Date: Fri, 12 Sep 1997 23:26:34 -0400 (EDT) From: Ecksphile@aol.com Subject: Spooked 1/11 SPOOKED By Suzanne Bickerstaffe and "Melody" (Ecksphile@aol.com, harmne@kans.com) August, 1997 Rating: R for language, violence, adult subjects, some other/other sex and general weirdness Category: S, Scullyangst/Muldertorture Spoilers: Anything up through Memento Mori but not much beyond Summary: A clerk-typist tells the story of her experiences with Mulder and Scully, on loan to the VCU to investigate a serial murder case involving witchcraft and past horrors. Archive: Yes please, anywhere, anytime - with our thanks Disclaimer: The characters of Mulder, Scully, Skinner and Blevins belong to Chris Carter, Fox Television, and the actors who give them life. We borrow and embelish, our only profit being the thrill of creation and the joy of playing with their heads. Chandra, the characters you don't recognize and the plot belong solely to the authors. May be forwarded, reprinted, archived, etc., as long as the story remains precisely the same, with our names attached as authors, and no money changes hands. Chapter One J Edgar Hoover Building Washington D.C. Wednesday, March 26, 1997 I met the legend today. Funny, after two years of working as a clerk here without laying eyes on him I was beginning to think he was just a character the guys made up to scare the newbies with. And they'd certainly scared me. For the first six months I reacted like a frightened rabbit if I was caught in a strange place after dark, thinking I saw shadows within shadows. I should have known not to take a position in this department. But it was a promotion, a step up in pay and grade, and it had seemed like a good idea at the time. I promised myself I'd give it 30 days, and if I couldn't settle into it by the end of that time, I'd ask to step down. Blevins agreed I could. And after all, a clerk is not an important position. More like a glorified gopher, still a step away from a secretary. How bad could it be? Well, in the Violent Crimes division I soon learned. The first week I think I threw up a dozen times. The agents here are a wild and woolly bunch, foul-mouthed at the best of times. They talked over the most horrifying details of cases with seeming unconcern, sometimes even while they were eating. The first time I caught sight of some crime scene photos left lying on a desk I didn't even make it to the restroom. I quickly learned to keep my trash can handy and a supply of plastic liners in my desk drawer. Peppermint candy helped, too. Looking back, it seemed as if I were being subjected to some kind of initiation, a hazing of sorts. Testing the mettle of the newbie, to see if I had what it takes to work in this division. But after two weeks I found I'd become...well, inured... to the grisly sights. I guess I passed muster - I'm still here. Now I really am a glorified gopher, sent to fetch everything from coffee supplies to evidence bags of severed body parts. Although the latter still give me the willies, they no longer send me running for the nearest recepticle. During the past two years I'd heard a seemingly endless stream of stories about this legendary man. More stories than seemed creditable for a mere mortal who'd supposedly only been in the division for a few years. A young man, fresh out of college, who surely would have been more than a little wet behind the ears. So after a while I began to take the stories with a grain of salt. The stories seemed to circulate in waves, too; nothing for a while, then for a few weeks that's all the agents seemed to talk about. Then it would die off until something stirred them up again. Once in a while one of the agents would claim to have seen him in the building with his partner, whom they referred to as the Ice Queen. Or they even claimed to have spoken to him. I could never understand why they seemed both awed and contemptuous at the same time. The one agent I dared to ask snarled at me, snapping that the man had gone insane. They didn't know why he was still even with the Bureau, but he had ended up in the basement and supposedly chased UFOs now. And ghosts. Maybe that's why they refer to him as "Spooky". There's been a serial murderer at large that has been making the entire division miserable for the past seven months. The only thing the victims seem to have in common is their age, all of them being around forty-five. This guy - and at this point they're not even sure it's a man - apparently changes his MO enough to make it hard to track him or even tie him to the different murders. He gets around, too. When things were getting bad, as usual, the Spooky stories started up again. Ben Johnson was the first one to suggest maybe they ought to ask for his input. The first overwhelming response was derisive hooting, but after a few more weeks the tides changed. Then, this morning.... This morning when I got to work there was a strange man standing at my desk. He scared the shit out of me. The offices were mostly dark, only the required "Exit" lights on. I'd unlocked the door and swung it open, and there was this shadowy figure.... I think I was halfway back down the hall when he stepped through the door into the light. I don't remember moving, actually. By the time I could think again, I was just leaning against the wall at the corner, my heart in my throat beating a mile a minute, and looking back to see him standing there. He looked startled. He was probably wondering what the hell was wrong with me. He looked awfully young, tall and kind of lanky, with dark hair that was sticking up in front like he'd run his fingers through it. His face was smooth and slightly olive-colored, attractively put together. Seen through the wire-rimmed glasses he wore, his eyes looked brown, or maybe hazel; it was hard to tell in the dim light. His suit was probably a designer, judging from the dusty-eggplant color and the quality of the fabric, but it hung just a little loosely on his body, and was slightly rumpled. His tie was loud, both in color and pattern, a garment no designer would willingly claim. He'd called out to me, I suppose, when I'd bolted. Now his voice was finally registering in my brain, soft and apologetic. "I'm sorry I scared you. I guess I should have turned the overhead lights on, but I wasn't expecting anyone for another half an hour," he was saying. He stayed in the doorway, though, as if he knew it would frighten me if he came toward me. "How did you get in there?" I demanded. My legs felt like jelly, but at least my voice was firm. "My key still fits. I guess Blevins never got around to changing the locks." He sounded serious, but his lips twisted up a little like he was joking. "I'm Mulder." Special Agent Fox Mulder. The legend. *THIS* was Spooky? Surely not. He had his ID in his hand, though, offering it to me. I walked back toward the door, stopping just out of reach - not that it would have done much good if he'd had nefarious intentions, I could see he wore a gun. But the distance nonetheless made me feel safer. I glanced down at the proferred ID and then back up at his face. Seen closer, I could tell he wasn't as young as I'd first assumed. Oh, his face was unlined and his hair had no gray, but his eyes gave him away. His eyes were old, ancient almost, and slightly sad. They reminded me of the uncle I used to visit in the VA hospital, the one who'd been in a POW camp for several years. How could such a young man have such eyes? They certainly didn't match the rest of him. "You have pretty fast reflexes. You were gone before I could even say anything," he was saying as he put away his ID. "Adrenalin," I explained, still embarrassed. "They told me you were coming down today, but since the door was locked I wasn't expecting anyone to be in the office. Guess I made a great first impression, huh." He grinned and humor lit up his eyes, changing his whole face. I felt safe now, and offered my hand. "I'm Chandra Jones, the clerk here for the VCISU. If there's anything you need while you're down here, just ask me." "Thanks, I'll remember that," he said, taking my hand briefly. His grip was warm and firm. "But I'll warn you ahead of time that you probably won't want to have anything to do with me. I have sort of a reputation, you see." I heard myself chattering away, "Oh, I know. I've heard all about you, but I've got to say I don't believe everything I've heard. Besides, some of the things I've heard don't make any sense at all." "Oh?" The humor was still in his eyes and his head tilted to the side just a little, as though he hung on my every word. I felt a flush rising to my cheeks. What made me say that? I groaned inwardly, but I was committed now. "Um... I've heard, for example, that most people think you've gone crazy.... But when they hit a wall on an investigation, they go to you for help. That doesn't make sense." Agent Mulder was smiling, but it was wry, twisted. "And you don't understand how they can value my skills and ridicule me at the same time?" I nodded, and he continued. "They appreciate my results, but my methods are sometimes... unexplainable. People scorn what they don't understand." He sighed, and turned to go back inside the offices. "And anyone who gets too close to me will get tarred with the same brush," he added over his shoulder as I followed him. I got the definite impression he was warning me to keep my distance. He found the table where the case files were spread out as soon as I turned on the overhead lights, and was instantly absorbed by them. I went about my normal morning routine, making coffee and trying to have everything necessary on hand for the day. I took Agent Mulder a cup of coffee and reminded him to take off his coat, hanging it up for him when he absentmindedly dropped it over a chair. I was at the computer when Blevins came in. "Well, Mulder, I see you finally saw fit to grace us with your presence." "Yeah, I was out of town when I got word that you missed me, Blevins. I came as soon as I could." Mulder's voice was off, somehow. The tone was cool, even though he spoke in a relaxed manner. I got the definite impression there was some unpleasant history here. "Chasing little green men again?" "No, as a matter of fact it was a coven of witches practicing human sacrifice. And aliens are gray, not green." Aliens? "So, Mulder, what do you think of this mess?" Johnson and Roberts came in just then. Having my own work to do, I missed bits and pieces of the conversation, but I got the gist of it. Mulder reminded Blevins he'd just arrived, and typically Blevins had a few choice words ready about wasting time. Mulder more or less ignored him, and eventually Blevins huffed off to his own office on the other side of the section. Mulder sat down at the table alone, systematically reading through each file. Then he took the crime scene photos out and laid them out across the table, walking around it over and over, studying them. He occasionally rearranged a few of them. The other agents watched him furtively, and I could hear a few muttered remarks I thought were totally uncalled for. Apparently someone figured Mulder was putting on a show to impress them, although how what he was doing could be considered grandstanding was beyond me. Not that I had any idea what he was actually doing, but it was clear he was totally absorbed in it, and not merely putting on a show for the other occupants now drifting into the room. He spoke only once, to ask me for a magnifying glass. He thanked me absently and returned to his photos. I was trying to watch Mulder and transcribe some field notes onto the computer when another newcomer entered the room. This one was a woman - rare in these offices - and a small one at that, even shorter than my own 5'4". Her face was almost china-doll pretty, but she held it in a serious expression that could almost be considered haughty. She gave the impression of being cool to the core, but it seemed to me that her vibrant coloring and the fire in her eyes told an entirely different story. She paused at my desk. "Hello," she said in a low, pleasant voice. "I'm looking for Agent Mulder. I was told he was here. I'm his partner, Dana Scully." Because of the way the room is laid out - this whole section used to be a bomb shelter - the table where Agent Mulder sat was visible to me but not to her. "Good morning, Agent Scully. Agent Mulder is just over there." I pointed her in the right direction and watched her walk over to him. She didn't pause in the least when someone was in the way, as if she expected them to move...which they did. Hmm, yes - I could see the regal bearing and the cool manner, but did these people really see this woman as an ice queen? Somehow I couldn't agree. Mulder looked up as she neared him, and his face cleared of the lines of concentration long enough for him to smile. "Hey, Scully, I was hoping you'd get here soon. I have something I need you to look at and tell me if I'm seeing things...." There was a derisive squawk from a group of agents nearby. Casting a dismissive glance at them, Agent Scully stepped up to her partner's shoulder to look at the photos he was holding, and their voices dropped to an almost conspiritorial level. In moments their heads were bent close together as they examined the photos, Mulder pointing at details with the tip of his fountain pen. After a few minutes, Scully took the photos from him to look at more closely, then she handed them back. "You're right, Mulder. I would have missed it, but you're right." Ben Johnson's curiosity finally got the better of him, and he joined the partners at the table. Ben was an anomaly in this office, a nice guy who didn't feel the need to appear as hard as nails, or as ruthless as the killers he pursued. He was the one person who had some empathy for Mulder. Well, perhaps empathy's taking it too far... at least he valued Mulder for his contributions and gave him credit for his unorthodox methods, even if he didn't understand them himself. "Got something, Mulder?" Mulder turned to Johnson abruptly. He seemed startled, as if he'd forgotten anyone else but his partner was in the room. He recovered quickly, however. "Possibly. I think seven of these twelve murders were committed by the same person. The others - maybe they were, maybe they weren't." Jerry Walsh detached himself from a little group of agents who had been observing the proceedings. He was one of Mulder's most virulent detractors in the department, and I had a feeling there was about to be a scene. "You smug, self-righteous son of a bitch! You come in here with your know-it-all attitude and spend ten minutes looking over a bunch of pictures, and you have the balls to act like you've got the whole fucking thing figured out!" Mulder's face froze for an instant, then was replaced by a mask of cool blandness. He shrugged. "Sorry. He asked." Ben glowered at Walsh. "Can it, Jerry. If our track record on this case weren't so fucking awful, he wouldn't even be here. At least hear him out, for Christ's sake. Okay Mulder, what makes you think that?" "Let's just say that I find it more than coincidental that seven of these Scene of the Crime photos have the same personal memento in the frame. Now, as to whether it was already in the possession of the victims, or whether it was left by the killer, I can't say. By any chance, has anyone checked these out?" Johnson sighed and lowered himself into a chair. "That's just one of the many problems with this case. These murders were committed in Virginia, DC, Maryland, and Delaware, with no two in the same town. They were all investigated by the local authorities - twelve different departments in all, none of which came up with anything they thought was unusual enough to mention, and no leads. By the time someone saw a possible connection in the murder method and handed it over to us... well, the crime scenes had long since been cleaned up. Makes things a little more difficult to check out. Okay, what 'personal memento' are we talking about here?" "This photograph." Mulder pointed with the tip of his pen to each of the seven photos in turn. "Admittedly, they're a little fuzzy in several of these shots and will need to be enlarged. The frames are all different, but it appears that at least it could be the same picture in each." Johnson picked up the magnifying glass and peered at the SOC photos. "You're right - each of these has some sort of framed group picture - young adults, it looks like. So, outside of the victims' ages, this could be the first substantive clue we have linking the victims and tying the murders together." Mulder nodded. "They look like they're all wearing robes of some sort," murmured Scully, looking over Johnson's shoulder at the photos. "Maybe they were in some sort of a college or church choir together." "It's possible," her partner replied. "There are some other objects in the background I'd like to take a closer look at when we get these enlarged. It might tell us something more." "So, what's the plan now?" Johnson asked. "Blevins read us the riot act yesterday and said you'd be taking over the direction of this case." At Mulder's expression of surprise, he grinned. "You know how it is. This case has been on the books too long. Evidently Skinner chewed Blevins' ass about it, then Blevins came down here and chewed ours." So that's why everyone had been in such a foul mood yesterday. I had seen them filing into the conference room like they were going to their own executions. They had emerged an hour later stony-faced. That's when Blevins told me that Mulder would be in to look at the case files.... So he had carried through on the ultimate threat - to let Spooky run the show. I couldn't help but feel he was putting Agent Mulder in a terrible position. Surely Blevins had to know that the guys in VCU already either hated or feared him, or were green with envy for his talents and track record. Now Blevins was forcing Mulder to lead this team of hostile colleagues? Talk about your no-win situations. He was being set up to fail, as all the others had before him. And if the legendary agent *did* manage to succeed it would only earn him more jealousy and resentment from those he was forced to work with. You need to understand something - I have no love for Blevins myself. He's moody and inconsistent, and his management style features pitting one team against another in an effort to make everyone work harder, better, faster. Unfortunately, all it accomplishes is to sink morale to an all-time low. With the kind of work this department does, stress levels are already high. Adding more pressure is not the way to get the best out of your employees, I wouldn't think. But what do I know - I'm only a clerk. I glanced across the office to see Blevins leaning against a desk, eavesdropping, his arms crossed in front of his chest and a self-satisfied smirk on his face. I wondered what he thought of the 'ass-chewing' comment. I looked back at Mulder. Everything about him, from his body language to the expression on his face, was controlled, but something told me he was only too aware of the position Blevins had placed him in. And he didn't like it. Not one bit. I saw Agent Scully's hand drift to his shoulder and just rest there. He seemed to pull it together then, taking a deep breath and letting it out. He nodded to her, just a subtle bob of his head, then turned his attention to the agents who had joined them at the table. "All right. We need a team to contact the families of those seven victims and ask what they know about the group portrait - if it had been in the victim's possession, or was left at the murder scene by the killer. If it belonged to the victim, we need to know who the people in it might be, and their connection with the victim. We also need to find out if the other five victims had this portrait among their belongings. If not, then chances are they aren't connected with this particular series of murders, and their case files can be returned to local law enforcement for individual follow-up. Johnson, you know the men; why don't you divide up the teams and make the assignments?" I thought. I saw Johnson smile and nod, Mulder's gesture not lost on him. It wasn't lost on Blevins, either. I think he was worried Mulder would steal his show. He strode purposefully toward the group assembled at the table. "Well, I was hoping it wouldn't be a complete was of time and government money bringing you in here, Mulder. You heard Agent Mulder, people! Let's get cracking!" The other agents dispersed, leaving Mulder and Scully standing uncomfortably with Blevins until the Section Chief was called away to the telephone. I figured with the 'get cracking' comment he must have meant me, too, so I turned back to pounding the keyboard once more, my eyes fixed on the terminal screen. I was startled a few minutes later, then, when Agent Mulder cleared his throat next to me. "Ms. Jones, would you run these down to the Photo Lab when you get a chance? I've marked the areas to be enlarged and by how much on each of the SOC photos." I smiled up at him warmly. "I'd be happy to, Agent Mulder. Want a rush order on them?" He shook his head. "I just called. They said they wouldn't be able to get to them for several hours, maybe not even today." "Well, I have a friend who works there - Larry might be able to 'expedite' things a little," I whispered conspiratorially. I rose and took the manilla envelope. I think Mulder's the only one who has ever bothered to conceal this kind of photograph from view by putting them in an envelope or folder. Whether it was deference to my sensibilities or out of respect to the victims, I have no idea. It really didn't matter. Either way, it was refreshingly thoughtful. "Thank you, Ms. Jones. It seems I came to the right person to get this done. I should have guessed - after all, I know how fast you can move." He grinned at me. I blushed, remembering my panicked flight from him earlier, but returned his good-natured grin. "Please - call me Chandra." "Thanks, Chandra," he smiled. "And I'm just plain Mulder." He gave me another one of those quirky grins, then turned away. Mulder may be a lot of things, but I doubt 'plain' is one of them. God, but the man smelled good! I've always had a very keen sense of smell, and Mulder smells great. It isn't a cologne or after-shave scent; this didn't come from any bottle. No, this was just the way clean smells, with a faint spicyness I suspected was just 'him'. "Agent Mulder!" Blevins called him before he'd gone two steps. "Richmond PD was just on the phone. They have a new body that looks like it might fit into our serial case. You know what you're looking for, so you pull the trip. You and Scully get down there and meet a Lieutenant Beaulieu at the crime scene. Here's the address." He handed Scully a scrap of paper. "...And Jones," he looked past Mulder to me, "when you're finished running Agent Mulder's little errand, I have a special project for you." He smiled at me. I suspect it was much the same smile a predator gives the rabbit that's about to become dinner. Wonderful. "Yes, sir." With a final, furtive smile for Mulder, I headed for the Photo Lab. End of Section One SPOOKED by Suzanne Bickerstaffe and "Melody" (Ecksphile@aol.com, harmne@kans.com) August, 1997 Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One Chapter Two J. Edgar Hoover Building Wednesday, March 26 Evening After Blevins dropped his little bomb on me - a project with an impossible deadline - I worked on it steadily for the rest of the day. The only times I broke from the damned files was when I got a cup of coffee, and once to go to the restroom. I called home at four, and called Allie at five-thirty to see if she'd tape that night's psychology lecture for me. By seven-thirty I had at least made a start on nearly half of the files, but I was starting to see double, so I decided to go home. I would get them finished by the deadline, no matter how late I had to stay the following night. I yawned all the way across the parking garage to my car even though my mind was busy rehashing the events of the day. I went through the motions of unlocking my car and starting the trip home, but I couldn't stop thinking about Agents Mulder and Scully. They seem to mesh so perfectly. I have to admit, I can see where rumors of their being lovers would be easy to believe.... But I don't think they are. I don't know, I just think it would be somehow more obvious if they were. But there *is* something there that just doesn't exist between most partners. They each seem to know what the other is thinking - which is funny, when they seem to be so completely opposite from one another. Agent Scully is so grounded, so practical and, I don't know, scientific maybe. Agent Mulder is more, for lack of a better word, intuitive. I get the feeling he listens to his gut more than his brain at times. A horn honking behind me startled me out of my reverie, and I realized I was sitting at a green light, nearly halfway home. I'd been driving on auto-pilot. I was just lucky there was little traffic. I kept my attention on the road the rest of the way home. The late spring twilight was fading and it was starting to get dark. By some miracle, there was an empty parking space near the door to my building, and I grabbed it. It was the closest I had been able to park in two weeks. Now if it had been raining, I wouldn't have found a parking spot in the same zipcode. I normally don't mind climbing the three flights of steps to my fourth floor apartment, but that night they seemed especially steep. I could hear Mrs. Stone's TV as I passed her door on the second floor - the poor woman must be nearly deaf - and smell the bouquet of a mouth- watering marinara wafting under the Petrocelli's door on the third. As I reached the top of the next flight I could hear the music drifting from my door, and felt the accustomed catch in my heartbeat. It was so nice to have someone to come home to! As usual, he didn't hear me come in. Sven, the man of my dreams, is in the mostly-bare living area, painting. He's an artist. I know, we've all heard about artists. God knows I've heard enough from my father on the subject. But Sven is different. He's actually very good - he makes a pretty decent living from his paintings already, and his reputation is still growing. He was at his tall easel, his back to the door. Sven is a big man - 6'4" and well-muscled - so I couldn't see what he was working on. All I could see was his golden hair brushing the shoulders of his favorite paint-stained denim shirt. He was so immersed in his work he didn't hear me kick off my shoes or toss my purse behind a chair. I was able to walk right up behind him and slip my arms around his waist before he realized I was there. As always, Sven responded immediately to my touch. Although he didn't jump - a trick I'd like to learn - he took a quick breath, then tried to turn in my arms and hug me. And as always, he forgot he had a paintbrush in his hand. I've learned to elude his grasp until he remembers and puts it down. On my salary, I can't afford to lose any more clothes to paint splotches. Grinning, Sven dropped the brush into a jar of solvent and reached for the snaps on his shirt. He slowly popped each snap and stripped off the shirt, dropping it over his stool, his eyes never leaving my face. I knew he was taking it off because it had paint on it, but that didn't mean I appreciated the show any less. Sven is gorgeous. He looks like some Viking war god, but his touch as he took me in his arms was gentle. I snuggled into his embrace and lifted my face for his kiss. "I miss you when you are late, ~alskare~," he whispered against my lips. Mmm, right! He was concentrating on his work so hard I could have been here for hours before he noticed me.... "How is this one coming?" I asked, peeking over his shoulder at the canvas on the easel. His paintings remind me of Monet a little; they're somehow restful and I can look at them for hours and still notice new things. Perhaps that's one of the reasons he's becoming so popular in the hectic DC area - people find them soothing. "It's almost finished," he answered, turning to cast a critical eye over the painting. It was a scene from a walled garden with a pond, slightly out-of-focus, but still so detailed you could almost see the breeze sway the flowers, and the goldfish swimming. My stomach growled, reminding me it had been a long time since lunch. "Did you eat yet?" "I had Chinese delivered after you called. Why don't you change clothes while I heat some of it up for you?" Sven headed for the kitchen area while I backtracked to pick up my shoes and purse, then went into the bedroom. Our apartment is an open-plan, basically a rectangle with a wall across one end that creates the bedroom, bathroom, and the single huge closet. The kitchen and dining areas are along the opposite side and are all open to the main room, which at this point is still nearly bare. So far we have only a dinette set and a sofa for furniture in there. The lamps and my stereo and TV are still sitting on the wooden crates Sven's things were shipped from Sweden in. But the main feature of the room was the sole advantage to being on the top-floor walk-up of a converted apartment building - huge skylights that let in both the daylight and the stars. Sven fell in love with the space when we chose the apartment together last year. It's a lot bigger that I would ever have chosen on my own, but I have to admit - the openness is growing on me. The bedroom is proportionately large, fortunately, and not dwarfed by Sven's king-size four-poster bed. I, on the other hand, feel like a midget when I crawl into it alone. Thankfully that's not often. I absolutely love the huge closet - what woman wouldn't? - but I won't go into it without the light on. Okay, I admit it. I'm easily spooked. Putting my shoes and purse away, I rummaged around for one of the loose jumpsuits I like to wear around the house and carried it out to the bed. Sven came through the door just as I was slipping off my jacket. "Need any help changing?" he asked, grinning. Oh, those blue, blue eyes! "I don't think so," I answered teasingly, turning my back on him. "I've been dressing myself since I was a kid." His arms came around me, his hands going unerringly to the buttons of my blouse. "Ah, but I am wanting to *un*dress you...." His voice was low and rippling with laughter. This was a game he always enjoyed playing. I relaxed, leaning back into Sven's chest, and watched his hands quickly opening my blouse. The skirt followed quickly, then my bra. Sven's hands cupped me softly. The contrast of his pale skin against mine never fails to fascinate me. I think it does him, too. I could see him watching in the mirror over the dresser. Sven's more than a full head taller than I am, so I was practically framed by his fairness. I inherited my coloring almost entirely from my East Indian mother. I never knew her, she died when I was born, but my father saw to it that I have pictures of her. She was small and very dark, with an elfin face and liquid black eyes. I have her darker skin and her black hair, but I have my father's light eyes. Cat's eyes, Sven calls them, and he says they're amber. I don't know - they look plain brown to me. As if he knew what I was thinking, Sven turned me to face him. He doesn't like it when I start looking for my faults. He never sees the extra five pounds that keep creeping up on me, or that my makeup has turned shiny, or the myriad other things I find to criticize. I felt the tug as he pulled the band from my braid, loosening it and running his fingers through the crinkled strands. My hair, unbound, reaches past my waist and is the one thing we agree on. It's my vanity. Maybe I should have felt silly standing here in just my pantyhose and hair like some bizarre Lady Godiva, but Sven didn't give me time to think about it. Lost in the feel of his hands on my skin, I barely realized the hose had disappeared until he pulled me against him again. "You're beautiful, Chandra," he murmered against my lips, between leading kisses. "When are you going to let me paint you nude?" "You don't paint portraits," I hedged. It was an old argument. Even the thought of some stranger - or worse, someone I know - seeing a nude painting of me gives me the willies, but I know someday Sven will manage to talk me into it. Maybe. "I want to paint you," he insisted softly. "No one but me will ever see it." His hands slid down over my hips, pulling me closer. I could feel him growing hard and it mades my knees weak. He kissed me again, his tongue sliding in deeply, and I groaned. I didn't want to argue about this anymore, even in jest.... I wanted *him*. But he withdrew, breaking the kiss. "Okay, suppose I agree..." It wouldn't hurt me to just talk about it for a minute, would it? "How would you want me to pose?" "Curled up on the bed, like you're waiting for your lover." His answer was prompt. Obviously he'd given this some thought. Was that good or bad? "Show me." Lifting me easily, he carried me to the bed and began to arrange me on the turned-down covers. He pulled the pillows up behind me, and in the process of spreading my hair across them a few strands fell over my breast. He brushed them back. My nipple contracted and grew hard at the inadvertant touch, and his eyes darkened.... My stomach gave up growling as heat began to pool low in my belly. The stir-fry was probably getting cold again, but I no longer felt that type of hunger. His hands trailed over my body, then lingered on my thighs as he arranged my legs. I let my eyes close. So he wanted me to pose as if I were waiting for my lover? Okay - I focused on his touch, and let myself relive what it is like to make love with him. Let myself feel that hunger.... Then I opened my eyes and looked at him. "Like this?" I whispered. He had to clear his throat before he answered in a voice noticeably deeper than before, "~Ja~, something like that." I got the sudden urge to play with fire. I have no idea what came over me - maybe it was a result of the many stresses of the day - but all at once I wanted to play the tease and see if I could make Sven lose some of his control. Sven was normally the most gentle, considerate of lovers, always taking care he didn't hurt me. But that night I wanted him wild. Could I do it? Make him lose control? "Am I waiting for a new lover, or an old?" I asked. Sven shook his head as if to say 'what's the difference?' and I continued. "If I wait for a new lover, I would want to tempt him." I rearranged myself to what I hoped was a more provocative pose; thrusting my breasts forward through the curtain of my hair, wetting my lips and letting my eyes half-close. Sven's eyes darkened and I felt a thrill. I was also becoming aroused... "If it's a lover of long standing, perhaps I feel anticipation - knowing what's to come." I smiled dreamily and let one hand stroke my breast absently, making the nipple peak. The heat from Sven's gaze brought the other to attention and I stroked it, too. I didn't know if this would drive Sven wild, but it was sure doing a number on me. "Of course, if my lover is making me wait for him too long, I might start without him...." I squeezed my thighs together restlessly, rubbing my hand over my abdomen as if I was fighting myself. Then I let my legs fall open and my fingers slid down. I felt my own wetness and bit back a groan, then suddenly Sven's had caught my wrist. He was leaning over me now, his eyes bright with desire, a faintly amused twist on his lips. "And if I am the lover you wait for? How would you wait for me?" he growled. He was close enough to reach and I took advantage. "I wouldn't wait long," I murmered. "I would come find you." As I finished speaking I closed my fingers over the bulge in his jeans, stroking firmly. His eyes widened in surprise, then closed as he pushed into my hand. "~Du reta mig~," he growled, pulling my hand away from his arousal. I hid a smile; although I only understand a few words of Swedish, I love it when Sven lapses. It means I've got him rattled, something I can rarely do. "English, Sven," I reminded him. "I said, you tease me. Why do you tease?" "Did you like watching me?" I asked. "Yes." "That's why. I wanted to - excite you - by doing something different." I grinned up at him coyly. "Did it work?" Sven responded by climbing on top of me. Grinning, he pinned me to the mattress with his weight and caught my wrists, pulling my hands over my head. "You are bad, ~sma|ena~." I wiggled and managed to get my legs apart, settling his weight where I wanted it the most. I arched my hips, rubbing against him, arousing myself even more in the process. His hands tightened and his pelvis ground into the soft flesh between my legs for a moment before he regained some control. Then his eyes narrowed. "Only with me, ~kvinna~," he demanded, "~Du tillhor mig.~" "Only with you," I promised. There was no time for more. Sven's mouth descended on mine with a ferocious hunger and it was all I could do just to breathe.... When he released my wrists his hands were everywhere - clenched in my hair to hold me for his kiss, caressing my breast, behind my back to arch me closer, clasping my knee to pull my leg over his hip. Then he was sheathing himself in me, and I could no longer think. I think I created a monster. Some long time later I lay exhausted on Sven's chest, trying to catch my breath. His fingers tangled in my hair as he stroked my back. He was murmering to me, mostly in Swedish I think, but I was slipping into sleep and didn't catch most of it. "~Jag alskar dig~," he whispered. I caught that. It means 'I love you...' End of Chapter Two SPOOKED by "Melody", and Suzanne Bickerstaffe harmne@kans.com, Ecksphile@aol.com August, 1997 Disclaimers and acknowledgements in Chapter One Chapter Three The Apartment Early Morning, Thursday March 27, 1997 I woke to the scent of coffee and stretched, smiling to myself at the feel of the sheets against my bare skin. Pushing a tangle of hair off my face, I opened my eyes and looked around. Sven was sitting on the windowsill sipping from a steaming cup. Another one sat on the nightstand for me - yet another reason I love this man. "I have decided you are right, Chandra," he said suddenly. "I will wait to paint you nude." He paused, turning his head to grin at me. "When I am older perhaps you will not have such an effect. I don't think I would survive many nights like last night." I stiffled a giggle and gave him my best 'innocent' look. "But what if I improve with age?" A look of shock passed over Sven's face, then he burst into laughter. He muttered something toward the ceiling that I didn't understand. It sounded suspiciously like a prayer, and I finally succumbed to the giggles. Sven joined me in the bed for a good morning kiss and a cuddle. It was a brief one, though, because my alarm clock went off five minutes later and he kicked me out of bed to go take my shower. "You can't run late today, ~raring~. I have to get ready this morning, too. I've got a meeting with the owner of a gallery." I promised to hurry, and did - not difficult because the hot water heater had decided to act up again and I got mostly cold water. If the landlord didn't fix it soon I was going to put his name and fingerprints in the crime computer database! By the time I dashed back out, shivering and dripping, Sven was in the kitchen again, refilling his coffee. I headed for the toaster. I remembered Blevin's project as I pushed my bagel in. "Sven, I'll probably have to work late again tonight." "As late as you did last night?" I wrinkled my nose. "Unless I manage a miracle, a lot later. Blevins gave me another one of his special projects to do, and it has to be done by Friday at five." He grunted. "What did you do to make him angry this time?" "What makes you think I did *anything*?" Sven didn't reply, just raised his eyebrows at me. Okay, so he knows me pretty well. "I'm not really sure this time. I was civil to Agent Mulder, that's the only thing I can think of." "And who is this Mulder?" "He's an agent who's taking over a case for the section." "Why is being civil to him a crime to Blevins?" Why indeed? "That's the really hard part to explain - and to understand. Mulder used to work in the VCU under Blevins, you see. He was a profiler, and from what I've heard he was the best. But now he's kind of an outcast, which is hard to figure, because he's the nicest guy...." I paused, trying to put together all I've picked up about Mulder and Blevins' past from the gossip going around in the office into some sort of coherent form. I didn't need to explain Blevins to Sven, he's heard all about Blevins before. Like I said, he's not my favorite person by a long stretch. "I don't know all of the story, but from what I've heard it all comes down to the fact that Mulder quit profiling and walked away from the VCU. There's a lot of resentment left in the department even now over that; I don't think Blevins will ever forgive him. The other profilers are envious of his abilities and his record, but they seem to... I don't know, it's like they want to be him, but at the same time they hate him. They make fun of him all the time, even to his face." "And Blevins encourages this," Sven added matter-of-factly. "Right. Indirectly, of course." "And of course, my ~sma|ena~ won't play the game their way. You were polite to him." He shook his head, then said, "~Nu har du skitit I det bla skapet~." "Translation, please?" Sven screwed up his face in concentration, then looked a little sheepish. "It sounds better in Swedish. Translated, it says 'now you have shit in the blue cupboard'." Now *that* was picturesque! I started laughing and couldn't stop until I was out of breath. Gasping and wiping my eyes, I consoled a now-frowning Sven. "I don't think our American saying makes any more sense - we say 'the shit's going to hit the fan'." The puzzled look on his face as he digested that sent me off into giggles again, and I had to abandon any idea of actually eating any breakfast. Time was passing, and I had to get ready for work. An hour later I was almost ready to leave. It had been close - Sven tends to walk around starkers after he gets out of the shower, and he's a little distracting that way.... One last check in the mirror showed my makeup was in the right places. If my broomstick skirt wasn't exactly 'professional' attire, well, it was comfortable. That was more important to me, especially if this day turned out to be as long as I feared it would. Stepping into a pair of comfortable low-heeled shoes, I reached for my purse and started for the door. Sven waylaid me, though, to say goodbye. "Try not to be *too* nice to this Agent Mulder today, ~alskare~, or I might have to be jealous. Besides, you don't want to give that ~djavel~ Blevins any more satisfaction." "Agent Mulder was nice to me first," I argued playfully. "Of course, it doesn't hurt that he's extremely good looking, too." Sven frowned hard at me, and I laughed and kissed him to assure him I was only teasing. Mollified, he gave me a hug. "Be good today, Chandra!" he admonished. "And if you can, call me later." "I'll try. Good luck with your meeting!" A last quick kiss and I was out the door. - - - - - J Edgar Hoover Building VCU Section office 8 A.M. I looked down hopelessly at the newly-increased stack of thick manilla folders on my desk. This was a new low, even for Blevins. The new folders contained the interview notes from what must have been twenty cases, all of them handwritten in the psychotic scrawls of the VCU staff. My mission - whether or not I chose to accept it - was to get them *all* neatly typed, proofed, entered into the computer, and returned to Blevins by Friday at five. All the work I had managed to do the previous day barely made a dent. Three weeks wouldn't have been enough time, not with the bizarre abbreviations and unique shorthand these guys used. It was crystal clear - Blevins was handing me the opportunity to fail on a silver platter. Was all this really just because I'd been nice to Mulder? Was Blevins actually that petty? Then I remembered the look he shot me as I ran down to the Photo Lab for Agent Mulder. Uncomfortably, Mulder's words came back to me - that anyone caught too close to him would be tarred with the same brush. Well, shit! If being polite, getting a cup of coffee and running a simple errand for him was enough to piss Blevins off, what was next? Public floggings for wishing Mulder a nice day? It looked like I was going to have to phone Allie and ask her to tape the lecture from my class that night - again. Disgustedly, I opened the next file and got to work. I don't know how much later it was that I looked over to see a man's hand placing a cup of coffee on my desk. My eyes flicked up, lighting on Agent Mulder's face. "You haven't moved from your desk since I came in two hours ago. Looks like you have your work cut out for you," he observed with a lop-sided smile. "I did warn you." I pushed my keyboard drawer away from me and reached for the cup. There was cream and sugar in it... how did he know how I liked my coffee? "Yeah, you did. I didn't take you seriously, though. Blame my naivete - I just find it hard to believe that people can be so petty." "You'd be surprised. Or maybe you wouldn't be. As you saw yesterday, no one exactly rolled out the red carpet for Scully and me." "True," I sighed. "Well, Blevins is going to be the one with the surprise in store this time, because I'm going to finish this by his deadline if I have to work around the clock to do it." "Looks like you may have to." "It'll be worth it, just to beat him at his own game." I grinned up at him. "Thanks for the coffee, Agent Mulder." "It's just Mulder, remember? You're welcome. And I'm sorry." I shrugged. "Don't be, it's not your fault. I was never on his Favorite Employee list anyway." "Really? Why not? From what I've seen you're a hard worker, very organized and efficient." "Yeah, well... those traits he probably likes. But, among other things, he thinks I have an 'attitude' and that I 'don't know my place'." Mulder muffled a laugh. "Ah, well, I *knew* there was a reason you and I got along. Look, I won't hold you up. Hang in there, Chandra." I smiled . "Thanks, Mulder, I will. Count on it." I watched as he greeted his partner at the door. Together, they headed for the empty desks at the far end of the office, spread out their files, and got to work. Sighing, I did the same. - - - A couple of hours later I had done what I could with about half of the files. Now I had to go around to each agent and try to get them to translate the hieroglyphics I hadn't been able to make out. Ben Johnson was the worst. I mean, I liked the guy personally, but it was obvious he'd flunked penmanship all through school. He also had the annoying habit of using initials for everything. Half the time, even *he* couldn't remember what they stood for. How he managed to testify in court based on what he wrote is beyond me. I took his files and what I had typed - mostly blanks connected by guesses on my part - and searched for him. He and a cluster of others stood around Mulder's desk. I could hear the raised voices long before I got close. "You've got paranormal on the brain, Mulder," Jerry Walsh accused heatedly. "What makes you think this is a coven, for Christ's sake? They could be the Youth Choir from St. Cecelia's Church, for all you know." "Not unless St. Cecelia's is heavy into witchcraft," Mulder replied equably. He sighed and took out the photograph taken from the Richmond crime scene, the only copy of the group portrait they'd managed to get possession of. "Look at some of these things in the background. Somehow I don't think Sr. Mary Ignatius would approve, do you?" There was a sprinkling of guffaws from the group, quieted quickly by Walsh's furious expression. His temper was fierce, and no one wanted to see him lose it again. We'd just replaced the furniture from the last time. "What the hell are you talking about? What things in the background?" Mulder took a steadying breath and held up the photograph. "Look, Jerry...This is an altar ..." "If you ever set foot inside one it might shock you to discover that a *lot* of churches have altars, Agent Mulder," Walsh replied sarcastically. "With black candles?" Mulder calmly asked. " *What* black candles? Those things might be candles, or they might not. They might be black, or they might not. Maybe they're purple Advent candles. But from this picture, you'll never know. Christ, they could be anything! Shadows, anything!" "All right - then what about this?" persisted Mulder, pointing at another object. "It's a damn bowl." Mulder shook his head. "It's a scrying dish, used in magic rites." "You're full of shit, Mulder," Walsh argued. "That could be anything, too." "And the pentagram?" "*What* pentagram?" "Okay, it's pretty fuzzy," Mulder admitted. "But just... back... here - see that?" "The only thing fuzzy around here is your brain." Walsh stood with his hands clenched into fists, obviously spoiling for a fight. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed. "I thought there had to be thirteen in a coven," commented Dan Kravitz blandly. Dan was the intellectual of the section, well-read on a wide variety of topics. He reminded me a little of Mulder, but he didn't make the unexplainable intuitive leaps Mulder did that made the latter truly brilliant. "This photograph shows only twelve people." Mulder shrugged. "Someone had to use the camera, right?" Ben cleared his throat. "You sure you're not simply being influenced by your last case, Mulder? That witchcraft murder case was pretty intense, from what I heard. Don't you think you might be reading in things that aren't there?" "What, do you think I'm so traumatized by my past that I can no longer keep my cases straight? That 'Spooky' has gone off the rails again? Is that what you all think?" Mulder shot back, with the first sign of anger I had seen from him. "Sorry to disappoint you, gentlemen, but it takes a hell of a lot more than that to unbalance me these days." He paused to stare them down with eyes gone dark and hard as diamonds, then continued, "I want this photograph enlarged and enhanced. We know this portrait is our link to the killer. Computer enhancement of the background will clearly show the details I've pointed out that are consistent with witchcraft. The evidence is there. Now, how are we coming with contacting the relatives of the victims about the photograph?" I waited until Ben had given his report, then drew him aside to ask about the problems in the old case files. As I suspected, he couldn't remember what most of the initials represented, and generally had a harder time with his handwriting than I did. I gave him the file, incanting the magic words, "Blevins wants this right away", and he took it back to his desk to mull over. I glanced up to see Mulder watching me. "How's it g - " "How's it g - " He grinned. I laughed and motioned for him to go first. "It's coming along. Although I'm beginning to think that all the subjects in that photograph buried the events surrounding it pretty deeply. We haven't found any of the family members yet who knows anything about it. If I could just get everyone here in the unit to put aside their personal prejudices about me for a minute, we might get somewhere." He made a visible effort to relax, not entirely successfully. "How about you?" I sighed. "It's slow work." I leaned over, casting a curious eye over Mulder's case notes. They were written in a small, tight, unusual hand and scattered with abbreviations or symbols that resembled - well, nothing I was familiar with, in any case. "Hopefully I won't be asked to transcribe *your* notes next. That would just about finish me off." He grinned. "I don't even use these myself, to tell you the truth." He tapped his temple. "Photographic memory. But back when I worked the VCU I had to keep notes to 'comply with procedure' .... Now, it's just a habit. Scully uses them sometimes when she writes up the official reports, but that's about all. I don't need them. Actually, I think it just made the Suits feel more secure if I wrote something down. Not that they didn't trust me, you understand." His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief. I grinned back at him. "Oh, I understand completely. By the way, where is Agent Scully?" "Doing the autopsy on the last victim." He looked at his watch. "Right about now I would guess she's on her way here." As if on cue, Scully walked into the office. "Cause of death?" he inquired before she even got to the desk. She grimaced. "Hello to you, too, Mulder. Same as the others - exsanguination. The wounds, the actual damage inflicted on the body is different, as it has been in each of the other murders, but ultimately it was the loss of blood that killed him. The blood is apparently collected and taken away by the killer. There was evidence of hair loss on the limbs that puzzled me, until I did a skin scraping and found remains of adhesive - the type used for duct tape to be precise. I think the killer taped something around the wounds to collect the blood." So that's why the crime scene shots had shown so little blood. My stomach lurched, and I was almost relieved when Blevins bellowed for me. Almost. - - - I was just coming out of Blevins office with three more case files when I head the shout. "Hey, Sp-..., Mulder!" Mulder and Agent Scully looked up to see Dan Kravitz loping up to them. "I think I may have a lead," he said excitedly. Standing, Mulder took the piece of paper Dan held out as he went on in a rush, "I was working on an intersect point for the victims, and I think I've finally got one. It seems that five of the subjects lived in or near Milford, Delaware approximately twenty- three years ago. That would put them at the right age for college. So I checked out area colleges and there are only two. *Were* only two, I should say, because the extension campus of the state university there closed down several years ago. The other college is St. Vincent's, a small Catholic liberal arts school. So I did a little checking with the relatives of the victims, and surprise, surprise. Three of the victims went to the State University in Milford and two went to St. Vincent's. It isn't much, but it does put five of them in the right place at the right time to have known each other." Mulder nodded. "Nice work, Dan. Does anyone else have anything to add to this?" "That fits with the victim I've been working on," said Ben Johnson. "Sarah Jane Hargitay also attended St. Vincent's College." "All right. Ideas on how to proceed?" Mulder asked the assembled agents. "The Milford campus of State once had an enrollment of over five thousand students, plus it's now defunct. And you know what it's like trying to get any response from a state agency...." Dan grimaced. "I think it would be faster to contact St. Vincent's first. It's small and still in existence, so information about the victims that attended there might be more forthcoming." "Good point. All right. Dan, you contact St. Vincent's. Get all the information you can on the subjects we know went there, and see if you can place any of the others there as well. Get the names of the Alumni Secretaries for, say, the classes of 1972 through 1976. If there's a single group of people that will know what happened on campus twenty-three years ago, it will be them. We'll split the list of Secretaries up between us and contact each one of them to ask for more specific information on the victims - their interests, what clubs they may have belonged to, who they hung out with. See if the Secretaries have had any contact recently with the victims, or perhaps more importantly, if anyone *else* has shown any interest in contacting them. It's possible our killer tracked his targets down this same way we are. In the meantime, those of you working up victims we haven't placed in Milford yet, see if you can put them there at that intersect point. So far we have only half our victims placed. I'd feel better if we could get them all there. Walsh, we can't leave the State University thread untouched. Why don't you start working your way through the wonders of the DSU bureaucracy and see what you can dig up for the now-defunct Milford campus?" "That's a shit assignment and you know it, Mulder," Walsh glowered at him. Mulder looked cool, remote. "But it *is* a valid assignment, nonetheless, Agent Walsh. Do it." The heavy emphasis on the last two words were in a tone that brooked no argument. Whether Jerry liked it or not, Mulder was the senior agent and the one in charge on this case. The agents scattered for their desks - all except for Walsh, who childishly sauntered back to his as slowly and insolently as humanly possible. The effort was wasted on Mulder, who had immediately gone back to reading notes someone had handed him. I parked myself back at my desk without enthusiasm. Eleven files down, and I didn't even want to count how many there were to go. I *would* finish them before the deadline! Half an hour later an impromptu meeting got started when several agents converged on Mulder to report some progress on the case, and the others came over, too. I really shouldn't have taken the time to listen in, but at this point I was hooked. It was fascinating to watch Mulder work, and some of the guys were beginning to respond to how he ran the case. Maybe this would set a good example for Blevins - not that Blevins was likely to learn from it. I took my time getting a cup of coffee and returning to my desk, but my attention was focused on what was going on at the conference table in the center of the room. "Okay, does anyone else have anything new to add?" Mulder was asking mildly. It seemed that Jerry - predictably, in my opinion - hadn't gotten to first base with the Education Department in Delaware. But most of the others had made progress. All of the Alumni Secretaries had been contacted, and two more of the victims had been placed at St. Vincent's in the right time period. Interestingly, none of the victims had graduated from either of the colleges, and all had left school at the end of the fall semester in 1974, never to return. None of them had ever shown the slightest interest in attending reunions or any other alumni activities. It seemed to me that they had all made a conscious effort to avoid any contact with the school. Or perhaps with the memories of what had gone on there.... I smiled to myself. Maybe the psych classes were starting to sink in, after all. They're an odd complement to my Software Design and Systems Analysis courses, but useful in this job. "Agent Mulder, I got a name," Charlie Haddox offered. "The Alumni Secretary for the Class of '76 told me that a man called her up a couple of months ago, demanding to know if she had given out his name or address to anyone. Said he sounded very upset - paranoid even. He gave his name - Vincent McNulty - only because he had to, so she could look through their inquiry records and tell him if she had given it out to anyone," he explained. "But she said even getting that from him was like pulling teeth. She didn't have many clear memories of him from when they had been at the school together, but did tell me that he hadn't graduated with his class and he failed to return to the college after the Christmas break of 1974." "That seems to fit." Mulder frowned. "That name hasn't surfaced before, which means he might be one of the survivors in the photograph. And if so, he might be the next target.... Fine work, Charlie. Did the Secretary get an address, even an old one? We need to locate this guy, fast," he observed. "The killer seems to be escalating. Look at the dates of the murders. The first one was seven months ago, the next one six weeks after that, then a four week interval, then three.... At this point there's a kill every week or less. The Richmond victim's time of death was placed at four days ago, so we have only a few days, at best, before the killer hits again. We have find this McNulty." "The Secretary asked for a new address for the man, but McNulty point-blank refused to give her any other information. She did try." Haddox grinned. "It seems that they have a fund drive coming up and she wanted to get his address to hit him up for a contribution. But the guy hung up on her." He paused, taking in the disappointment on the agents' faces. "*But*... she happened to have caller ID on her phone and she wrote down his number. She normally would have dropped it, she said, but it ticked her off that the guy was so rude. She got on one of those Internet Phone books and looked up the number and got his address, intending to send him a fundraiser letter just to piss him off. He lives in Naylor, Maryland. I called the Sheriff's Department down there and connfirmed that the address is current - 413 Bluffs Road, Naylor." He beamed triumphantly. "Thank God for modern technology and persistent women. We should see if that lady wants to work for us," Mulder said lightly. There was a rumble of laughter around the table that sounded wonderful after all the hostility of the day. "Great work, Charlie." Agent Scully suddenly had a thought, her brow puckering. "You didn't call this McNulty, did you, Agent Haddox?" Charlie shook his head. "No, ma'am. The guy sounds - excuse the expression - spooked. I was afraid he'd bolt." Mulder looked at his watch. "Look, it's close to four now, and we haven't stopped all day. Why don't you guys take a break, starting now. Get some dinner, relax a little, and be back here by, say, eight. Meanwhile, Scully and I will run down to Naylor and see what McNulty has to say for himself. That sound okay by you, partner?" Agent Scully nodded, a small smile curling the corners of her mouth. She looked tired to me - exhausted in fact - but she seemed to accept Mulder's suggestion happily enough. Maybe she'd grab a nap on the way down. Mulder stopped by my desk on the way out. "You going to be leaving on time tonight?" "Not a hope in hell, Agent Mulder," I answered a lot more cheerfully than I felt. "Then maybe I'll see you when we get back." "I think that's a distinct possibility. Good luck" "Thanks." His long strides carried him over to where Scully waited at the door, and then they were gone. I watched enviously as the tired VCU agents filed out through the doorway in twos and threes, in search of a decent meal and some time away from the office. For me, dinner would be some of the unidentifiable crud from the cafeteria, choked down in a hurry at my desk. Sighing, I pulled the next file from the stack and flipped it open. End of Chapter Three. Chapter Four J Edgar Hoover Building VCU Section Office Thursday, March 27 7:48 P.M. With the guys out of the office I got a lot more accomplished, especially after Blevins left on the dot of five thirty. He had interrupted me at least half a dozen times that day, usually for things he didn't need me for in the first place. It was beginning to look as if he wanted to make sure I wouldn't finish this damned project on time. Or maybe I was just in a crappy mood. If I were to have the project done by his deadline of five the next day, I was going to have to put in some very late hours. Which meant no decent dinner, no class and worst of all, no Sven. He'd probably have been asleep hours before I got home. At least the stack of files I had finished was significantly taller than the ones I still had to do. That was the good news. The bad news was that I had purposedly left the most difficult ones for last. Probably a strategic error, as I thought about it now in retrospect. I picked up the styrofoam plate of what had euphemisticly been labelled macaroni and cheese in the cafeteria. Shuddering with revulsion, I dropped the glutinous mess into the trash. "Looks better than what I had for dinner." If I hadn't been so tired I'm sure I would have jumped higher. As it was, my reaction was enough to elict a chuckle from Agent Mulder. "You *really* ought to consider making the switch to decaffeinated," he teased, perching himself on the corner of my desk. "Not on your life, it's the only thing keeping me going," I replied wryly. "How was your trip? And where's Agent Scully?" A dark shadow crossed his face and the light went out of his eyes, making them seem even older at that moment than I had yet seen them. "I dropped her off at home. She's... been feeling a bit under the weather lately. Probably some bug." "I'm sorry to hear that. I hope she gets better soon." "So do I," he said bleakly. I watched as he studied the floor, his face grim. True, I had pegged him as a brooder, but his reaction to his partner's virus was much more extreme than I would have expected. Unless they were more than partners... or unless it was more than a virus.... I remembered her earlier exhaustion and wondered if I'd brought something up I should have left alone. "How was your trip?" I repeated softly, in an effort to change the subject. "Interesting - very interesting," he said in a much different tone. "And very productive. At least now I think we know who we're looking for." "That's wonderful news!" He nodded and looked at his watch. "Anyone else here yet?" "Charlie and Dan poked their heads in about twenty minutes ago, but took off when they saw you weren't back yet. It's still a few minutes to eight. Don't worry - they'll be here," I assured him. "They have their faults, but Blevins runs a pretty tight ship where punctuality's concerned. Can I get you some coffee? It's fresh." "Don't get up, I'll get it. Is it safe to pour one for you? I won't have to peel you off the ceiling, will I?" His lips twisted in a smile, and I felt a warm sensation starting in my toes and travelling all the way up to my cheeks. Don't get me wrong, I'm totally, madly, deeply in love with Sven. But somehow Mulder knew how to turn it on. Or maybe it was unconscious on his part, I don't know. I did know I was having some pretty carnal thoughts about the man. "Don't worry - it would take rocket fuel at this point." "Do you have to work these kinds of hours often?" he asked, handing me a mug. "Often? No," I replied truthfully. "Just when Blevins has a bug up his-" I caught myself just in time - I was really going to have to watch my mouth around Agent Mulder. He was so easy to talk to it was hard to remember that he *was* a senior agent. "Just when Blevins has something to get out in a hurry. Maybe every six weeks or so. Or if there's a night meeting for some reason and I have to be here to take notes." "Still, that can put a cramp in your social life," he said, resuming his perch on my desk. "Well, less in my social life than academic, actually," I replied. "I attend night classes - when I can. I'm three-quarters through a degree program in Software and Systems Design." Mulder's eyes widened in surprise, but before we could discuss it further, the other agents began to swarm in. He went over and set up a mini recorder/player on the conference table, then sat patiently waiting for everyone to be seated. "Thanks for coming back," he began. "I was concerned that I would be calling you back here for nothing, if Mr. McNulty had opted not to speak to us. As it was, it took nearly half an hour for us to gain his trust enough to allow us to tape the interview. Due mostly to patience and persistence on the part of Agent Scully, I might add. It took a good ten minutes just to talk our way through his front door." Mulder paused as there were chuckles around the table. I guess they'd all had similar experiences at one time or another. "But patience and persistence paid off, gentlemen. I believe we now know who we're looking for, and why." He paused again to let the rumbles of surprise and satisfaction die down. "I'm going to ask you to listen to this tape all the way through without interruption. Take notes if you want. Then I'll fill you in on some things that aren't on the tape, and we'll listen again, stopping at the important points and discussing them. Are we in agreement?" I was surprised to see even Jerry nodding. "Good. As I said, after ten minutes of assurances we finally got in the door. Vincent McNulty is forty four years of age, divorced for about ten years, with no children. He is self- described as a loner, with no church or other affiliations. He surfs the Internet and reads for recreation. His choice of reading material is best described as mostly war or spy novels - Tom Clancy, Robert Ludlum, and so on. Interestingly, although he has an extensive library of best sellers, there is a noticeable absence of best-selling authors such as Stephen King - books which deal with the supernatural or the occult." I saw that Jerry Walsh's look of triumph was noted by Mulder, but all he did was smile slightly. "Okay, I think that's all the background you need." I felt a frisson of excitement as Mulder pressed the start button. Glancing at the wall clock, I decided it was worth the time away from Blevins' project to listen to the tape of the interview. <> Agent Scully's voice was low, reassuring, almost as if she was talking to a small frightened child. <> <> <> I heard several sharp clicks. He evidently had some problems getting his cigarette lighted. McNulty's voice was unexpectedly high-pitched - more from fear and nerves, I suspected, than because it was his normal tone. <> There was a few seconds' pause. <> The voice was guarded, suspicious. <> Scully's soft explanation took the possible sting of sarcasm out of the words. <> <> <> <> There was a much longer pause. <> <> Scully said smoothly. <> <> I thought of my own class, the one I was missing. I hoped that Allie's recorder was working. Her notes were harder to decipher than the VCU guys'. <> <> His tone was sharp, accusing. I heard the clicks of his cigarette lighter again. No wonder Agent Scully wasn't feeling well - she had inhaled enough second-hand smoke to make anyone sick. <> <> A bitter laugh. <> Mulder's voice was next. < <>> There was the sound of movement, evidently Agent Scully administering first aid. There was nothing on the tape for a couple of minutes, just the sound of Scully ministering to her patient. Then - <> <> <> It came out as a hoarse whisper. <> <> <> There were several more sharp clicks. <> Agent Scully suggested. <> His voice was rough, angry. There was a long pause, several clicks and then McNulty spoke again, tense, halting. <> <> <> <> <> It was unconvincing, even to me. There was another pause. <> <> Mulder's voice came from a distance. <> <> There was a crash and the tape was obviously paused at this point. I shivered, in spite of the heat of all those warm bodies in the room. < It was Agent Scully again. <> The voice was weak. There was another long pause. <> End of Chapter Four Chapter Five VCU Office Thursday, March 27 8:45 PM Tape Recording of Interview between Vincent McNulty and Special Agents Mulder and Scully Mulder's voice was soothing, sympathetic. <> McNulty's voice sounded almost stunned, overwhelmed by the power of his memories.<<...We were just kids. Just stupid fuckin' kids. We didn't know what we were getting into - not most of us, anyway. Gary, he was the one. He's the one that said it would be a real trip.>> A bitter laugh again, but shaky this time. <> His voice broke and there was the sound of harsh sobbing. The tape was paused again.... <> <> <> <> He sighed heavily, and the clicks of his cigarette lighter were heard again. <> <> <> <> <> <> Mulder said. <> <> <> Mulder prompted gently. <> There was a pause. <> <> There was a long pause. <> I shifted in my seat, my muscles cramped from too many hours at my desk. Even when my chair creaked, the guys didn't even glance up, just kept staring at the tape recorder on the table. <> Mulder said again. <> <> The sound of Scully's heels clicking smartly on a hardwood floor grew faint, and then louder again. <> <> McNulty broke off suddenly. Mulder's voice was tinged with amusement. <> There was an embarrassed laugh. <> He sighed. <> There was a pause. <> McNulty's voice trailed off. <> Scully observed quietly. <> Once more, McNulty broke into sobbing. I was beginning to think that maybe I really didn't want to hear any more. I saw Mulder glance over at me, questioning, concerned. I guess I just wanted to show him how professional and competant I was, not one to swoon or utter a girly scream at the horrors that life sometimes held. I wondered briefly if he were that protective of his partner. I met his eyes and gave him one of my long-practiced unflustered, cool 'VCU stares'. And just as soon as I did it, I could have kicked myself. So far it had been merely unpleasant. There would be worse to come - much worse, if Mulder's expression was anything to go by. He had given me my chance to bow out gracefully, but my pride - or my ego - wouldn't let me take it. I was committed now. I hung on grimly for what was to come. <<...After that, it got worse and worse,>> McNulty's voice was saying on the tape. He sounded almost numbed by the trauma he was reliving. <> He was silent for several minutes. <> Scully gently prodded. <> My own stomach was churning at that point. Mulder, of course, had been right - I shouldn't have stayed. <> queried Agent Scully. Her voice was tightly controlled, as if she, too, were having a problem sitting dispassionately through McNulty's recitation of depravity. <> asked Mulder. <> <> Silence for a moment, followed by a deep breath. <> <> Mulder suggested. <> McNulty's voice was barely audible when he finally continued after a long silence. <> He began to cry. <> He could hardly get the words out, choking on his sobs. <> Oh my god... My throat tightened and my stomach heaved, and I knew I wasn't going to be able to tough it out through this one. I bolted from the office as quietly as possible, by some miracle making it to the ladies room down the hall before depositing everything I had eaten in days down the toilet. Crouching miserably on the hard floor, cold sweat dampening my skin, I retched until there was nothing left to come up. The toilet paper felt scratchy on my oversensitized skin as I wiped my mouth and nose. My legs were shaking as I pulled myself up. I flushed the toilet and headed for the sink, washing my hands and rinsing my mouth out. I tried to make what repairs I could to my face and hair - as stupid as it was, I was still concerned with maintaining the facade I had carefully manufactured of the cool professional. I was hoping that Mulder, if he had noticed my absence at all, would think that I had merely left to answer an inopportunely-timed call of nature. With trembling fingers, I tucked in the pins holding my heavy coil of hair in place, and crept back to the office. Back at my desk, I slid open the drawer and grabbed a peppermint, slipping it from the wrapper as quietly as possible and popping it into my mouth. When I raised my eyes to the conference table Mulder was looking at me, a knowing expression of concern on his face. Shit. What had ever possessed me to think I could put one over on him - not only a senior agent, but a psychologist to boot? I attempted a reassuring smile but I'm afraid it came out wan. He acknowledged the effort with a faint smile and a wink. <<...I don't know....>> A tearful McNulty was saying. <> <> Agent Scully prompted. <> He trailed off, and no one spoke for some time. <> <<...Huh? No, I'm not sure I ever knew it.>> <> Agent Scully said smoothly. <> Another bitter laugh. <> <> <<...I dunno. I've had a feeling from time to time that I'm being watched.... But that might just be because this whole thing has me spooked.... Phyllis! That was her name - the girl, I mean. Phyllis. I'm sure I never heard what her surname was, but her first name was Phyllis. Greg used to call her his Phyllie - sort of a pun.>> <> <> <> He sounded genuinely puzzled. <> <<..Oh! I had forgotten all about that.... Yeah, Gary took that picture, I think it was taken the second time, before we did the anointing ceremony.>> <> <> <> <> <> <> His voice became more demanding. <> Scully seemed reluctant. <> There was a pause. McNulty's mood appeared to have changed with this latest bit of information, now almost calm and fatalistic. <> <> asked Mulder gently. <> McNulty's voice was now flat, devoid of life or hope. <> <> There was the sound of movement... clothes rustling, chairs squeaking, feet shifting. <> Mulder said. <> <>> The tape ended and began to rewind. End of Chapter Five