TITLE: Scar Tissue AUTHOR: Joann Humby EMAIL: jhumby@iee.org DISTRIBUTION: Gossamer - Yes; Others - please ask RATING: R CLASSIFICATION: X A KEYWORDS: Pre-XFiles, Mulder/Other SUMMARY: It's 1988, the FBI sends Mulder out to do battle against a ruthlessly professional kidnapper. But it's more than money that's driving the kidnapper and more than a job that's driving Mulder. Mulder joins another agent working on a kidnap/murder case. As the case gets more complicated so does the rest of Mulder's life. It's a pre-XFiles X-File, with Mulder working as a profiler for Bill Patterson in the ISU. Includes a serious Mulder/Other relationship. Yes indeed, you read it right, where angels fear to tread, Joann boldly goes. Rated R for violence, strong language and consensual sex. Joann - jhumby@iee.org THANKS: To my trusty beta readers, to Ann and Pat who were there even earlier, and to the ones I roped in right at the last moment. The mistakes, as usual, are all mine. LEGALLY: Legally Mulder belongs to some combination of 1013, CC and Fox. But his soul belongs to DD. I've merely borrowed him. This story belongs to me. ===== SCAR TISSUE Wondrous. As miracles must be. Admiring it. Shimmering stream of scarlet. The sight and taste of life. Rich and warm and seductive. Feeding the body, the spirit, the soul. At once fulfilling the fantasy and feeding the dream. Dizzying spiral of intoxication. With the fading of the life comes the fading of the pulse. It hurts, this loss of life. This disappearance of the magic that forces his lips to suck harder to draw in the elixir. It is an anticlimax, a letdown. The irony tastes bitter. It is he who pays for her death in disappointment, even as he himself is the angel and instrument of her death. Blood of a live one speaks of pleasure. Blood of a dead one is merely food. Solemn and brooding now, just a dark shape considering the lifeless thing, limp and heavy in his arms. Food, only food. A sigh of disappointment, no longer worth the effort. A change then, mechanically processing, pleasure becomes mere nutrition, working in silent speed, grimly pumping the remains of still warm food into the functional plastic container. Professional as always, covering his tracks, tracks of his needles, tracks of his suction on her collapsing arteries. A swish of the scalpel across her throat, its throat, the food's throat. Neat, but not too neat. Ragged where disguise was an advantage. ------- Slamming the phone down on Bill Patterson was a necessary release, trivial in itself, like the hissing of the steam from the valve on the pressure cooker, yet equally necessary. Jeanette Abrahams, model of control, running just the right side of the safe working limits, hers, her colleagues', her boss's. A specialist in walking the line, she felt the tension wriggle deeper under her skin, tickling at her nerve endings as it burrowed down. Was it true that bad things came in threes, or was that merely the brain's attempt to impose a pattern on random events? Her boss, Bill Patterson, guru and autocrat had made the perfectly reasonable deduction that Agent Abrahams could use a little help. Not surprising, when a kidnapper copies his ransom demand to the press agencies as well as to the victims' families, questions are asked. What more can be done? Why haven't the police, the Bureau, someone, done something already? With two ransoms paid and two young women returned, it was evident that the kidnapper was on a winning streak. The two unpaid ransom demands had now delivered two corpses. Pay or pray? Pay or die. So arrogant now, the latest victim had been taken the night before, within hours of the second death. The kidnapper was currently two million dollars ahead and confident of making it three. And in the process he was making a mockery of the investigators' tactics. The bathroom mirror's lights were, she had decided, a little harsh, highlighting every sag of tired skin, every red vein in overworked eyes. Dispassionately, Abrahams studied herself in the mirror, carefully pushed the comb through the short bob of dark hair and cursed genetics. Henna rinse no longer so successful in disguising the first tell tale gray. Losing its efficacy, soon she'd need to use something stronger. Expected. Necessary. She doubted that any of the detectives she'd worked with the day before had gone home and dyed their hair. Equality demanded implicit agreement of double standards and she was a consummate professional. She sniffed in another lungfull of air and finished buttoning her jacket, considered the two phone calls. One, the promise of help from Patterson. The other, the discovery of the second corpse. Maybe they would get lucky. She shivered a little at that and wondered since when her definition of luck had started with a dead body. The fifth and latest victim had been missing for around twelve hours. Abrahams' first estimate was that, at best, they had five days to find her, or more plausibly to pay the million dollars. Her father, a political rising star, staunch devotee of law and order, had proclaimed his faith in the Bureau. She knew that he would do whatever the team advised. She prepared for a long day. Another death. Another woman balanced on the razor's edge. She was happy to acknowledge that she needed help, would even be grateful for it. She even understood part of Patterson's reasoning. She was cynically confident that Patterson couldn't come in person. It was already a no win situation and Bill didn't like to hang out with losers. She was less sure about the rest of it. Why didn't he send Edwards or Granowitz or Petty or any of his other picture book perfect, middle aged Agents? One of the ones who actually looked like the serious, confident, professional face of the FBI's finest? Why was he sending Mulder? --------- La Guardia was not the ideal place to spend the night, the seats were not the most comfortable, the entertainment was not the most riveting. Missing his planned flight from New York back to DC last night had not been one of Mulder's smarter moves. Looking back, he knew that there had been no reason for him to spend quite so many hours at the hospital. Hindsight was truly one of the seven wonders of the world. After all, in hindsight, he was always able to do his job so much better. The night spent at the airport had not improved his mood. Nor had the repeating pattern of cancelled flights and full ones, now there was a coincidence. He would have been better off checking into a hotel. No matter. After all, it wasn't as if he would have slept. Though he could have showered and changed. Oh well, he could do something about that here at the airport. Just think of the money he'd saved the Bureau. Maybe he'd put it in the report for Patterson. He closed his eyes again and his brain obliged by supplying him with highlights of the day before. Pausing at the key turning points to let him analyze his words, tone of voice and body language, so he could try and work out how he'd managed to screw up. The pager buzzed. Message number 1. Well, there was a surprise. Mulder pushed himself out of the uncomfortable chair, found a phone and called his boss. Patterson skipped the preliminaries. "How many hours late were you getting to the house?" "Six. More or less." "And how many hours did you waste, booking flights, going to the airport, flying up there and the rest of it?" "I'd already tried to handle it by phone." "I see. So, you arrived at the police HQ and led them directly to the perp's house?" Mulder winced, as if Patterson didn't have all the details jotted down in his file by now. "No Sir. They still needed to be convinced." "So, having you there in person did a lot of good?" "Can we talk about this when I get home. I think they are just calling my flight." Mulder lied unconvincingly. "I want you in Chicago." Mulder stood up straight, suddenly wide-awake. "Same case as Agent Abrahams?" "Same." "Is she ok?" "She needs help. The PD will meet you off the flight." Mulder put the phone down a few seconds after Patterson hung up. --------- The police team were furious and Jeanette Abrahams couldn't blame them. Patterson had phoned and in his own inimitable, superficially polite, unashamedly arrogant manner, had ordered them not to remove the body until Mulder had seen the site. A frustrated cluster of detectives hovered on the edge of the muddy hillside, muttering dire warnings about Federal interference, politicians and delusions of grandeur. The Federal Agent already in position had a different take on the scene, she was well past furious. Not that any of the strangers would have been aware of that, her body was an island of stillness among the restless energy of those around her, her face an oasis of calm concentration. Patterson's request would have been an insult to an inexperienced small town police force. The same request made to a Chicago homicide squad was outrageous. Making the request when the Bureau already had a behavioral specialist on site was clearly well outside the limits of reason. Abrahams was beyond anger. She'd lived with this team for the last two weeks and had fought to get her voice heard and her opinions respected. She'd earned every ounce of respect. She stared grimly at the tense faces of her PD colleagues; mused on how casually Patterson had pissed away her credibility in one offhand, authoritatively spoken, request. Professional to a fault, she ignored the clamor in her brain. "Agent Mulder has an exceptional record." Spoken convincingly. She talked about how in a case this sensitively poised, a couple of hours delay might offer a new insight on the problem. They offered sullen agreement, accepted that it wasn't worth muddying the water, if through clarity they could get their man. Mulder arrived with a splash. The sirens and flashing lights blazed out on the squad car that brought him from the Airport. Abrahams suppressed her smile, noted that it was the first time she'd felt even close to smiling in a couple of days, sensing automatically that Mulder would have loathed the trip. She wondered about that. Odd really, after all, he himself had a strong sense of the theatrical on occasion. It was other people's melodramatic performances that he resented. The faces of the detectives on site gave the game away. Stonefaced turned to stunned and maybe a little horrified as Mulder got urged out of the car and hustled up the hill to join the rest of the investigating team. Abrahams realized her smile was getting harder to suppress, took a deep breath, made sure that it stayed under wraps. Apart from some rookies on crowd control, up until now, she had been the youngest person on site. Now, of course, that honor fell to Mulder. She watched him, 27 going on 17, her exceptionally effective backup as personally insisted upon by Patterson. Looking for all the world like he should be picking up his fake ID ready for a night out partying with his college friends. She wondered just why he looked so young. The Bureau had a dress code. She readily recalled those supervisors whose interpretation had been that female Agents must wear skirts and jackets. She had always been one for pushing the boundaries. It wasn't that, on paper, he was actually violating any of the regulations, not too badly at any rate. He was wearing what might have been a regulation dark gray suit, cut at least one size too big. Images of Talking Heads claiming to be on the Road to Nowhere entered her head. Whether the two-tone gray striped shirt and silver tie were even loosely in the spirit of the code was questionable, certainly only an Elvis impersonator could find them discreet. The just off regulation hair cut was respectably short, but definitely not tamed. Mulder wasn't even trying to look like the mature presence they'd been anticipating. For a moment, Abrahams considered leaving the men to choke their own way through the introductions. But that would, of course, have been unprofessional. She stepped forward, a slow wave of the hand. "This is Agent Mulder." She worked smoothly through the names of the investigating team in strict order of rank, status and clockwise rotation. Mulder politely removed his mirrored sunglasses to play his part in the ritual handshaking. The formal round of introductions over, he finally turned to face his Bureau colleague. "Good afternoon, Agent Abrahams." She felt his eyes switch on for an instant. A brief flash of hazel laser light in her direction, lasting only a fraction of a second before he turned away. She blinked to clear her vision of the after effects. The dead body attracted only marginal interest from Mulder. The Medical Examiner was icily composed, distinguished gray hair topping a tall, trim, well cared for body. After an initial trip to the site early in the day, the ME had wandered back to his lab, returning now, simply to supervise the removal of the body. Mulder spent a couple of minutes chatting to the professorial looking doctor, animated hand movements from both parties suggesting that they had found some common ground. Abrahams watched them, fascinated, noted with surprise that it was the ME who walked away looking like he had something to think about. On balance, maybe not so surprising, she decided. Mulder did that to people. The ME checked over the dead woman again and arranged for some additional photographs before finally calling for the crew to take the body away. The locals were getting bored and Mulder was doing them no favors. He wasn't even pretending to be part of the team. He asked questions, but offered no opinions. Eventually he had even lost interest in the questions, wandered around for a little while until finally he found a newspaper to act as a cushion. Sat on the ground, silently reading the casefile, occasionally looking down from his chosen perch above the dumpsite. An hour or so later, content that he'd spent long enough on the file, he put it to one side, allowing himself to just sit and watch, saying nothing, doing nothing, just staring at the place where the body had been found. Dusk was approaching; a damp haze of cold rolled over the site as the sun started to drop. The forensics crew and most of the other homicide detectives had already left. A steadily dwindling band of police were standing around talking, casting occasional shakes of the head towards the freaky Fed. Initial amusement imperceptibly shifting to irritation as they analyzed his performance. It was Grahams who cracked and after a few moments consideration, finally sought out Abrahams to get her observations on the show. He patted her politely on the shoulder. She turned, automatically looking up, then adjusting her gaze higher still as she realized who it was. The detective gestured towards Mulder. "HE's going to help YOU?" His voice was cheerfully heavy on the sarcasm. The smile hit her lips unintentionally. The relief, she knew, was foolish and definitely a little petty but she couldn't help but feel pleased that they were still talking to her. Grateful for an instant that they'd not yet written her off as the FBI's token female. The detective saw her smile and encouraged by it, smiled back. "What's his game anyway? Bureau psychic?" "It helps him concentrate. He's usually consulting from DC on a dozen different cases. When he's out in the field, it takes him a while to clear his head." "I get it." He laughed softly. "He doesn't get out much. I can see why." For an instant she was tempted to play along, but her conscience cut in too quickly. Later they might need to take anything that Mulder suggested as if gospel given. She was annoyed by the sudden twinge of jealousy that rippled down her spine. Ironic that she would have to start building Mulder's reputation. "He's too expensive an asset. Though actually, he came straight here from New York, so I guess he's trying to get that one out of his system as well." "How much longer?" "The ME reckons the woman has been lying here overnight and that fits with the times when we know the site would have been deserted. I guess Mulder will wait for sunset. You may as well forget hanging around. If we get anything tonight, we'll call." Grahams reported back to his colleagues. Abrahams watched as they walked away. The two FBI Agents and the young police officers guarding the site now had the place to themselves. As the others disappeared into the evening rush hour, she could almost hear their mumbles about leaving it to the kids, kooks and women. The site was suddenly empty and silent, fewer people now and the sky was darkening fast. The privacy offered Abrahams her first real chance to watch Mulder in comfort. He had removed his sunglasses when twilight arrived. She studied him as he sat, slightly hunched, defending himself from the cold. Silly mistake, she observed, coming out here without his coat and letting the squad car take all his clothes direct to the hotel. Mulder was eerily still, the only giveaway that he was actually awake the occasional movement of his head as he surveyed the empty hillside with its police marker tape and measurement flags. Mulder had once told her that watching helped him to focus. He was a very visual person, he liked to watch. She knew that was true, they'd never made love with the lights out. ======== For all her professional cool, it was nonetheless Jeanette Abrahams who was the more obviously irritated by the note that was waiting for them when they returned to the hotel. Mulder surprised her by agreeing to play nice and accept the invitation to dinner that had come in from the homicide detectives. After all, they were planning on eating here at the hotel, so what was the big deal? Sure, no big deal. Abrahams pushed irritably into her room, glad to be leaving Mulder to walk to the next one along. Mulder in Spooky mode was bad enough; Mulder hamming it up for the benefit of an exhausted police homicide squad was not an attractive prospect. It would have been good to back him into a quiet corner and given him a little chat on team work. Wouldn't have helped, but at least she could have salved her conscience and got the misgivings off her chest. Unfortunately, she was already too tired for that particular squabble. Anyway, as it was, she barely had time to shower and change. That annoyed her too, a quiet meal with Mulder and she could have actually treated it as a little timeout. Instead, she was polishing her shoes. Mulder knew exactly what the big deal was. No time later, Abrahams was phoning Mulder from her room to confirm that she was ready to leave. They met at the elevators. She studied him with irritation. If it hadn't been serious, it would have been funny. She had expected this or something like it. The Bureau dress code suggested that smart casual wear could be acceptable for truly informal, off duty meals. According to Jeanette Abrahams, a dozen members of a psyched up homicide squad, preparing to interrogate the two profilers loaned to them by the FBI, was anything but informal. Without the excuse of cold weather and a muddy crime scene, she hadn't even risked using a little artistic license on her outfit. Tailored jacket, knee length skirt, high neckline blouse, elegantly heeled black court shoes. She considered her appearance, 32 years old and she reckoned she probably looked ready for her pension. Sexless and safe for social interaction with local law. Mulder wore trainers, tight black jeans, black shirt and leather jacket. Abrahams tried to block the sudden idea that he should be calling her, mom. No comments were made as they waited, but the slight curve of his mouth indicated clearly enough that the whole thing was deliberate. They stepped into the elevator and were alone, studying one another in the long mirror. Mulder stood behind her, suddenly reaching forward to nibble her ear lobe. She tried to keep her voice stern. "I'm not that easy. You could have made more effort." "What if I promise to put in more effort later?" It was hard for her to avoid smiling when he dipped his tongue into the hollow below her ear. Fortunately, for her composure, they quickly reached the restaurant level. By the time the doors opened, they were strangers again. A brief brush of his hand against the small of her back as they turned towards the restaurant the only indication of any familiarity. Back to business. Jeanette Abrahams forced herself to remember that she was the senior Agent on the case, not just in appearance, but in reality. Two years with San Francisco PD, three years with the Bureau in Detroit and New York before Patterson had decided that she was gifted and added her to the ISU. That was three years ago. Mulder was the freak here; Patterson had taken him straight off the Quantico rookie production line. She prepared herself to give him a ten second pep talk on appropriate dress and conduct in informal situations and its relevance to inspiring confidence from fellow law enforcement professionals. She didn't get the chance. "Forget it. They already think I'm a green kid, let me have a bit of fun with it." For all the mention of fun, the voice was so knowing and so unhappy, that she didn't bother to reply. She forced herself to agree, you should take your fun where you find it. She found herself wondering which particular version of Mulder was going to be on show tonight. Their hosts had rearranged the restaurant furniture to ensure that the whole group could sit together. Eight members of the homicide team were already seated. It was clear from the position of the two most obviously empty chairs that the FBI Agents were the guests of honor, or something. As they spotted Mulder, vague expressions of disbelief formed on their faces. A couple offered grim smiles, a couple shuddered, but most just looked vaguely resigned and increasingly despondent. Mulder walked briskly to the vacant center seat on the far side of the table. Abrahams took the seat facing him. Mulder stood up straight for long enough to nod a politely formal hello, a self- confidence in his posture and expression that belied his determinedly casual clothes. Mulder continued the performance by pulling another of his magic rabbits out of the hat and greeting everyone by name and rank. He paused on the two unfamiliar faces who had not been at the site that afternoon and quickly introduced himself. A politician, when he needed to be. Within five minutes he had managed to ask a question or raise a comment that demonstrated that he remembered the contributions to the case files made by each detective. He had also left them thoroughly disoriented. They were watching him with even more curiosity now. A theatrical trick, they knew it and so did Mulder. Playing a dangerous game. Abrahams had years of practice forcing initially resistant Bureau teams and police departments to accept her as a competent professional, as an authority in her field. She was a good team player, not "one of the boys", but not an outsider. Mulder wasn't even trying to feign an interest in joining the team. His style simply reinforcing his self assigned role of investigative freak. From where she was sitting it was clear that he was not even trying to build a working partnership, merely making them aware of his presence in the hopes that they wouldn't automatically ignore his comments. For an instant, she sympathized. A freak and he knew it, he wouldn't be allowed to join their team. So he wasn't even trying. But she tried, always. And on this case, it was looking like she would be forced to try for the both of them. The task force members asked him for first impressions. He looked at Abrahams briefly, signaling a warning with a single, barely noticeable, flash of his eyes. Mulder only offered the others a casual wave of the hand as he replied. "I've not discussed the case with Agent Abrahams, so I'm not ready to comment, yet." He paused for just long enough to let the mumbles of the detectives rise, before cutting back in, some sense of the dramatic steering his timing. "Except, if it was my kid missing, I'd pay the ransom. And I have no idea how he placed the dead woman on that site." The remarks raised temperatures, pulse rates and blood pressures around the table. Mulder studied the menu, seemingly oblivious to the reaction. Apparently unaware that he had committed two cardinal sins. His first statement was quickly identified, as the kind of defeatist remark which custom and practice said must never be offered as a tossaway comment. His second ran counter to everything Patterson taught as good public relations. Profilers, Abrahams mused, never had 'no idea', they never 'don't understand'. They merely see anomalies that could be crucial to identifying the perpetrator's signature and therefore vital to their eventual capture. "Yeah, your crime scene crystal ball not programmed for Illinois then?" It was a voice Abrahams initially had to strain to identify, laden as it was with both sarcasm and anger. Detective Kerridge. No further. Abrahams decided it had gone far enough. She stepped in before Mulder decided to dig a deeper hole. "I suspect Agent Mulder is disturbed by the lack of mud and grass stains on the front of the woman's body, she couldn't have been rolled to that position. The implication is that she was carried to that location, then placed on the ground." The detectives quickly clarified the problem for themselves. The woman was 5 feet 8 tall and weighed 130 pound. She died of blood loss from knife wounds, yet there was no blood on site, so it had been assumed that she must already have been dead before being dumped here. The slippery slope, the soft ground. Yet there was an absence of any of the deep indentations or missteps needed to indicate that a big man was carrying a heavy load, more than fifty yards down a steep and muddy hillside. The first body had been dumped in a similarly tough location, but too many footprints had damaged the site before the analysis had been completed. Everyone had been careful this time. Which was why there had still been something to see when Mulder arrived. Sensing a lull in the conversation, Mulder raised his eyes from the menu and looked around the room. The waitress almost ran to the table. It was obvious to Abrahams that the young woman had been waiting for him to look up, just watching them, or maybe just watching Mulder. There were times when Jeanette was dismayed by own sex, though actually this time she couldn't really blame the girl. They were, after all, a pretty curious looking bunch. Three dark suits, two dark blazers over gray pants, three tweed jackets over brown or black. Abrahams herself, who reckoned she probably looked like the Principal of an extremely strict girls school. And Mulder who, at that instant, looked like the Fonz's angsty kid brother. The waitress, Sandie according to her lapel badge, took Abrahams' order first, then worked her way around the table, pausing between each order to flutter long eye lashes, or flash perfect teeth at Mulder. When she finally reached him, the phrase "see anything else you'd like" slipped briefly through Jeanette's head. Sandie didn't say it, but she did offer a "nice choice" and lick her lips very slightly as she turned to the next member of the party. Abrahams idly considered quietly pulling the young blonde to one side for a little girl talk. Wondering if she ought to explain about him, tell her that he was available for rent, but it was strictly by the hour. Jeanette guessed Sandie would probably book two or three, just to check him out. It struck her that actually it would be interesting to ask the girl exactly who she thought the oddity at the table might be. The son of one of the suits? A criminal that they were half way through arresting? She studied Mulder. What crime? Looked at the way the soft leather draped to emphasis the line of his shoulders. The neat but softly ruffled cut of his hair. The way his eyes danced with curiosity as he watched colleagues, other customers, blond waitresses. A hustler? The discussion flitted around the case and Mulder remained silent. Even direct questions to him provoked only one word replies. He had thrown the cat among the pigeons when he arrived and since then had been content, simply to watch the fallout. They, however, remained determined to find out more about him. Madeley, the leader of the investigating team turned towards Mulder again. "You've been in New York?" "Yesterday and this morning." "The cannibal case?" "It was a misnomer." A pause to allow people time to take fresh bites from their steaks. "He was very selective about which body parts he ate. Only things that he could remove while the victim was alive. He wasn't interested in dead flesh." "You got him?" "They already had a good shortlist. We picked one." Mulder stiffened, suddenly looking around as if startled by a movement in the room, fidgeting slightly. "He got killed during the arrest." "You got the evidence though?" Mulder stilled his fidgeting by taking a sip of water, all calm now. "He had a victim there, still alive. When we arrived, he had just finished the eyeballs." "Jesus." A mix of reactions from the others around the table, sitting up a little straighter in their seats or slouching down a little further. A quick shrug of the shoulders, Mulder flicked back his hair. "So if anyone orders lychees, I won't be held responsible for my actions." Groans of embarrassed amusement. Mulder kept his eyes averted, looked down at his hands, noted his fingers were shivering slightly, quickly moved them from the table so they couldn't be seen. Too late, Jeanette had already spotted them. The waitress returned, looking carefully at Mulder as she asked if they would like anything more. Her shift was ending shortly, she explained that someone else would soon be taking over her duties. Abrahams reassessed her calculation, maybe Sandie would book him for the full night. She looked around the room and noticed the distinct absence of serious competition, even the man at the neighboring table wearing the expensive suit was accompanied by a woman of matching dress sense. She looked back at Mulder, looking dark and mysterious and full of mischief even as he enlisted extra sugar lumps to demonstrate a particularly good basketball play. Mulder drank his coffee and said goodnight. His quick disappearance provoking some good humored raised eyebrows and smirks from the team. And a couple of scowls of disgust, whether of jealousy or because they had daughters of the same age as the girl, Abrahams wasn't quite sure. Respecting the presence of a female at the table, they avoided slipping too far into the graphic in their messages of good luck. The evening's entertainment duly disposed of, they sat and discussed their schedules for the following day. They took the opportunity to question Abrahams cagily on her FBI colleague. She explained the value of a second opinion and identified why Patterson had sent Mulder. Despite his short length of service, he could offer a different way of looking at a problem. They didn't seem surprised by that description. Abrahams checked her watch a couple of times to make sure that she didn't leave the table too early. She was heartened by the warmly polite goodnights from the detectives as she left. She took the elevator ride as the opportunity to comb her hair. Bracing herself against the doorframe, she knocked a quick rattle of greeting on Mulder's bedroom door. He looked through the spy hole, quickly undid the lock and stepped back to let her in. Jeanette shook her head as she studied his naked body. "Lucky I didn't bring back any of the detectives." "Lucky I didn't bring back that waitress." "Are you ok?" It was a coded, loaded question, understood and familiar, a symptom of a shared history. "Yes." His voice was soft and tense. "And you?" "Yes." He relaxed into a smile at her reply. Without a pause for discussion or indecision he led her to the bed, pressing her gently back, making her sit down on its edge. Her hands moved to loosen the buttons of her jacket but his hands rose quickly to meet hers, stilling her movements, preventing her from making any further attempt to undress. She felt a shiver flutter along her spine, recognized a sudden flicker of guilty passion adding piquancy to her already growing excitement. She was suddenly, shockingly turned on, at least partly by the odd thrill of being fully and formally dressed as her man stood naked before her. He dropped to his knees, resting on the ground between her feet. He leaned down, bending to the floor and kissing her ankle. She felt the wet heat of his lips as they walked slowly upwards, brushing lightly over the achilles tendon, along her calf, steadily higher. He paused to let his tongue play a while when he reached her knee, provoking a giggle of laughter from her, then onwards and upwards again. Soft and hot and she was melting from his touch. She reached for him, played her long fingers through his short dark hair. He sighed into her touch. She closed her eyes and felt her breathing go ragged. Only minutes earlier her body had been all hard edges. Now, she was liquid. She dropped, letting her shoulders and back fall and sink onto the bed, while her legs dangled over its edge. The world blurred, his touch driving conscious thought from her brain. He was ruthlessly efficient. She was happy to admit, that she was embarrassingly willing. Reaching for it, she stretched, body demanding, brain releasing her from its grip. She knew how to fly, she let herself go. Time had become a thing outside her, certainly she was unsure how long it took for her body to allow her to reopen her eyes after she lost her mind and her control and learned to fly. When she did look round again, Mulder was lying beside her on the bed, just staring at her. Dispassionately, she considered her position; her feet still planted squarely on the floor; shoes, panties and hose pooled on the ground between them. Otherwise, she noted with amusement, she was still fully dressed. A little creased, but basically looking as prim and proper as that School Principal, except for the deep red blush that her cheeks were wearing. He chuckled as she tried to clear the confusion from her head. "Women are sooooo lucky. If a man succumbs that quickly, he has to write a letter confessing his problem to Doctor Ruth." She couldn't help but laugh as his fingers wandered to the buttons of her blouse. She helped him undress her. They slid happily between the sheets. Content that they could both go slow, make love with the patience of people who knew one another well. Sleep was easy, it came for them, took them to a safe place. =============== The bed was already empty when Abrahams woke up. Three thirty and no Mulder. She quickly checked the room and tried not to panic. She found her clothes and realized as she dressed that her room key was missing from her pocket. She could breathe again. And she would, right after she strangled him. She was trying not to look angry as she knocked on the door of her own bedroom. She kept her face relaxed as she walked in. Inevitably, the TV was on and so was her PC. It was obvious that he was in full flow. She looked at him, he looked dreadful. "Did you get any sleep?" "Some." His voice rattled back almost sullen and certainly to Jeanette's ears, vaguely petulant. "Do you want a pill?" Mulder looked back at her, blinking once, as if startled by the offer, a look she read as suggesting that he was profoundly offended by the concept. As if he were insulted that she might think Fox Mulder might need to do anything so primitive as sleep. As if a pill might know better how and when to stop him than his brain did. She tried again, a different tack. "What are you doing?" He ignored the question, decided that it had to be rhetorical. Breathing in carefully, he gave a reply of sorts, his voice softening to something apologetic and unhappy. "I'm sorry." That probably meant something. Jeanette Abrahams, trained in psychology, an expert profiler, considered it for a few seconds and remained totally bewildered by his response. She decided to blame the time of day for her lack of telepathy. She was however a trained investigator. "What are you sorry about?" "Today." Well that narrowed it down. Not by much. Ok, she'd play. Let's guess. Wearing jeans? Flirting with the waitress? Getting out of bed? "Something about the case?" His reply was a speech, said fast with no pauses for breath. "I couldn't help it I should have talked to you at the site I shouldn't have messed with them at the meal I know you will have to work with them after I leave it won't happen again." What the fuck? Ok, fair enough, an apology was in order, but it was unexpected. She hesitated, tried to work out why he was so off balance. Try again. "So why did you do it?" She made a sudden mental leap. "What happened in New York?" He stared at the wall behind her head. Eyes wide open. She couldn't stop herself from wondering what he saw when he closed his eyes. It didn't do to ask. After all, he might tell her, or he might ask her what she could see when she closed hers. Either way, it was best not to ask. His voice fluttered, stumbled, as he spoke. "They ignored me. I read their list of possibles. It was obvious who they needed to go for. But they wouldn't." She frowned. For fuck's sake, he was only there for a few hours. What did he expect? Faith that moves mountains? "They went in. They found the killer. You got his latest victim out alive." "He was eating her, Jen. He'd eaten her eyes." "She'd have died." "She needn't have been blind." It was a pointless argument. She tried something different. "How did you make them go in?" Accentuate the positive, study the technique that worked, make a horror story into an opportunity to learn. Patterson, she thought wryly, would be so proud. He threw his head back then eased it forward and down again, staring unfocused at the ancient Star Trek episode on the TV screen. She watched him as he took deep breaths. "I couldn't take it. Broke down in the middle of their fucking office, begging them. They were so embarrassed, they sent a couple of men with me to the suspect's house, just to calm me down." It was starting to fall into place for her now. That was why they had sat through the silent psychic act at the site and the expressionless college boy smart-ass over the dinner table. Shit. She could see why that was not a technique he would want to reuse. For the first time, it occurred to her that Patterson might have sent Mulder, not to support her on this case, but simply to stay with her. Bastard. Gentle pressure, her hands on his shoulder, she made him lie down, side on to the TV set, keeping his eyes filled with its benign images. She already knew that he was unlikely to sleep, he might not even dare close his eyes, but she could force him to rest. She lay against his back, wrapped herself around his body to keep out the chill. ---------- Some of the police team had looked merely dubious last night when Jeanette Abrahams had told them of her plans for today, others had looked horrified. She had explained that she would go with Mulder to visit the two women who had been returned and the families of the two dead victims. The thought of a public appearance by Special Agent Fox Mulder had made them more than a little edgy. All eyes were on the two agents as they arrived at the station. They needn't have worried. Not playing the game with the other people on the investigating team was one thing, but Mulder was a different animal when faced with a victim. Even his appearance had changed, Bureau recruitment poster material. The suit, tie and shirt were sober to the point of somber. His normally slightly ruffled hair was neatly combed. He moved with a dignified ease, looking older than his twenty-seven years, looking like someone who had already seen too much. In an automatic politeness, Mulder held the door for Abrahams as they walked into the office, attracting more than one or two raised eyebrows from the watching police officers. Mentally, she shook her head at their interpretation, knowing that he would do the same if he had a male colleague at his side. In his mood of nervous concentration, his default behaviors were taking over. She could find fault with a lot of things about the Mulder family but their son had undoubtedly picked up these residual good manners from somewhere. He followed her into the main bullpen of an office, stood slightly behind her and to one side, emphasizing through body language that she was the lead FBI Agent on the case. He paid attention, listened, spoke only when spoken to. She swapped notes with the police team and agreed the schedule. Everyone equally determined that the families would not be asked to meet a dribble of police and Agents in some uncoordinated way. Two of the senior detectives would travel with the Agents, but only one or two of the quartet would be involved in any particular interview. Car seating arrangements are frequently used to identify pecking orders. Normally, Abrahams ignored such niceties whoever they traveled with and threw the car keys to Mulder, keeping him busy and distracting him from boredom and brooding. Unfortunately, today, common sense dictated that one of the locals should drive, so Kerridge took the driving seat. Second choice, she could sit in the back seat with Mulder and if necessary talk to him without being overheard. Third choice, he could sit in front of her so that she could keep an eye on him as they traveled. Etiquette, professional and social, interfered. Abrahams found herself inescapably steered towards the front passenger seat, Mulder sat behind her. Grahams sat by his side. A quickly agreed consensus had decided that they would start easy and work their way up. They visited the first of the survivors, the girl who'd been safely returned more than a month before. After a few minutes of introduction, Mulder signaled to Abrahams that he'd like to talk to the victim. No surprise there. Kerridge joined him as planned. Grahams followed Abrahams into the dining room for yet another discussion with the parents about the days leading up to their daughter's disappearance. Amanda Fullerton's startled blue eyes glanced out through unruly blonde curls. She looked at Mulder and Kerridge once and then looked edgily away. Her eyes flitted point to point around the room, weighing up all the doors and exits, considering threats and possible weapons. Tight jeans ending over the pale flesh of her bare calves. Looking much younger than her eighteen years. The confident young woman in the file photographs had vanished, replaced by this still scared girl. "I didn't see him. I don't know what help I can be." Hands resting on his knees, Mulder leaned quietly forward, capturing her nervous gaze in reassuringly calm eyes, like falling into the safety net. "I know you didn't see him. But he saw you. That's what I'd like to talk to you about." Soft, nervous, half smile of a reply. She would do what she could. A white box of a room had been her home for almost a week, without revealing more than its boxiness. Meals had arrived through a hatch in the door delivered without words, without sight of her jailer. Food had been run of the mill microwave ready meals served still in their plastic trays and eaten with plastic forks and spoons. The night of her abduction was a blank. The night of her return had been a haze of drugs and confusion. After forty minutes, Abrahams and Grahams were wandering the grounds of the house, with no new information from their meeting. The only thought that it had triggered in Abrahams took her back to day one of her involvement on the case and the idea that had struck her when she first read the reports. If she didn't know better, she'd have said that the victim not only knew her kidnapper but that she went willingly to him. If it had been a single incident, she might even have said that it was not a kidnap at all. With two dead bodies on the same case, such an idea had become ludicrous. She wondered if Mulder had found any new insight. Disapproval combined with genuine bewilderment as Grahams quizzed Abrahams on just why she had allowed Mulder to conduct the interview with the victim. If anyone was going to suddenly come up with something after a month, if anyone had temporarily forgotten key data immediately following trauma. If there was a possibility of some new recollection, then it was with the girl. Abrahams smiled at the idea. Why she had allowed Mulder? She had long since recognized that people were too easily misled by the superficial. Even people who should know better. She was amused by it, Grahams had actually been taken in by Mulder's quiet show of deference. The careful hanging back in discussion at the office and the respectful body language had led them to assume that Mulder was indeed her subordinate. They probably even thought Mulder had received a lecture from her before work that morning, been given some pep talk to warn him against repeating the theatrical performance of the previous day. The warm and hopeful look in Grahams' eyes made it clear that he at least didn't think there was anything other than a strictly professional relationship between the Agents. Mulder's carefully timed departure from the dining table last night had thrown them off the scent. People see what they expect to see, what they want to see. Grahams emphasized his argument with a little flattery. "I mean, Agent Abrahams, look is it ok if I call you Jeanette. I've watched you in interviews. You're so patient with them, they feel so easy with you. Everyone feels easy with you. I don't think the same's true for Mulder. He doesn't have the experience. You said it yourself, he works out of an office in Quantico." "I've interviewed her before. A different voice may trigger a different reaction." She didn't bother to explain that Mulder could see straight through what he was expected to see. Nor the inevitable corollary, he seldom saw what he wanted to see. It took a while before their missing colleagues emerged from their discussions with Amanda. When they did appear, Kerridge was looking irritable, Mulder was looking tense. Jeanette Abrahams studied him more carefully. His face was offering nothing, yet his eyes were dark and alert, processing. She addressed her question to the ether somewhere between the two men, confident that Mulder would not reply, but offering him the opportunity. "Anything?" Kerridge growled his answer as they strapped themselves back into the car. "Sure. She takes tennis classes. Her favorite vacation destination is Greece, favorite Greek island is Skiathos. She likes tequila. Her cat's called Battie. She likes to keep her hair short, the highlight dye color is called blonde bombette. She only buys red cars. Anything else you wanna know?" Abrahams looked over the seat back towards Mulder, to his credit he chose to come out of his self-induced trance for long enough to offer her a fast smile. It lasted for an instant, then he blanked again, diving back under to wherever he went when he worked. The next house call was almost a repeat of the first. They were at their most cautious as they moved on to deal with the families of the dead. Catherine Dalton had been dead for three weeks. No magical revelations had struck anyone in the family, only the bitter realization that the nightmare was real and that Catherine would never be coming back. They had saved the worst for last. Yesterday's dead woman, Karen Devlin. Her mother was sedated and unable to talk to them. Her father was almost limp with fury and grief, angry with the police and the Bureau for not finding her, with himself for not paying the ransom exactly in time, noon last Saturday. Mulder's voice was gentle yet strangely matter of fact when he asked for permission to look around Karen's bedroom. The rest of the request was implied, left unspoken. This man, a stranger wanted to dig into Karen's personal things, maybe read her diary, pull files from her computer, grub through her drawers. Perform some kind of dissection of the remnants of her life. As aggressive and as invasive as cutting her open on the autopsy table and without even the clinical detachment. Her father didn't need the details spelt out. He looked stunned, horrified. They had searched Karen's room before, of course, which made it all the worse. Back then, it was a part of the investigation that might have brought her home. Now, to the Devlins, it would surely be the violation of a shrine. Even Jeanette Abrahams felt vaguely nauseated at the request, though she knew it had to be done. A brief moment of doubt, an exchange of eye contact between Mulder and Devlin, then permission was granted. There was so little that could be done to ease the pain. So Jeanette Abrahams did the best that she could. Soft spoken, she told Karen Devlin's father that he mustn't blame himself. There was no way he could have known how things would turn out when he missed that first deadline given by the kidnapper. No way to know that when the kidnapper had spotted a couple of police watching the pick up point it would sign Karen's death warrant. No way even to know if paying the money exactly as ordered would have prevented her death. It didn't take her long to convince him. Abruptly, he moved from blaming himself to blaming her, the Bureau and the police. She felt more comfortable with that. Kerridge and Grahams wandered the grounds of the house, steering clear of both Agents and the family. Abrahams couldn't actually fault them on their decision. There were no new witnesses and no new facts to be found here. The fewer people intruding, the better. The talking between Devlin and Abrahams had slowed. Both were reduced to quietly sipping at cups of too bitter coffee. They were waiting for Mulder to finish his search. She tried not to make it too obvious when she looked at her watch. The noise that startled them back to attention was confused and angry. The shouts of a small boy. Abrahams thought back to the previous meeting with the family, Michael Devlin, ten years old. The realization that Michael must have stumbled on Mulder working in Karen's bedroom hit Abrahams and Devlin simultaneously. They ran upstairs to meet the sound. By the time Jeanette reach Karen Devlin's bedroom, Michael's confusion had turned to a need for action and he was running hard and angry at Mulder. Ten-year-old tearful fury versus trained Federal Agent. It was really no contest. Abrahams stood in the doorway, shocked that Mulder actually let Michael's fists collide with him before reaching for the kid's shoulders. The boy screamed it out, kicking angrily, mostly against fresh air. Mulder deflected the worst of the force of the on target blows and watched carefully, moving as little as possible, until finally with a last howl of frustration the boy's anger deflated like a burst balloon. Michael's father had arrived at the bedroom door soon after the one sided battle began. Stunned by the horror of the day and the fury coming from his normally placid son, Devlin just stood, frozen in shock. The sudden calm as Michael stopped fighting threw the room into silence, only the boy's heavy breathing breaking the peace. Devlin cleared his throat and started to move forward, uncertain of the role he should be playing, but sure that he should be doing something. Mulder shook his head and Devlin stopped his approach. Mulder's voice was quiet and calm, yet distinct against the stillness of the room. "I'd like to talk to Michael, if I may." Devlin backed away a step or two. "Michael..." His voice trailed off. Jeanette Abrahams took over. "Michael. Would it be ok for Agent Mulder to talk to you?" Michael offered a single, slow but definite nod of the head. His father withdrew nervously, aware that he was not yet ready to deal with his son, uncomfortably grateful that Mulder apparently was. Abrahams looked at Mulder for guidance, but he silently waved her away. Swallowing hard, she backed off, decided to give both Mulder and Michael the privacy they were asking for. She led Michael's father back downstairs. Kerridge and Grahams had run into the house on hearing the noise. It took a fair dose of Abrahams' influencing skills to persuade them back outside. They mumbled angrily as she tried to explain what she had seen of what had taken place. Interviewing minors without the presence of a parent. The risk of the parents filing an assault charge if Mulder actually had to defend himself against an hysterical kid. The unlikelihood of any good coming of the interview. Mulder wasting everyone's time, upsetting a family in mourning, adding to the distress. She was too professional to tell them to shut the fuck up, but made sure they saw it, written in her eyes. She let her brain freewheel while they waited for Mulder. It fed her pictures of Karen Devlin, her slashed throat, the absence of blood at the crime scene, the lack of blood in her body. The killer had drained her then left her on that muddy slope. Same MO as the first victim. The ransom payment was only hours late, the punishment had been absolute. Why? The victims who had been returned had been handled gently, there had been no assault, the transaction had been thoroughly professional, absolutely controlled. The dead had died without mercy, yet also without obvious additional torture or molestation. All signs were pointing towards a ruthless professional, killing strictly for business. So why the bloodletting MO? Why not a bullet to the head and no pantomime over the dump site. What was in this charade for the killer? It seemed like an eternity before Mulder arrived in the porch. He hesitated there for a moment recovering his poise, gradually straightening his slumped shoulders, raising his bowed head. Some impulse forced Abrahams to look up at the window of Karen's room. She saw Michael standing there, a silhouette amongst the shadows and drapes. Mulder slipped dark glasses back in place before he left the cozy blackness of the doorstep and walked back to the car, finally turning and giving Michael a long look and slow nod of the head in farewell. Almost eight hours spent talking to two survivors and two grieving families and Abrahams was at the end of her rope. She needed to talk to Mulder and she would, if necessary, force Mulder to talk to her. Kerridge and Grahams were in her way and she had concluded that the car sharing was a serious tactical error. If they had taken two cars, then at least she would have had some time alone with Mulder as they traveled between sites. Mulder loaded himself carefully into the car, as if every movement felt complicated and fraught with danger. He kept his eyes down, his face carefully averted from Grahams and Kerridge. Utterly washed out. Abrahams decided that was hardly surprising after the last couple of days. Lack of sleep, the upset in New York, the meetings with the victims' families. He would probably end up with a black eye from that one sided scrap with Michael Devlin, she paused over how they were going to explain that. Mulder noticed her attempt at inspection and slumped as small as he could against the window. The dark glasses stayed in place. She could only sense that he had closed his eyes against them all. Returning to the hotel seemed grossly unprofessional to Abrahams, but she made the demand. She told Kerridge and Grahams that she would make her own way down to the station in a couple of hours. She talked vaguely about research and the need for her to review the behavioral information with Mulder. The detectives threw meaningful glances at one another. Grahams gave her a quick sympathetic smile, a shrug of the shoulder and a raised eyebrow in Mulder's direction confirming that he viewed her Bureau colleague as the source of all her problems. The drive back took a lot longer than any of them felt comfortable with. Kerridge and Graham looked relieved to be dropping the Agents off at the hotel. ======== Mulder's bedroom was chosen as the venue for their discussion. Mulder offered her a drink. She rejected it as a timewasting activity, which was, she decided an instant later a foolish blunder, cutting off her nose to spite her face. Whether she cooperated or not, Mulder would take all the time he needed. He kept his back to her as he poured the glass of water, which he downed in one. He took the can of coke and went to sit at the desk. His movements were slow but purposeful; he removed his sunglasses and studied her through red rimmed eyes. She watched as the pupils slowly shut down, as if even they were too exhausted to adjust immediately. She marveled at the sharp color change as his eyes faded from almost black to a soft green gold. She needed to say something before the silence choked them. "How is Michael Devlin?" Mulder's expression didn't change, as if he'd seem it coming and had known that she wouldn't dodge. Soft controlled voice. "He wants his sister back. If he can't have her, he'd like his parents back. If he can't have them, he'll make do with himself." She was listening more to his tone than his words. His reply was painful but resigned, it was the resignation that hurt her. She tried to find out how badly he was hurting. "And what about you?" "I'm still confused. I found no direct links between the women, apart from the obvious ones that they are from wealthy families. So, I'm forced to assume that they were chosen and stalked by a stranger. Yet, everything says they went willingly with their kidnapper, that they knew him and that no coercion was required." "That wasn't my question." His eyes flashed a hands off warning, his jaw tightening slightly, she was being ordered to leave him alone. The new briskness of his voice echoed the order. "Without the deaths, I'd be questioning whether the victims had been compliant in a scheme to obtain money from their parents. With the deaths, that's unimaginable. Both survivors would do anything to help us get the killer." Abrahams was forced to nod her head in agreement. He wanted to talk about the case. Ok. Good. There was a lot to talk about. The other discussion could wait. She tried to tell herself that her patience would be rewarded later. That Mulder, of his own volition, might choose to tell her how hard it had been to watch Michael Devlin scream and cry out over losing a sister. Meanwhile, she would try and tackle him for theories on why such a professional kidnapper would choose such a theatrical way of killing and of posing the bodies. Instead of answering that one, he twisted it back to the act of killing itself and in particular to the sites where the two women had been found. The lack of blood had originally been taken to mean that the women were killed elsewhere and carried. Mulder had countered with the suggestion that the women were alive and that they walked without a struggle to those locations. They were killed by draining their blood in some clean, neat way and that only once dead were their throats cut. Wild story or not, it was consistent with the evidence. This was what Mulder had asked the ME to consider yesterday. She rechecked her watch; the autopsy report should have arrived at the station by now. She promised to fax the report across to him, as soon as got to the police HQ. Mulder announced his intention to stay at the hotel and work. She was relieved about that, he was fitting in with her plan. She knew that their reasons were different. She wanted him to get some rest, which he wouldn't. She wanted to shield him from the locals, a selfish idea that she recognized was more for her peace of mind than his. He wanted to think. She left him to it, stroking his hair for good luck as he kissed her knuckles goodbye. ------- Was that hangdog expression, that they were all giving her, pity? Grahams and Kerridge had clearly filled the rest of the team in on their working day. She could almost hear the words "sit down you poor dear" as she looked into their eyes. Grahams smiled as he handed her a coffee. "Spooky staying home then?" Spooky? Someone had been checking up on him. She winced slightly at that, so stuck were they on the surface phenomena they were ready to assume that she'd rather be with them than with Mulder. "Agent Mulder is working on the profile. I need to send him the autopsy on Karen Devlin, do you have a copy we can fax?" They found the least dog-eared copy of the report and fed it to the machine. Abrahams stood over it, supervising the paper as it slipped into the rollers. She wondered just how obvious the tension in her shoulders was right then. How easy was she for them to read? She knew that she needed to keep them on her side, couldn't afford to alienate them. Their willing cooperation was essential. But she was furious at their attitude to Mulder. They had no right, she thought uncomfortably. They had no fucking idea. She evaded their scrutiny and opted to keep their questions away by smiling and asking if there was somewhere quiet that she could read the report for herself. Inevitably, they were too keen to help. A posse, led by Grahams were ready and eager to explain its conclusions to spare her the trouble of reading it. She smiled again, "please, if you could just give me a couple of minutes, it'll help me fix it in my memory." An apologetically disappointed nod of the head from Grahams as they admitted defeat and waved her to a deserted cubicle. The report was inconclusive, but it confirmed what was possible. Reading between its official lines, the ME had written that Karen Devlin could indeed have died of blood loss on site, that the slash to the throat could certainly have been made post mortem. It was also difficult to know for sure, but there was a raggedness to the wound as it crossed the jugular that could easily be masking the remains of a hole made by a wide barrel hypodermic. A device that could have been used to extract the blood. But such a slow process. How could he have drawn enough to kill her without even the marks of a struggle, without any trace of drugs? The questions only served to add extra doubts to the investigation, but Mulder's scenario remained plausible. The victim had walked to her death without a struggle. The last of her blood had been removed. When her heart stopped, her throat had been cut. Why? Abrahams explained the interpretation to the detectives, telling them it was Mulder's hypothesis and that she could see no reason to disagree. The group settled down to mull over the problem and try to link it back to what they saw with the first death. It was also sending them down a more focused track. Forget a search for a pool of blood and a murder scene. Was there anyone on file who liked to drink blood? Or bathe in it? What about cults? A national trace to find corpses drained of blood. The guy was too professional to be a first timer. How did he learn his trade? Politics, policy and procedures were complicating the task force's dealings with the parents of the latest missing girl. An outright recommendation to pay the ransom and to unquestioningly conform to any conditions would be too painful. Yet that was the only advice anyone could offer. Abrahams decided to leave the detectives to wrestle with the job of sugar coating the pill. Last week's missed deadline had been a disaster. She still found it unimaginable that the six hour delay caused by the kidnapper spotting police lookouts had cost Karen Devlin her life. Madeley, the chief of the police team was acknowledged by Abrahams to be a master of his job. She tried to look comfortable with his request that they should meet in private before she headed back to the hotel. She was exhausted, she desperately needed a break. She nodded her head and forced herself to look keen to talk. They walked to his office. He remained standing even after she sat down. She cursed that move, immediately recognizing and regretting the psychological advantage it had given him. His warm eyes made her squirm as she sensed them reading her. "Agent Abrahams. We are grateful to the Bureau for your assistance on this case. I appreciate Patterson's offer of extra help, but I suspect that Agent Mulder may be better off back in DC." She almost laughed, she could easily have howled the roof off about petty inter Agency squabbles, but she knew that was not what Madeley was concerned about. In fact, if she read him correctly, he was more bothered about the strain that Mulder was placing on her. She started to warn him off, but he briskly waved her back to silence, signaling without words that he wanted her to let him finish before responding. The room seemed to be getting smaller as Madeley prowled, Abrahams was grateful when he finally came to rest against a filing cabinet before speaking again. "I spoke to some people in New York. Seems like Mulder was pretty choked up over the capture of that psycho the other day." She cleared her throat, determined that her words should be crystal clear. "Agent Mulder was choked up before they made their move to get the killer, not afterwards." Madeley hesitated. Abrahams suspected that he was surprised that she knew what he was talking about. He'd obviously prepared himself to tell her about Mulder's emotional confrontation with the NYPD. He nodded. "If you say Mulder's an advantage, I won't pursue it with Patterson. For now." Fair enough. "I think that's very reasonable, Sir." She was almost running as she left the office. Professional decorum, without any conscious decision on her part, determinedly turned her run back into a brisk march. She was almost at the door when she felt the hand on her shoulder. She turned so sharply at the contact that she almost flattened the owner of the hand. Grahams held up his palms in a gesture of surrender, then smiled down at her and suggested dinner, at the hotel or somewhere better. He knew a great Italian place or whatever. She froze for an instant and looked for the polite reply, but her brain was too tired to come up with a good one. Lying about her personal life had become so much second nature that she couldn't even remember a good half-truth. She opted to tell some of the truth, someone was waiting for her back home. She was grateful that he took the hint, he was almost apologetic as he backed away. She was relieved that this time she actually made it to the door. ------ Inevitably, Mulder was in her bedroom rather than the one that was nominally his. Inevitably, because Jeanette Abrahams was the one with a computer set up. Mulder didn't spend enough time on the road to have got into the habit of lugging one about, just assumed he could gatecrash someone else's, like now. It didn't look like her room, Mulder had been redecorating. Before and after. Happy smiling young women on one wall. Corpses on another. His eyes were racing through a fresh stack of information. They called down for food and argued about the case. She told him the plans of the police teams, he told her what extra information he thought they would need. The latest profile had emerged from the headlines of the case. A man. The women, all attractive and wealthy, all single, all between 18 and 25, went willingly to him. The whole methodology behind his ransom demand and ransom collection mechanism implied both cool planning and high intelligence. A professional, not inclined to take risks. Mulder's description of the killer made her shiver. Good looking, polite, charismatic, high IQ, over 25 but not so much older that it acted as a turn off to the young women, obsessive attention to detail, self confident, self contained. He could be writing about himself, except for one item, utterly ruthless killer. She could see Mulder processing it, making some bit of himself into the man he described. She felt the pull of his determination. She knew where he was going. She was confident that he had not got there yet. It was getting late, time to stop for the day. There was the just the faintest tremor in the steel of her voice. "Are you ok?" He looked up at her, clear, bright eyes locked with hers. The bruise from Michael Devlin's fist didn't look as if it was going to turn out too bad. He nodded. "Surprisingly, yes. How are you?" The coded, loaded question hung in the air for a while. She was so tempted to lie. So tempted to hide herself in him, at least for a little while. But it would be unfair, she would be misusing him, abusing him. It was understood that they didn't lie about this, it was too important. She told him their coded, shorthand version of the truth. "I'm tired." He smiled up at her, quiet and understanding. He looked around the bedroom, at its walls. "I've messed things up in here. Move rooms?" She nodded her agreement. They headed out, turning off the lights on the images of death and locking the doors on their work. Safe from the PC and the photos on the walls, they undressed and slithered comfortably into bed. Mulder rolled her towards him, pulling her in close. One arm resting on her hip, his hand gently stroking her back, his other hand nestled in her hair. His nose rubbed lightly against hers. They kissed, a slow soft movement of lips on lips, tongue on tongue. He moved back slightly, nestled his forehead against hers for an instant, then gave her a last brief whisper of a kiss before pulling away again. Wanted to take the words back. Wanted so badly at that moment to scream out that she was ok, that she was just fine. Ready to scream that if only he would make love to her then the monsters in her head would disappear. Shout out that she had been mistaken, that in fact she had no fears that suddenly her eyes would flash on a picture of a dead woman or on the silhouette of a man with a scalpel in his hand. But it was already too late, he slipped his arms protectively around her and said a soft goodnight. His care broke her heart. ------------ She woke up at seven and prepared to make her way back to her own room to shower and change. She assumed that Mulder would already be hard at work. She wasn't disappointed. He smiled brightly as she walked in, squeezed her hands in his and gave her a brisk but affectionate good morning kiss. She ignored his playful suggestion that they save water by sharing a shower, they needed to get moving and they didn't have time for one thing to lead to another. She didn't trust herself that it wouldn't. The glint was still in his eyes as he informed her that in that case he had better go back to his own room to shower and 'dress up like a Fed'. As she dried her hair she turned her attention to the draft of the profile that was up on the PC. Vampires! That's my boy, she decided. It was wrong to laugh, she knew that she needed to read and understand. He arrived back in the room just as she got her face back under control. He was indeed dressed up like a Fed. Her eyes were more awake now and she could see the discoloration below his cheekbone. He understood her stare, shrugged. "Michael was wearing a ring. Karen's." "You're lucky he wasn't taller." The tension fell from his shoulders, clearly relieved that her first comment had been no more than a joke. He was right, she was trying very hard to keep the lid on her questions. Why did you let him hit you? What did you talk to him about? Of course, that was just the surface, just the warm up routine, the real questions would cut darker and deeper. Who talked to you when your sister was lost? Who did you lash out against? What did they do to you? But he was being let off the hook. Allowed off so lightly because she had decided that the job was too hard even without her adding to the pressure, she stayed quiet, despite the noisy clamor of questions dancing in her brain. Maybe later, maybe after the case was over. Maybe, she'd ask. Maybe, he'd say. They ate breakfast while Mulder talked about Count Dracula. Vampires had just had a bad press, he opined. Ugly gray incoherent monsters were just movie fashion items. Vampires were all about the freeing of repressed sexuality. The victim must walk willingly to its doom, the vampire must charm and seduce before it kills. It was a discussion that Mulder could only conduct with Abrahams, a lateral thinking fantasy. She could see his point. Take the most seductive Count, hybridize it with the most professional of financially motivated kidnappers and what have you got? A profile of their UNSUB. It was laughable, but only in its cartoonish imagery, the underlying storyline was not nearly so comical. Only one problem. Why didn't the two girls who had been returned remember anything of their abduction and why did they have nothing useful to say of their captivity. Why did no one who knew them recall a seductive stranger who had developed an infatuation with the women? His hand waved breezily to acknowledge that they still had no idea. "Drugs. Hypnosis. Brainwashing. We've got that problem whoever the kidnapper is." He was right of course. Perhaps if they could find some other way to question the victims who were recovered. If they could get the woman who he was currently holding returned quickly. If they could work out a battle plan to talk to her as soon as she came back. Another review of the medical examinations of the survivors perhaps. An attempt at hypnosis, maybe. Mulder's eyes flashed with ideas, bright and breezy as he talked. Abrahams was glad that he was there. Colleague and friend. It might not be the life she had planned, but it was the life she had. ---------------- The station was alive with chatter. Madeley led the briefing, enjoying at least for now the feeling that he was actually doing something useful. His next task would not be so pleasurable, soon he would need to leave to discuss the arrangements for paying the ransom. He was happy to be sharing the surrender with the Bureau's specialist negotiator. The local PD hadn't fought back over the Bureau involvement in yet another aspect of the case. After all, why jockey for jurisdiction on a losing deal. Mulder and Abrahams were just as happy to evade the issue of the ransom. They were even happier not to be joining Madeley on his trip to meet the missing woman's parents. The bulk of the task force had been assigned to the tedious chore of digging out history on unsolved deaths in the area. Looking for a case where the blood found on site plus the blood in the body had not equaled a nominal five liters. If they were lucky then the record would be found on a computer, but the odds weren't good, unless it was a very recent incident. Mostly the team were just stuck with wading through reams of paper and microfiche. Unless of course they got lucky and someone actually remembered such a case. They asked the ME teams, they put the word around the local police. They asked hospital ER units if they'd treated casualties with the symptoms of blood loss and no good explanation. Kerridge and Grahams were left to fight out the next steps with Mulder and Abrahams. Abrahams was working hard to ignore Kerridge's attempts to bait Mulder. She forced herself to acknowledge, albeit with some discomfort, that a temper driven defense of Mulder would not actually be of any help to him or her. Kerridge was starting to take offence at Mulder's indifference to the jibes, as if it had become a challenge to him to make Mulder react. Lucky you didn't go to the latest victim's house, her brother's a lot bigger than Michael Devlin.... So why do they call you Spooky, Fox.... Good that you got off early last night.... Did that little waitress show you the sights.... Mulder had no desire to react, energy and attention being needed for more important matters, too busy to get caught in a war of words, but he was getting irritated by the distraction. Abrahams noted the stiffening in his posture, the way his eyes flashed warning signs as Kerridge started to quiz him on New York. She smoothly stepped in before it got too out of hand. "Let's draw up what the two women said about where they were held." A distraction if nothing else. The only one of the group who was not surprised when Mulder took the suggestion absolutely literally was Abrahams. Mulder walked swiftly to the whiteboard and quickly sketched up two separate room plans. Even Abrahams was startled by the fact that he had drawn two sketches on the board, grimly aware that anyone else would have simply assumed the two women had described the same six by eight windowless, cell like room with white walls. The same metal door with food hatch that had allowed their captor to deliver their meals without revealing himself. The same narrow bed, small basin and chemical toilet. Anyone else would have had to check the file to remember how many blankets and towels were in the rooms. The two detectives couldn't resist shaking their heads with amusement at the pointless perfectionism. Kerridge made the first comment. "So, it's a cell. The same cell." Mulder shivered slightly, but carried on writing the key points of the descriptions on the board. Absence of distinguishing external noise and even of traffic noise. Absence of cooking smells. Absence of hot water, despite the presence of a hot tap at the basin. Kerridge pointed out that most of this had already been discussed in depth. "We've done disused cell facilities, old police stations, prisons, military." Mulder jotted down the list of places where the cell definitely wasn't located. Kerridge, Grahams and Abrahams started to debate the problem again, in particular focusing on the difficulty of constructing a cell in a home, the sheer complexity of hanging a metal door. Not many amateurs could do it. Had any professionals been called in for the job. Should they be talking to builders? Mulder sat through the debate, silent, his eyes locked on the board. Eventually, he cleared his throat and made his first remark for fifteen minutes. "Are there any empty film studios in town?" ======== It's amazing how long half an hour can be. It's amazing how much you can get done. Within half an hour the team had the address of a temporarily vacant studio. They had quizzed the owners and quickly confirmed that it contained, among other things, a realistically ruggedly constructed cellblock. Its location inside a studio building offering a plausible explanation for why the women heard no traffic noise, why the ceiling appeared to be made of painted wood. It's not that hard to understand where the piece fits once someone has assembled the rest of the jigsaw puzzle. They moved fast, quickly recalling Madeley from the missing girl's home to take responsibility for the next round. They would go in fast and go in at full strength. They activated their SWAT unit, the team had been waiting for the call. All the paraphernalia to deal with a siege was in place. Frantic activity followed. Mulder noted that he had already been forgotten in the frenzy, which was exactly as it should be. Yet, even as their excitement and optimism rose, so did Mulder's nervousness and pessimism. He tried to get enough breathing space to nag at Madeley. "What if he's not there?" Madeley couldn't offer any answer to Mulder's concerns except to agree that they were legitimate. But that didn't mean that there was anything that could be done about them. If the kidnapper was at the studio, then things could turn nasty quickly. If he wasn't there, then the sheer mass of numbers involved in the raid would warn him off from returning. The bottom line was that they really had very few options, the priority had to be to get the hostage. The kidnapper would be a bonus. The assault was organized with dutiful care and unfolded as planned. They were prepared to play the waiting game. A period of watch and listen surveillance told them nothing, except that someone was in the building, but whether that was one someone or two was still not obvious. They moved to the next step, two officers walking casually into the building dressed as decorators working for the studio's owners. An attempt to scope out the situation without necessarily provoking a full scale shoot out. The SWAT team waited out of sight. The men inside gave their colleagues a running commentary on their tour of the building, talked softly as they found the block of cells. They saw no sign of a kidnapper. The team moved cautiously forward to secure doors and exits. A message of readiness and a signal that it was time. The officers tentatively opened the fake cell doors and found the scared but uninjured woman inside. The EMT team moved in to usher her quickly away. The next step had been agreed in advance. The woman would go for a medical examination first and then Jeanette Abrahams would handle the interview. The kidnapper was nowhere to be found. Jeanette Abrahams went looking for Mulder. Even if no one else remembered his role in this, she did. She wanted to talk to him, even congratulate him on a job well done. As soon as she found him, congratulations vanished from her thoughts. It was almost as if he was in hiding, standing alone, far back from the studio and the bustle of police activity. She walked towards him, noted that his hands were flexing and unflexing hard, as if he were trying to flick the tension out through the fingertips. She noted the way that when he saw her approaching, he quickly stuffed them into the pockets of his FBI flak jacket. Abrahams surveyed the area and realized that they had only a minimal amount of privacy, it would have to do. She touched his arm and pointed to the car, breathed a grateful sigh of relief when he didn't resist, just walked obediently to its relative safety and loaded himself in. She took the passenger seat, leaned in close. "She's ok. We were in time. We're close to him now. We'll find him." "They're celebrating. They've no fucking idea." His head slammed back, hitting fast into the headrest as the tension took over, then released so suddenly that he almost hit the steering wheel on the rebound. He rested his hands on the dashboard, stretched out hard as if he were trying to force the car apart, head bowed. Sat so tense and stiff that each of his too rapid heart beats was visible as a little shudder running along his back and up his neck. Close to hyperventilating, close to vomiting. Painful shivers rippling through tired muscles. Jeanette Abrahams felt suddenly helpless. Wanted to touch him, wanted so badly to put her arms round him, to kiss him better. Nagging voice in her head telling her that such thoughts were pathetic. Reminding her that she dared not even talk to him, that all she could do would be to sit quiet, let him feel her presence without invading his space. She knew that all he wanted was to be left alone, she could feel the wave of discomfort rippling from him that told her he'd prefer to be in hiding somewhere. Maybe locked away in some bathroom cubicle, isolated and safe from prying eyes. Knew that he was only tolerating her presence because he needed her as a shield from the rest of the team, because there was nowhere more private for him to run to. She waited and was oddly grateful that the spasm of tension was so violent that it was quickly tiring him, she knew it would soon pass. He started to ease up, his muscles stopped trembling in time with his heart beat, relaxing now to move more smoothly in time with the still too fast rise and fall his chest. He concentrated on slowing his breathing. Slowed it down to something close to normal, but not normal at all, after all, normal doesn't require that much effort. His words when they finally arrived were softly distinct, studiously unemotional. "He'll kill tonight. Punishment for us getting her back." Jeanette Abrahams closed her eyes. Oh shit. She delayed her return to the rest of the team until she knew that any further delay would make the discomfort worse, not better. Mulder didn't follow her, just leaned back in the car seat staring blankly straight ahead, unsteady and uncomfortable, sitting quiet, listening to the steady thud of blood pulsing through his head, watching for something that no one else could see. Abrahams passed Mulder's warning on to the team. She watched their eyes as she spoke and recognized that at that moment they hated her, though apparently not nearly as much as they hated Mulder. She saw and understood the natural desire to blame the messenger. She made allowances for them. Everyone needed the occasional moment of triumph, she reflected uncomfortably, even her. She turned towards Mulder and studied him, knew that he could find no more triumph here than he had done in New York. She saw the bleakness in his eyes, heart on his sleeve, exposed and raw, helpless in the face of the inevitable. Despising herself for what she had to do, she returned and handed him the car keys. She had an interview to conduct. It was for the best. He needed time to compose himself. She didn't need to hover over him while he did. Best for the case, best for her, best for him, best for them. --------------- The absence of physical trauma, the confirmation that there had been no sexual assault, the freed woman's apparently drug free condition were all grounds for celebration. Which was indeed what most of the team planned on doing that night. The fact that, whilst shocked and scared, the woman was lucid and willing to talk should also have been grounds for optimism. Abrahams tried to feel optimistic as she went in to talk to her. At the very least they'd be able to tell whether she'd been drugged at the time of her capture. Half an hour later and all Abrahams had got was another description of the cell in which the woman had been held. They talked about people she knew, friends and strangers. But the girl had no recollection of the night she went missing. Hunting hard, Abrahams kept up the chase for good signs. Found nothing concrete. They talked about favorite places, the kind of place she might have visited that night. As the young woman started to tire, Abrahams gathered together her notes and headed back to the hotel. ---------------- Her hotel bedroom looked more like an office each day. Jeanette couldn't suppress the sigh as she walked through its door. Mulder looked up, quickly scanned the room himself and his face drifted to offer a vaguely helpless, but guilty, look of apology. She considered the scene, pondered on the fact that she used to have a bed, not just a surface for dumping paperwork on. Mulder seemed to read her mood and suggested that they actually formalize the room swap, bow to the inevitable, easier to move their clothes between rooms than to move the rest of it. That night, Patterson's call to Abrahams was laced with congratulatory words. She let the mask slip a little, let a few percentage points of her concern drift into her voice. She carefully explained what had happened and more importantly what hadn't happened. The real conclusion was that they still had no handle on the man who had killed two women and taken three others. Room service provided the pizza. The TV provided the background of white noise. Mulder was racing, moving into overdrive, trawling through the reports of exsanguinated bodies and blood lust cults. Abrahams felt oddly weakened by the day's events. By any rational test they'd had a wildly successful day. If someone had suggested last night that they could recover the latest hostage unharmed, no ransom paid, she'd have jumped at the offer. Mulder had spoiled the party. Torn between horror, fatigue and the desire to celebrate, she studied him as he pushed a hand restlessly through his hair and tried to explain his next leap of logic. "Are you ok?" He stopped abruptly and puzzled over her words, shifted guiltily, remembering, suddenly grateful for the anonymous safety of the coded messages they passed. "I'm working." Apologetic but distinct, a warning for her to keep her distance. She nodded. "Then I'll say goodnight." A brief exchange of polite advice to sleep well and she headed to her new bedroom, noted the shoes that Mulder had left behind when they'd swapped clothes between wardrobes. So lonely and cold in the bed tonight, she wondered why. Three days ago, before Mulder had arrived, sleeping alone had given her no problem. Logically, it was foolish to feel like the world was emptier just because Mulder was ten yards away behind a thin hotel dividing wall instead of a thousand miles away in another city. Ridiculous to feel worse because they'd got a kidnap victim back unharmed. She should be out celebrating with the police team, not lying here, fearing sleep. -------------- Choice. They had left him no choice. He had offered them a choice. A million dollars or a dead woman. They chose money over human life. Shameful. And they thought they were so much better than him. The terms had been explicit. By nature a hunter, a lover. But also a man. It was the man in him who needed that money. The lover in him had caught her eye. He'd heard her blood surge, pulse quickening, warm life rising to bring prickles of heat to her skin. Come to me. She'd heard him, felt him, calling out to her. She'd heard and responded. Seen the love in his eyes. Fulfillment was the reward for his touch, his loving touch. She felt him and was fulfilled, bright eyes sparkling with pleasure. So responsive. Damn them for making him do this. Damn them for turning pleasure to pain, life to death. The terms had been explicit. Yet, they had failed to understand. They would understand now. They would know that the man was not to be toyed with. An unwelcome task, angry that their greed had, once again, turned him into a killer. With the dispassion of the hunter, the last drops of life drained from her pale body. A final fast slice of the scalpel. Job done. -------- Fear was not an unfamiliar emotion. In the right circumstances it was even a useful one, reminding the body to produce the right chemicals to allow for rapid reaction. Fear of an event that had probably already occurred and that he had no power to prevent was not of any use to Fox Mulder. On the contrary, fear and adrenaline right now were clouding Mulder's mind, interfering with his thinking. Another case and he could turn it, twist it, use it to fuel his thoughts, construct the mirror he needed to understand the killer. But this killer knew no fear, Mulder was certain of that. So fear had no place in his brain. Running was good exercise. Good for heart and lungs. Good because you were alone. Good, because you could let the daydreams in or go faster and push them out. Good for remembering, good for forgetting. Good because afterwards, you could stand in the shower and for a time you felt clean, as if the sweat and the dirt and the soap stream could carry away your sins. Solemn and deliberate, ran until he knew he was too tired to supply any more adrenaline to fuel the fear. Forced himself to wash it all away in the protective warmth of the shower. Made himself get out of the shower and curl up warm under the covers of the bed. No fear, just exhaustion, something he could sleep off. Thought of life and death, of love and death, of hunting and loving and dying. The rattle of the phone pushed him quickly awake. Five fifteen. Only one thing a call at this time of the morning could mean. He swallowed the reaction. Resigned, professional tone of voice. Asleep to fully awake in two rings of the phone's bell. "Mulder." Silence from the caller. Then, an embarrassed voice. "I was expecting Agent Abrahams." Mulder almost laughed at the irony, the first night they hadn't slept together and they'd been caught. Except they hadn't. "We swapped rooms. Have you got a body?" Mulder jotted down the address and a set of directions. Abrahams responded on the second ring. Ten minutes later and they were meeting in the hotel parking lot.---------- Less show to this latest performance. The body had been found in a dingy backstreet behind an anonymously quiet bar. A possibility then, a chance that this lack of preparation could have allowed room for an error. Had he found his victim in that bar? Had someone seen her? Him? There was no pleasure in being proven right. Not for Mulder. Not like this. Breathing in hiccups, moving in robot steps, Mulder ignored the eyes of the detectives. Pitter patter of rain drizzling into his eyes, droplets finding their way through his hair, slipping ice cold fingers behind his collar. Day break was slow arriving, gray clouds masking the light. The alleyway remaining dark despite the instructions of the hands on the watch. All the evils remained hidden in the shadows. A clatter of noise, plastic covers being clumsily unloaded from the back of the police truck. Mobile floodlights fixed on towers starting with a flicker and failing with a flash. There were procedures for handling this. Rain surging harder. Difficult to imagine a killer so historically efficient, leaving clues so large and permanent that they would still be viable in this river of a street. Most of the detectives hung back in the doorway, waiting for the weather to ease, the tent to be erected, the light to improve. Grateful for the shelter and the coffee provided by the bar owner. Pools of artificial light picking up oily rainbows in the puddles. >From the shadows of the buildings, the police task force stood and watched. Amusement growing as the young Fed drifted in slow motion along the street before finally taking up position next to the body. Watched the damp shoulders of dark coat hunch up as the tall figure rested down on his heels. Shrugging once, freezing to a statue, pausing for an age, then suddenly another movement that might have been a shiver, followed by a shuddering convulsive movement that could have been a sob. Ashamed of their roles as voyeurs, some turned away, feigned a sudden interest in gossiping to a colleague. Madeley moved to the truck to find out why the floodlights were proving to be such a big deal. He paused to bite out a stream of threats and promises to the reporters and TV news crews huddling behind the thin stripe of tape that guarded the end of the street. The rest found themselves held captive, transfixed by the scene, unable to raise their eyes from the dark man cowering over the dead woman. Bitterly angry as she borrowed the umbrella, not sure who she was angry with, Jeanette Abrahams moved forward. Self assigned task as Mulder's human shield, standing behind him to mask his body from their eyes, holding the umbrella above his head to protect him from the rain. "Mulder. Wait for the covers, the lights." "Look at what he did, Jen." "I know. We've seen it before." Bit her lip in frustration at how callous her words had sounded. "No." Tight, angry voice. "Look at her." "I can see her. Let's get out of the rain." Stood up fast, banging his head into the umbrella she was holding. Flicked it angrily away from his face, knocking it from her grasp in the process. Turned to face her, grabbed her hand to force her attention towards the body on the ground. "Look at her. Really look." She tried to stop herself from flinching away. Took deep breaths. "Ok. I'm looking." "You're not." Almost shouting now. "Look at her, Jen. It's you. He killed you." Lifted a hand to her shoulder, brushing icicle fingers to her jaw, soft pressure directing and controlling her gaze. Long seconds. A sudden gasp. Then a panicky shift off balance, pulling fast away from him. Turning quickly on her heel, hard sprint to the doorway, barging past the onlookers and into the bar. Not pausing for breath until she'd locked herself in the smallest room in the place. Mulder stared up into the gray. Hard rain against cold raw skin. Droplets merging and washing away tears and immediately squeezing out more. Icicle streams sliding down his neck, damp shirt sticking to his chest. No pleasure in being right and even less in being right about this. "You fucking asshole." Grahams' sudden scream of disgust was very loud and very close to Mulder's ear. Mulder flinched back to alert and upright. Said nothing, flicked his head to try and get enough water out of his eyes to see who was talking to him. "What'd she do? Tell you to start acting like a fucking adult?" Mulder's reply was almost lost in the rain. "Is she ok?" "What do you think. I thought you college boys were supposed to be able to work with women. Not like us dumb ass cops." Mulder looked nervously around. "Where is she?" Madeley was next on the scene. "Agent Mulder. I'd like a word. Now." Mulder froze in place, confirming his passive agreement to the order, slouched, kept his head down. Grahams kept up the growl, stood up tall, hands on hips, emphasizing his presence. Madeley kept his gaze firmly on Mulder even as he spoke to Grahams. "In private." Grahams breathed in noisily, threw a final threatening sneer at Mulder before walking away. Madeley's voice was quiet, but suffused all through with unselfconscious authority. "In the dry." Mulder nodded, nervous and apologetic, but didn't move, except to shift his weight between feet. "Sir. The body. Jen. I mean. Agent Abrahams." "What?" "It's a threat, a warning, to us, to Agent Abrahams." Madeley studied the dead woman. Difficult to see anything much. Young, she might have been pretty, medium height, slim build, short dark hair. So what? All this guy's victims scored under most of those headings. "Agent Mulder." Name spoken as an order. Mulder was choking on the words. "Look at her. Please." Madeley looked again, but was seeing nothing. Mulder sensed that Madeley was about to turn away, reached out and put a hand on his arm. Immediately withdrew it when he saw Madeley's irritated, questioning expression. "Her shoes, Sir. They don't match her hair." Even Mulder realized how stupid that sounded as he saw Madeley's confusion grow. Mulder tried again. "Two hundred dollar shoes, bad hair cut." "It's pouring. Nobody's hair looks good." "It's uneven, a bad cut, Sir. "Madeley studied the body, slow and deliberate. Maybe. Once they'd got her dried off. He'd look again. When they got back to the doorway, the crowd of detectives parted easily to allow Madeley admission to the bar, almost turned into a solid object as Mulder tried to follow him. A glare from Madeley reopened the route. Mulder followed, head down, wishing that the door had remained barred, desperate to be somewhere else. Moved one careful foot in front of the other, kept his hands determinedly deep in his pockets. "Agent Mulder." Madeley's words were part reminder, part instruction. Madeley sat down at a conveniently located table. Mulder nodded blankly as he sat down, switched off his responses in anticipation of Madeley's next words. Madeley shook his head sadly. "Get dried off, then tell me what that was all about." Mulder, who'd imagined himself to be ready for whatever the chief of detectives threw at him, wasn't ready for the softness in Madeley's voice, felt his own breath catch. Madeley tried again. "At least ditch the coat." The bar owner was starting to regret living over the bar and his public spirited gesture of letting them come inside. Trails of water marked each new arrival's path. Bad enough when it was paying customers messing up his floors. He sighed, past the point of no return, offered the chief of detectives and his drowned rat some coffee. How did the kid get that wet? He grinned to himself, realizing that he'd answered his own question, kids always got the crap jobs, why would the police be any different. His grin faded when the drowned rat stood up again, shrugged off his coat and proceeded to shake a glistening shower of water from his hair. Reminded him of a spaniel pup he'd once owned. He turned at a noise behind him and saw the woman emerge from the little girl's room. He'd seen her green skin when she ran in, heard her choking coughs as she slammed the door. He'd have to go in there in a minute and check it out, in case it needed some sort of hose down. Homicide squad. No job for a woman. Case proven. The bar owner handed her a coffee and told her he'd be back with a glass of water as a chaser. The drowned rat almost ran him over as he bounded down the steps to the woman. Mulder stopped inches away from her. "Are you ok?" She stared back, cold and controlled, quiet reply. "Three guesses." Madeley had followed Mulder and now stood almost shoulder to shoulder with him. All she needed. She wasn't short, but in this position she found it hard to shrug off the suddenly intimidating sensation of having the two men looking nervously down at her. She quickly decided to shift the balance by sitting down at the nearest table. "Are you ok?" The words were different coming from Madeley, something more like an order, demanding an answer. "Agent Mulder believes that the killer may have chosen that woman due to a likeness to me." "And what do you think, Agent Abrahams?" She hesitated, looked carefully at Mulder's anxious expression. "I need more evidence." A nod of agreement from Madeley. "Unless there's something more specific you need here. Maybe we should leave this to the forensics crew. We'll need better surroundings to get a good look at the body." Quick murmurs of agreement from both Agents. Madeley took advantage of their sudden compliance. "I suggest you two get some dry clothes and then meet me up at the ME's office." They did as they were told. ============= The knock on the door of her hotel bedroom came as no surprise to Jeanette Abrahams. If nothing else, Mulder needed to come in to get a change of shoes. She looked him over, obviously he'd showered and changed. Equally obviously he should have stayed longer in the hot shower, he still looked cold, telltale gooseflesh over slight shivers. Pale skin and paler voice. "I'm sorry." A good start. Abrahams would investigate what he was apologizing about this time, best to start with a shared understanding. "About?" "Embarrassing you. I got scared." She nodded her reply. "So did I." Stood still with her arms outstretched. Mulder fell into her warmth. Safe cocoon. ---------------- "He cut her damned hair, hauled it behind her head, snipped across it with a sharp knife, or another scalpel maybe. Obvious." It was obvious, with the young woman's hair dry and brushed back from her dead face, neatly parted. The strange arc of the cut made perfect sense. The ME, perfectionist to a fault, had asked an assistant, who'd worked part time in a salon during her college years to do justice to the tresses. Made sure that there could be no doubt. He demonstrated the cutting angle with a wig on a dummy. Most likely the woman was lying down as he cut, most probably dead or at any rate already unconscious. "Ok. This is new. Right. Trophy hunting." Kerridge was a born optimist, a paradox in a man who saw the worst in human nature every day. If there was a trophy then they could find it. Somewhere. Jeanette Abrahams spoke before Mulder got the chance. "No. It's nothing to him. It'll be in a dumpster somewhere. Maybe even in that street, though I doubt it." "Then it's like he said." Kerridge pointed dismissively at Mulder. "A threat." Abrahams moved in quickly. "A warning, a punishment. The woman we rescued had short hair. He chose a substitute." Mulder stared at her, silent and cold. She tried to match his gaze with her own, but crumbled and looked instead at her fingernails. Grahams caught the exchange of looks between the two Agents. "I take it the FBI's finest don't see eye to eye on this." Kerridge took up the attack. "Well I know where my vote's going." The stare got icier as Mulder shifted it for use on Kerridge. "Fortunately, the democratic process is not involved." "Look, why don't you just scoot back to DC. Buy some Kleenex and go see the shrinks about your difficulty working with women. Maybe brush up on your self defense classes for next time you interview a ten year old." The sound was of a hand crunching hard into the table. All eyes flew to Jeanette Abrahams. "Enough. We've got work to do." Kerridge and Grahams nodded apologetically. Mulder made no movement. Abrahams turned her gaze to him. "Agent Mulder?" Impassive, soft spoken, careful eye contact with her as he spoke. "We should work on the profile." Abrahams noted the emphasis in Mulder's words. Her eyes confirmed her agreement in a blink. "If you'll excuse us." Before she'd reached the end of the phrase, Mulder was already on his feet. By the time she stood, he was ready to leave. --------- They reviewed the facts as they drove, steering clear of opinion until they reached the hotel. Up at five fifteen and running for fourteen hours on coffee and cookies. They decided to eat some real food before they argued. Knowing full well that once the argument was over, they'd both have lost their appetites. The young waitress was pleased to see them, one of them. It had taken her a few seconds to positively identify the man in the dark suit as being the one in the leather jacket who she'd seen a couple of days earlier. Better and better. Shame about the woman at his side. Obviously a colleague though, wasn't she there the other night as well? It was impossible to enjoy the food, difficult even to taste it, hard enough simply to chew it and swallow. They focused on the meal as if it was simply another chore from the job description. Ranking somewhere better than reading microfiche records of births, marriages and deaths, but worse than all night stakeouts in front of an empty apartment. Good for them, like medicine, a necessary evil. Chose and ate with care, no red meat to remind of blood or flesh or autopsies. Slow chewing to give a guarantee that there would be no sudden movements, no choking effort to swallow. Careful sips of water between bites. They hesitated, struggled to find the excuse that would delay the discussion. Ordered coffee, disappointed the waitress by telling her that they'd drink it through in the bar. Abrahams found the change of venue oddly soothing, a sensation of glorious normality even if it could only last for an instant. She scanned the other patrons, the tall man in his ostentatiously formal business suit. He hadn't changed clothes, presumably planning to meet some associates later in the evening. The group arguing over a magazine article on PC networks. The man and woman with love in their eyes. She and Mulder could fit right in, at least on first impressions. What kind of business? She let her mind pretend, dreamed that they argued over inanimate objects, not the living and the dead. Fantasized about just looking at the love in his eyes and not seeing the shadows behind. She studied him now. He was intent on the same task as she had just abandoned, watching the strangers. Assessing job titles from dress, mannerism and tone of voice. Judging relationships from body language. Sudden flash of hazel in her direction, startled, as if surprised that she was there, or at the very least shocked that she was looking at him. Steady intake of breath and a look that might easily have been alarm flashed across his face. Instantly replaced by a look that was far too calm. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but she waved a hand to stop him. Jeanette Abrahams' voice was almost too low for Mulder to hear, but he felt every word. "Let's stay a while." He looked down at the table for an instant, when he looked back up at her he was smiling. Any other man, she would have taken it as pretense, a little piece of play acting. In Mulder's case, it was the offer of a little undivided attention, some freely given prime time moments. Like a mini vacation, she decided. She smiled in reply. A game of fantasy as they talked about progress on the new apartment. A holiday as she talked about the squirrels that the realtor had promised would arrive in the spring. She could imagine living there, not just lodging there, not just passing through, not like all her previous homes. He offered to paint the high walls. He argued with her on plans and reasons for her choices from the kitchen tiles to the layout of the bedrooms. She was shocked by how quickly he questioned his way to the heart of her dreams. The psychologist, the interrogator dissecting her hopes. The words just slipped out from her. "What do you think you'll be doing a few years from now?" She winced a little as she heard them. Wasn't that exactly the question that was supposed to send a man running in terror from the room? To her relief, he didn't run. He looked embarrassed, took a deep breath before he replied. "I don't know. I try and imagine the future, but I can't. Not really. There's us. Fantasies. Nothing." "You'll be in Patterson's job." "I said fantasies, not nightmares. And you. What do you want?" Voice as soft and as safe as she had ever heard it. "I won't be in Patterson's job." She paused. "I don't know. Some days, this job is everything. Other days, it's still everything, but I don't want it to be." His hand snaked across the table to rest on hers as they talked. The spell lasted for only a matter of minutes before it was broken by the buzz of Jeanette Abrahams' pager. All the more annoying that the call was of no great significance, just an advisory to tell them the autopsy report minus the toxicological report was being faxed through to the hotel. Physically still together, yet suddenly miles apart. The pain of separation hit her like a physical blow, a sharp punch to the stomach leaving her feeling empty and nauseous. Mulder shivered in sympathy. They left quickly without any need for words. The office that doubled as Mulder's bedroom was the most appropriate place for the discussion. Not that when it came right down to it there was much of a discussion. Mulder's stance was clear cut. "She was not a substitute for the one that got away. She was a way of punishing us for freeing that woman. He has no reason to punish her, for one thing she won't be aware of it, for another she was passive in the escape. It was not her fault that he didn't get the money." Abrahams responded doggedly but without real enthusiasm. He was seeing patterns where none existed. He was seeing monsters in the dark. The very fact that any death at all had occurred had been warning enough to the police team, punishment enough for their celebrations. The only one who thought the senseless death of an innocent was not enough, was Mulder. Mulder, who always needed to put on the hair shirt of penitent and get punished some more. Argument without resolution. In the end, fatigue had merged with something akin to fear and forced her to ask the question that they had both avoided. "What makes you so sure?" A heavy sigh of dark discomfort. A long pause as Mulder carefully swallowed down the nasty taste in his mouth. "Last night. I tried to understand him. Really tried." She shifted uncomfortably at the warning words. He turned away from her. "I was too scared, knowing how little time we had, that we were already too late on this one. So I ran it off, cleared my head of it. Picked my target like a hunter or a lover." Slow heavy breaths. She finished the words. "And you picked me." His silence gave the reply for him. Pushed the idea away. Hid the thought under a cloak of forgetfulness. Changed the subject. Focused on the practical tasks of the day ahead. Let logic and experience guide the analysis. Worked through dark hours towards pragmatic solutions. It was getting late. Tiredness was threatening to put dents in the surface calm. Fragile cracks were emerging in the structure of impersonal rationality that they had constructed. They sensed they were approaching the danger zone, time to stop. Quiet pleading infected her voice. She would not beg, but he would know her need. It was a breech of the unspoken rules that had evolved between them, a protocol designed to protect them, but which tonight would force them apart, if she played fair. For one night she would pretend she was just like any other woman, that her lover was just any other man. No danger from the monsters in the id. Soft then, and needy as she spoke. "Are you ok? I'm ok." She bit her lip immediately she said it, she'd answered her own question, another rule had been broken. The words hung between them, frozen for an instant as Mulder processed them and understood. Tell the truth. Abandon her on a cold night. Tell her she's a target, then walk away. Not allowed, either way. No right answer to her question. Compromise, then. Be with her, just a comforting presence, but only to make sure she gets some sleep. "I'm tired." He said at last. She let out the breath she'd been holding. A sad smile of relief. Better than nothing, better than being told that he was working, better than him just walking away, sending her away. Work was done for the day, so they left the office. They moved the few yards next door, to the other bedroom. A shower to shed the grime she felt. Funny, second time today. First time had been after their return from viewing a corpse in the rain. A sluicing away of the story Mulder had told her as they huddled over a dead body. 'It's you Jen.' She gripped her ribs to try and stop her stomach from betraying her, again. Turned off the water to stop the violence of the shower jets from rattling against her suddenly hyper sensitive skin. So cold. Rested her head against the wall. Keeping the nausea from her throat. Controlling her breathing. Mulder rechecked his watch on the bedside table. She'd switched off the shower, how long ago? Why hadn't she come out. She had to come out now. If she'd changed her mind about wanting him there with her then he'd go back to his own room, she knew that. But she had to come out now. He slithered out from under the covers. When she failed to respond to his knocking, he tentatively opened the door, preparing himself and dreading whatever might be on the other side. "Jen." Pale and shivering, huddled in a corner of the bath. Standing with her feet as far apart as they could get, seeking extra equilibrium, leaning heavily forward, gooseflesh lining the pale curves of her buttocks, face resting in the V formed by the walls of cold white tiles. He moved towards her, spoke soothing nothing words. The instant his fingers touched her, she folded. Knees concertinaing as she slithered down the wall. Collapsed, a clammy ball of too pale flesh. The places where he'd touched her showing pink against the white. "Aw, Jen." He moved in behind her in the bath, slowly hauled her to her feet. He controlled and manipulated her legs to help her clamber out of the tub. Slow, little movements, one foot in front of the other. Kept his grip tight against her shoulders to stop her falling. Pulled towels around her, rolling her up. Half walked her, half carried her back to the bed. Violent shivers as he wrapped her up in the warm bed covers. Pausing only for an instant before he slipped into bed alongside her, holding her close, trying to share some of his warmth, reminding her that she wasn't alone. Time eased the cold and softened her body. With snail pace tiny movements she gradually uncurled from the tight little ball. Easing, shifting and stretching against him. Finding more points of contact. Her back resting against his chest, her buttocks pressed to his groin, her thighs resting on his. She pressed back, rolling gently into his warmth, let her hand search him out. Groaning at the shock of the sudden intimacy, he shuddered a little. Her hand drifted, gentle exploration of his heat. Holding his breath now, a hiss as her fingers moved over him. Emboldened by his gasp she twisted in his arms. Face to face, leaned forward, a kiss. Tongue pressing against lips, demanding admission and finding it granted. Warm and sensual, slowly evolving without any obvious change in pressure or speed, to hot and passionate. He pulled back, gasping for air, studied her. White skin still showing the marks where his fingers had held her as he hauled her out of the shower. Still so cold. This wasn't right. "I need you, Fox." Forgot about right, surely this warmth couldn't be wrong. Keep her warm, keep her safe. Carefully edged his knee forward, no resistance, instant response, thighs separating to allow him to entwine their limbs more closely. His arms encircled her, long strokes of slender fingers along her spine, warm reminders of his presence. She arched into his movement, purring under his touch. A sudden shock of energy surged through her veins, she shifted onto her back, dragging him with her so that his knees rested between her thighs and he hovered above her. Sighed deep as he slipped down her body, his hands resting on her upper arms, locking her in place, his tongue brushing hot flames over her skin. Soft groans as her nipples sought more fire from his mouth, a groan of need as he removed his lips. His breath on her ear warning her of his change of focus, her eyes stayed closed. A lick at her neck, a nibbling at her throat, soft hot wetness against her skin. Strong hands pushed her arms above her head, trusting her now to keep them there without his weight. He could smell her, her arousal, her life, her desire. He could hear the sharp drum of his heart beat and he could feel her sympathetic vibrating replies. Surge of satisfaction as he listened to the rhythms of their bodies build fast and then synchronize. His hand slipped down, found soft curls, found humidity and heat. Ready for him, as ready for him, as he was for her. Breathed now, happy and relieved, grateful that he'd found something to distract him from her smooth, pale, unmarked neck. Glad that he could focus on her warmth and ignore how strong a pulse he'd heard beating in her throat. ============ The mirror specialized in telling her things that she didn't want to know, so it was with trepidation that Jeanette Abrahams switched the lights on in the bathroom. Finger marks providing a bronze tattoo of bruises along on her shoulders, she'd known about those, anticipated them. A too anxious grip on too fragile skin, he'd almost had to drag her out of the bath, inevitable. She'd scared him. Blackmailed him into joining her in her bedroom then hidden from him. Her jaw tensed at the memory. Of that, and of what had followed. Cautious deep breaths, no marks on her neck or throat. Just a nightmare then. Thank God. There was still hope, if he'd... if he'd marked her, he would never have forgiven himself. She smiled, felt a warm wash of relief brush over her. Seven in the morning and she'd slept straight through. Woken up alone of course, but that was to be expected. Fox Mulder, better than sleeping pills. She giggled, unreasonably happy at the thought, not exactly the epithet that most men would want attached to their love making performance, but accurate in this instance. She even relished the slightly bruised sensation she felt. It would have been nice to have woken with him by her side, but the reminder of him would do. In her fantasies, he was with her in the mornings. Warm and smiling as he rolled her onto her back. Even her fantasies, however, could not reconcile yesterday's events. Standing over a woman already drained of life and being told that it was her. Then going back to the hotel and playing at being normal, playing at being Mr and Mrs. She was not going to crumble. She finished combing her hair. Standing outside his room, their office, waiting for him to open the door, she felt her shoulders tighten. Prepared for the inevitable confrontation. He was silent as he opened the door. Stepped away as she entered the room, retreated to the desk and the computer, leaned back against the chair. Careful, slow and deliberate as she closed the door behind her. Stood up proud and said, "good morning." As if nothing else needed to be said. The rustling of the papers in his hands was the only thing contaminating the stillness of the room. She studied the scene, the TV was switched off, a novelty in itself. The PC had not been switched on. Yet, Mulder had obviously been up and dressed for some time. She noted the towel discarded on the bed, the trainers kicked into the corner. He'd been running, come back here and had a shower. Then he'd done what? His hair was almost dry. There was an accusation in her voice. "What have you done?" Fast, measured reply. "I faxed the profile and my report to Patterson. When I got back from my run, he'd been trying to call me. I've just got off the phone." "You went to Patterson behind my back." His head flicked upwards at the remark, jerking as if startled, or maybe just scared. "No. I report to him. You knew what my report would say." "I see. And may I know what the two of you have got planned for me?" Rocking a little unsteadily against the desk, his voice was not quite ready, nonetheless he forced it to say the words. "He'll talk to Madeley. Then you'll be recalled to DC." Cold as ice, but ready to explode. "You bastard. You arrogant bastard." In the space of three quick strides he was standing in front of her, ready to beg her not to say anything more, but only able to force out the words "please" and "Jen" . It was her name that broke her. She stepped back. "I guess that's what comes with trying to mix business with pleasure. A couple of fucks and you think you are entitled to stop me doing my job." Hands on hips, stood up tall, tilted his head to gaze with closed eyes at the ceiling, then looking back at her. Dark, cold eyes. Unreasonably controlled voice. "Your job is not acting as live bait for a serial killer." "You should have discussed it with me, not with Patterson." A bitter twist of the mouth before he threw her earlier words back at her. "Before or after we fucked?" Her voice replied before her brain stopped it. "Instead of." Something about the pot calling the kettle black scuttled into her thoughts and knocked the wind from her sails. She shifted uncomfortably, rocking from foot to foot, waiting out the silence. Bracing herself for his reply. The feel of his warm arms around her shoulders made her shiver. "I'm sorry." She heard his apologetic words but they made little sense to her. She felt him tense up and tried to force her own body to relax. He mumbled, quiet murmurs against her ear. "I couldn't, I can't let you be a target. I just can't." Slow rocking until the pressure eased, before finally they released their death grips on one another's bodies. Needing to breathe and clear their minds. Fucking crap job, was the first thought to arrive in Jeanette Abrahams' head. ----------------- The photographs on Madeley's desk were of his family, his pride and joy. The dark haired young man receiving his Masters. The smiling young woman standing proud in uniform blue, shiny badge in hand. His kids. His wild eyed romantic dreamer of a son. His kick ass police recruit of a daughter. Not inclined to slip too easily into gender stereotypes, he was still faintly ashamed of how readily he'd stereotyped the two FBI Agents as older clones of his own children. Sibling protectiveness had explained Abrahams' shielding of Mulder. Artistic temperament and a little blister of rebellion against big sister had been Mulder's MO. Only the looks that had flown between them when they had met up in the bar had given the game away. More than colleagues, friends and, unless he was losing his touch, lovers. This was his favorite time of day, bright and early before everyone else arrived. The only time of the day he got to play at being a cop. The rest of the day he was a manager, a negotiator, a diplomat, a guard against the crap hitting the fan. He seldom got the chance to be a detective. He pushed his glasses forward to rub his eyes before he read the profile that Mulder had sent through. A copy to DC, a copy to him, timestamped five fifteen. Didn't the kid sleep? He decided to ignore that idea, not his problem. Anyway, maybe the Fed had written it the night before and some incompetent of a staffer on the hotel desk had failed to send it. He quickly dismissed that comforting thought, something told him that Mulder was the type who hovered over the poor unfortunate desk clerk until convinced that all pages had flown. The phone kicked him out of his deliberations. Just what he needed, Bill Patterson. Inter Agency cooperation was one thing, Patterson was something else. Madeley was just glad that he didn't work for Patterson. "You've seen Mulder's profile?" Madeley was too experienced to sigh, kept his voice brisk. "I was just trying to read it before the place gets too busy." "I'm recalling Abrahams. She won't be pleased, but that's to be expected." "Look, Bill. I read what Mulder said, about her being a target. But, if either of them needs out of this case, it's him. He looks exhausted. His judgment may be impaired. He's nervous." "Damned right he's nervous, that's the problem. Your UNSUB hasn't got a nervous bone in his body. If Mulder's going to catch him, we need to get anything that makes him nervous out of his way. And that includes her, that's why I'm bringing her back." Jesus. Madeley rubbed at his eyes, if he was this tired now, what was he going to be like tonight? He concentrated on his reply. "Bill. Do you know what happened in New York?" "Mulder led them to a man who'd already tortured then killed six women and who was about to kill another." "And fell apart in their office." "I think you'll find that all he did in their office was remind them of how to do their jobs." Patterson paused for impact. "I don't think that's a reminder that you need." Gee, thanks. Face to face, Madeley would have cheerfully laughed at Patterson for that little crack. Short of actually trying to throw the Bureau off the job, a task that would not suit his bosses, there was little point in arguing with Patterson. When the jurisdiction wars had started on this case, it had been because of the high political profiles of the families. The Bureau offering consultants only, had eased everyone's consciences. Madeley didn't want another flare up of politics making his job even harder. Madeley took his decision, he wouldn't fight Patterson just yet. Mulder could stay and Madeley would make sure he didn't get into any trouble. How come he got to play nursemaid for one of Patterson's charges? It took Madeley several cups of coffee and a couple of indigestion pills before he was ready to face the team. The handover meeting was painful to observe. Mulder hanging back, apparently still deferential to his Bureau colleague. Abrahams putting a brave face on a decision clearly taken without her approval. There was no value in offering this psycho a target. Everyone could agree with that. Mulder scribbled key points on the board. The killer had taken the woman's blood. The assault had been quickly arranged, yet the mechanics of drawing the blood must have taken a long time, so he had known the quiet street would most likely remain deserted. It was unlikely that he had used his own car, the surrounding area was too exposed to park in, the danger of a strange car being remembered was too great. He'd walked, blood parcel and all, back to his home. It was unlikely that his clothes were too obviously bloodstained, he had been too neat in previous attacks for that. Yet, in his fast but meticulous planning he would have been cautious. Prepared for an eventuality that might have prevented him from using a bus or a cab. He knew the area well, he was unlikely to have been noticed by anyone as out of place or uncertain as he walked. So the chances were that he lived within twenty minutes walk of the crimescene. Yet not too close, he was too careful for that. A couple of circles were scrawled on a map, defining a zone that contained far too many addresses. As the meeting broke up, Madeley ensured that the two FBI Agents stayed behind. He told Abrahams how grateful he'd been for her help and how much he regretted her return to DC. When Abrahams said her final goodbyes and left the room, Madeley asked Mulder to stay. The Agents flashed quick reassuring acknowledgments as they parted. "I know you want to say goodbye to her. But the station wouldn't be the right place. You'll just end up embarrassing one another, I don't think she'd like that." Mulder sat up a little straighter. "Sir?" "It's ok, I'm not going to say anything to anyone. Not even Patterson, though I guess he knows. Hear no evil, see no evil." Mulder shrugged uncomfortably, his head nodding in unintended submission. Brisk business like rhythm to Madeley's words, a measured tone at odds with the worry in his eyes. "If you need off the case, then you tell me. Understood?" "Understood." ------------ Some practical tasks were identified. Mulder couldn't quite look any of the detectives in the eye as he spoke in the briefing room. The chill from their gazes was making him keep his head down. He understood the reaction, it was easy to understand. They liked Abrahams, for a Fed she was ok. Mulder had shown up and a couple of days later they had another dead woman and an Agent who went into trances at crimescenes. An FBI Agent, who apparently had to be treated with such kid gloves by colleagues that he'd got a more senior Agent thrown off the case simply for disagreeing with him. Commercial size refrigeration units. The kind of thing you could find in a bar or a hotel or a shop or a blood bank or the home of someone who likes to take a gallon of fresh red and keep it on tap. Taking a ring of property of up to a mile or so away from the latest killing. A purchase record from the local stores and dealers. A delivery firm taking such a unit to an unusual address. A way to get lucky. Mulder desperately tried to think lucky thoughts. The police team managed to conduct its planning without actually talking to Mulder despite the fact that he'd introduced the discussion. Wonderful, he was invisible, without Jeanette putting the spotlights on him, they didn't know he was there. Great, situation normal, it was like being back home with mom and dad. It didn't surprise him, it was like the family dog expecting to get called on to comment on the vacation plans. Maybe he should roll on his back and do some tricks. Beg? Bark? Bite? On balance it was easier for Mulder to ignore it. Which made sense really because it dovetailed so well with their plans to ignore him. Mulder was roused from his daydream by the arrival in the briefing room of Madeley. Kerridge quickly updated Madeley on the actions list and the tasks assigned. Madeley's eyes drifted from Kerridge to Mulder. "And Agent Mulder will be working with...?" Mulder replied hesitantly, as if surprised that that he could still talk. It hadn't seemed that useful a skill for a while. "I'll be visiting the area around yesterday's murder." Kerridge cut back in. "We've already got men lined up to reinterview the people in the bar and start house to house." "I know. I won't duplicate any of your actions." Madeley's voice was crisp, a recommendation spoken as an order. "I suggest you don't go anywhere alone, not with the possibility that the perp is targeting the team." Mulder forced his breathing to keep steady. The room remained silent for a moment then Madeley turned to Grahams. "I suggest you work with Agent Mulder on this. We need to keep the focus tight." Wonderful. Mulder shifted uncomfortably. The family dog had just been put on its leash. ======== It's not easy to collect street maps, find the pool car in the crowded parking lot and drive thirty minutes across town without saying a word to your traveling companion, but Grahams had succeeded. Mulder just stared blankly out of the car's window. A gallon or more of blood to take away. Well perhaps not more, after all he might not have drained her so thoroughly. Had he drunk some blood on site? Was that what he did, did he drink it? Bake it into sausages? Bathe in it? Such a ferocious passion driving that act. So ferocious that it couldn't possibly be just a response to not getting the ransom money. Such a risky thing to do, on every level. So slow. So messy. So much evidence to carry away and store somewhere safe. There was something missing. It was almost as if he was looking at two different men. A blood sucker and a businessman. Mulder couldn't help but grin at the phrasing of the thought. It was the coming together of two different motives. Money and blood. When he got the money though, he was able to resist the blood. Not only didn't he kill the kidnapped girl, he didn't kill anyone else that night. The self control seemed out of place. He wanted the blood, yet not pathologically? How could that be. Was it possible that the man really did have some kind of vampire bloodlust, which normally he met without killing, but which had prepared him to kill when that was an advantage. The slam of the door made the car shake. Mulder suddenly realized that they were back in the street where the dead woman had been found just the day before. It looked different in the light, but at least it wasn't raining anymore. Grahams was already out of the car and drumming purposefully on the roof. Mulder pushed himself out onto the sidewalk. Too deep in thought to notice, the look of contempt on Grahams' face was lost on Mulder. Grahams had to shout to get his attention. "So. Where now?" Wherever they needed to go. How the hell was Mulder supposed to answer that question? He just wanted to look, to walk, to think. Mulder's reply was not a reply to Grahams' question, his voice was bizarrely matter of fact. "Have you ever killed anyone?" "What?" It seemed a clear enough question, so Mulder repeated it, casual intonation for intonation. "Have you ever killed anyone?" Grahams' voice was hard, anger bubbling under. "What are you implying?" Implying? "I just thought you might be able to help me. If you have. I've never had to." "I was cleared." Cleared? Mulder suddenly realized what he was asking, how dangerous a question, how casually he'd asked it. How inappropriate and callous it must have sounded. He thought about the pain in the reaction. He'd obviously touched a raw nerve. He removed the matter of factness from his voice and concentrated all his attention on getting an answer. A gentle probing voice offering a promise of understanding. "I'm sorry. It was pure speculation on my part. Based on your length of service in the area. If the question is inappropriate, I apologize." Grahams swallowed and tried to relax the muscles in his arms. He thought about it as they walked. "Not inappropriate. I don't see what I can tell you." "You did it because you had to." Mulder's words were a statement, not a question. Grahams acknowledged them with a nod. Mulder's voice was soft. "Tell me about not having a choice. And about afterwards. About how you felt. What you did." The tone of the question rang all the bells in Grahams' head, reminded him of conversations he had never wanted to have. "Are you a shrink?" "Hunting." Mulder said softly, grim but gentle. "He's hiding from us. But he won't stay hidden for long, a couple of weeks at most, maybe not that. If we can get him while he's hiding, we could stop it getting worse." Grahams swallowed. He couldn't see how anything he had to say could possibly help. But Mulder's voice was so easy and it might help get the killer and the kid wasn't going to fill in some kind of report on him. Ok. What harm could it do? It was better than the silence. Perhaps. And he could stop if it wasn't. ------------ Six hours of aimless walking and talking, mostly round in circles. A couple of pauses to eat. A couple of calls back to base to check that no miracles had occurred. By the time the two men arrived back at the station, Grahams was relieved to get off his feet. Mulder's mind was racing, processing, apparently oblivious to feet, Grahams or anything else. It was Kerridge who cornered Grahams. "Sorry you got the short straw. Madeley was too quick for me. I'll assign him a baby sitter tomorrow." "It was...." "... a waste of time." Suggested Kerridge cheerfully. Grahams shook his head and gave a single grunt of laughter. "I was going to say interesting. Reckon I can get a job in politics?" The swap of information between the various members of the team was duly completed. Addresses, names, people who would be phoning back tomorrow. As far as they could go tonight. An early night then. Madeley found Mulder thumbing through the invoice records on refrigerators and who'd bought them and the word of mouth reports on domestic removals, single men and surprisingly big iceboxes. "Agent Mulder. Perhaps you'd care for dinner?" Rounding up the waifs and strays? Mulder tried not to laugh. His brain did a quick comparison between Bill Patterson, his boss and Richard Madeley, his step boss. It was really no laughing matter. A dinner invite from Bill and he'd be checking for hidden microphones. "Thank you, Sir. But, I really need an early night." Which was true, Mulder supposed. Madeley nodded, duty done. He couldn't force Mulder to be sociable and the Agent did look tired. Ok, he'd buy it. After all, Mulder wasn't actually his problem. Mulder headed back to the hotel, ready to start work again. ---------- The restaurant was alive and the service was good. The young waitress managed to find a break between customers to pause at his table. "Alone tonight?" Mulder studied the empty chairs around the table and smiled. "Looks it." "First night, there were a dozen of you. Last night just two. Now you're alone. How'd you scare them off?" "Vampires." He offered innocently. "I told one too many spooky story." "Ooh nice, I like scary stuff. Maybe you could tell me some." Mulder tensed, suddenly spotting just how attentive Sandie had become and how inappropriate it was for him to lead her on. "I'm sorry, I'm holding you up, I think the man at that table over there needs you." His eyes gestured towards the businessman sitting a few yards away. As soon as she was out of sight, Mulder headed to the bar. Not ready yet to be alone. Not willing either, to talk to anyone. The bar was the ideal place to play the voyeur. For Jen to have become a target, someone must have seen her. She'd made no press statements, all that side had been handled by the PD. A bystander could have seen her at one of the crimescenes, yet he didn't remember anyone watching that intently and nor had she. Where then? At the police station? At the house of one of the victims? Here at the hotel? He needed to quiz the police officers again on what they recalled. He needed to start paying more attention to his surroundings. Like now, watched the comings and goings, of friends and strangers and colleagues. Watched and listened, nothing passive about doing nothing. Patient and alert. Like a real hunter. It was only the insistent movement of the clock that forced him to leave the buzz of the bar for the silence of his own room. Time to talk to Jen. Then settle down and work. The message lamp was flashing on the phone in Mulder's bedroom. Jen, he decided. She'd called him just as he was planning on calling her. When his fast button pushing was rewarded only by a greeting from her answering machine, he reconsidered the thought. The faint queasiness he felt as he searched the clothes in his wardrobe for his pager was justified. Bill Patterson had been the last caller. Mulder called down to the hotel desk, his only messages had been from a Dr Patterson of the FBI. His fingers moved slower over the phone this time. As he waited for the connection, Mulder's eyes wandered over the bedroom furniture, resting for an instant on the PC that he had talked Jeanette into leaving behind. Focus. Jeanette was out with friends or, he looked at his watch, not yet home from work, or looking after something at the new apartment. No problem. The voice startled him. A crisp boom that felt like a slap against the side of his ear. "Patterson." Why did Mulder suddenly feel like he'd not yet graduated to long trousers. He shook the thought from his head and tried not to stammer. "Hello Sir. It's Mulder." "Where the hell have you been? The station said you left two hours ago." "Is there a problem, Sir?" Mulder congratulated himself on the evasiveness of his answer. "A problem? Not unless you consider three dead women and no leads on their killer to be a problem. I've got an Agent who ignores his pager, I don't have a problem." "Sorry, Sir. I didn't have it with me." "Of course not. I expense those things so you can pick and choose when to get messages." Great, a Patterson in sarcasm mode was just what Mulder needed. Mulder tried to back away from the argument. "Sir. Was there something specific you wanted me to look at?" "Don't try and deflect me, Agent Mulder. We'll work on your commitment problems when you get back to DC. You've already forced me to waste too much time today. What have you got on your UNSUB?" Describing what little additional data Mulder knew about the killer didn't take him very long. The last profile was less than a day old. The day itself had been spent gathering new information, discussing the police work, observing. Mulder had planned to use the night to review what he'd found. "Leave the police work to the police. You're only useful if you give them an edge, you've got to get them a step ahead." Mulder looked at his watch again. Yeah, well Bill, if you'd just get off the fucking phone. "Yes, Sir." "He kidnaps for money. He kills to ensure he gets the money without question. But the way he kills. Elaborate. He likes killing. That's your key, Mulder. He likes it." "No." "No?" Patterson's voice normally gave away so little, but Mulder could tell that his boss was excited. Even the one word question from the Section Chief contained both amusement and curiosity. Mulder tensed, wondered what exactly he'd said. Why had he told Patterson that the killer didn't like killing? He was careful to keep his voice flat as he replied, kept the rhythm soft. "I'm not ready to make those kind of assertions, Sir." The sigh that came back from Patterson contained as much information as his words. "Don't waste time on things that don't need you. Right now, you're only contributing to the body count." Formalities concluded, Mulder hung up the phone with more care than seemed really appropriate. Tight little moves, the best that nervous fingers could handle. He switched on the PC, watched it flicker into life, studied the blank screen. The bed looked inviting. Strange, usually he slept better when Jen was around, but not this time. Usually, he decided was a pretty stupid word in that context. Usually actually meant those rare nights when both of them were in DC, not too tired to meet up, not too absorbed in a case. So was it Jen or was it the situation that let him sleep more easily? Was he really trying to analyze her performance as a cure for insomnia? What about her? What did she get out of it? A lover who never stayed the night. Was she one of those things that didn't need him? The cackle of the phone broke his mood. He picked up hesitantly, tried to hide the trepidation from his voice as he said his name. He was relieved to hear her voice, coming in clear but tired. "Hi. Got your message on the machine. How are you doing?" "Good. But, I've not made much progress." His brain supplied a silent groan to accompany the words. Great performance. A chat to his lover and the only thing he could think to talk about was the case. "Hey. I know you're supposed to be a genius, but I only left nine hours ago. If you'd got him in irons, I'd be a bit peeved." Her voice was soft, just a hint of a reassuring chuckle. "What if I get him tomorrow?" "I'll put the champagne on ice in anticipation." "Jen." "What?" Mulder didn't reply so Jeanette Abrahams tried to do the talking for the both of them. Mulder rested his head on the pillow and let her voice rock over him. She gave him what she could and he tried to take it. As he hung up, it hit him like a wave. So one sided. She didn't need him, she gave him things, because he needed her. He couldn't even talk to her. He was a waste of her time. Better to think about the people who needed him. Who? The dead women, for whom nothing could be done. The families who needed to know that it was over, too vague. The ones not yet dead, but he didn't know them. Michael Devlin, the survivor, who needed someone to understand. The killer, who didn't like to kill and needed someone to make him stop. He allowed himself sink deeper into the covers of the bed and let his thoughts take him on a journey. ------------- Look and listen. Smoke and alcohol and hazy mixed up bar smell. Studying, searching for an ideal. Liked to see life in their eyes. He edged forward, studying her, just a yard or two to test his theory. Her eyes locked with his. Almost, but not quite. Too much perfume, an artificial off note that would interfere with the pleasure. Oh well. He moved on again. Yes. This was better. Why be impatient, there was always time. He checked, relaxed his head to one side. She smiled. Absolutely right. Her eyes, so clear and bright. Focus. He left first. Waited only seconds in the darkness outside, knowing that she would follow. She had no choice. Nor did he. The car was suited to fantasy, an indulgence even. But he was, after all, a wealthy man. And if a wealthy man couldn't afford such an indulgence then who could? Deep comfort in the animal leather of its seats. Her moves were graceful, slow, yet purposeful. Closing the gap between them until nothing was in their way. Dark tints of the windows blocking even the most curious of passers by. Not that such a thing was likely to be a problem. Chosen with care, this parking place. As with so many things in his life. All by choice. Always the best. Leaned in, eyes shining, hers and his. Pools merging. Ripples became waves became a tide. Ticking pulse of life, pounding away so close. First taste. Scarlet heat. So alive. She groaned, beautiful sound. Wanted him, willing him to take sustenance from her, sharing her life with him. So generous. Mulder woke up fast, cold and shaking. The TV set was chattering to itself. Very carefully he shook himself upright, moving cautiously to check and understand his surroundings. His hotel room. His bed. Alone. No blood. Thank God. He walked slowly to the bathroom and let the shower wash up the panic and the sweat. ========= Jeanette Abrahams was finding it hard to sleep. Tiredness was not enough to let her guard drop nor to force the steady race of thoughts from her brain. This had all been unplanned, what had happened between them had not necessarily been unwelcome but had certainly been unintended. In her fantasy world she had always planned on getting swept off her feet by a millionaire hot-shot lawyer who would ride in on his white charger and insist that she let him take her away from all this. Mulder was an accident. When Patterson had assigned her to play mother hen to the new recruit she'd laughed at the cynicism of the move. Patterson, student of the dark spots of the human psyche apparently reckoned that her nurturing care of him, and maybe even the man/woman thing would help him hold onto Mulder. She'd dismissed it as crass, so had Mulder. Had Patterson guessed what would happen? Had Patterson sensed that one night, after one too many cases, the comforting would go too far, had he planned it? Abrahams heard a whimper and knew that it was coming from her own throat. There was no doubt that Patterson knew about them now, knew that professional walls had crumbled long ago. Don't ask, don't tell. It was a three way conspiracy. If Patterson knew for sure, then he'd have to act. While he didn't, they could all pretend. Still, the time for pretense was almost over. Her regrading and promotion would become official in another month. Then, they would go public. Her and Mulder. Thrown together by their work. Held together by experiences shared that no one else would ever need to know about. She just hadn't planned on falling in love. ----------- The station was already wide awake when Mulder walked in. Kerridge spotted Mulder first. "I was just about to send out search and rescue." Tired hazel eyes brightened for an instant as a fraction of irritation fueled a little burst of energy, then just as quickly they dulled over again. "Nothing overnight, presumably?" "Right. But we've not got long, right? This guy's escalating. Are you ready to go public on the risk to young women out alone?" Mulder tensed a little, considering. "We could. I don't actually see what harm it would do. But we've got time before the next one. He needs a pause to arrange another holding place for a kidnap, then get to his target. We've several days even if he already has a place in mind. More likely at least a couple of weeks." "He's killed two in three days. Yet you say he'll wait until he's got all the ducks in a line for a kidnap." The Agent's bewilderment was audible in his voice. "He's a professional kidnapper." "Yesterday you were telling us this fucker drinks their blood. Today he's a pro." "Same guy." Mulder walked away to find a coffee. The briefing started well enough. It was Mulder's use of the word vampire that sent it into farce. He bit his lip immediately he said it, knowing the reaction it was going to draw. He really didn't need them to go into their comedy routines on this one. He could do without the debate on whether they needed to stake the place out, and whether the SWAT team needed to be issued with garlic. As if there weren't enough Spooky jokes around without him providing the ammunition. He slumped forward in his chair and waited for them to finish the show. It was Madeley who forced the meeting back onto the rails. The rest of the team fell obediently silent. "Agent Mulder. Correct me if I misunderstand you. You're saying, the UNSUB drinks blood regularly, but usually without killing his victim. He killed those three women purely because he didn't receive the money. He didn't like what he did." Mulder sat up straight and kept his eyes on Madeley, grateful for the escape route the chief was offering. "Yes, Sir. In some way he influences the women to go to him willingly and they let him draw their blood. He may believe that even if they become unconscious, they are swooning from delight. He killed those three women in a way that he believes was painless and even, up until the point of death, pleasurable. But he didn't like killing them. That was his job." The mix of raised eyebrows, grins and coughs of amusement was lost on Mulder. His focus was entirely on Madeley. Madeley remained quiet. It was Grahams who responded. "Which is why you claim he will be feeling guilty now?" Mulder shook his head, thinking in passing of the previous day's conversation with Grahams. "Not guilty. He had no choice. He blames us for the deaths. He's rationalized it, if we had given him the ransom money it wouldn't have happened, it's our fault. But he will be feeling." He paused, seeking out the words that were hovering on the edge of his thoughts. Looked again at Grahams, remembering what had been said, what had been merely suggested. "Frustrated. At not having had an alternative. As if his life and his actions are not under his control. Uncomfortable. It will make him hesitant. It's not a feeling that he's used to." "Nervous. Likely to make a mistake? Run?" Suggested Madeley hopefully. "No nerves. No fears. He will be very cautious. He will want to demonstrate how everything is back under his control again. He won't leave town. We have to find him. He won't be doing anything to tell us how. Every move will be deliberate, considered." The meeting turned back to its more practical tasks of hunting for big refrigerators and suave looking strangers who could persuade wealthy young women to walk into their arms. Mulder's attention switched to hospital ER units and women who were short of blood. Just how much blood could you take before a person died. Obviously you could take a pint, transfusion units did so all the time. Two pints? Three? After one or so, you might feel dizzy, light headed, a little sleepy. Would you know anything more than that? So what if you woke up the next day, maybe in your own home, or your car, or a hotel room. Cloudy memories of the night before. An assumption of a hangover, alcohol or drugs, tiredness, dehydration. Provided there were no scars indicating injury, most would not even consult a doctor. Just pour down some orange juice and try to forget about it. If more was taken then you might need treatment. At least you would know that there was something seriously wrong. If the killer was as careful and as experienced as Mulder believed then it was unlikely that many people had sought attention. Not recently at any rate. Mulder's attention shifted to finding out more about the symptoms of blood loss and where best to draw a few fluid ounces without attracting attention and how fast it could be done without collapsing an artery. It took him a while to find a cooperative doctor who was not too busy to answer stupid questions. Why did they follow their attacker? Mulder had interviewed two kidnap victims who had survived. They had talked about friends, acquaintances, favorite places. There were overlaps, certainly. Both women moved in similar social circles, yet neither had recognized a friend or follower like the man Mulder had profiled. A little too old. A little too staid to be hanging out with them. So, they had met him as a stranger and yet had left with him without protest. Rohypnol came to mind, a pharmacological inducement. Yet the latest dead woman showed no trace of drugs, a couple of glasses of white wine. Nothing to explain her confidence in the man who killed her. Which reduced the possibilities. A threat with a gun or something similar, but that didn't explain why the kidnapped women would remember nothing. The same would go for some sob story about needing help or their attacker producing some kind of fake police ID or something. Hypnosis, their kidnapper had mesmerized them into following him. Back to the vampire again, Mulder mused. If it was hypnosis, then maybe his assessment of the UNSUB's age and appearance was wrong. He could be old and ugly provided he got his spells right. Mulder shuddered at that, for every step forward, another one backwards. Interviewing the third of the kidnap survivors took him no further along the path, offered only a little more definition to his ideas. She'd definitely gone missing at night. The kidnapper had definitely found her only a matter of hours after killing his second victim. It would have to be late night. So probably not a theater or a restaurant. She shook her head at the mention of bars. A club then, probably one with live music or a comedian. Another set of venues to cross reference. Despite Kerridge's offer of finding another detective or victim to babysit the Fed, it was Grahams who had, in fact, volunteered to stand at Mulder's side through the day. Grahams who had had to listen to Mulder debate anemia with doctors and local underground bands with the girl they'd rescued. It was Grahams who had missed his lunch because the Agent had scheduled all their interviews to run back to back. Grahams was getting bored with playing nice with a Federal Agent who had now apparently forgotten that he even existed. "Mulder. Look. Game over, right? Let's get some food and get back to the station, see how they got on with the searches." Mulder jerked upright in the passenger seat, apparently startled to find that the car had a human driver. Grahams stifled a groan at that confirmation of his bit part in today's proceedings. Yesterday, Mulder had seemed so attentive, patient, interested. He'd seemed to understand. Today, Mulder had moved on. Oblivious to the feelings he'd stirred up, the memories. Grahams felt vaguely nauseous. Mulder had questioned him about shooting a suspect. Carefully picked away the protective scabs that had taken months to form. Now, he'd just dropped it. Grahams tried not to feel angry. The Fed was just doing his job. Doing his job, blindly indifferent to what he did to the people around him. Grahams was more angry with himself than with Mulder. After all, he'd been warned. He'd watched Mulder's handling of Jeanette Abrahams. Hardly the considerate type. He swallowed the reaction down, it tasted like poison. "Sure. Let's get back to the station." Mulder's voice sounded slow and slurred, as if he was struggling to get to grips with some foreign language. He looked nervously out of the car's window, his mind working on problems without a form, images that refused to make meaningful shapes. Juggling the pieces to make them fit. Straining to see the things that were hiding in the shadows. ------- Mulder scanned the stack of reports on the desk in the station. Kitchen installers, delivery men, repair companies. He resequenced the reports and flipped through them again. Surprised, relieved when the same address took the top two places in the pile. He almost ran to Madeley's office, Grahams in hot pursuit. "Why this one, Agent Mulder?" "The size, the liquid dispensers, removable with handles." "There are others the same. Why this one? You have to give me more. Surveillance is expensive. We'll need to start looking for a search warrant." "I know. It's the stainless steel. It's. It's like..." Grahams voice cut into the silence as Mulder paused for too long, "it's like the scalpel." Mulder nodded. Madeley sighed his acceptance of the story. Madeley called the team together. Mulder was grateful for, but amused by the inelegant maneuvers that they went through to avoid the term stake out. They had an address, now they needed whatever they could get on its occupant and round the clock surveillance on its doors. Mulder stayed late at the station reading the information as it came in. Scanned the list of interviews hastily conducted with the neighbors of the man who lived at the top of the tower. A nice, quiet man. No one had actually seen him, of course. He had his own elevator to the penthouse suite, of course. Nice voice said the woman who'd handled his telephoned order for the kitchen. A charming man, who had discreetly absented himself from the apartment during the refurbishment and who paid all his bills on time, said the man who installed it. He liked his privacy. They respected that. As he made his way back to the hotel, Mulder called in on the crew watching the apartment. "Anyone?" "Nothing." "Do you think he saw us getting in position?" The officer groaned as he spoke. "How the fuck should I know. I only got here two hours ago." He groaned again, but more resigned to it this time. "I don't know. But this is not the easiest place to stay hidden." Mulder nodded apologetic agreement and they said goodnight. ----------- They would pay for this. Take away his home would they? Not just his business, not just his carefully selected hideaway for the women he'd taken. Now they'd gone too far. Taking away his home. And his larder? Now he'd have to rush things. Tonight he'd need to feed. So be it. Their choice. Fine. Let the food be their choice too. ---------------- Mulder stumbled across the dark threshold of his room. He spotted Jeanette's portable on the desk and wanted her back. There had really been no choice, or had there. She was better off away from here. He didn't need her here. Did he? His eyes flicked between the silent computer, the blank screen of TV and the phone. He hit the button on the remote and found the Twilight Zone hiding somewhere, left it to run, comfortable familiarity. He switched on the PC. Then picked up the phone. Jeanette Abrahams was quick to reply, her hand was anticipating the call and dipped to retrieve the handset almost before it rang. Mulder spoke the instant she picked it up. "Jen." "Hi." She kept her voice buoyant. "Well, I've got the champagne on ice. But I guess tonight's not the night?" "Good guess." He sank into the pillows and talked about the case while she talked about the apartment, about the weekend and about him. The squeak of Mulder's pager closed the call for them. His fingers found dialing Patterson's number rather more difficult than the last call he'd made. Mulder noted that as another warning. Jen was easy to talk to. Patterson was becoming too fucking hard to take. "Hello, Sir." "Where's your report?" "I've only just got back to the hotel. I was planning to start..." "After doing what all day? Telling Chicago homicide how to set up a surveillance operation?" Not fair, Mulder kept his voice even. "I was not telling them how to do anything." "Don't you think it's time you told them something that did make a difference?" "I'll fax you the report, Sir." Mulder put the phone down without bothering to wait for a reply. Too angry even to argue. Ground zero to running clothes in under a minute, even by his standards that was good. Not that he was going to be able to run away from Patterson. But at least he could try. ----------------- Such a pretty white throat. Such soft skin. Such a little temptress. He read her name badge, "Sandie." Such a pretty name. "Sandie. What time do you finish?" She smiled down at him. Pretty white teeth peeking out from those warm rosebud lips. "Ten." "I'll be here." She smiled again, walked away so happy. She should be happy. After all, she only had a few minutes more to wait. ============ Crash. Mulder woke up to the sensation of bruised fingers. He studied the bed and reconstructed the scenario. Screwed up tight in a jumble of blankets. Great. Hardly the first time he'd wrapped himself up so well that when the nightmares had come, he hadn't been able to find his way out again. He looked at his hand. Bruised and cut from its sudden escape from the bed linen that had sent it straight into the marble and brass of the table lamp. What sort of an idiot makes a lamp out of that sort of stuff. He groaned, why was he even bothering to consider it. It wasn't like he was going to fill in an accident report and sue the hotel. Federal Agent injured because he couldn't fight his way out of his own bedding, great headline that would make. Musing over his inadequacies was not a rewarding pastime, so Mulder decided to leave that job to Patterson. While he ate breakfast, Mulder reread the report that he'd sent to his boss the night before. It was only then that he realized that it read like a profile of the next victim, rather than a profile of their UNSUB. "Excuse me." Mulder intercepted a passing waitress. "Do you know a woman called Sandie, a waitress here?" When she showed no signs of recognition, he elaborated, "young, blonde, does evenings." "Can't say I do. I'm strictly breakfasts. Try Gareth, he knows everybody. Helps a lot of people." She supplied, accompanying her words with a knowing wink. Mulder ignored the innuendo and went in search of Gareth. "Sandie? Sure. But she won't be on until two. What do you need?" Mulder fumbled in his pocket and drew out his badge. "I'm a Federal Agent. I need to speak to her urgently." "What did she do?" "Please. If you could just tell me her surname I can get her phone number from the manager." "No need." Gareth's hand produced a well thumbed diary. "I know everybody." He said with pride. He quickly found Mulder the number. Mulder wasn't that surprised when there was no reply. Tried to convince himself that this early in the morning, a lot of people who did evening shift wouldn't respond to a ringing phone. -------------- It was nearly nine before Mulder and Grahams tracked down a janitor with a key and entered Sandra Browne's apartment. It was only a few minutes after nine when the EMTs attached the plasma bag and put her in the ambulance to go to hospital. Mulder prowled the room, restless as he waited for the forensics crew to arrive, trying not to touch, putting on latex gloves in case he couldn't stop himself from touching. Gradually the room filled with the right people. Until Mulder finally was happy to just sit back, adjusting his posture until he was relaxing easily in the comfortably over-upholstered armchair in Sandie's living room. He sat and watched as the locals set to work on gathering fingerprints or something else. Considered the pictures on the walls. The jungle of pot plants that lined the shelving. Imagined the backdrop. Analyzed the location of the lights. Reconstructed how the room might have looked at midnight. Soft and seductive? Dark and drab? They wouldn't have needed music. The beat would have been audible to both. The steady thud, then the roar as the wave of life tumbled forward, then calm for an instant. Then the thud again. The sweetest rhythm, to hear the music of another's heart. "How did you know?" Grahams' voice was quiet. Mulder took a few seconds to lock on to the source of the question, irritated for an instant by the distraction from the image forming in his mind, slowly recovered enough awareness to identify Grahams' nervous form standing directly in front of him, then shrugged. "I didn't. I guessed." "Guessed? For fuck's sake, Mulder. That's quite a guess." Mulder glared back, crossed his arms tightly, definitely resenting the intrusion now. "Didn't you hear? I'm fucking Spooky." ---------------- Now what? Mulder didn't bother to look at the detectives working the case as he walked back into the office. He could feel their stares. Forced himself not to scream a, "so say something then." At least, he would give Grahams some credit, the man had actually had the guts to say something. Madeley grew tired of waiting for Mulder to look up. "Agent Mulder." Madeley pointed at the door of his office. Mulder silently obeyed the command and followed him back into its relative seclusion. "Section Chief Patterson has been trying to reach you. Perhaps you'd care to call him from in here." Swallowing as he dialed, Mulder braced himself for the onslaught that he knew was going to follow. It took only seconds for Patterson to lose interest in the formalities and move in for the jugular. "How many hours did you miss him by?" "Five, six, no more than seven." "And when did you send me that report?" "Midnight, Sir." Mulder's fingers tensed against the hard plastic of the handset as he willed his boss to stop this line of questioning. "So you'd already identified the victim, before she was assaulted and left for dead? While her attacker was still in her house? While we could have got a clean capture?" "I hadn't identified the victim." Paused, stumbling now, even over the easy words. "I didn't think I had." "If you were paying more attention to the case and wasting less time on the phone to Jeanette Abrahams." What? How the hell did the fucker know that? Don't say he'd checked with the hotel. "Consulting her opinion, she was on the case before me." "Don't try and blame her. You're the Agent on the scene. You missed the capture." For the second time in 24 hours, Mulder slammed the phone down on his boss. He ignored the expression of disbelief on Madeley's face and left the office without saying a word. The phone rang almost immediately, Madeley reached tiredly to pick it up. He wasn't surprised to hear Patterson's voice. "Has he gone?" Madeley groaned. "Oh yeah. He's gone all right. What the hell are you trying to do to him?" "Your kidnapper's angry now. Mulder needs to be angry to find him." "Congratulations." ------------ Grahams hadn't needed to be given an order to go after Mulder. Instinct told him that it was his job. He followed Mulder at what he hoped was a safe distance. Surprised to see that the agent was heading out on foot instead of going to collect his rental car. When the taxi pulled over, Grahams had only a few seconds to cover the twenty five yards and leap into the seat next to Mulder's. Mulder said nothing, kept his eyes locked forward, concentrated on staring out past the driver's head. "Care to tell me where we're headed, or do I have to consult the driver?" "Albany Tower." Grahams breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that Mulder was willing to take part in any kind of dialogue, then winced as he realized where they were going. "We can't go there. You'll blow the stake out." "What fucking stakeout. The stakeout's blown. He's already seen them. That's why he's angry. Because he couldn't go back there and feed. That's why he attacked last night." "So, what are you going to do at Albany Tower?" Grahams paused for a beat. "Let me guess. You're going to come up with some excuse to break in. Well, no you're not. Leave that kind of shit to Dirty Harry. We'll get a warrant." Mulder fidgeted uncomfortably, suppressed the snort of laughter that rose in his throat. "What grounds?" "Who the fuck cares. I'll think of something." -------- The office of the friendliest Judge in town, so Grahams claimed. Someone who owed Madeley a favor. Someone who they kept for special occasions. "You're honored, Mulder." "Sure." Mulder paced as they waited, trying to keep their killer in focus even as he tried to force his voice to take on the quietly measured confidence of the Bureau profiling wunderkind. The term that Madeley had apparently used to get the appointment so quickly. They were ushered into the private office. The Judge asked Mulder to tell him a story. Mulder obliged. "But, some positive evidence that the owner of the apartment is your killer?" Mulder clutched at the straws he'd been assiduously trying to drag together. "The location. The refrigerator. The use of cash to purchase the apartment and its contents. The fact that we can trace no information on the man prior to this year." "Well yes. You've told me all that. Something tangible? A link between the man and the studio lot that he kept the women perhaps. Some evidence that he's met one of them?" Grahams broke in suddenly. "I saw him at the hotel. Watching Agent Mulder, Agent Abrahams. I also know that he must have seen Sandie Browne because she was waiting on our table that night." Mulder choked down a snort of laughter and said nothing. The Judge leaned forward. "And you are sure that this is the same man who owns the apartment?" Mulder couldn't resist. "We can't be one hundred percent until we actually find and positively ID him, but certainly we can see a match in the description to those given by his neighbors." The Judge nodded, a raised eyebrow to accompany his half smile. "I'd better sign your warrant." As they left, Mulder couldn't help but shake his head. Grahams couldn't help but nod an acknowledgement. "You know, after your little lecture on doing it the right way. I'd sort of assumed..." "That I was Saint George Grahams?" "Something like that." "Yeah right." "But, you know. What you said about seeing him. It's probably true." "Yeah, I know. That's why I said it." "I've been trying to remember the people at the hotel, but I can't place him." "Same here. Course, it's even more of a shame we can't place him somewhere with security cameras." ------------------- The apartment contained a rug that Mulder knew was worth more than the total contents of his apartment and Jen's. Oh well, if it was his, he'd only worry about spilling coffee on it. Now he understood exactly what this guy needed money for. Expensive tastes. Very expensive tastes. Mulder let his eyes absorb the images, infuriating his colleagues who were left grumbling in the hallway. They were itching to get moving, they needed to get searching, wanted to start doing something, anything. The Lalique lamp. The Macintosh chair. The Chagal sketch. Pretty things. Absorbed them. Saved them up. Might need them later. Beautiful. Finally, taking his time but knowing that he had to move on, he turned, almost regretfully, and nodded to the waiting crew. Grahams allocated the tasks. Mulder drifted through the melee of searchers, the mere ghost of a presence as they worked. Such nice things. Such careful choices. Personal yet pristine. Special. Finding the keyring embossed with the image of a prancing horse only confirmed his opinion. "We're looking for a Ferrari." "No." Grahams' reply contained more disgust than disbelief. "Yes." Firm reply, Mulder's eyes dancing with amusement. "Makes you proud. The American dream. Regular guys like you, moving in such exalted circles." "Shit." "And it'll be red." Mulder offered, his voice taking on a sudden intensity. "Don't tell me. Something to do with blood." "Nah, something to do with Ferraris." "G man?" "Yeah?" "Shut up." Mulder smiled, then nodded and carried on searching. "You know, there's not a photograph in the house. Or a mirror." "Go on Mulder, now tell us the poor bastard's blind. It'll make my day." "Whatever." ------------ Those base oafs had been there. Trampling through his home in their clumsy, dirty shoes. Vile contamination. Bad enough that he couldn't go back. Now there was nowhere to go back to. It had been defiled. His refuge had been stolen, irredeemably tainted and spoiled by those philistines. Those killers. Yes, killers. For it was they who'd made him kill. It would have been so easy for them just to give him the money that he'd needed. So easy. After all, he'd only taken the daughters of the rich. Those whose parents could afford to pay his way. And now this, they struck at his freedom at every turn. His beautiful car was now just another object, another trap they would like to use against him. There were so few things of such beauty, how dare they steal this refuge from him. It was time to move on. But not before he'd told them, shown them that it was their fault, their choice. Their choices were like them, like this car. This car was a vile thing. Muted colors for their muted little lives. Disgusting plastic odors belonging to their artificial little world. There was nothing here, nothing real, nothing that belonged. He sought out the smell of the prey, thought that he caught it for an instant. Lost it again, masked by all the other bodies that had used the car before. Yet still, it was there, somewhere in the air. Ah, there in the trunk. Animal smell, the pelt of something real. Found it, he rubbed the soft leather to his nose, oh yes, this was it. This was exactly what he needed. --------------- The images from the traffic department records didn't help, nothing quite matched their man. Grahams rubbed his eyes. "Got to be an out of town plate. There's nothing here." "So widen the search. How many of these things get imported each year?" "We don't even know how old it is." "Six months." A pause. "Give or take." Mulder added quickly. "Spooky." "The keyfob. Colored to coordinate with the Cardin wallet. This year's color range." "You're kidding." Mulder shook his head, motioning in the direction of their admin assistant. "Jackie told me." "Jesus. I didn't know we were overpaying the clericals that bad." "Come on Grahams, there can't be that many dealers out there who handle Ferraris." Grahams rubbed his eyes again. "Don't you ever stop?" Around midnight everybody stopped. Madeley's orders. He tapped Mulder sharply on the shoulder to get his attention. "I know you don't report to me. However." Mulder nodded and rose slowly from the chair. Prepared himself to get back to the hotel and start working. Slithered back into his jacket. "Look. Agent Mulder. Get some sleep. You'll be better for it tomorrow." Mulder didn't bother to reply, just straightened his cuffs and smiled back. "Patterson wants you to call him. I told him to forget it. You'd already left. That you'd get back to him in the morning." Mulder stiffened a little and nodded. The journey back to the hotel emptied his mind of the day. He let it fill with the things of the night. With the pretty things, the things that made life beautiful. Like Ferraris and women and blood. --------------------- Not his accustomed territory. But then, this was not his accustomed prey. Women were fresher, smelled sweeter, less prone to excesses. At least, his were, his women were like that. Chosen for their freshness. A hunter tonight, less than a lover maybe. But that was all right because the man he studied was not anticipating love. Something less would do. Sad eyes, that was good. The sad eyed ones were easier, more grateful to be chosen. The sad eyes were watching him now, watching the unspoken commands that he supplied through every movement of his body. Time. The sad eyed one followed him, as he had expected that he would, as he had known. Slowly walking, who was leading who? Until at last the sad eyes turned the key in the lock. He shuddered at the room. Vile, despicable, artificial. This was another place of plastic, filled with dead things that had never been alive. It was with disgust that he looked upon the sad eyed one now. Burying himself in the sad eyes, so his eyes couldn't see the ugliness of the room. Wrapped the sad eyed one in the pelt, so he couldn't smell the fakery. This was allowed, yet his home had been destroyed? This prancing pony of a man was available for him to use, yet his beautiful things had been taken from him? It was too much. Shimmering stream of life. They would pay. Soft thud of vibrant rhythm. He had been hurt. Sweet and salt and red. He would hurt back. The waves rose and crashed. They would learn. Gloried in the jackhammer pounding below his lips. The flutter of the man sent ripples of pleasure through his tongue and down his throat and warmed his heart. Faltering rhythm like the desperate beating of butterfly wings against the glass wall. Relishing the life so freely given. And suddenly it was gone. Stillness. ========== The body was found at 4am. By the man who shared Paul Williams' apartment. Heart failure suggested the ME, "but don't quote me on it." The marks on the neck suggested the same UNSUB. But this time the body wasn't drained, not even close. He'd just gone too far. The death was an accident. Angry and he'd made a mistake. Mulder was still staring at the body when Grahams arrived. "Shit. Is that?" Mulder nodded. "My jacket? Yes. At least I think so. Can't be hundred percent until we move him and I can have a closer look. But, I'm pretty sure." The leather jacket suited the short dark hair and the tight jeans. Mulder felt his stomach twist at the violation. Violation. The word bounced around in Mulder's head. Anger. Firmly directed at him as the representative of the investigative team. It would be worse now. Now, of course, the guy had killed by mistake. Who was he going to blame for that little slip up? The detectives looked for Ferraris. And Ferrari dealers. And garages who serviced Ferraris. And secure parking lots. And kids who liked looking for exotic cars. Madeley insisted that Grahams nag Mulder and ordered him to keep on nagging until finally Mulder ate the slice of pizza just to shut them both up. Mulder let it wash over him. Details and data read, processed, discarded. Living where the killer did. In a world where nothing was his responsibility. Looked at and through the people working so busily around him. Delighted in the look and feel of the scalpel. A fresh scalpel for every job. All those they had found in the locker at the apartment were unused. All were identical. It felt cool and smooth to the touch and precise and right in Mulder's hand. A pleasure to fit the blade. The blade shone back, revealed scattered fragments of the room. No need for a mirror if you had one of these, a mirror on the soul. Focused in on what it meant and how it felt and the thump and swoosh that came with each beat. Patterson howled down the phone in Mulder's ear. But Mulder didn't hear him anymore. Too busy. Now he could hear his own pulse, he was hypnotized by it. ----------- It was not in his nature to run. But this was not running. This was necessary. It was time to move on and start a new life. He had done so before. He had known there would be a time to do so again. But not like this, never like this. Never had to abandon so much before. He tried to rationalize it, but found it wouldn't succumb to his rational arguments. Finally admitting it. They'd made him kill. They'd made him lose his temper. They'd violated his home and his life. They'd forced him from his world. They'd make him break his own laws. They would pay. ---------------- Mulder played back the story in his head. Listened to the song that the blood was whispering as it spiraled through his ears. Round and round and back to the heart. Again and again. It kept returning to one place. Round and round and back to the heart. Home. Home. Mulder quickly snatched up the phone and called Jeanette Abrahams. "Pick it up Jen. Pick it up Jen. Pick it up Jen." Grahams sudden light touch on his hand felt like fire, made him drop the phone. "You've been trying for five minutes. She's not there." Sharp intake of breath. "She's not there." "Think about it. It's still early, she may have stopped off on the way home from work. "No." Mulder thumped in the numbers to get through directly to Bill Patterson. His boss was quickly on the line. "Patterson." "We need to get a team to Agent Abrahams' place." "You're sure?" Tight, quiet reply. "Please." "They'll be there in five." Mulder sighed with relief and put down the phone. Grahams sat down facing Mulder. "What was that about?" "He's moved. He's gone after Jen." "Why?" "Violation. Payback time." Mulder swallowed the first wave of bile and was in the men's room before the next one overwhelmed him. --------------- The two agents assigned by Patterson to meet Mulder at the airport almost had to run to catch up with him. "Mulder." Mulder slowed but didn't stop. "Don't tell me, Patterson sent you as an escort. Do you know which hospital Agent Abrahams is in?" "Not an escort. Guards. He thinks you're in danger. You're to come with us." "Only if it's to the hospital." "He wants you in a safe house." This time Mulder stopped. "Forget it. You can come with me to the hospital. Or not." Hands on hips. Eyes on fire. The men exchanged glances. What the hell? "Ok. Hospital first." Mulder nodded, aware that it was simpler for all concerned if battles were fought one at a time. It was a long, slow, hard trip to the hospital, despite the agents repeated statements that Abrahams had been reached in plenty of time. That the transfusions had gone well. That she had already regained consciousness. Though, God knows, by now she was probably sound asleep, like they should be. It wasn't going to help anyone if he woke her up. Mulder ignored them, just made sure that they stuck to the most direct route. As they pulled into the parking lot, Mulder forced himself to recite what he'd been told; they'd been there on time, the transfusions had worked, she'd regained consciousness, she was probably asleep. It didn't quite work. Good enough to let him keep breathing and walking at the same time as they entered the hospital. Not quite good enough to let him ask the question "where is she" at the reception desk. He let one of his minders look after that kind of tricky stuff. While he concentrated on keeping the blurred vision out of his eyes. He was composed enough to stop them at the door of her room, a simple shake of his head giving them the unmistakable order not to follow. They obeyed without comment, politely exchanged knowing glances with the agent already sitting in the hallway, guarding the sleeping patient. Mulder closed the door behind him, moving with excessive care, slowly to her bedside. Measuring his steps as he walked, controlling his breathing. He looked at the lines feeding her arm. Clear fluid, blood transfusion over. That was a good sign, wasn't it? So was the absence of machinery monitoring her condition. Not in danger. Not in danger. The danger had passed. Like it had passed when he'd sent her back from Chicago. He pulled the chair a little closer to the bedside and let his head sink into her pillow. So sorry. So sorry, Jen. Held himself stock still, despite the shakiness he felt. Willed his breathing to slow, his thoughts to go quiet. Waited until his pulse had synchronized with hers before he allowed his eyes to close. She woke for an instant, hours later. Ran her fingers through his hair to reassure herself that the right man was at her side. Fell instantly back asleep lulled by the slow rhythm of his breathing, the gentle beating of his heart. ----------- Mulder woke at first light and studied her as she slept, watched the rise and fall, took comfort in its easiness. A guilty pleasure this watching her, knowing her. Watched her until he was ordered by his body to take a break. The briefest of trips from her bedside. Yet even so, it took too long. Patterson had succeeded in arriving on unforgiving cue and stood at the door to her room, barring Mulder's way as he returned, coffee in hand. Mulder handed the second cup to one of the guards. "Good morning, Agent Mulder." He nodded an acknowledgement. "Sir." "I believe that you are on duty?" "Sir?" "I believe that you left your post in Chicago without authority?" Mulder breathed a little more heavily. "The police operation on site were fully informed." "You seem to be having difficulty recalling the chain of command." Mulder's jaw clenched, his fingers tensing in sympathy. He shifted his weight, willing Bill Patterson to leave it alone, leave him alone. "Sir." Mulder's eyes caught briefly on the three agents who had spent the night in the hallway. Bluffed his way through. "The UNSUB is now in DC, I returned as soon as I could." Patterson smiled, a smile without humor or warmth. A smile that made Mulder's fingernails bite tighter into the palm of his hands. "Very good. In that case, perhaps you'd care to accompany me directly back to Quantico, so we can get down to work." "No, Sir." Mulder kept his head down, studying the cracks in the floor. "I need to speak to Agent Abrahams." "Because?" Don't make me do this, the thought screamed through Mulder's head, clear and loud and demanding. He stammered a reply. "She's a witness." Patterson smiled. "Thirty minutes, Agent Mulder. Do I make myself clear?" "Sir." Patterson turned quickly and walked away, trenchcoat swirling in the wake of his fast stride. Mulder closed his eyes for an instant, deep breath. All calm now. Opened the door and went back inside. The other agents had watched, totally absorbed by the performance being played out in front of them. They waited until the door of Jeanette Abrahams' room was closed firmly behind Mulder before saying a word. "What the fuck was that?" "Agent motivation?" -------------- Whether she'd heard him or merely sensed him, Jeanette Abrahams was already awake when Mulder arrived back at her bedside. "Hi." Mulder stretched his fingers to comb through her hair. "How are you feeling?" "Better than you look." "You're too kind." His fingers stopped moving. "I'm going to get him, you know." "I know. Just. Be careful." Mulder froze, fell silent as he felt his breath catch, reached out for her hand. Her fingers tightened on his. "Go on. Ask. We both know you have to." He shrugged, shivered slightly in his seat, nodded apologetically. Tried not to hear what he was saying. "How did he get you? Where?" "I don't really know. I was on my way home. I stopped at the deli. That's the last I remember." "He took you back to your apartment." "Like with Sandie." "And like with Paul Williams." "Who?" Mulder flicked his hand back through his hair. "He killed him. An accident. He was just taking a couple of pints, just enough to make him lose consciousness, another warning. But the man had a coronary." "And that's why he came here, after me?" "He thinks it's my fault." "Shit." She breathed more heavily. "Just so long as you don't." The arrival of the nurse with the stainless steel trolley full of tasks put an end to the conversation. "Jen." She nodded. "Go get him." --------- Mulder collected his shadows at the door. "Gentlemen. I believe I have an appointment with Section Chief Patterson." He checked his watch. "And I guess your tour of duty is just about over." "Is she ok?" "Fine," he said, biting his lip as the words bounced meaningless off the cold tiled walls. "Sure. Let's go." Mulder pushed himself into the right stride to keep pace with his colleagues as they left, forced himself to ignore the sound of his heart going into overdrive. Mulder had been right about the timings of the duty roster, the fresh team took over almost as soon as he got through the Quantico gates. He idly wondered if he could get someone to take over his meeting with Patterson. Having failed to find a willing substitute, Mulder wasn't surprised to find Bill Patterson standing watch over his desk. Mulder studied the room, still a lot of empty desks. It was, after all, still early. "So?" Part a question, part an order from Patterson. Softly voiced reply. "Leave me the fuck alone." Adding as an afterthought. "Sir." Patterson smiled as he walked away. ========= Mulder's eyes flicked over the file photographs. What was this guy feeling right now? Not like a vampire. Not cool, calm and in control. That was for sure. Hungry. Angry. Violated. He almost laughed as his stomach rumbled. God. He'd not eaten since that slice of congealed grease they'd called pizza, sometime yesterday. Ok, hungry then. Patterson should be so proud of him. Patterson. If that thought didn't make him angry, nothing could. Mulder slid his hand back through his hair. Patterson had gone too far, too often. That fucking fiasco at the hospital this morning. What was he supposed to be? Federal Agent? Performing seal jumping through Patterson's hoops? How dare Patterson make him play games, just to see how many buttons he could push before he cracked. How dare he make him stand in that hallway and lie like that, while Jen was still out cold in that hospital bed. Mulder closed his eyes and thought of Jeanette Abrahams; and her body lying on the hard, unforgiving tiles of her kitchen floor; and of some stranger who'd been unlucky enough to look too much like him and who had never woken up again. Granowitz intercepted Bill Patterson. "What's he doing here?" He motioned towards Mulder, shook his head as Mulder rummaged again through one of the piles of photographs, extracted one, transferred it to a different pile. "He works here." "Jeanette's in hospital." "And Mulder's her personal physician? You trying to tell me something Granowitz?" Yeah right, like Bill didn't know. Hear no evil, speak no evil. Granowitz shrugged, turned away from his boss. Stepped forward and pushed the coffee cup closer to Mulder's line of sight. When Granowitz checked back an hour later, he knew his plan had worked. The photos had been shuffled again, the cup was empty. He replaced it with a full one. It was several hours before Granowitz spotted that the occasional flurries of movement had stopped altogether. Again took pity on him. Arrived bearing gifts of cheese rolls, donuts and coffee. "You, ok?" Mulder scanned the tray suspiciously. "Coffee would be good." Granowitz sighed as he pushed the cup forward, then picked up one of the pictures. "This your vampire's work?" Mulder laughed, a single snort of a laugh. "Jeez, Gran. Don't talk like that in front of Bill, he's already considering getting me committed." "Obsessive compulsive disorder?" He waved his hand over the neat little piles of photographs that were now laid out in meticulous formation on Mulder's desk. "What's the score?" "Violation. He wants me to fry for it." "You think you're the target?" Mulder's tone was matter of fact. "Yes, but. Not directly. He wants to show me how it hurts. The invasion. The loss of control." "Jen?" "He didn't kill her. His choice." Mulder's eyes clouded. His hand drifted to cover his mouth. Suddenly aware of what he was saying. "I...." He almost ran from the room. Patterson quickly emerged to interrogate Granowitz. "He's there, isn't he? He knows." He didn't wait for an answer. Turning towards the door that Mulder had only that moment walked out of, he followed him, happy at last. Granowitz only shrugged, leaving it to the silent voice in his brain to scream "you bastard" at his boss's fast retreating form. ---------- By the time Patterson reached the hall, Mulder had almost been pinned in the corner by his two guards. After hours with nothing to do, Mulder's sudden move had startled them. They were angry going on furious with him for coming so close to giving them the slip. Mulder leaned back into the wall, arms tightly folded. "I wasn't going anywhere, I just need to get some fresh air." Patterson moved quickly into place, took over the reply. "Excellent. Let's all go for a little stroll." The four men stood in silence and waited for the elevator to arrive, Mulder stood up straight, stiffly resentful of the other three. Glared at Bill Patterson. Patterson leaned forward, conspiratorially quiet. "I suggest you choose your next words with care. After that little outburst back in the office this morning, I think you should consider what sort of charges you might be accumulating." Mulder nodded his head, an involuntary gesture of appeasement. "I really wasn't trying to get away, just now. I wouldn't. I understand the threat. It's not as if I've got anywhere to go." Patterson nodded, leaned in close enough to make Mulder flinch away. "That's the advantage of basement offices, the only way is up. Or the disadvantage, makes it very easy for the watchdogs." The swoosh of the elevator doors was a welcome rescue from the tension. Patterson was asking all the questions and doing most of the talking as they walked out into the gray haze of twilight. Mulder groaned, how had it got that late? Mulder's voice was a ghost. "I think that he's using my apartment. Operating from it. Sleeping there." "Your apartment? Wouldn't that be a little risky for him? You could have just walked in at any time. You told me you weren't a direct target." "No, not my apartment. Too public. And he wouldn't like it. Too cramped, cluttered, messy. He'll go to the new one." "Why?" "It's all freshly decorated, all clean and new. Everything's perfect. He'll like that. Contaminating it." Patterson had a team together in minutes. ------------- Patterson fixed Mulder to the car with a look. "The realtor says the name on the paperwork is Jeanette Abrahams." Mulder didn't bother to answer the unasked question. "I guess the UNSUB picked up the address and the keys while he was in her apartment, after he attacked her." "Obviously." The casual dismissal let Mulder's frustration boil over. "Enjoy it, Sir. This is the last time." Patterson's face gave him away for only an instant before he replied. "Meaning, Agent Mulder?" "After this, I quit." "And leave the only real home you've ever had?" Mulder turned away. Bill Patterson waited for the signal that the assault team were in position before speaking to Mulder again. "Don't move." He left behind Neilson, the biggest of the agents assigned to guard duty, to add emphasis to his words. Mulder slumped against the door of the car. Even knowing what was coming, the sound of the first shot was still too loud. Mulder felt the noise and forced himself upright. He had told them that the killer would not come quietly, that he was unlikely to come out conscious. He tried to find some relief in the fact that gunfire meant that the man was definitely in the apartment, that they weren't going to find that they'd just missed him again. After the tenth shot, relief had turned to alarm. Neilson drew his gun, pushed Mulder hurriedly into the car; slamming the door; shouting at Mulder to keep his head down. Suddenly everyone was on high alert. It was taking too long. This long and it could mean they had a runner. Mulder tried to do as he was told but a minute was a long time to crouch down in a car, when he didn't know what was happening, when he could hear that the shooting was still going on, when all he could see were the ugly pictures playing in his head. Two minutes were far too long. Unbearable, he had to look, had to. Mulder pushed the door back open, far side, away from his watcher, would never know how close he'd come to getting shot by friendly fire as Neilson spun sharply around, twitchy at the sudden noise behind his back. The agent shuddered to a stop, shaking at what he'd nearly done. Tried to force himself not to be too angry with his ungrateful colleague. Mulder was oblivious to the near miss, trying to force his eyes to see in the dark, looking only at the windows of the apartment. "What's going on?" "Keep down." Mulder noted the edge of panic in Neilson's voice and wondered what had happened. Mulder tried asking again. "It should be over." The agent felt like screaming at the asshole he'd nearly shot, stopped it, gave his anger room to subside, shook his head. "Unless there's more than one." "There's only one." Vaguely heard the crash of glass as a window broke. Watched carefully. The sound was quickly followed by a sudden flurry of shadowed movement ahead of them. Mulder and his guard retreated to crouch behind the car. Both of them now, guns in hand, ready for whatever was going to happen next. An outline of a figure running, running fast, no substance, just a shape. Another hail of gunfire catching him as he crossed the bridge. The stream moved fast, carrying the shape away. The team chased, hot and angry in pursuit, moving quickly along the banks of the water. Mulder understood, knew that it was all over now. Deep breath, rose from behind the car, straightened his clothes and walked slowly but purposefully towards his new apartment. Ignored Bill Patterson's attempt to block his path. ========= Some post mortems start with a doctor, a scalpel and a deep Y incision. This kind started with Mulder opening his eyes. It was a pattern he'd gone through hundreds of times. For some, the case would end with the capture. For others, with the trial. For Fox Mulder, it would be over once the lesson had been learned. Thoroughly trained by Bill Patterson in the art of 20:20 hindsight, Mulder had been a natural at the task. Taking the scalpel to the analysis and seeing where it passed and how it failed. Calculating how many had died because of the miscalculations along the way. The gurneys carrying the live ones had already gone, the sirens had blared into the night. The neighbors had peeked out from behind their curtains, obeying the order to stay indoors but wondering too much not to look, needing to know. The noisy shrieks of the ambulances and escort cars fading as they headed into the distance. But that was ok, because everyone was already awake, no one could have slept through the gunfire. They wouldn't need sirens for the two bodies left behind. Impossible to know the people still on the floor. Their uniforms hid them from view, only the name tags on the jackets exposing any identity. No rush to move these men. Men though. Even though Mulder had never seen a man with his head twisted like that, fitting quite so badly on his neck. Women, yes, dead ones. But not a man. The other one, you'd have to be awfully close to send a rifle bullet up under the jaw that efficiently. There would be more blood if the heart had kept beating, it hadn't pumped for long after the shot, not nearly enough splatter. The man in the combat gear with his rifle poised over the bodies was standing as if there was still something left to guard. Neilson listened to his description. "The fucker must have been behind the door. He just picked Steve up. Carried him around with one hand like he was nothing, a shield." Bill Patterson arrived, looked at the too many agents milling around. Amateurs. "Anyone who doesn't have to be here. Get out. Now." The onlookers looked back at him, guilty. Walked out of the room. Mulder looked at the red puddles, dancing across the floor like so many Rorschach blot tests. The professorially precise central European voice in his head asked him what he could see. Naked women? A cat? A rose garden? Two bloody corpses and enough blood for at least two more? The forensics crew arrived, swiftly into the rhythm of their tasks. Looking like they'd done it all before. One of them shouted over towards the remaining audience. "Whose is this place then, someone said it was one of Patterson's lot." Neilson wandered across, "yeah, a woman, Jeanette Abrahams. The perp attacked her last night." "Here?" "Of course not here, she hasn't even moved in here yet." The crew looked around and realized how little furniture the room contained. Mulder watched in fascination. The man taking the blood samples wrote another label, filled in another X on his room plan. "Big place, she got a family then?" Mulder shook his head. Another of the figures working diligently on the floor, came up with a suggestion. "Someone said she's living with someone, another profiler. They reckon Patterson's got first refusal on any offspring." Mulder nodded. Returned to work. Scoping out the rooms. The bedrooms were merely ruffled, nothing of the battle had got through their closed doors. The kitchen was clean, but better equipped than Mulder remembered. Of course, Jen had been getting it ready during the week. Ready for them to move into when they could. You could walk in here and imagine that it was ready. Sensing something about its readiness, Mulder opened the refrigerator door. Quickly tried to assess how many pints were stored in it. The guy had been fast, no doubt about it. He'd attacked Jen and then gone out hunting, built up a little stockpile. What was that like? Was that like going to the deli on the way home from work? How had he carried it? Whose car had he used, he knew it wasn't Jen's, wasn't his, he'd have to find out about that later. Whose blood? Jen's? He opened the first flask, held it to his nose. Not Jen. He moved to the second. Patterson placed his hand over the stopper, Mulder wondered why. "Agent Mulder. The UNSUB's body is being taken back to Quantico. Perhaps you'd like to..." Mulder nodded, carefully replaced the bottle on its shelf. Told the forensics supervisor about the larder on his way out. They'd just finished unloading the body bag when Mulder found the right autopsy bay. His first choice had been a mistake, wrong man. He'd walked in just as they were cutting away the FBI regulation fabric and removing the FBI regulation helmet. Mulder looked at the card. Peter Crozier. Pete was good at basketball, looked like they'd need to find another defense now. Mulder looked at the path the bullet had followed. Would have been instant. When he did find the right autopsy bay it had the wrong body. Wrong? Not wrong exactly, it had all the right bullet wounds, the right kind of mud and plants in its hair to indicate its journey downstream. Just, not right. It didn't look like a body that could charm or seduce. It didn't look a body that could take a man's head and twist it until it cracked. It didn't look a body that could hold a dead man as a shield while it gunned down another. The body was a patchwork of scars. He'd read about people who kept on running after a 9mm round, high on drugs and adrenaline and hate. But not after rifle rounds and shotgun wounds, not after being hit so often. And you fall over, not a choice, the laws of physics order your body to fall down. Even if you get up, you had to fall down first. And if she'd died. She'd have died and not known how or why. And the others, that's how had it had been for them as well, not knowing how or why. And Mulder knew why, but he didn't know how. ---------- It was two days before Mulder got the autopsy results. Three sets. Agent Steve Jennings, ex-Marine, five years on FBI SWAT team duty. Six two in height, 220 pounds. Broken neck. Strangulation injuries. Agent Peter Crozier, shot by his own weapon. John Doe, Mulder ignored the long list of aliases, after all, none of them meant much. Seventeen good bullet wounds to the torso, plus numerous wounds to the limbs. Massive internal bleeding. External cuts and bruises from leaping through a third floor window. Drowned. His colleagues had re-christened their John Doe as Rasputin. Patterson growled as he entered. Mulder didn't bother to sit up straight, long past caring what impression he was making. "Not much of a match to your profile." Mulder swallowed. "I think I suggested 30, attractive, male, over six foot, in good shape." "You got the male right." "So, how do you think he killed Steve Jennings?" "ME says manual strangulation." Mulder snorted in a deep breath. "ME also says, over sixty, five six tall, anemic, thyroid trouble. And forgive me, maybe I'm biased, but based on what I saw of him, he wouldn't attract me." "As I said, not much use as a profile." "Doesn't it bother you that he was still running after 30 bullets?" "I think, Agent Mulder. You'll find that he's not actually running anywhere." ------ Jeanette Abrahams had heard Mulder's description but she had to see for herself. The property agents had been phoning constantly since 'the incident', as they had taken to describing it. They wanted to know details of insurance, hers, the Bureau's, whoever's. Did she want the window repaired while they still had builders on site? And what about the walls? And was she going to replace the carpets? Or would she prefer to delay replacing the carpets until she'd redecorated? Mulder was so quickly out of the car on their arrival that he was almost in time to open her door. He was certainly in time to offer her an arm to lean on as she got out of the car. "I'm not an invalid." He didn't bother to answer, just pulled back, knowing that he'd been caught in the act. Curtains twitched as they approached the building. The neighborhood, all leafy suburb and pretty yards and mature trees had become a little jumpy over the last couple of days. The bridge over the river was still closed. Yellow/black tape no longer indicating crimescene, now it indicated danger. The rails would need to be repaired. Mulder looked back at the windows of the other houses, recognizing his role in destroying the peaceful oasis. He had come back here only because he had to. It hadn't been his intention to remind them. It hadn't been his desire to remind himself. His mind played tricks with him as it approached the three story high building. Running commentary coming from a tape in his head playing it back like no actual Realtor ever would. And as you can see, it's a top floor apartment. Excellent vantage point if you suspect that the Feds may be sending in a SWAT team. And here's the main entrance. You'll doubtless appreciate the excellent locks. Ideal for the security conscious. Unfortunate about the hinges. Don't worry about those sort of minor details, nothing that can't be readily repaired or replaced. The bullet holes, extra character, and that one's at exactly the right height to fit a spyhole. Jeanette Abrahams turned to him, saw his eyes racing with something she couldn't see. "Say it out loud, whatever you're thinking, just say it." "Can't. It's not..." "I need to hear it." He shrugged, told her what he decided that she needed to know. "That's where Steve Jennings body was found. It seems as if the man grabbed him as soon as he came into the room. Over in a few seconds apparently." "And the others?" "Couldn't fire because Steve's body was in the way. Pete. Peter Crozier apparently got too close. He took the rifle from Pete's hands and shot him before anyone could get in position." "That's the bloodstain?" "Some, the floor." "And." "Some of it is from the two agents who got injured, but not much. He didn't get a clear shot and their body armor protected them. The walls and the rest of it are mostly his. They fired a lot of rounds." "Then he ran?" "Straight out through the balcony window." "More blood." "Yeah." She walked to the window, surveyed the trail of blood and damage that marked his route to the river. Nodded her head. Imagining. Analyst at work. Mulder kept his eyes averted. Content with her reconstruction of the events of the incident, there, incident, good word she decided, she at last moved on. Heading to the kitchen. "Jen. Please. Don't." She opened cupboards. Noted the gaps where objects she'd moved into the place only a matter of days before had gone missing. "Forensics took them. Knives, plastic containers, anything that he might have used." "Used?" "He'd put some supplies in the refrigerator." She pushed the pristine enamel white door open. "I cleaned up a little in here, after the team left." She nodded. The other rooms contained less evidence of the incident, the place where their work had met their life. She admired the carpet. The carpet had been the last task before they were due to move in. Get the carpets laid then all would be ready. She'd never actually seen it in place, just a fragment in the store where she'd chosen it. It looked good. That man had let the carpet guy in, had saved the installers the chore of finding the janitor and the key. She didn't need to study the rusty patterns in the living room, she'd already seen them. It would be a while before she stopped seeing them. Her eyes clouded. Three bedrooms. She'd chosen a big enough place to give them each a little space to themselves, enough room for a little private escape, for when they needed it. This was hers, with the second bathroom. That one his, extra shelves and phone point and TV connector. And their space, for when they could actually be together. It wasn't supposed to be her dream home, not a fantasy. Just a place where they could take things as they came. She couldn't take this. --------- Patterson led Jeanette Abrahams carefully into his office. She tensed at his unusually polite greeting. The hair on the back of her neck stood up as he expressed his relief at her rapid return to health. She slumped into the nominated chair, before pushing herself back to attention and pasting an alert and interested expression on her face. "It was unfortunate that your new apartment was so seriously damaged, Agent Abrahams." She sighed. "Very." "I assume you won't move in there now?" "I'm looking for another place." "Just for yourself?" She tensed. "I'm looking for somewhere as large." She answered without answering. "You're from California." Patterson waved a hand across his desk, pretended to be reading from her file. "Maybe now would be an opportune moment to consider relocation." Maybe it wouldn't. "No, Sir. I'm happy to be based out here." "It won't affect your promotion prospects. In fact, with my recommendation, you're pretty certain to get the role of Profile Coordinator for the LA Bureau. High visibility role. From there, you could go anywhere." Her ears prickled. "That's very flattering, Sir. But, I really have no desire to leave the ISU just yet. I believe that there's more that I can do here, more that I can learn." "I think you've learned enough. Don't you? You're an exceptional agent, but after a few years, this is a hard place. For anyone who wants a normal life. Don't you think?" "But a rewarding place." Patterson nodded, accepted the careful wording of her reply, before pushing forward in his chair. "It is. I'm sure. However, there are aspects of your relationship to Agent Mulder that would suggest that his judgement is clouded by your presence. I don't believe that it's possible for the two of you to continue to work together." "Agent Mulder has applied for reassignment, Sir." "Of course. He wants to join Reggie Pardue, become a regular field agent. What's your perspective on that, Agent Abrahams?" She swallowed. "That it's up to him, Sir." "Not that it's a waste? A waste of one of the most extraordinary talents that's ever been available to the Bureau?" She said nothing. "How many do you think will die because of that choice, Agent Abrahams?" "Sir." She faltered, the words of her planned impassioned defense of Mulder's decision failing even to reach her lips. "It's his choice to make. You said yourself, it's hard to build a normal life, working here." "This is the most normal life Mulder has ever had. He's respected by his peers. He has a gift." "It's not what he wants." "And you can live with that?" She said nothing. Patterson paced, "you know, one day he'll learn to resent you. You'll be an obstacle. Just like he thinks his job here has become an obstacle now." "I don't think that..." "What happened to his sister, Agent Abrahams?" She tensed, sat up straight. "He doesn't know." "Really? Doesn't know. Does that sound like him. Does it sound like he'd be satisfied not to know?" "He's not, he's trying to find out...." "Through hypnosis and shrinks and quacks. And when he gets bored with them? You know him. How hard will he start hunting, when he realizes that they haven't got the answers?" "I'll be able to help him." "Sure. Like you helped him find his vampire?" The silence was a blanket that she threw over her head for protection. --------- Mulder played with the salt and pepper shakers while Jeanette Abrahams finished her meal. The darkness of the restaurant suited the mood of their conversation. His throat tightened in anticipation of what he wanted to say and more dangerously, of how she might respond. She took the last mouthful and placed the knife and fork down, neatly resting them on the edge of her plate. He had been waiting, alert and ready. His hand drifted forward, hunting for warmth, quickly found hers. His thumb skimmed gently over the back of her index finger. She sniffed a little in surprise and studied their fingers. "Look." She said softly, but didn't follow up. She had no idea what she wanted him to look at. Except at how impossible the situation had become. But then he already knew that. Mulder shook his head, knowing that Jeanette had nothing to say that could start the discussion. "I'm leaving the ISU. Whatever hold Patterson thinks he's got over me, he's wrong." "I'm the one that Patterson wants to leave the department." "Not his decision, I've already spoken to Reggie, to Blevins. They've told me, they'll back my request for reassignment." She shook her head in resignation. "He's sending me back to LA." "He can't." "He is. Short of resigning, there's not much I can do." Mulder shook his head in a single sweep of disbelief. "He won't want to lose us both." "He's made it clear that he's ready and willing to lose me." "It's a game, to see if we'll crack." "He's already done the paperwork." "We'll appeal." "On what grounds? You know as well as I do. If I don't accept LA, then I'm going to get another offer. Formally. One that I can't refuse. And it'll be a worse one." Mulder tried to look for a reasonable case to argue, failed. Took a deep breath instead. "Jen. Please." She froze, startled by his sudden intensity, by the heat that she felt through her fingers as he gripped her hand more tightly. As if he was suddenly scared that if he didn't hold on tight then she might slip from his grasp. His voice was barely a whisper. "If we get married, then he won't be able to force you to relocate." "If we do what?" She pulled her hand away. Looked up at him. Trying to read the seriousness of his intent through his nervous expression. He sighed as her hand escaped from his, carefully watched his fingers as if surprised by them as they moved to drum, silently beating time, on the table. "It's not as if I've never thought of it before. It just. It just never seemed that important." "Don't, please. Married means something." "It means we'll be together." The little voice in her head was screaming that it meant more than that, that it had to mean more than that. It meant a man with no history, a man with no shadows in his eyes. A man who'd love her, even when she was too tired to love him. It meant a man who'd take the weekend off. Who'd watch their kids in the school nativity play. Who'd wash the car on Sunday. It didn't mean the joyous togetherness of cleaning the blood off the floor of their new apartment. It didn't. Or maybe it did. Maybe for now, for her, that was all there was. Maybe she was too old to believe in fairy tales. She looked across the table. He'd closed his eyes. His head was bowed. He'd stopped breathing. She brought her hands down to find his. He opened his eyes as he felt her touch. She nodded. "Yes." THE END She didn't, she did! So was it a romance? Could it have happened? It was a long journey. Thank you for coming along with me. Joann - jhumby@iee.org