Title: Devil's Advocate II Descent Into Hell Authors: Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@hotmail.com) & Susan Proto (STPteach@aol.com)
Completed: May, 2001
Category: X-file, MSR, MT
Spoilers: None
Summary: Mulder's involvement in a case may be his undoing.
Archive: IMTP for the first two weeks, then MTA, the Garden, the Pyramid, Ephemeral, Gossamer, and any other site that has received prior written permission. All others, please contact the authors.
Disclaimer: Mulder & Scully as well as all other recognizable character references belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions, and Twentieth Century Fox Television. They are used here without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Unrecognized characters belong to the authors.
Author's Notes: This was written for I Made This! Productions as one of the episodes of Virtual Season 9. IMTP can be found at http://www.i-made-this.com/.
Thanks to our Beta-Readers, Mary, Dawn, and Sally, for their wonderful cyberEyes for detail.
Feedback: YES!
Devil's Advocate 2 Descent Into Hell By Vickie Moseley & Susan Proto (STPteach@aol.com)
Mendel Gottesman Library of Hebraica/Judaica Yeshiva University Main Center New York, New York 8:20 a.m.
Long, dark red tendrils poured over the dusty texts on the table. Ringed fingers turned pages and took notes. Finally, the pencil was placed on the table and fingers clenched into one another to crack tired knuckles.
She stood up and tried to stretch her back muscles, but all she felt was a slight crack of her vertebrae. "Better than nothing," she sighed in tired relief.
She quickly took another glance at the clock and realized time was definitely not on her side today. She wanted desperately to find the documentation she sought, but she also knew the likely odds of that happening were about zero to none. The holiday would be upon her before she knew it, and Deborah, her best friend, spiritual sister, and surrogate 'brother's keeper' all rolled up into one, would be there any second to try to whisk her away from her beloved books.
"Beth?"
Beth Stein sighed with frustration as Deborah Rubin appeared at the doorway to her small study room. "Yes, Deborah, I'm almost done. I just need to find a few more citations, and then I'll be good to go," she tried to convince.
"Beth, you blew off your 8:00 class, and for what? For this stupid obsession of yours that's not ever going to be looked at by one of our professors. Most of them would probably laugh you right out of school! And knowing you, you were planning on blowing off our 10:00 class too, weren't you?" When she received no reply, Deborah knew her hunch was correct. She looked at her friend with annoyance and said, "I don't understand why you're wasting your time on this."
Beth cringed slightly as she knew what was coming. It was lecture #457 on the futility of studying about the strange mystical subtexts of Judaism. Deborah claimed it was a waste of time and money, not to mention heretic, for anyone to even consider that the Torah actually promoted Beth's current obsession of the month, exorcism in Judaic practices.
"Deb, please, don't start..."
"Don't start what, Beth? Trying to talk some sense into you? Your parents are paying good money for you to come here, my friend. What do you think they'd say if they knew you were spending all of your time in here reading about this... this craziness? You're really going to risk your parents' wrath just to learn about 'dibbukim' and exorcisms? Why? What can you possibly hope to accomplish?"
Deborah's diatribe was well rehearsed; Beth had heard these same words and then some, many times over the last several weeks, ever since Deborah had heard of her best friend's latest preoccupation. Beth's fascination with Jewish Mysticism and the Kabbalah had actually begun during the early months of summer.
"Look, I have a 10:00 class which I don't plan on being late for. I'll meet you back at the dorm," informed Deborah.
"What time does the residence hall close down today?" Beth asked wearily. She'd been working on the research since the library opened early that morning knowing her time would be limited due to the impending holiday.
"1:00, Girlfriend, and from the look of things, you're nowhere near ready to beat that deadline, are you?" Deborah asked, exasperated.
"Well, I was kind of counting on a certain best friend to drive my car over and pick up both our bags after her 10:00 class was over, since she had to go back and pick up her own bag anyway?" Beth questioned while attempting her most winsome look. However, it was met by an expression of total annoyance.
"I don't understand you," Deborah said shaking her head.
"Deborah, please, I don't have time for--" she pleaded, but Deborah would have nothing of it.
"You don't have time? For what, Beth? You can't possibly think you're going to discover all the mysteries of the universe before Kol Nidre Services tonight, can you? If we're not sitting in that synagogue, next to each of our parents at 6:24 tonight, I... I... I don't know what will happen."
"Listen, can we please put this little debate of ours on hold? Look, I'll meet you outside of the library when your class is over," bargained Beth.
Deborah shook her head in resignation. Beth had done it to her again; the grand manipulator did the deed once more. All Deborah could do was throw her hands up in defeat and say, "Be outside waiting for me, or I won't even let my dread of driving the Hutchinson River Parkway stop me from taking off without you, Stein. Got that?"
"Got it," she replied with a smile.
"I'm serious, Beth. If you're not out there, I'm leaving. I won't come in and look for you either; I'm just taking off."
"I got it, I got it," she replied. "And if I'm not there, just go. I'll take the train home if I get hung up," she added.
"Fine, just fine," the tall brunette responded, standing in a rigid posture. Today wasn't the first time she and her best friend had this debate, but it was the first time Deborah had ever felt that angry about it. There was an ominous feeling of dread in the air, and Deborah was sensing every molecule of it. Suddenly she felt herself shudder from a cold draft that seemed to blow right through her. She looked at her best friend and pleaded, "Please, Beth, be outside when I get here, or I will leave. I won't wait for you because of... of this foolish fixation of yours."
"I told you it's okay for you to go if I'm not there. Don't worry. I actually understand," she insisted, and then added just as Deborah turned to leave, "Love you too, Deb."
"Yeah, yeah," she waved her hand in response as well.
Beth resumed her tedious research as she read the ancient, scholarly texts. She read with fascination the stories of exorcism in the Talmudic literature. Rabbi Simon ben Yochai was just one such storyteller, one of the most famous, who lived in the second century of the Common Era. She poured over one of the reference sources, a collection of sermons from the text 'Beth Midrash.'
She read on, dealing with the translations as only a scholar could, oblivious to the fact that time as she knew it had just stopped.
FBI New York Regional Office 9:15 a.m.
Scully hung up the phone and chewed on her lip. Tom Alexander was dead. Tom Alexander, same age as her partner, was dead. And with all the possible horrors an agent in the FBI faced every day, he was dead from a car accident. It shook her to the core.
She felt a little guilty that her very next thought was how Tom's death was affecting Mulder. She'd met Tom only once, at a budget meeting. She remembered how Mulder and he had talked, exchanged a joke and then the meeting was called to order and the fun times ended quickly. Mulder hadn't told her then that he and Tom had been roommates at Quantico, but that didn't bother her. As far as she knew, Mulder didn't know whom she had roomed with either. But it indicated how close Tom was to Mulder. A closeness that she'd subconsciously relied on when Mulder said he was going off to Biloxi to work on this case.
She knew why she couldn't be with him on this one. He was working in a consulting position. She had to wait to be asked, and so far the team hadn't needed another pathologist. So, as Mulder had requested, she'd stayed behind. But in the back of her mind, she'd been relieved that Mulder had a friend with him, even if that friend was the special agent in charge. She could relax a little, go about her work in the office, secure in the knowledge that if things got too bad, someone could take care of her partner until she could get there herself. Tom was her safety net as much as he was Mulder's.
She never counted on that safety net suddenly being yanked away.
She sat in stunned silence for a moment. All around her, agents were getting coffee, settling in for another workday. The thought washed over her like a wave from the ocean. It wasn't a vision, just a feeling that left her cold and shaking slightly. Mulder was alone. All alone and hurting. He needed her, now, immediately. She had to get down to Biloxi. She had to get on a plane as quickly as possible. She reached across the desk and grabbed the heavy New York Yellow Pages, flipping quickly to 'airlines.'
There was no need to go by her motel room; her bags were packed and sitting by the desk. She grabbed them, hoisting them to her shoulder and pulling out her cell phone as she walked toward the elevator. She placed a quick call to Monsey to inform Reuven Steiger that exhuming the body of Rebbe Zimmerman was not going to produce the revelation she and the task force had hoped.
She had awakened with the decision to call Mr. Steiger that very morning to cancel their meeting and Tom's death just cemented her resolve. Now she had to get down to Biloxi and be with her partner. She had no doubt that Tom's death would shatter Mulder, and that took priority.
The line at the ticket counter was five people deep. She thought she'd never get to the counter and when she did it wasn't much better.
"A three hour lay over in Atlanta?" Scully cried in exasperation. "Surely you have a direct flight to Biloxi. Maybe into New Orleans and I can catch a connecting flight, something that will get me there faster," she encouraged the woman with dark hair and a pleasant smile.
"There are two direct flights, Agent Scully," the woman assured her. "The first one departed at 7:25 this morning, so you're an hour late for that one. The second one departs at 12:15, but that would put you in Biloxi--"
"Later than the flight with the stop over," Scully sighed in resignation. "OK, I'll take the flight that leaves in 20 minutes with the layover. But upgrade that ticket. I'll be flying first class."
First class was not everything it was cracked up to be, she decided as she stared down at her cut glass bowl of canned 'fresh fruit' and gleaming silverware setting on a white cloth napkin. She glanced over at the empty seat next to her. Maybe she should have just followed her instincts and gone down with Mulder to Biloxi in the first place. But he'd made it clear that wasn't what he wanted.
In many ways, Mulder reminded her time and again of her father. Strong in his beliefs, committed to his path, even to the point of stepping outside the lines. Her father had retired a captain, and that was a source of pride, but after his death, some of the stories that his old buddies had told about his exploits at sea were enough to give her mother a few more gray hairs. Her father had even had his run-ins with authority, and was demoted or passed over for promotion a couple of times for decisions he'd made. So much like Mulder. She wished they'd had a chance to meet. She closed her eyes and let the sounds of the air conditioning lull her to sleep.
She woke up a few moments later and turned toward the empty seat next to her. To her utter surprise, her father was sitting there, reading the airline magazine.
"Daddy?" she asked, wiping sleep from her eyes.
"Starbuck, watch out for him," her father said, not even bothering to take his eyes from the page. "He's dangerous."
Even in her confusion over seeing her long dead father, she understood what he meant. "Daddy, I trust Mulder. I love him. And he's not dangerous, not to me."
"Starbuck, don't believe his lies. Search out the man you know and help him back."
"Daddy, I don't understand! What are you talking about? Are you talking about this case? What do you mean?" But when she blinked and looked at the seat again, it was empty. A steward was standing in the aisle with the beverage cart, a cup with ice in his hand.
"Would you care for a drink, Agent? You look like you've seen a ghost! Are you all right?"
Scully shook her head to clear the hallucination. "No, I'm fine," she said shakily. As the steward moved up the aisle, she thought better of her hasty decision. "I think I'd like a glass of water, no ice," she corrected herself. The young man handed her a bottle of Aquafina and a glass and moved on to the next passenger.
Atlanta Airport Atlanta, GA 10:50 a.m.
When they landed in Atlanta, Scully reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. Mulder's cell rang three times before his voice mail picked up. He either turned it off or the battery had run out again. She tried to calm her voice as she told him to call her back immediately, that she was on her way but stranded in Atlanta for a couple of hours. She remembered then that she'd never gotten the number for the motel where he was staying. When she called the Biloxi office, the tearful secretary informed her that she hadn't seen Agent Mulder or Agent Andrews yet that morning and assumed they were either still at the hospital or at their motel.
Her anxiety only increased the longer she waited. On the television in the passenger lounge, CNN reported that the head of the FBI's Behavioral Science Unit, Special Agent Thomas Alexander, 39, of Gaithersburg, Maryland had been killed in a car accident. The report said that Special Agent Alexander was working on a case of a murdered Baptist minister in Biloxi when his car was struck head on by a 18-wheeler.
The driver of the truck had a blood alcohol level of 2.1, though family members claimed he'd never taken a drink in his life. The reporter said the FBI would not confirm or deny reports that militant white extremists were suspected of committing the murder Agent Alexander had been investigating, only saying the investigation was ongoing.
Scully watched intently, hoping for a glimpse of Mulder, but the filmed report centered on the scene of the accident. The crash was head on, and from the looks of it, neither driver had a chance to swerve because their line of sight was obstructed by a curve in the road. The picture of Tom was the same one she'd seen in the FBI newsletter at the time of his appointment as head of BSU.
As soon as the report ended, her anxiety returned tenfold. In nervous desperation, Scully set off in search of a Starbucks stall. Along the way, she passed a magazine and newspaper stall sporting a display of David's sunflower seeds. She reached into her coat pocket for some change and bought a package. Somehow, just the weight of the bag of seeds in her pocket made her feel a little better.
By the time she finally found her coffee and added a muffin because she'd missed breakfast in her haste to check out of the motel, she heard the boarding call for her flight and hurried back to the gate. She remembered to switch off her cell phone just as the flight attendant was closing the door to the plane.
LaGuardia Airport Taxi Stand
3:45 p.m.
Dazed, Mulder walked toward the line of waiting yellow cabs. It was early evening, and he realized quickly that it was all for naught. He was too late. It had happened already, though for the life of him he couldn't figure out how.
He motioned to the dispatcher he needed a cab, and the dispatcher asked him where he was going.
"The school," he said in almost a whisper.
The dispatcher strained to hear him and asked sarcastically, "Sure. You're in New York City and you want to go to THE school. Listen Mistah, we got ourselves about a million schools in town; ya think ya could be a little more specific?"
"The university," Mulder offered, his expression showing an anxiety that barely reflected what he was really feeling.
The dispatcher however finally picked up on the distressed appearance of the potential passenger and asked him, "Hey, Mistah, you okay? I mean, maybe you need to see a doctor, or go to the emergency room?"
"NO!" Mulder responded emphatically. "No," he repeated with more restraint, "I need to go to the university."
"Which one? City University? New York University? Hofstra University? C'mon Mistah, ya gotta give me something to work with here."
"No, not those. The Yeshiva. Yeshiva University," Mulder uttered softly.
"Ya know where? There's a lot of parts to that University, ya know," the dispatcher stated.
"The library?" he replied hopefully.
"Well, that's a start. Hold on," he said as he whistled for the next cab to move up to its rightful place. "Hank here knows the city like the back of his hand. Maybe he can figure out where ya need to go."
The next cab moved up, but before Mulder could enter the car, the dispatcher knelt down and spoke directly with the cabby.
"Listen, Hank, this guy, he don't look too good, but I'm pretty sure he's harmless. Says he needs to go to the library at Yeshiva University, but if he starts getting a little goofy on you, drop him off at the nearest ER and run like hell."
"Gee, thanks, Gabe," replied Hank with sarcastic affection, "Ya always find me the most interesting fares."
"Get out of here, man, ya costing me money," retorted Gabe in kind.
Mulder entered the cab and when Hank asked him where to, he replied, once again, "Yeshiva University, the library."
"Yeah, well, there's a few of those, ya know? There's the Law Library, and the Medical Library, and the General Studies Library, and then of course since it's Yeshiva University there's the one that's just for Jewish stuff."
"That one," Mulder replied quickly. "The library that they use for researching Judaic history."
"Okay," said Hank, "Now we're getting somewhere. That's on Amsterdam Avenue." Then as an afterthought having taken in his passenger's rather haggard and disheveled appearance, he asked, "Look, that's gonna set you back around twenty bucks. Can you cover that?"
Mulder silently thanked Scully for teaching him to always carry an emergency twenty in his wallet and pulled it out. He waved it so Hank could see it through his rearview mirror and said, "Got it covered."
Hank nodded and began to drive. Rush hour added several minutes to the normally fifteen minute drive, and by the time Hank dropped off Mulder in front of the Mendel Gottesman Library of Hebraic/Judaica, it was well after 6 p.m.
"Don't look like the place is open, does it?" commented Hank.
Mulder passed the twenty plus a few singles through the little window to cover the $19 dollar fee. As he left the cab, however, Hank couldn't help but ask, "Hey, Mister? You sure you're okay? I mean, ya really don't look too good."
"I'm fine," Mulder replied hurriedly but he then turned to the cabby and really looked at him. He gave him a sad smile and said earnestly, "But thanks, anyway."
Hank nodded in acknowledgment and wondered what the guy's story really was, but time was money and he had to get back on the streets to make some. He shook his head and left the haggard looking man standing on the sidewalk.
Mulder walked right up to the main entrance and quickly realized that the cabby was correct; the library was obviously closed. He felt like smacking himself in the head; it was the beginning of Yom Kippur tonight, so of course the campus would close down early today.
He walked around to the side of the building and looked for another entrance. As he approached a door, suddenly an image flashed in his mind's eye. "Oh, dear God!" he cried out. The flash of light combined with a burning sensation in his chest caused Mulder to feel almost faint. "Don't! Please, don't!" he cried out, and though Mulder knew it was in vain, he felt the urgency to get into the building to try to stop what ever horror he was envisioning.
He pulled his weapon out of its holster and used the handle to break open the small window in the door. Mulder momentarily wondered if he triggered an alarm, but he knew it was a chance he had to take. He reached in to pull at the door handle, and though he tried to be careful, his hand still managed to make contact with the shards left in the window.
The pain in his hand surprised him for a second, but it didn't stop him from opening the door and entering. As if now in possession of radar, he followed a path that led directly to the small, individual row of study rooms leaving his own red stained path behind him. As he approached room 'B,' Mulder suddenly lurched forward as if in pain.
"Oh, sweet God," he gasped out as he reached the closed door. It was almost as if a hole was bored through the thick, soundproof door, when he saw flashes of dark, auburn hair cascading over a contorted mouth. Though he listened carefully, there was nothing more than silent screams. Her eyes looked on with a horrified sense of belief, but they held little in the way of acceptance. She was not ready for her heart to stop beating; she was not ready to meet her end.
But the stream of piercing light dissected the air and aimed straight for her heart. Her hands flew up in defense, with her beloved 'Sefer ha-Razim' held firmly between them.
She fought valiantly, much harder than the others, which had impressed him enormously. She was most certainly his most formidable challenge to date. The young student struggled for every breath, for every heartbeat, for every bit of strength her soul could muster.
There was but one last thing she could do to beat the fallen angel; it was what God had taught her to do through all of His teachings.
She forgave him.
And then she died.
Biloxi Airport Biloxi, MS 3:30 p.m.
The flight was uneventful and not even that crowded. The small commuter plane actually landed in Biloxi at 3:30 p.m., Central time. Scully rented a car. Her second call to the Biloxi FBI office was somewhat more successful than her first. Agent Andrews had called in about 9:30 a.m. from his motel, saying that he and Agent Mulder would be working there for the morning, but would be attending the task force meeting scheduled for 4 p.m. Scully thanked the woman and asked for directions to the motel.
It never ceased to amaze Scully that any mutant, conspirator, or just plain criminal always managed to get access to their motel rooms, but whenever she needed access, it was close to impossible. Once she had the number, she'd called Mulder's room repeatedly, and in desperation even called Agent Andrew's room. No answer in either location. When she'd arrived at the motel, she went straight to the desk clerk. A young woman who looked barely old enough to have a work permit greeted her with headphones and at least three sticks of bubble gum snapping around the silver stud in the middle of her tongue.
"Sorry, if he's not there, I can't let you in," she said with a quick smile and went back to tapping her inch long fake nails in time to the music in her ears.
Scully bit her lip and pulled out her identification. "I'm an FBI agent, the man in question is my partner and I need to locate him--immediately! Now, if you will please contact your manager, I'll be happy to explain to him that you impeded a Federal investigation by not giving me a card key to my partner's room," Scully seethed through clenched teeth.
The girl chewed her gum for a minute, then shrugged and ran a plastic card through the machine next to the computer on the desk. "Hey, no skin off my ass," she said pleasantly. "Have a nice day," she added as she handed Scully the card in a small folder with the room number on the outside.
"I don't think that's possible," Scully assured the girl grimly and went off in search of room 246.
Scully made a perfunctory knock on the door, although she knew it was futile. Even if Mulder was in the room, if he wasn't answering the phone, he wouldn't answer the door. She half expected to find him single-mindedly hunched over the small table, yellow legal pads covering not just the Formica top, but every horizontal surface in the room. He would be scribbling frantically, his hair standing straight up in places where his fingers had raked through it too many times to count. He would be wearing whatever he'd had on the day before, if he'd bothered to change the day before, that is.
The room would smell like sweat socks and dirty underwear because he would shoo away the maid if she came to the door and would post the 'do not disturb' sign if he left. If he'd acknowledged his hunger at some point, there'd be a waste can filled with empty vending machine packages of Cheetos or Nacho Cheese Doritos. If he'd hit the jackpot in the hunger department, there might be an empty pizza box propped against the waste can, but she doubted that. She was the one who usually ordered the pizzas.
The card key was tricky and it took a couple of tries. Finally, the little button glowed green, and she opened the door with a click. The room was pitch dark; the drapes were drawn. It was hotter than she expected; he must have turned up the heat. She worried about that, it usually meant he'd been having the chills, coming down with something. He wasn't a kid anymore, something she knew he was avoiding with a passion. He couldn't keep the hours he'd kept when he was 28, not without paying a price.
"Mulder," she called out. The emptiness of the room echoed back at her. She fumbled on the wall, searching for the light switch. It flipped up with a click and a standing floor lamp on the far side of the room struggled to push back the darkness.
Scully gasped as she took in the sight. If she'd just walked in on the room, without knowing the occupant as well as she did, she would have dialed 911 and cordoned off the hallway.
The room was a shambles. A broken lamp lay next to the bed stand that it once sat upon. The phone cord was pulled from the wall, its cord reaching pleadingly toward the socket but not quite reaching. The phone itself was lying in the middle of the bed, along with a mass of scraps of paper, many torn and crumpled into balls. The table was covered with empty cardboard backs to legal pads. A couple of broken pencils crunched beneath her feet as she walked across the floor.
She searched the room for any sign of his presence. His garment bag hung in the closet; his suitcase lay open on the floor. The paper wrapper from a dress shirt was adorning the remaining lamp on the side of the bed closest to her. He hadn't gone very far. He'd left his clothes.
She pulled open the dresser drawers. She was shocked to find his running shoes in the top drawer. She'd griped at him for years to put his shoes somewhere that he wouldn't trip over them in the middle of the night, and miraculously, she had finally gotten through to him. But aside from a Gideon's Bible and some sheets of motel stationary, there was nothing else in the drawers.
She sighed and decided to check the bathroom, just in case. She knew Mulder wasn't there, hadn't been there for a couple of hours, but maybe he'd left a clue. She was about to flip the light to the bathroom when her cell phone rang, startling her. She answered it with one hand as she turned and hit the switch, flooding the small room with light.
The sight that greeted her made her stomach drop to the floor. Black markings, made by some sort of marker, covered the mirror, the shower curtain, even extending to the shower enclosure.
LaGuardia Airport Queens, NY 4:35 p.m.
When Skinner had hung up the phone with Kenny, he'd immediately tried to contact Scully, but she was apparently out of cell range. He knew it would have been best for her to meet him at the plane in New York, but he knew that was now unlikely. So it would have to be him by default, and he asked Kim to make a reservation for him on the next available shuttle to New York's LaGuardia Airport. He figured if the kid could just stall Mulder, then he wouldn't be that far behind them in arriving.
By the time he landed he had sensed that something was very, very wrong. He had no practical, tangible reason for feeling that way, but needless to say, there was a sense of foreboding that caused him to feel a bit nauseated. He made his way from the shuttle and headed toward the exit signs that would lead him toward the taxi stands. He never was one to enjoy driving in New York traffic and was more than happy to leave that to the professionals.
When he went down the escalator, he saw a large crowd of emergency staff rushing toward an area that was now cordoned off. He headed that way too, realizing there was no other place he was supposed to be at that moment.
"Sir, I'm sorry, but this area is restricted," said a New York City policeman.
"Yes, but I suspect that I have business here," Skinner said. He pulled out his identification badge and immediately identified himself as an assistant director with the FBI.
"Wow, you guys sure work fast," replied the officer in amazement.
"I don't understand."
"We just found out the guy was a fibbie, and now, here you are. That's pretty amazing," said the officer with a hint of awe in his tone.
"He's an agent? What's his name?" asked Skinner hoping to hide the anxiety form his voice.
"Andrews. Kenneth Andrews. Ya know him?"
Skinner realized it was totally unprofessional of him, but the man let out a sigh of relief that it wasn't Mulder. Of course now he had to deal with the fact that it was Andrews, and there was no word as yet on Mulder.
"Yes, I know him," Skinner replied as he brushed by the officer. "Was there another agent with him?"
"Another agent?" echoed the officer. "No, Sir, we found the man alone."
Skinner nodded and then kept flashing his badge as he made his way to the younger man who lay on a gurney getting ready for transport. "Agent Andrews?" called the AD in a soft voice.
"Mul-der?" rasped Kenny.
"No, Agent, it's AD Skinner. How are you doing, son?" he asked as he knelt by his side.
"Hurts. Where's Mul-der?"
"I'm not sure. Do you have any idea where he is?"
"Yes. No. Maybe."
"Well, that about covers it, doesn't it?" Skinner said with a smile that Kenny responded to in kind.
"Sorry," he answered, "but I think I know. Too late. He's too late, and it's not gonna stop him."
"Agent, what the hell are you talking about?" Skinner asked slightly exasperated.
"Sorry," he said and then grimaced in pain as the men lifted the gurney up to roll it to the ambulance.
Skinner asked for the name of the hospital, and when the EMT responded, "Jamaica Hospital," the AD informed the younger agent that he would see that his family was contacted as soon as possible.
"Sir," Andrews gasped, "find him."
Skinner nodded and then looked at the young agent who was now in obvious pain and shock. To anyone else's ears, Agent Andrews plea would have sounded as one that begged for justice and possibly even revenge. After all, Andrews lost a lot of blood as was evidenced by the large pool on the floor, so he had good reason to feel that way, if that were the case. Skinner knew better, however, and couldn't help but wonder what really had happened, and where the hell was Mulder?
Skinner found himself in the chief of security's office at the airport. It was a fact that Mulder was on the flight with Andrews, but it was not yet established that the two men ended up in the same hallway in which Andrews was found lying unconscious and bleeding.
It didn't take too much cajoling on Skinner's part to have any and all relevant surveillance tapes pulled up and viewed by the investigators. It also did not take as long as Skinner initially feared to find evidence of Mulder's being near the scene of the crime. In fact, since Andrews was found in a little used corridor, there was no visual evidence of the actual shooting, but there was tape of Mulder walking in the main corridor nearby.
Alone.
Though it was quite evident that several frames prior Kenny was in the area. There was no hard evidence that Mulder had anything to do with the shooting, yet Skinner was certain that Mulder played a role in it. He was equally as sure that Mulder was not a willing participant, at least not in the commonly accepted manner of speaking, but an active participant nonetheless.
"I need a hard copy of the photo of that man," Skinner informed.
"Is he our shooter?" asked the security chief.
"Did you see any evidence of him being the shooter?" asked Skinner tersely.
"No, of course not, I was just wondering--" he began, but then stopped and said, "I'll get the photo for you."
Skinner acknowledged him and watched as he printed out the hard copy of the missing agent.
He walked outside toward the taxi stand and pulled out his cell phone to try Scully again. He needed her here, damn it, and it was frustrating the hell out of him not to be able to speak with her. When he'd finally heard the ringing on the other end of the line, he breathed a sigh of relief. The call was connected, but he heard no voice.
"Scully? Are you there?" he demanded, loud enough for her to hear it even though she hadn't placed the phone to her ear.
Scully fumbled and brought the phone up as she leaned over the counter and sink to look closer at the markings. It was Mulder's handwriting; at least it resembled Mulder's handwriting. But she was having a hard time deciphering words. In some places, it didn't even look like English, but some crude form of a Middle Eastern alphabet.
"Scully!"
"I'm here, I'm here," she mumbled into the phone. "Oh, God, what happened?" she whispered, trying to find anything in the scribbling that might give her a clue, a direction in which to go.
"Scully, this is Skinner. I need you to get into the city immediately. How long will it take to get from Monsey?"
"I'm not in Monsey," Scully said breathlessly, not really even trying to focus on the conversation her superior seemed intent on holding with her.
"Then where the hell are you? Kim said you requested a voucher for a flight to Monsey. Are you back in DC?"
"No, I'm in Biloxi. Sir, Tom Alexander is dead," Scully said quietly, hoping that was enough of an explanation.
"I know, Scully," Skinner replied in a hushed voice. "I heard early this morning. But something has come up and I need you here in New York."
"Sir, in light of Tom's death, I think I should be with Mulder. Tom and Mulder were roommates at the Academy and his death will come as a big blow to Mulder. Remember our conversation of the other day," she said bluntly.
"That's exactly what I'm talking about, Scully. Mulder isn't in Biloxi. He's been sighted in New York, at LaGuardia."
"Sighted? Sir, what do you mean 'sighted'? I've been trying to reach him, but he doesn't seem to have his cell phone on. Why would he go to New York without telling me?"
"Scully, there's more to this. Agent Andrews is on his way to Jamaica Hospital with a gunshot wound to his shoulder. Scully, it looks like the shooter may have been your partner."
She closed her eyes and leaned heavily against the sink counter.
"Scully? I expected some sort of denial."
"Sir, I don't know what to say. I don't think Mulder is capable of hurting anyone without cause, especially Agent Andrews. I felt they were starting a friendship. But sir, what I see here before me, well, I just don't know. Sir, I can't say with certainty that Mulder is in his right mind at the moment."
Skinner snapped the phone shut and stood somewhat dazed over Scully's closing words. As much as he didn't want to believe it, he had come to the same conclusion.
"Sir? Sir, you wanna cab?" asked the nearby voice.
"What?" Skinner responded, confused.
"Sir, do ya need a taxi?" Upon seeing a brisk nod of the head, Gabe asked, "Where would you like to go?"
"Jamaica Hospital," replied Skinner.
As he waited for the taxi-stand captain to call up the next cab in line, Skinner realized that in order for Mulder to get anywhere he either would have had to rent a car or grab a cab. He played a hunch and asked, "Excuse me, but have you seen a man about six foot one, hundred-seventy pounds? Thirty-nine years old, good looking guy with a whole lot more hair than I have?"
"Hey, Mistah, ya gotta know I see a lot of guys that fit that description," Gabe replied.
"Yes, I'm sure you do, but, well, this man might have looked a little ill or upset, or both."
"A little crazy, maybe?" Gabe asked warily.
"That's possible."
"Yeah, I may have seen him."
Skinner pulled out the surveillance photo and showed it to the man. "Did he look like this?"
"Yeah, that's him. He needed to go to a university, but he wasn't sure which one at first. Then, it was weird, man, I mean it was almost like he was using some kind of ESP to figure out which school he wanted to go to."
"Where did he go?" asked Skinner with a hint of irritation. He wanted the talkative man to cut to the chase; there probably was little time to waste.
"I'm not sure. Wait a minute...Hank's next in line. He's the driver who picked up your boy." Gabe whistled for the next cab to drive up and asked, "Hank, ya remember that guy who was a little bent out of shape? The one who wanted to go to the library?" When Hank nodded he asked, "Well, which one did you end up driving him to?"
"Yeshiva University. Mendel Gottesman Library," Hank answered. "He wanted the place where they had the research on religion and stuff. Ya know?"
"Thank you. You've been a great help," Skinner said and handed the captain a five dollar bill.
Gabe nodded his thanks and opened the door for the tall, balding man.
Skinner climbed in and when asked the destination, he was sorely tempted to say Yeshiva's Mendel Gottesman Library. However he knew his place was first to tend to the young agent in the hospital.
He pulled out his cellular and tried calling Scully to give her the latest update, but her phone was out of service again.
Next he called the New York Bureau office and informed the head of VCU, Linda Harper, of the need to check out the Yeshiva site. He went into a little detail about the case Mulder and Andrews were working and suggested that due to the death of Tom Alexander, it might be best for her to meet him in person at the site once he finished at the hospital.
She pushed for more details, specifically about Mulder, but Skinner was able to honestly say he had no further details at that time. He ended the conversation and concentrated on what he needed to do next regarding young Agent Andrews.
Yeshiva University Amsterdam Avenue New York, NY 7:05 p.m.
Mulder heard the voice but had difficulty placing it with any familiar face. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt like lead and simply wouldn't cooperate. He felt someone jostling him and finally pulling him to his feet.
"Mister? Hey Mister, are you okay?" asked the unknown man from the medallion cab.
Mulder looked around and realized he was standing outside of the library. He felt a pain in his hand and noticed he was bleeding. He quickly pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the wound.
"Yeah, fine," he said hoarsely. He looked anything but fine, but the cabby wasn't going to argue with him. "Gotta go back," he muttered.
"Go back where?" the cabby asked.
"The airport," Mulder replied.
"Which one, Mistah? LaGuardia or Kennedy?"
"LaGuardia," he replied hoarsely. The cabby watched as the haggard-looking man climbed in.
As if to make small talk, the cabby, who had apparently seen everything in his experience of being a New York cab driver, asked, "How's your hand?"
"What?"
"Your hand. It was bleeding when I stopped and picked you up."
Mulder looked down at his hand as if it belonged to someone else. "It's fine." Mulder remained mute for the next few minutes, so the driver put an AM news station on to fill in the silence.
"...and it's traffic and weather together on the eights. This is WCBS news, eight-eighty on your dial. We've just received word that there was a shooting at LaGuardia Airport earlier today. Here with the details is reporter Jeff Kaplan. Jeff?"
"Harley, reports are that a special agent with the FBI was found shot at LaGuardia Airport earlier today. He was taken to Jamaica Hospital but his condition is unknown at this time. When LaGuardia Security Chief Jake Edwards, was pressed for details, he said the FBI was already on the case. Back to you, Harley."
"Thanks Jeff, I'm sure we'll be hearing more about this situation as it unfolds."
"Shut it off," demanded Mulder in a tone that was coarse and gritty.
"What?"
"I said, shut it off."
"The radio?"
"SHUT IT OFF!"
The cabby quickly shut the radio off and debated whether he should drop this nutcase off at the nearest emergency room. Of course, Mr. Nutcase decided that for him.
"Please, go to the hospital!" Mulder pleaded in a tone that was markedly less irritable than moments before. In fact, this time he sounded regretful and contrite.
"You don't want to go to the airport?" clarified the cabbie.
"No, please, I have to get to the hospital. I have to see what I... Just take me to Jamaica Hospital as quickly as possible, please."
And that's what he did. He drove the twenty-five minutes and dropped him off. Next, he quickly pulled the crumpled bills out of the small container built into the Plexiglas panel that separated the passenger section from the driver. Finally, he waited for the man to climb out and watched as he slammed the door shut. It was with a great deal of relief that the cabby drove off and continued on his shift.
Jamaica Hospital New York, NY 7:40 p.m.
He entered through the hospital doors and knew he was taking a chance. If anyone were really looking for him, they would certainly have left word at the hospital, wouldn't they?
First, he ducked quickly into the restroom to wash the blood off of his hand. The bleeding had finally stopped, so he was careful not to open up the clots. Next, he rinsed his face and tried his best to fix his disheveled appearance. Finally, he ran his fingers through his hair as he looked at himself in the mirror. Mulder hoped he looked at least somewhat presentable. There was only one way to find out.
He approached the desk and asked for the room number of Kenneth Andrews. The elderly woman looked kindly at him and asked how the name was spelled, since she didn't see it on the computer screen. Mulder explained he was a new admittance, and perhaps he wasn't formally admitted yet?
"Oh, you may have just hit the nail on the head, young man," she replied kindly. "Was he admitted through the emergency room?"
"Yes, ma'am," he replied in his most polite tone.
"Well, why don't I just call on over there and see if they have the information?" Mulder nodded agreeably and waited while she connected with the ER. He heard her ask whether they recalled receiving a patient named Andrews, Kenneth, and if he were admitted to the hospital as of yet.
She looked a little puzzled and then asked, "They want to know who is asking?"
Mulder nodded and pulled out his ID. "I'm an FBI agent investigating the shooting," he said with authority. He quickly put his case away before she had a chance to read his name on the badge.
"He's an FBI agent, dear. Says he's investigating the shooting?"
After a few more, 'I sees' and a couple of more 'Reallys' as well as a number of 'Oh, dears,' the ER receptionist apparently broke down and gave Mulder's go-between the information that Andrews was in the surgical ICU for the night.
"Thank you..." Mulder paused as he stopped to read the name tag pinned to the light blue smock, "Marion, thank you very much for your assistance. You've been very kind," he smiled.
It didn't surprise him that there was a guard outside of Andrews' cubicle. What did surprise him was his ability to simply flash his ID and gain access to Andrews without so much as a raised eyebrow. Mulder wondered briefly why he was granted admittance so quickly to an agent who'd been shot... of course, he was also extremely relieved that he was allowed to enter without a questioning glance.
Not that he wasn't grateful for small miracles. He walked quietly into the room, observing silently the unconscious man. He noted with a grimace the monitors that beeped in metronome style, the life affirming information about his heart, pulse, and respiration. He observed with a memory all too familiar with the discomfort of the IV tubes that delivered antibiotics to stave off infection and morphine to knock out the pain.
The kid looked like hell, and Mulder took full responsibility for it. The older agent felt like he'd aged ten years in the last couple of hours; he stumbled slightly as he moved closer to the younger agent and worried that he'd wake Andrews. First the carnage at the university library and now this. Mulder knew the truth about both events. It was his inability to control 'It.' It was an inability to maintain control over his own actions that led to the young woman's death over at the Yeshiva, and of course that made his shooting Kenny all the more senseless.
Mulder now knew the woman was long dead before he'd even arrived at the airport. Why he felt the need to 'save' her when she was already dead was still not clear to him. But he'd felt the need to see for himself what had been done; he needed to see the horror in her eyes in order to believe what he knew in his heart.
Yeshiva Library Amsterdam Avenue New York, NY 7:45 p.m.
Skinner arrived to find the area cordoned off with the yellow police tape, as well as blocked by a number of black-and-whites and unmarked bureau cars parked in front of the library. He flashed his ID and entered the building. In fact, he flashed his badge repeatedly until he found his way to the site of the latest killing.
It never ceased to amaze Skinner how many people were assigned to a crime scene, especially those that threatened to become hyperbole fodder for the ever- vigilant media. He looked around and tried to locate the New York Assistant Director of VCU, Linda Harper, as he was well aware of what she looked like, even though it had been years since they'd last seen one another.
That was something else he noticed; the number of women in law enforcement certainly seemed to have increased since he was last in the field. It was a challenge for him to have worked with the one female agent he'd been assigned to at that time. Back then he could have counted on one hand the number of female bureau agents and local law enforcement that would have been assigned to a crime scene such as this. Now, however, there seemed to be at least a dozen or more women working on the site. Skinner shook his head; he was a bit embarrassed to realize he honestly wasn't sure how he felt about that.
He could only imagine what Agent Scully would have to say about the doubts that managed to sneak into his thoughts. He shook his head, so as to immediately disperse that possibility. Next thing he heard was his name being called rather tersely.
"AD Skinner," came the female voice, "it's so nice to have one of the front office come up and show us how to do an investigation." He looked up to see a comely woman in her mid-forties walking toward him with her hand outstretched. "AD Skinner, Linda Harper," she said as Skinner shook the proffered hand.
"I remember, Agent," he replied quietly. "My memory of the last case we worked on together is still quite intact." The female agent nodded slightly; her comfort level skewed slightly, but that was apparent only to the AD. He cleared his throat and in a clear, professional tone asked, "What can you tell me about the crime scene?"
"Well," she began, "what you see is basically what you get. I'm not sure exactly what happened here, but given that this is surely to become a high profile case, I felt it best to join you so that we could collect as much information as possible, as quickly as possible. I don't want to be forced to take a defensive tact when the media gets hold of this.
"I'm worried that they'll have a field day with this one, AD Skinner. The eve of the holiest day on the Jewish calendar sees a Jewish girl murdered at a Yeshiva University library? Oh, I'm telling you, this will be a movie of the week in no time." Skinner nodded his head in agreement and then asked, "What have your people been able to find?"
"Not much," she offered. Though there's some blood, there's very little by the body. There's a trail that comes from the side door to the room with the body, but there's no evidence of a pool of blood by the body itself. The only indication of anything unusual in the room is that the chair is toppled over. There's no real evidence that there was a struggle; the chair could have tipped when the girl stood up."
"What about the body? Anything unusual?" Skinner asked, knowing full well that there would be a hole in the girl's chest just as there were holes in the other victims.
"Well, if you consider a gaping crater where her heart used to be unusual, then I'd say yes." Harper looked at the Assistant Director with a discerning eye and waited for some kind of reaction to her description. When she didn't receive one, she looked at him with some incredulity and, in a tone that was much more critical than she might have intended, said, "This has happened before."
Skinner didn't deny it. He couldn't deny it. All he could do was nod his head slightly in affirmation.
"What the hell is going on, Assistant Director? When the hell were the rest of us going to be brought up to speed?" she demanded.
"Harper," he began, "You have to understand, Quantico was only brought in on this a couple of weeks ago. I'd only received the file late last week."
"So what the hell do you know, Walter?" she asked testily.
"About as much as you do, Linda," he replied with more than a hint of frustration.
She startled slightly at his casual use of her first name, but then quickly regained her composure and asked, "Which is?"
Skinner sighed and quietly informed her of the few details he knew of Tom Alexander's unexpected death and of Agent Andrews' injury. He also mentioned that the senior profiler on the case was, at the moment, in transit.
"In transit? Shouldn't he be here, or does this profiler feel he can get a better grasp of this crime scene through astral projection?" she asked acerbically.
"I'm sure Agent Mulder is doing exactly what he feels needs to be done to get a better grasp on the UNSUB."
"Mulder? Did you say Agent Mulder?" Skinner nodded, to which Harper sighed, "What the hell did I do to deserve Spooky Mulder on one of my high profile cases?"
"Assistant Director Harper," Skinner replied tersely, "Agent FOX Mulder is one of the finest agents and profilers this agency has ever had the privilege of calling one of its own. Agent Mulder works for me, and I will not tolerate any disrespect toward any of my people. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly, Walter. Perfectly. Now, just get your D.C.'s finest's ass here to solve this case before the media makes mincemeat out of all of us," she retorted and then turned abruptly and left.
Skinner watched her as she walked away with his mouth slightly agape. If it weren't for the fact that he hadn't the first clue as to where his missing agent was, he'd have probably thrown her tirade right back in her face. Unfortunately, he didn't have much of a leg to stand on until Mulder returned. Until then, he was going to have to do what he could to help sift through whatever clues were available to them.
He walked carefully around the taped-off areas and viewed the crime scene. The body was just about to be moved, so Skinner took a look at the victim.
He wasn't sure if he was more repulsed or frightened. There was a hollow chasm where once was a beautiful young woman's unblemished body. If that weren't bad enough, Skinner gasped at the expression that was frozen on her face. Her eyes were wide with horror as though she'd been witness to life's atrocities, while her mouth was contorted into an expression of disgust.
Skinner imagined Beth Stein did not die willingly; he felt she'd fought her attacker, albeit not physically, but certainly emotionally, for all she was worth. If only there were hints as to who...and why. Skinner moved around the body for one last look. He bent down and with a gloved hand poked and prodded gently around the body. He looked up and saw the medical examiner that was waiting for permission to finally move the body to the morgue.
Skinner nodded his approval and watched as two of the ME's assistants quickly and efficiently bagged the victim and lifted her up onto the gurney. He momentarily watched them wheel the body out and then turned his attention back to the area where Beth Stein had lain. A fleck of white caught his eye, and Skinner reached over to pick it up. He quickly held the small white card and noted the slight blood splatter on it and, just as quickly, surreptitiously placed it in his pocket.
He stood up and moved off to a corner. As he pulled out his cell phone, he watched Linda Harper bark out orders and maintain control of the crime scene. If it were any other case he would probably have admired her ability to quickly organize her people and delegate jobs to best secure the evidence.
But this was no ordinary time. He dialed Scully's number and without realizing it, prayed he would get through this time. At that very moment, the AD very well could have had Mulder's guilt or innocence in his coat pocket.
Jamaica Hospital New York, NY 8:30 p.m.
He wanted to run from the room, from what he'd done, or been made to do, but he forced himself to walk. A nurse was entering the room and Mulder cleared his throat and reached out to touch her sleeve.
"How is he?" he asked, his voice rough and hoarse.
She looked at him with a cocked eyebrow until he produced his ID. She smiled and patted his arm.
"He looks worse than he is, really. He was very lucky. The bullet passed through cleanly, no damage to the lung, no broken bones. He's going to be sore for a while, but he should be back chasing the bad guys before you know it." She grinned and turned back in to the room. She didn't hear Mulder's very audible sigh as he almost sank to the floor in relief.
His reprieve was short lived. He knew he was still going to be held responsible for the shooting. He knew there was still something inside him, hiding, waiting for the right moment. Or was it just a connection, a nexus? Mulder wasn't sure, but he needed someplace quiet to hide and figure it all out.
He needed to go home.
Mulder stood outside the hospital, considering his options. His easy entrance into Andrews ICU room did not fool him into thinking he could sneak back into the airport and take another flight. A taxi pulled up to the curb while he was thinking. Without hesitation he got in the back of the cab.
"Take me to the nearest rental car agency," he said and sat back, closing his eyes.
"Got any preferences?" the cabbie asked over his shoulder.
"No. Just the first one you come to." Mulder's hand was throbbing, and now his head was joining in on the action. When he opened his eyes the interior of the cab had become faded, washed out. As if he were in a dreamscape.
"Hurry, please," he rasped out and closed his eyes again, but not before he caught the cabby giving him a worried look in the rearview mirror.
A Lariat Car Rental was just a few blocks up the street and Mulder shoved a few loose bills through the opening in the Plexiglas. Inside the agency, a television was on, though no one in the waiting area seemed to be paying it any attention.
"Police and FBI sources are not disclosing the circumstances surrounding the death of a 20 year old college student whose body was found earlier this evening at Yeshiva University, but FBI involvement in the case seems to indicate foul play. On this, one of the holiest days of the Jewish religion, speculation that the death might have been a result of hate crime has not been ruled out."
Mulder turned his head away from the set and forced himself to walk up to the counter. Half an hour later, he was seated in a gray Ford Escort and headed for the expressway.
He felt itchy. That was the only way to explain it. Like it wasn't his skin he was wearing. The cuts on his hand burned where they made contact with the steering wheel, but he had to use his other hand to pull out his cell phone and hit the two buttons to speed dial Scully's number. Just as the third ring started and he was convinced she'd turned the phone off, she answered.
"Scully," she said, and she sounded a little breathless.
"It's me," he replied and he heard her gasp.
"My God, Mulder, where are you? What the hell is going on? Did Andrews tell you I've been trying to reach you? You haven't been answering your cell phone. And Mulder, Skinner has been looking for you, too. Why aren't you in Biloxi? What's going on?"
He wasn't listening to her laundry list of questions. "Scully," he broke in as she caught her breath, "I need you to meet me."
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. "Where?"
"Where I broke the mirror fighting my past."
This was greeted by more silence. "It will take me some time to get there."
"I know. I'll be waiting."
She was quiet for a moment and he could hear his heart pounding in his chest. "Mulder, are you all right?" she asked hesitantly.
"I think it's safe to answer no to that question, Scully," he replied.
"I'm on my way. Lock the door when you get there, I still have the key."
"I know," he said, letting air fill his lungs with a deep breath, the first one he'd had in so long he couldn't remember. "And Scully?"
"I love you, too, Mulder. Be safe. I'll be there soon. Just don't leave without me."
He closed the connection and shut down the phone. The road opened up before him and he pressed the gas down just a touch. For some reason, he couldn't help thinking that he would be safer when he finally reached his destination.
Yeshiva Library Amsterdam Avenue 11:35 p.m.
Skinner was oblivious to the cacophony of murmurs that surrounded him, as well as the precisely choreographed movement of the dark blue uniforms melding with the bureaucratic grays of the agency.
He still wasn't able to reach either of his renegade agents, and the stress was building at having to wonder where both Mulder and Scully were. He really wished he were on the set of some television crime series, like NYPD Blue. They'd have had the crime scene wrapped up inside of ten, maybe fifteen minutes flat. He sighed as he failed to connect with his agent yet again.
The AD thought, 'Just get here, Scully,' as he flipped his cellular closed for what seemed like the tenth time in the last twenty minutes. As he placed the phone in his pocket with one hand, he discreetly held the blood stained calling card in his other. He tried to will the words, the name on the card to change before his eyes, but he was no more successful at that point than he was ten minutes earlier.
He fingered it gently, knowing full well that what he was about to do was illegal. His own breathing stopped as he surreptitiously placed the small white card back in his pocket.
"Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?" demanded an extremely irate Linda Harper.
"Harper," he responded working as hard as he ever worked to keep his voice even and controlled. "I've just placed a call to one of my agents, a top forensics expert, to get her here as soon as possible to do the autopsy on this body. What have you been doing?"
She was momentarily stunned by the AD's quick reply, but Linda Harper was also quick on her feet. "I've been watching an assistant director of the FBI commit obstruction of justice by palming a piece of crime scene evidence."
Skinner maintained his game face and said nothing. Harper followed suit, though after several moments passed, she held out her gloved hand. Skinner considered his next move, but soon realized he had no choice. He handed her the business card.
"Fox Mulder, Special Agent to the FBI, Washington, DC," she read aloud. "This is blood," she said to no one in particular, but she then looked up at the AD and spoke in something akin to a stage whisper.
"What the hell is Spooky Mulder's calling card doing at my crime scene, damn it?" she practically hissed.
Skinner remained silent. He didn't know. He was quite sure that at that moment he didn't want to know either.
"AD Skinner, what do you know about this?" Harper demanded.
"No more than you, Agent."
"And Agent Mulder is...?" Harper inquired.
"Agent Mulder's whereabouts are currently unknown."
"Great, just great," Harper muttered in disgust. "AD Skinner," she began, her eyes radiating a fire that proved intimidating even to the former Marine, "do you have any idea what is going to happen when the New York media get their hands on this story and start doing their little spin numbers on it? If we don't get some answers here, they are going to make mincemeat out of us; and I do mean us. This is a Bureau matter and not a concern for the locals. This is our game to win or lose, and at this moment, it looks like we're going to have to forfeit this baby before we even get our hands on the ball."
"Assistant Director Harper... Linda," Skinner began in an attempt to calm his associate, "we're not going to forfeit anything. To be honest, I'm not sure exactly what is going on, but I will tell you this. Mulder's association is explainable. You're going to have to trust me on this."
"Why?" Harper retorted. "Why should I trust you? You were about to pocket evidence as a means of withholding information. Why the hell should I suddenly trust you?"
Skinner had no surefire reply for her, he only knew he had to do his best to convince her. "Linda, Fox Mulder has had a reputation in the Bureau from even before he was an actual agent. The moment he showed up seasoned veterans with his analysis of the Monty Props case, he was looked upon as a renegade, a threat to the tried and true.
"But the fact of the matter is, Fox Mulder's addition to the Bureau raised the bar in our expectations of what we hoped to garner from our profilers and special agents. He got that reputation because he was-- he IS that good at what he does. In fact, he'd become so good, it nearly cost him his life because the expectation was that 'Spooky' Mulder was going to solve every single serial murder case that was brought to the Bureau's attention.
"Agent Mulder is not the one at fault here, Linda. There is an UNSUB on the loose that needs to be caught; Agent Mulder is not that UNSUB. You have to be willing to trust me in that belief, or we're going to be locking horns on this investigation and that will not be of any help to either of us," Skinner concluded.
Harper and Skinner exchanged glances and remained silent for several moments. Finally, Harper held out the hand, which held Fox Mulder's business card and said, "I'll reserve judgment for now, Walter, but after I've had this card analyzed for prints and blood type, we'll talk." She took a deep breath. Then in a low, but surprisingly even tone, she stated, "If I find that Fox Mulder is in any way connected to this young girl's death, I can promise you that no amount of sob stories regarding his profiling cases, or their effect on him, will prevent me from throwing him to the wolves. Do I make myself clear, AD Skinner?"
"Perfectly."
Jamaica Hospital Main Entrance 11:55 p.m.
Agent Kenneth Andrews stood outside waiting for the cab to appear. He winced as he stood shivering slightly as the lightweight scrubs he needed to borrow provided little protection for his injured and abused body. He was grateful his wallet contained some cash and his credit cards, though he knew he'd have to use both judiciously as he had little on hand or in reserve.
He wasn't sure he'd be able to pull it off. But when he'd insisted that he had a job to do and needed to leave the hospital, the nurse said those magic words, 'You're asking to leave AMA?' It had taken Kenny a few moments to cut through the fog and realize what those letters meant, but eventually he made the connection. In reality, the only time he'd ever heard about signing yourself out 'against medical advice' was on one of those television 'movie of the week' stories, but now he was living proof that it could really be done.
As he tried to find a comfortable stance, he wondered briefly if it was the wisest move he'd ever made, but those moments of doubt were fleeting. He knew he had to find Mulder. Something was wrong, deadly wrong, and he had to make sure his idol was safe and stayed that way.
The incident back at the airport was still fuzzy, but Kenny knew that the hand that pulled the trigger was that of Fox Mulder's body, but most certainly not of his mind. Something else was in control of Mulder at that moment, and there was nothing his mentor could have done at that time to stop himself from shooting the gun. Kenny knew he had to do something to make sure Mulder wasn't put into a similar situation where whatever force had put itself in control of Fox Mulder before could do it again.
He had to find him. He had to help him. Now, if he only knew why some crazy Indian name kept popping into his head and what the hell it actually meant. 'Thank heavens for the Internet,' he thought as the cab finally arrived. He climbed in gingerly, holding his injured arm, and told the cabby his destination. "LaGuardia Airport, please."
Kenny knew there were terminals with Internet access at the airport. All he had to do was type in the name of the place and let Yahoo do the walking. Now, if he could just figure out how to spell the damn thing. Quawntoke? Quonttawk? Quonatogue? He knew he'd figure it out. He had to. Fox Mulder's life very well might be in his hands.
Mulder Summer House Quonochontaug, Rhode Island Midnight
It was getting dark by the time Mulder pulled up in front of the white clapboard cottage just yards away from the ocean's noisy surf. Fumbling with his key ring, Mulder finally found the key for the deadbolt. He entered and locked the door behind him.
He flipped the light switch by the door but nothing happened. When was the last time he'd paid the utility bill on this place? Probably too long to remember. That meant no lights and no water, since the pump to the well was also electric. He could get water later at the little general store up the road. In the meantime, he located the hurricane lantern in the living room along with a book of matches. Soon a faint yellow glow cast dancing shadows around the room.
Shivering violently, he looked around the room again. It hadn't seemed that cold outside, but the little cottage had always held a chill. His mother attributed it to the dampness caused by the wind and the nearby surf. In recent years, Mulder imagined it had more to do with human folly than humidity.
There were still several pieces of wood lying next to the fireplace. Cedar logs, his father always paid extra for them because they repelled termites. Mulder set about the task before him and soon had a roaring flame overpowering the small lantern in its ability to create shadows.
"That's a fine job there."
The voice, coming from behind him in the darkened entrance to the other room, startled him severely.
"Jesus!" Mulder cried out, falling off balance from his crouch on the hearthstones. He put his hand out to catch himself, catching his hand on the rough-hewn stones and breaking the clot that had formed over the deepest of the cuts. "Son of a bitch!"
"You're getting warmer," chuckled the voice.
"Who the hell are you?" Mulder demanded.
"That's more like it," the voice responded smoothly.
Before Mulder could move, the flames from the fireplace blazed out of control. The flame caught the sleeve of his suit jacket, setting it instantly into a blazing inferno.
"Christ!" Mulder yelled, struggling to get out of the coat or put out the fire, whichever came first.
"He's presently out on assignment. Would you care to leave a message on his voice mail?" The voice said, still chuckling over its own joke and Mulder's frantic attempts to free himself. "Stop struggling- you'll only make it worse for yourself."
"Fuck!" Mulder spit out, getting his sleeve free, but finding that the fire had run a trail across the back of the coat.
"Now, now, now. I thought you reserved that for your pretty little partner."
Mulder's head jerked up in fury, his burning sleeve forgotten. "Show yourself!"
"Not yet . . . but soon. And when I do, I hope you're ready. I do so love a good challenge." Bitter laughter echoed off the walls of the small room, clashing with the shadows before they faded to a shiver down Mulder's spine.
He sat there on the hearth, hand bleeding and dripping onto the stones, the flesh on his arm singed and burned, tender and already starting to blister. The itchy feeling was gone, finally, but in its place was a depression that rivaled any he had known in his life. He felt as if his entire world had just crumbled before his eyes. His desperation when Scully lay dying was nothing compared to what he was now feeling. He slid his body down on the floor and started to sob.
LaGuardia Airport Waiting Room 12:35 a.m.
Kenny stared at the computer screen and shook his head in dismay. Without even thinking about it, he found his cell phone had appeared in his hand, and he'd already hit the two digits to connect him to the one person in the world who could help him.
"Computer nerds. What's your default?"
"Kerry, sweetie, it's me."
"Oh, God, Kenny, what the hell is going on? Your mom called me and said you'd been hurt, that you were in the hospital! Your dad's asked me to book us all flights up to New York, but everything's socked in with fog here and we can't get out until tomorrow--Damn it, Kenny, I've been worried sick! And the hospital wouldn't tell me dick!"
"Kerry, honey, it's okay, I promise. Just a scratch. I'm fine, really. But I'm working this case, and I'm running into a brick wall. I've tracked a guy down to a town in Rhode Island, something called Guantanimo, or Quantico, or something, hell, it's spelled Q-U-O-N-O-C-H-O-N-T-A-U-G, but once I get that far I lose him. Kerry," he pleaded in his patented 'help me 'cause I need you' voice, "I need to know why he's going to a place I don't even know how to pronounce."
"And just how do you propose to do that, Kenny?" she asked though she already knew the answer.
"Babe, I need a big favor," he began, hearing the resigned sigh on the other end. "I need you to hack into the personnel files at the Bureau and find out if there's anything in Mulder's background that shows a connection to this place."
"Kenny, are you crazy? Those are federal documents! Why the hell don't you just ask someone? You told me he has a partner; why not just call her and ask her?"
"I don't know how to contact her and besides..." he began, but then hesitated. He didn't want to unduly worry Kerry, but he wasn't sure how else to explain why time was of the essence. "Ker, I need you to do this for me. The guy may be in trouble, and I don't want to involve anyone else until I find out for sure."
"If he's in trouble, then that means you'll be in trouble. Kenny, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?" she asked anxiously.
"Oh, babe," he whispered, "I wish to hell I knew the answer to that already, but I don't. And I think I'm the only one who can really help him at this point. It's weird, I mean, we seem to have some kind of--"
Once again he hesitated, as he wasn't sure if his girlfriend would really understand.
"Connection," she completed his unspoken thought for him.
Kenny didn't know why he still doubted; they'd been together for the last two years and every day she'd managed to show him just how much she truly understood him. There was a definite connection between the two of them as well.
"Yeah, Ker, there's definitely something that binds us, but I'll be damned if I've figured out what or why. All I do know is the guy's in trouble, and I feel like I'm the only one who has the ability to get him out of it."
Kerry murmured something that Kenny didn't quite understand, but he knew she would do what he asked. She told him to hold on, since it might take some time to hack into the FBI system, but Kenny knew better. The woman was a phenom when it came to her hacking skills and he had no doubt that she would be inside the Bureau files quickly.
Several minutes passed and she checked in with him. "I'm almost in, Kenny. Spell his name for me, okay?" He did and within the next fifteen minutes she was back on the line with him. "Okay, babe, I'm in. The guy has quite a background. Hmmm, Oxford U.? Smart sonofabitch, too, isn't he?" she murmured.
"Kerry, I'm a little short on time. Is there any connection to Rhode Island?"
"Hold on, I'm looking. Damn, the man's medical records alone practically take up a gigabyte," she exaggerated. "Okay, here it is. Yup, Rhode Island is listed as a summer address." She read the street address to him so he could write it down. While she finished checking the file for any other details that she felt might be pertinent, he typed in the addresses on the MapQuest site to get door-to-door directions. It was late, and dark, he felt like hell and had never been to Rhode Island in his life, so he didn't want to take needless chances on getting lost.
"Okay, Kenny, that looks about it. Call me if you need anything else, please," she said with a forced casual tone. Kenny knew that meant if he didn't stay in touch with her he'd be paying dearly for it when he returned home.
"I'll call you when I get there. According to the map site, it should take me a little under three hours."
At that, he heard a loud chuckle and Kerry said, "Oh Babe, then I won't expect to hear from you for at least three, three and a half."
"Aw, c'mon, Kerry, my sense of direction isn't that bad," he argued. When all he heard was more chuckling and a short reference to a certain Sears parking lot, he knew he'd been defeated. "Look, did ya ever think maybe I would surprise you?"
"No, but I love you anyway. Now go, drive carefully, and call me when you get there. Or better yet, check in with me in a couple of hours so I know you're still headed in the right direction."
"Yeah, yeah," he said, but it was with a smile. The woman cared about him as much as he cared about her, and there was something very comforting about knowing that. Especially tonight.
Mendel Gottesman Library Yeshiva University 1:35 a.m.
The hour was getting late, and with no word from either of his agents, Skinner was feeling more agitated by the minute. There was little he could do at this point other than watch the New York AD supervise the crime scene. He observed how determined Linda Harper was to allow no stone be left unturned, and a cleanup that might have normally taken a couple of hours was taking twice as long.
She was most definitely wary of the media, so she was taking extra precautions to ensure that evidence was meticulously catalogued and sent to the proper labs for analysis, including the blood stained business card that bore Fox Mulder's name.
The AD couldn't stand it any longer. He felt he was helpless to do much more than stand around and watch the proceedings before him. He took a look at his watch, noticed the late hour, and realized he hadn't checked with the hospital on Agent Andrews' condition in quite sometime. He dialed information and was soon connected with Jamaica Hospital. When he asked for the surgical ICU, he was connected with the nurses' station.
"Good evening. This is Assistant Director Walter Skinner of the FBI. I'm calling to find out the condition of one of our agents, Kenneth Andrews?"
As Skinner listened to the voice on the other end, he felt all color in his face wash away. "What? What the hell are you talking about? The man was in the ICU, for crying out loud!" he argued in a voice that was loud enough to gain the attention of those around him. Soon, Agent Harper was by his side.
"What is it? Did they locate Mulder?" she asked anxiously.
Skinner shook his head and waved her off at the same time. "Look, I'll be right over and I'm going to expect an explanation. I want whoever was on staff at the time Agent Andrews was there to be ready to answer some questions!" He clicked off and snapped the cellular shut with a flourish.
"What happened?" asked a curious Harper, and then with a slight gasp at what the other possibilities could be, she asked, "He's not dead, is he?"
"No," Skinner replied quickly and with some sense of relief for that modicum of good fortune. "He's gone."
"Gone?" she echoed in confusion.
"That's what I said, Harper," he replied tersely, "gone."
"I don't understand; if he's not dead..."
"He signed himself out AMA," he explained and then he muttered under his breath, "The sonofabitch really is Spooky, Jr." He quickly shook off that thought and informed his New York counterpart that he was heading over to the hospital for some answers.
"Not by yourself, you're not," Harper retorted.
"What? Why not?"
"Because I want to hear the answers to some questions that you may conveniently choose not to ask."
"Now see here," Skinner began angrily, "I resent the implication that I'm not doing my job."
Harper looked around and noted that she and the AD here standing a discreet distance from the members of the investigative staff. She was angry, but felt no fear of repercussions in expressing that anger with this particular assistant director.
"You can resent it all you want, AD Skinner," she began in a low, but very clear, determined tone of voice, "but since this case is in my jurisdiction, you will follow my lead and run with my game plan. And since, quite frankly, you have given me little to trust regarding your motives in aiding and abetting Agent Mulder, I find that your indignation is a little unwarranted. So, you will wait until I have wrapped up here and we will go to the hospital, together."
And with that, Linda Harper turned on her heels, and walked away, to which anyone who was listening very closely might have heard a very angry and frustrated Walter Skinner mutter, "Once a bitch, always a bitch."
New Haven, CT Interstate 95 2 a.m.
Two hours later, Kenny checked in with Kerry. He was driving more slowly than he'd hoped, but the pain of the gunshot wound was turning out to be more than he'd anticipated, and without the benefit of pain killers, it was definitely slowing him down.
He worked hard to convince his girlfriend that he wasn't lost and that he was okay, but both of them knew she wasn't buying a word of it. They both also knew that she would be accepting of it, and allow him to do the job that he felt he needed to do.
"Kenny, you'll be careful, won't you?" she asked.
"Of course I will. When have you ever known me not to be careful?" He heard her clearing her throat to which he immediately responded, "Okay, don't answer that. I guess what I meant to say was that I'll be okay. I won't do anything really stupid, all right?"
They spoke a few minutes more, but Kenny begged off explaining that he wanted to make a pit stop for a piss and some coffee. Kerry laughed and wondered aloud when had the whispered sweet nothings in their relationship turned into the crude realities. Kenny chuckled at that as well and promised, "When I get home, I will whisper sweet nothings in your ear, and your neck, in the crook of your elbow, in your beautiful navel, in--"
"Stop! Before you start something that will force me to drive up and drag you back home to finish before you're ready, okay?" she asked breathlessly.
"Okay, okay," he laughed lightly, and then reminded her, "I love you, Kerry."
He continued on with his drive.
Jamaica Hospital NY, NY 2:05 a.m.
"Explain to me how a man with a bullet hole that is less than 24 hours old was allowed to walk out of this hospital?" AD Skinner demanded.
"Mr. Skinner, please," wearily began one of the ICU Nurses, Shira Sheth, "the man was over twenty-one, and he signed himself AMA. We didn't have a choice."
"Oh, you had a choice. The man was in no condition to be allowed to leave this facility. This is an outrage!" Skinner seethed.
"Sir, if you'll just calm down," requested Constance Howard, the ICU Charge Nurse, for what felt like the hundredth time.
"Was there anyone else here that might have convinced Agent Andrews to leave the hospital?" asked Harper. Skinner looked at her as if he were blindsided by the question; he couldn't help but wonder if that was his counterpart's intent.
"No, ma'am. Mr. Andrews didn't have any visitors this evening. He hadn't had anyone to visit with him since Mr. Skinner and the other FBI agent," offered Nurse Sheth.
"What other agent?" pounced Harper.
"I don't know, Ma'am; all I know is there was an agent who came to visit him shortly after he was brought into the ICU," explained the young Indian nurse.
"Was his name Fox Mulder?" Harper pursued.
"I don't know," Ms. Sheth replied tiredly. "I don't ask for the name of every visitor that appears in the ICU," she continued a mixture of anger and frustration. The young nurse resented the implication that she was somehow responsible for Agent Andrew's departure from the hospital. It was his decision, and one that was within his legal rights to make.
Skinner sighed as he suddenly came to realize he and Harper were badgering the poor woman unjustly. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "I don't mean to imply that it is yours or anyone else's fault that Agent Andrews left. He made a decision that I wish he hadn't made, that's all."
Next he looked at Harper and then at the nurses. "Did Agent Andrews give you any indication whatsoever about his destination? I mean, the man's residence is in D.C., so he's not hopping in a cab and going home to his bed."
"I don't know," murmured both nurses, and then Connie Howard confirmed that fact. "I'm sorry Mr. Skinner, but the man hadn't indicated to us one way or the other."
"Well, were there any other hospital staff that Agent Andrews might have spoken with?" asked Harper tersely.
"I'm not sure," replied Nurse Howard with equal animosity.
"Please," began Skinner in an attempt to placate the two women, "if there were any other people inside of Agent Andrews' room, we need to know about them. Ladies," he began earnestly, "it could very well be a matter of life and death. If not for Agent Andrews, then perhaps for a fellow officer."
"Excuse me," a small voice called out tentatively. All heads turned toward a young woman standing by the end of the nurse's station. She wore the uniform of a nurse, but with a small badge that indicated she was still a student.
"Is there something you need, Andrea?" asked Ms. Howard, grateful for the small diversion.
"Um, no, not really," Andrea stammered, "but I, well, I saw--" She stopped momentarily when her gaze caught first AD Skinner's and then Linda Harper's. It was the woman's piercing stare that intimidated her most.
"Miss?" called out Skinner softly. He could tell the young woman was hesitant, probably nervous, but he also knew instinctively that she had knowledge about Andrews. He wasn't about to let her be frightened into not offering that information.
"Miss," he repeated gently to get her attention, "Andrea, if you have any information regarding Agent Andrews' whereabouts, I would really appreciate it if you would tell me." Skinner purposely said to tell 'him,' not the other nurses and certainly not Harper, just 'him.'
Andrea Richardson looked at the now very kind demeanor of the tall, balding man and took a small breath. If she looked only at him, and not at the cold, harsh expression on the female assistant director, she would be able to find her voice.
"I'd gone in late this evening to check on the patient. When I walked in, I noticed he was in some kind of distress. I thought he was in pain from the gunshot wound, but then I realized he was asleep and having a nightmare.
"At first," she continued, all the while fixing her gaze on Skinner, "I wasn't sure whether to just leave him or try to wake him up. But soon he became very agitated and started thrashing around and I was afraid he might pull out his IV's. So I did. Wake him up that is."
When she remained silent, Skinner encouraged, "What happened next, Andrea?"
The young woman drew in another breath and continued, "He looked so scared. I don't remember ever seeing a grown man look so scared before." She shook her head at the memory. "Then he started talking nonsense. I mean it was almost like the babbling you see in one of those summer horror movies. He kept repeating the same thing over and over, 'It's gonna kill him, it's gonna kill him like the others. Safe, he's got to get safe,' and then something I didn't understand."
Again, she paused as if to make sure she recalled everything perfectly, for she realized it was that important.
However, Linda Harper had other ideas, and demanded, "What was it? For heaven's sake we don't have all night, Miss."
Andrea jumped slightly as she was startled out of her thoughts, but she refused to look at the female assistant director. She returned her eyes to Skinner's.
"He kept saying something over and over, but I didn't know what it meant. I don't think he did either." She saw the tall man nod encouragingly at her. "It sounded something like 'quota' or 'quinine'. He finally asked me for a piece of paper and a pencil so he could write it down."
"What the hell did he write?" asked Harper.
"I don't know," she responded nervously, "I was called out of the room."
"Oh, for crying out loud," moaned Harper.
"Wait, maybe..." stammered Andrea, and then she ducked into the room Kenny had occupied only a couple of hours earlier. She returned with a crumpled piece of paper. "It was in the wastebasket. Housekeeping hadn't emptied it yet." She offered the paper to AD Skinner, who took it gratefully.
He perused the variations of the nonsense words written on the paper, all using the letters 'Q-U-O-N- C-T-A-G'. It didn't take the AD long to put two and two together. "Spooky, Jr. strikes again," he mumbled to himself. "He's gone to Quonochontaug."
"Quonoch- What?" Harper attempted to echo.
"Quonochontaug. It's in Rhode Island."
"And how the hell do you know this? I mean, why would those letters suddenly jump out at you and tell you he's going to Quono-something, Rhode Island?" asked Harper incredulously.
Why indeed, wondered Skinner silently? He knew from Fox Mulder's history that his family had a summerhouse in Quonochontaug. He remembered the time Mulder's mother suffered the stroke at the house under somewhat mysterious circumstances, and Fox rushed to her side. But the time he remembered most clearly was the day Mulder almost ate his gun in that summer home, trying to banish the demons that were artificially placed there by an illegal drug.
"He's going to find Mulder," Skinner stated and then added, "Mulder's in trouble."
Harper was about to question the man about why he would make such a blatantly absurd remark without benefit of proof, but one look at his expression told her to remain silent. For whatever reason, Walter Skinner was positive that Rhode Island was Agent Andrews' destination and that Fox Mulder was in deep shit. Harper couldn't explain it, nor did she think she wanted to even try, but she believed her D.C. counterpart.
She'd had occasion, once, to learn about the man intimately, and she recognized that he spoke the truth as he knew it.
And if it meant finding Spooky Mulder and getting to the bottom of that damned Yeshiva University murder, then she would believe Skinner was Elvis come back to life if that's what it took to solve the case.
"Well, let's get a flight out," she responded.
"It's a small airport, there's no flights this time of night."
"Then, I guess we'd better go fill the car up, Walter; we've got a long drive ahead of us," she said with a false sweetness.
She turned without even an acknowledgment to the medical staff that had given so much of their time. All they felt was a cold draft as she exited the ICU station.
Mulder Summer Residence Quonochontaug, RI 4:05 a.m.
"Mulder?" Scully glanced at her watch again, the illuminated dial showing 3:05 a.m. Had she switched back to Eastern Time when the flight attendant had announced the time zone change? Probably not, she thought wearily. And who cared? It was too damned late to be driving that was for certain. She was dead on her feet.
"Mulder!" she called again, this time louder. She'd been so tired at the airport in Providence, even though she'd slept most of the two flights from Biloxi. She had not bothered to try to call Mulder's cell phone. From past experience she knew there was no cell service at the summerhouse.
"He's probably asleep," she muttered to herself as she followed the glow of the fireplace into the little sitting room. She expected to find him asleep on the sofa. Instead she found him curled in a ball on the floor in front of the hearth. He was shivering, but the fire had heated the room to a higher than comfortable temperature.
"Mulder," she crooned, laying her hand on his forehead and her hand becoming slippery with his sweat. "Are you sick? C'mon, let's get you up." After much tugging, he unfurled to a standing slump and allowed her to help him to the sofa. Once lying down he resumed his semi-fetal position.
"Why aren't the lights on?" she asked as she attempted to turn on the lamp next to the sofa. She really didn't expect an answer so she was surprised when he responded through chattering teeth.
"Forgot t-t-to pay the b-b-bill."
She nodded, relieved that it was something that simple, or that he was willing to admit as much. But his continued shivering was causing her to grow more and more concerned.
"Mulder, what's wrong? Are you sick? Hurt? What is it?"
"Sick. Hurt," he replied, his eyes never looking up at her, only staring at the shadows on the floor by her feet.
"Well, let me see," she pleaded and gently pushed on his shoulder until he was lying on his back. When she saw the condition of his left hand and arm, she let out a startled gasp. "Mulder! What the hell happened?"
Mulder pull a shaky hand up and placed a trembling finger on the tip of his nose. "On the money, Scully," he tried for a chuckle, but it sounded more like a sob.
"Mulder, did you fall in the fireplace? My God, your arm! Mulder, this is a second-degree burn! And how did you cut yourself?"
"The fire b-b-blazed up," he stammered. His eyes were still focused on something behind her. She took his face in her hands to force him to look at her, so she could see his eyes. They were glassy and even in the dim firelight she could see they were dilated.
She ran her hand over his forehead, brushing back damp locks. His skin was cool to the touch, but clammy and dripping with sweat.
"I think you're in shock," she told him, getting up to go the short distance into the tiny bedroom and coming back with a blanket.
"Did that shadow just move?" he demanded frantically, his eyes once again focused on the dark that played around them.
"Trick of the fire, Mulder. Nothing more," she assured him.
He shook his head emphatically as she tucked the blanket around his shoulders. "I need to clean that hand and bandage it. It probably needs a couple of stitches. And I need to put burn ointment on your arm. Those blisters could become infected." She had been fussing with the blanket and hadn't looked back at his face. He wasn't listening to a word she was saying.
"Mulder?" she shook his shoulder to get his attention. Groggily, he turned his head toward her. "Is there a first aid kit around here somewhere? I would imagine everything in it has probably expired but there might be some gauze or some petroleum jelly. That doesn't go bad and it would at least protect the blisters. Where would your mom have kept that?"
He grabbed her arm with a force she wasn't expecting and his eyes grew wide. "Get out, Scully. Get out quick, before it comes back."
"Mulder!" she pulled at his wrist to break his crushing grip on her forearm. "Mulder, relax! There's no one here and no one has been here. Just you. Now we really need to take care of your arm."
"I don't want to hurt you, too, Scully," he rasped out, tears suddenly forming in his eyes and careening down his cheeks. "Please, I can't hurt you. I don't want to hurt you. Just leave, now, while there's still time."
Her heart almost broke at the sight of his anguish. She brought her hand up to his cheek, caressing it gently. "Mulder, I'm not leaving you. Not ever."
In an instant his face changed and his eyes burned with a black unspeakable evil. The voice that came from his mouth was not Mulder's and it froze her heart in her chest.
"Then I guess you will die together."
Mulder Summer House Quonochontaug, RI 4:54 am
"Mulder, what are you talking about?" Scully asked as calmly as her tattered nerves would allow. She'd never seen her partner's eyes that black, coal black but with a fire behind them that seemed to burn right through her. Maybe it was just a trick of the fire in the hearth, but something in her gut told her it was something else entirely. When he spoke, she knew it wasn't just the firelight.
"Get up." He said it like the command it was and she stood up quickly, taking a few steps backward to put more distance between them. He rolled into a sitting position, tossed the blanket to the floor and glared at her with more hate than she could have imagined one man could hold.
"Mulder, you're not feeling well. You need to lie down," she said in a steady voice, hoping he couldn't see how much his eyes and voice were causing her to tremble. This is Mulder, for God's sake, she kept repeating as a mantra to herself. He would never hurt me, he would never hurt me, he would never . . .
As he reached behind his back for where his gun rested in his holster, she knew she had very few options. One was to run as fast as she could. The second was to wait and possibly get herself killed in the process. The third was to shoot first, wound him, and deal with the consequences later. She'd taken that option once before and still lived with the guilt.
However, the idea of standing still while her partner, her lover, killed her in cold blood was not appealing in the least. In the fraction of a second it took him to reach behind his back, Scully was off and running directly through the French sliding doors to the beach. She held her jacket over her head for protection from the glass as it broke and cascaded over her.
The sky was as dark as pitch; even the stars were no longer twinkling. It was the moments before dawn she'd marveled over as a child at how truly dark it was just before sunrise. She could barely make out the path before her, only guided by the pounding of the surf on the rocks by the beach.
Scully had only been to this stretch of beach twice. Once, when Mulder had decided to drill a few holes in his head and then again, a few months later when he demanded they take a weekend for themselves after the aborted 'team building' conference in Florida. The first time it had been night like it was before her now. But the second time, they'd combed the beach at sunset, looking for shells and driftwood for the fireplace.
She remembered clearly the rocks that jutted out into the surf and how the chill wind of the New England early summer had all but frozen her to the core. She remembered Mulder's strong arms around her, giving her a hug before he struggled out of his windbreaker and wrapped it securely around her. They weren't sexually intimate at that time, but she'd never felt more loved in her life than those few moments on the beach. Whether it was the memory of that time and hoping it would come to Mulder, too, or simply because she knew she could hide among the rocks, Scully hurried toward the pounding surf, never taking the time to look behind her.
In the little bungalow, Mulder's face broke into a hideous scowl, but it wasn't Mulder scowling. He was now only a vessel, and a slightly broken one at that. No matter, for what the possessor had planned, there wouldn't be need of a strong vessel, just one that could last long enough to follow the woman to the beach.
It would have enjoyed indulging itself a bit, but that was a luxury it could ill afford. Ending that one's life was necessary, for the man Mulder was almost as great a threat as were those it had already dispatched.
With little thought as his bare arm caught on more shards of glass, he ran out the same door through which Scully had just escaped. It was dark and it took him a moment for his eyes to adjust from the dim light of the fireplace. He tried to listen for her footsteps, but the unceasing pounding of the surf drowned them out. Finally, he took off in the direction of the water, his gun drawn and the safety off.
Scully reached the rocks and scrambled over the craggy surface. There were sharp places and slippery edges. When she was younger, her brothers had often tried to lose her by climbing trees, rocks, anything that might otherwise deter girls not as determined as she was. Those early experiences served her as well as her FBI training, as she steadied slick soles on wet and slimy seaweed and gained purchase at the cost of the skin on the palms of her hands.
"Shit," she muttered as another jagged edge bit into her flesh. She had just skinned a knee on one of the rocks, only to scrape her arm on another. But finally she was down near the water's level, not daring to consider how soon the tide might cover her hiding place. She cursed herself for not taking the tide into account, but there was nothing to be done about it now. She just hoped she'd be able to swim out into the water a ways and come back onto the beach at a point further up where she could run to the road for help.
The surf was so loud in her ears and the spray so distracting that she didn't see Mulder standing and watching her from atop of the rocks.
"Not a very safe place to sit," he yelled down to her. For a heartbeat she could almost believe that it was Mulder, her Mulder, and not some horrible being intent on her death. Then he raised his arm and extended his gun, firing off two rounds.
The first whizzed past her head; the second clipped the rock an inch from her shoulder, the chips imbedding themselves in her upper arm.