbed up a little, but that's the last I've heard. I've got Intelligence reaching out to the US Attorney's office in California over this guy." "Well, I was going to ask if you liked him for another in our serial job, but obviously, that's moot. The note tears it." "Plus the fact that his driver's license, social security cards and every other piece of ID or paper that I can find in the house has this guy being a Conner and not a Montoya. WITSEC all the way." Alex sighed, nodding. "Shit. Where are those two feds? The tree guy?" "Evergreen," Sam corrected. "They're down at One Federal Plaza fighting the good fight to get a list of all WITSEC's here in the city." "Call 'em. Find out everything about our guest." She paused. "Where's the wife?" "Upstairs with Pam," Sam said. "She'll cover that." Alex nodded; Sam was right. Detective Pam Renyolds would get every single bit of information out of the wife, and make the wife glad she did it. Pam had a gift with witnesses, especially witnesses that had seen violence up-close and personal. "Ok, you guys know the drill. You don't need me peering over your shoulder. Anything else you need from me?" Cross thought about it. "Any brass outside?" Alex shook her head. "Central was smart. They didn't put it up on the air that this was about the CofD's teletype. So we don't have any gawkers." Cross grinned. "We have a problem," Daryl announced, standing. "What?" Alex asked. "The doer on this job is left-handed. The other two jobs were both primarily right-handed." "Great," Alex muttered. "He's getting clever. Just what I fucking need." She sighed. "I'm heading back to the house. Call me if you need anything." "What're you gonna do?" Sam asked. "Call the FBI," Alex said. "This mutt just went from being an annoyance to being a liability. I want some fallback in case this guy goes on a tear that we can't stop." Cross looked hurt. Alex glanced over at Hicks, and then at the two Queens detectives. "Listen to me," she said softly, trying hard not to be overheard, "sometimes being a cop at the level we are demands that we play bullshit political games. I don't want us having to explain why we can't catch this fucker if I can blame the FBI instead." Sam nodded. "Isn't your contact at the FBI a friend?" Alex nodded. "But not her partner, and he's the profiler." +=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= END CHAPTER 11