Title: Revenge
Author: Lovesfox
E-mail: Lovesfox@rogers.com (Feed me, please)
Web site: http://www.geocities.com/kim_djd/index.html
Rating: NC-17 (violence, consensual M/S sex and strong
language)
Category: Implied UST then MSR, Angst, Story/X-File
Classification: XRA
Spoilers: Not really, but up to mid-S7
Archive: As long as my name and everything stays attached
Please let me know though.
Summary: An old case of Mulder's resurfaces seeking revenge
Disclaimer: Alas, not mine. They belong to Chris Carter and
1013 Productions.
Dedication: To true friendship, through thick and thin.
Thanks, T.
Warning: This story contains some scenes of violence, a rape
attempt, implied character death, references to
incest, and graphic sex.
Revenge Part 2 of 29
by Lovesfox
Abandoned Warehouse, Dockside
Washington, D.C.
Monday
7:30 pm
Scully blinked her eyes, her vision blurry. Slowly it cleared,
but she could see little anyway. Where she lay, and she had yet
to determine where that could be, was dimly lit. She struggled
awkwardly into a seated position on the lumpy cot, her back
slumping wearily into the wall behind her from the effort of
rising. Her hands were still bound, rather tightly, with rope.
She swung her legs, also tied with rope, down in front of her to
partially dangle off the edge, trying to stretch the kinks out.
She did not know how long she had been out this time. After the
man had shoved a cell phone in her face, telling her it was Mulder,
and she had said his name, hearing herself slur the word, she had
been gone again.
The room she was kept in did not have windows, and always seemed
to be in the same stage of light, so it was difficult to judge
the time of day. She was not actually sure which day it was
either. Her captor, whom she did not recognize, and who made no
effort to disguise himself, a fact which disturbed her greatly,
brought her water and food, and took her to use the facilities,
at odd intervals, so she could not guesstimate the time of day.
He also kept her well sedated.
Her arm was sore from repeated injections. She had lost count of
how many there had been, and not knowing what she was injected with,
or the dosage, she could not determine a pattern there either.
She was almost sure though, that when she was awake, it was not for
very long.
Her mind was clearing further. She decided to take advantage of
this and try and learn a bit more about her surroundings. The wall
against her back was cool, and a bit damp, and she shivered
slightly. At least she was no longer in her suit. Some time
earlier, and it could have been hours or days ago, her captor had
untied first her hands and then after her feet, and thrown a
sweatshirt and a pair of track pants, which she recognized as her
own, at her to change into. She had been very groggy, her muscles
weak, and had been unable to attempt to overcome him, knowing it
was futile at the time. He had not turned away, or allowed her to,
and she had been forced to disrobe and dress in front of him.
She had done so quickly, trying not to let her emotions show on her
face. She was not sure if the smile on his face had been at her
involuntary strip tease, or the fact that she had failed to disguise
her discomfort, but whatever the reason, it had made her feel
very uncomfortable.
She shook her head slightly. Enough, there was no point in
dwelling on that. So far, and she prayed fervently that it would
remain that way; he had not touched her except to move her about.
She had a vague memory of him jumping out at her from a white van,
so she must have been transported here, wherever here was, by the
van, and then carried inside.
The room she was in was rectangular, and no more than ten feet by
perhaps twelve feet. The walls, including the one she leaned
against, were cement, probably a light gray, although in the poor
lighting, it was difficult to determine positively. She finally
noticed where the light was coming from. One bare light bulb in
the corner opposite where she rested upon the cot, up in the
ceiling, for the scantiest of illumination. There was only one
door, and it appeared to be of a heavy wood. She hadn't been able
to work up enough energy to try and get to it and see if it was
locked yet.
The logical side of her brain insisted it was locked,
there was little chance he would be so careless as to leave her a
means to escape her prison. The small, hopeful part prayed that
he had somehow forgotten.
She had to try. She straightened from the wall and clumsily
shimmied herself forward until her feet were planted on the floor.
It took several attempts, but she managed to heave her body into
a standing position. She wavered there for a moment, her head
spinning nauseously, before she finally felt ready to try to move.
With her feet tied together as they were, she was reduced to
hopping ignominiously, each landing jarring her head and body.
She was thankful her hands were bound in front of her; she did not
think she could have kept her balance otherwise.
She was panting harshly by the time she got to the door, and had
to pause for a moment as she felt her head spin again. Several
deep, slow breaths helped a little, and she reached out with her
bound hands to grasp the doorknob.
There was a scraping noise from the other side, and she gasped
sharply. The doorknob turned and then the heavy wood was swinging
inwards, knocking her to the ground. She hit hard, her breath
whooshing out of her lungs with the impact. Pain sang along her
right side and hip and she groaned in reaction, curling into a ball.
"Going somewhere?" the man said, standing just above her.
Scully heard the anger in the seemingly casual words, and knew
she would pay for her escape attempt. Feeling she had nothing
more to lose, she tensed all her muscles and with one swift
movement, kicked her legs out in a sweeping motion, connecting
with his ankles.
Either she was weaker than she had thought, or he was far stronger
than he appeared. The movement did not knock him to the ground
as she had intended, but merely caused him to lose his balance
slightly. She could feel his eyes on her, menacing and cold,
and a twinge of fear had her heart racing.
"That was a very bad idea," he said between gritted teeth. He
swooped down suddenly and grabbed her by her upper arms, hauling
her to her feet. He shook her hard and the motion woke the
dizziness in her head. She tried to contain her moan, but it slid
past her lips as he continued to shake her. "Did. You. Think. I.
Would. Leave. The. Door. Unlocked? Do. You. Think. I. Am. Stupid?"
Each word was punctuated by another shake.
Her eyes were rolling, the nausea nearly overwhelming. He must
have sensed she was close to passing out, for he stopped shaking
her and flung her towards the cot. She landed awkwardly, her ribs
colliding with the metal frame, her upper body on the cot, her lower
half hanging off of it. She had neither the strength nor the
leverage to pull her self completely onto the cot, and tumbled to
the floor, with nothing to break her fall but her body, which it did
with a bone-jarring thud.
Heavy footsteps as he stomped to her side. She cringed, expecting
a blow, but he merely grasped her by one of her arms and pulled her
upright again. This time when he pushed her, he made sure she
landed on the cot, falling onto her rear.
As frightened as she was, she was not going to cower before him.
She lifted her head, her chin jutting out, to meet his eyes. He
frowned at her action, and then his eyes dropped, to her neck,
she thought. His frown deepened, and he muttered something that
sounded like, "She tried to hang herself." He moved forward,
bending over her, and she pressed herself against the wall as his
hand came up to touch the flesh at her throat. He ran his fingers
over it gently and this time she heard his words clearly. "There's
no scar."
Scully swallowed suddenly, a nervous reaction that he felt beneath
his fingertips, for he blinked and pulled back. He straightened,
his eyes returning to hers. "You can't escape. It's useless to
try," he said. "If you attempt it again, I will have to restrain
you further." He paused and then continued, "It won't be pleasant."
"Why..." her voice was hoarse from misuse. She cleared her throat
and tried again. "Why am I here?"
He turned away from her and started towards the door. She didn't
think he was going to answer, but he stopped at the doorway. He did
not turn around, but his voice carried. "Agent Mulder took something
from me, so I took something from him. You."
With that, he left the room, shutting the door behind him. The lock
engaging from the other side was loud in the silence of her small
prison and Scully slumped tiredly against the wall.
Mulder. Oh, God, what was he going through right now? She
hadn't really thought about why the man had made her speak Mulder's
name into the cell phone, but now she realized the man must be
using her to torment Mulder. Did Mulder know who the man was?
How was he going to find her? For she knew he would find her,
that he would not rest until he did. Tears stung her eyes, and she
shut them to stop their flow.
She swung her legs up carefully, and lay down on the cot, her bound
hands in front of her. Although her head still throbbed a little
from the shaking, she was still feeling alert. Just as she was
wondering why he had not drugged her again, the door opened with a
bang. He moved to her side quickly, bent down and jabbed a needle
in her arm, drawing a hiss of pain from her.
Her eyelids were heavy by the time he left the room.
***
Scully's Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.
Monday
8:30 pm
Skinner entered Scully's apartment wearily, and scanned the living
room, not spying Mulder. The pictures were still spread on the
table, but the cell phone was gone. He rubbed the back of his neck
as he crossed over to Agent Dryer, who was still manning the phone.
"Where is Agent Mulder?" he asked gruffly, fighting the urge to
yawn. He was also trying not to think of the gnawing hole in his
stomach, the coffee he had scarfed down a couple hours ago had done
little to appease his appetite.
"Sir!" the agent said, his back straightening.
Skinner resisted the urge to tell the agent they were not in the
Marines and repeated his question, his tone only slightly brisker.
"Where is Agent Mulder?"
"In Agent Scully's bedroom, Sir," Agent Dryer replied, his face
crinkling in confusion. "He went out a while ago to check her
car, and then he came rushing back in here, saying he needed to
check Agent Scully's bedroom and that he didn't want to be
disturbed. He hasn't come out since, Sir."
Skinner nodded absent-mindedly at the agent, starting to move
away from Dryer. They had forgotten to check her car, but he
doubted Mulder had found anything, he would have reported it
if he had. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, to conceal the yawn
he could no longer contain. He turned back to the agent and
said, a little gruffly, "You're relieved for the evening, Agent
Dryer. I'd like you back here at 7 am."
Agent Dryer stood and nodded, saying, "Thank-you, Sir." He
looked down the hallway that led to Scully's bedroom and then at
Skinner, but said nothing.
Skinner watched as Dryer left the apartment, and then locked
the door. He glanced at the pictures on the table once more
before heading down the hall to Scully's bedroom. He wondered
what Mulder was doing, why he had closeted himself in there.
He rapped on the door lightly with his knuckles, and hearing
nothing in response, slowly opened the door. The sight that
greeted his eyes had him pausing in the doorway. Mulder sat on
the floor, his back against one side of Scully's bed, his arms
wrapped around his bent legs, staring blankly at the floor.
Focused on Mulder as he had been, he had not noticed the
condition of Scully's bedroom. He stepped further inside, head
swiveling as he scanned the room in shock.
Everything was in disarray. Drawers were open, articles of
clothing hanging from some, and Skinner almost blushed when he
spied a wisp of silk and lace, the bedding in a jumble in the
center of the bed, the pillows tossed in one corner. The low
dresser that rested under the windows had been shoved out and
on an angle, and the items that had graced its surface appeared
to have been propelled to one side.
Skinner looked back at Mulder, who had not moved in the time
he had been standing by the door. The agent had shed his jacket
and tie, both of which lay on the floor where they had apparently
been flung, and his sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up on his
forearms.
Skinner crossed the floor and crouched beside Mulder. The agent
showed no sign of having heard him approach. He reached out and
grasped Mulder's forearm, much as he had earlier. The flesh he
touched was chilled and Skinner felt a twinge of alarm. "Mulder?"
he questioned. No response. He tightened his grip and shook Mulder
lightly, repeating his name.
Mulder continued to stare at the floor, barely even blinking, and
Skinner shook him again, a little harder. "Mulder, snap out of it,
man!" he barked, and was finally rewarded by Mulder's head turning
slowly to look at him. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes wide
and tortured, not quite meeting Skinner's own.
"He said he left a clue," Mulder said, his voice just above a
whisper. "I can't find it." He turned his head away again, eyes
sweeping the room. He pulled from Skinner's grasp and stood,
shakily. "It has to be here. I have to find it."
Skinner got to his feet slowly. "Did he call again, Mulder?" he
asked. "What did he say?" When Mulder did not answer, he called
the agent's name sharply.
Mulder turned to face him. His eyes were filled with confusion,
and exhaustion. "What?" he asked.
"Mulder, did the man call again?" Skinner asked again. He moved
over to Mulder's side and pushed him onto the mussed bed. Mulder
sank unresisting, his hands coming up to hold his head.
"I went outside. To check Scully's car. I found...I found the
key chain I gave her a long time ago. It was broken." Mulder's
recital was monotone. "The car was clean, and I was headed back
inside, when the phone rang. It was him. He asked if I found
anything interesting with Scully's car." His hands slid away from
his head and he raised it to look at Skinner. "I think he's
watching me, watching Scully's place." The look on his face
frightened Skinner. "He said we had a connection, and that he was
disappointed. I didn't...I don't recognize his voice. But he said
he left a clue. I have to find..." His voice trailed off and he
stood and began to wander around Scully's bedroom, stopping
occasionally to peer at things closely.
Skinner watched Mulder worriedly. He had seen Mulder in
distracted, concentrating states before, but this intensity was
almost frightening. And at the same time, fascinating to watch.
It made him admire Mulder, and Scully for dealing with it on a
regular basis, even more.
Skinner knew that Mulder would not rest unless forced, and that he
would have to be the one to force him. "Mulder, you need to take a
break. You'll be no help to Scully if you collapse from hunger or
exhaustion," he said, moving to touch Mulder on the shoulder.
"A clear head will help you focus."
Mulder looked at him, mumbling, "Scully. Help Scully."
Skinner was surprised at how docile Mulder was as he led him out of
Scully's bedroom and to her kitchen. He pushed him into a chair and
set about making Mulder something to eat. It felt awkward to be
using Scully's kitchen so freely, but he knew she would approve the
usage for Mulder's sake.
He listened to Mulder's disjointed ramblings as he made sandwiches
for both of them, and poured Mulder some ice tea from the pitcher he
found inside the refrigerator. The words 'clue' and 'Scully' were
uttered most frequently, and with great sadness. He placed the
plate and glass in front of Mulder and watched as Mulder
mechanically picked up the glass and drained it completely. He
ignored the sandwich, and Skinner said softly, "Mulder, Scully would
want you to eat."
He was not surprised when Mulder began to eat the sandwich. He
picked up his own and ate it in quick, economical bites. His next
move was to get Mulder to rest. After clearing the dishes from the
table and placing them in the sink to clean later, he placed his
hand gently on Mulder's shoulder. He hoped he would not have to
undress Mulder, but was prepared to if that was what it took.
"You need to get some sleep, Mulder. Come on." He paused and then
added, "For Scully."
Once again, Scully's name was the magic word. Mulder rose from his
chair and headed down the hall to Scully's bedroom, and Skinner
followed, slightly bemused. He stood in the doorway and watched as
Mulder went to Scully's closet and retrieved a blanket and a pillow,
as if he had done this many times before. Perhaps he had, Skinner
mused. He had never questioned the closeness between Mulder and
Scully, although he had often wondered how deep it went. A small
part of him even envied it.
He followed Mulder back down the hall and saw him put the bedding on
the couch. Mulder stripped off his shoes, shirt and pants, pulling
the cell phone out of one of the pockets, and settled onto the couch
in his undershirt and boxers, pulling the blanket over his body.
The cell phone he held clutched in one hand, resting on his chest.
Skinner stood for a moment, uncertainly. Finally he headed back
down the hall to use Scully's bathroom. He relieved himself and
then turned to the cabinets beneath the sink. A quick search
turned up a brand new toothbrush still in its wrapper. He availed
himself of it and her toothpaste, and then splashed water over his
face, drying off on the hand towel folded neatly to the side of the
sink. Removing his tie and shirt, having taken off his suit jacket
in the kitchen, he hung them on the hook on the back of the door
before heading back to the living room. He kicked off his shoes
and sank into the wing chair, propping his sock feet on the coffee
table, resigning himself to an uncomfortable night.
He could not tell if Mulder was sleeping or not, but remained
silent, hoping against all hopes that he was, and that his sleep
would be deep and dreamless. He closed his eyes, head falling back
to rest on the back of the chair, and let his body relax. His
thoughts drifted to the many interviews he had conducted throughout
the day, and the lack of any substantial information from Scully's
neighbors. He had also spoken briefly to the agent that he had
placed in charge of conducting spot checks in the buildings that
lined Scully's street, Traci Reynolds. There had been nothing to
report. He had instructed her and the other agents to return in the
morning to begin again.
He took a deep breath, clearing his mind of all thoughts, including
those that concerned Scully and her well being, knowing that he
badly needed to get some rest in order to continue the investigation
into her disappearance. Within moments, he was asleep.
***
11:30 pm
Mulder lay in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling, his hand
clutching the cell phone, his lifeline to Scully. He could hear
Skinner's deep, even breathing as the man slept. He himself
could not sleep. His mind was filled with images of Scully, most
of them from the pictures he had stared at for so long. It seemed
the man had been following them, following her, for quite some time
before he had made his move. The thought was disturbing, some of
the pictures showed how close he had actually gotten to them at
times, and he wondered how it was that they had not noticed. Had
they become so complacent in their lives, in their routines, that
they no longer saw the unusual around them? He had always prided
himself in his keen senses, why had they failed him then? And now?
A clue. It could be so many things, but nothing jumped out at him.
He had stood in Scully's bedroom after the phone call for what
seemed like hours, but in reality had been only minutes, studying
it as they had first found it, minus the photos on the bed and the
cell phone on the dresser. He hadn't exactly been a regular visitor
to Scully's bedroom, but he had been there often enough, he thought,
to recognize something out of the ordinary.
Her closet door had been slightly ajar, and while that could just
have been from Scully not closing it properly, he had gone over to
it and looked inside. Shoes neatly arranged on little shoe racks,
were any missing? He couldn't tell. Skirts, pants, suit jackets,
blazers, somewhat organized by color. Gaps here and there,
clothing at the dry cleaners? Her suitcase and carry on bag stowed
tidily in the back.
He had pulled dresser drawers open next, seeing evidence of Scully's
neatness everywhere, rifling through each one. A sweet scent rose
from each drawer, and he saw sachets tucked inside. He had
hesitated when he discovered her lingerie, feeling like a pervert
for invading her privacy that way. At the same time, he had felt
no small thrill for touching the silks and satins she wore close
to her skin. He also felt shame for that thrill.
He had turned then and her bed had loomed before him, the comforter
slightly wrinkled from when he had removed the photographs. Other
than the cell phone on the dresser, it had been the only other
apparent item that had been touched or tampered with. His legs had
jerkingly carried him forward and then he was at one side, staring
down at it, at the pillows her head graced each night, at the
comforter that kept her warm. His hand lifted from his side so
slowly, and then suddenly he was grasping one of the pillows and
tossing it aside. The other one followed quickly, but they revealed
nothing. Cold fingers plucked at the bedding, flipping them down
in one swift moment. Still nothing.
The low dresser beneath the windows was next. He shoved it out of
the way, checking behind it, around it, his movements choppy and
frantic. Grabbing at the window shades, lifting them, shaking them.
Where was it? Where was the fucking clue?
He had begun to pace, back and forth, from the window to the
closet. Over and over again, eyes restlessly searching. Then from
the bed to the door, until finally he had sank exhaustedly onto the
floor, his back against her bed. He drew his knees up to his chest,
hugged them tightly to his body.
As he lay there on the couch, he remembered Skinner coming into
Scully's bedroom, leading him to the kitchen, and making him eat.
The sandwich sat like a leaden lump in his stomach still. His
fingers clenched spasmodically on the cell phone, and he wondered if
Scully had eaten. If she was thirsty, or tired, or hurt.
Please don't let her be hurt.
He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the darkness to overwhelm him.
***
Abandoned Warehouse, Dockside
Washington, D.C.
Tuesday
5:00 am
When Scully woke again, he was there. Sitting on a stool he must
have brought in, close to the cot, staring at her. She could not
control her startled flinch or the widening of her eyes.
He smiled at her reaction, but it was an odd smile. A smile that
sent a shiver through her entire body. She pushed herself up on
the cot awkwardly, grimacing as the motion brought pins and needles
to her bound hands, and huddled against the wall, hating her
display of weakness, but helpless to stop it. She blinked slowly,
her mind still fuzzy, and tried to swallow away the dryness in her
mouth and throat.
"Thirsty?" he asked, and his concern seemed sincere.
She nodded, watching him carefully as he reached down beside him,
beyond her range of sight, and straightened, holding a bottle of
water. He unscrewed the cap and held the bottle out to her, forcing
her to lean forward to grasp it with pained fingers. It was
difficult, with her hands tied so tightly, but she managed to bring
the bottle to her mouth, tilting her head back to drink deeply.
Scully did not close her eyes as she drank, but kept them focused
warily on him, watching for any sudden moves. She saw that he was
staring at her throat, seemingly fascinated by the motions of her
swallows. It made her uncomfortable and she lowered the bottle,
holding it carefully in her lap. He had stared at her throat
earlier too, and said something about her not having a scar.
She saw that he was rocking slightly, and that his eyes were a
little glazed. His lips were moving soundlessly, and then the
words tumbled out. "Her throat. Her beautiful throat. The scar.
Oh, it must have hurt."
"Whose throat?" she asked softly.
His eyes snapped up to meet hers, and they narrowed in anger.
"Shut up!" he hissed. Suddenly he was off the stool and crouching
over her, his body pinning hers to the cot, his hands around her
neck, squeezing tightly. The water bottle fell to the floor with
a small thud.
Scully tried to suck in air, her vision going spotty. Her bound
hands came up to bat ineffectively at his chest. Fortunately her
motions must have distracted him, for he let go, pulling away from
her, mumbling, "No, no. Not like this. Mulder must see..." His
voice trailed off, and he began to pace.
Scully gulped in deep lungfuls, coughing painfully. What must
Mulder see?
The man's pacing had brought him back the cot, his foot kicking
the fallen water bottle. He bent and righted it as she continued
to cough. "Don't you try and distract me," he said, shaking his
finger at her. "Mulder has to suffer, just as I did." He turned
away again. "Just as she did."
His steps took him to the door and she thought he was going to leave
again. But he turned around and came back to sit on the stool once
more, shaking his head. "You're making me confused," he said. "I
don't like that." He reached inside the jacket he wore and
pulled out a syringe.
The low moan rose unbidden in her throat and he looked at her
unapologetically. "I don't trust you not to try anything," he
said. "This is just a little something to make you...manageable."
One hand grasped her by the elbow, lifting her arm up as the other
hand injected the syringe's contents into the muscle of her upper
arm. His next words were lower, and she heard them only vaguely
through the fog that was invading her mind. "They kept her
sedated all the time."
Scully blinked, a feeling of lassitude swamping her body, and
wondered in a far corner of her brain who 'she' was. Her tongue
was thick but she managed to mumble, "Who?"
The man looked at her in surprise, seemingly unaware he had
spoken again, and Scully wanted to remember something, but the
thought flew away, blanketed by the fog.
Hands were at her feet, and then she was being lifted, to stand
waveringly on the floor. A gripping at her elbow, prodding her
forward, and she floated across the floor and out the door.
She felt the cold, and the dampness, but they were far away
feelings, like something she might have been concerned with
once upon a time.
They did not walk long before they made a turn into another room,
the walls of which were tiled in a uniform white. There were
door-less bathroom stalls, and off to the side, partitioned shower
stalls that may have once had curtains for privacy. He stopped
her and stood in front of her to untie her hands, then gestured
at the room. "Make yourself at home."
Scully stared down at her freed hands, at the redness that
circled her wrists and then looked around. The man was sitting
on a chair she had not seen a moment ago, blocking the doorway,
facing into the room. He did not turn his head or offer her
privacy in any way. She walked on weak legs to the farthest
stall, the one that was least visible from his perch, still
capable of feeling embarrassment and shame through the
languor.
After she had relieved herself, she made her way to the sink, her
shuffling footsteps loud in the quiet of the room. She stared at
herself in the long mirror that ran along the wall, distantly noting
the pallor of her skin and the lankness of her hair. There was
actually a bank of sinks, and she thought for the briefest of
seconds that she might be in a locker room of sorts. His voice
reached her then. "You should take a shower. There is a towel and
soap on the counter."
Scully stared at her reflection, wondering if it were possible to
get any paler. Despite the drug coursing through her system, that
seemed to chase away all her thoughts, she knew she did not want to
take a shower in this room.
"Refusal really isn't an option," came his voice, and she shivered
at the menace. "If you don't take it yourself, I will help you."
The tone was enough to have her picking up the aforementioned
items and moving, albeit slowly, over to the shower stalls.
Again, she chose the one farthest from him, stiffening at the low
chuckle that followed her actions. She kept her back to him and
resolutely removed her clothing, trying to move as swiftly as
possible. Her hands were all thumbs, and as she leaned over to
remove her shoes, she felt light-headed for a moment, reaching out
one hand to brace herself on the cold tile. She piled her clothes
just outside the raised step that led into the stall, along with
the towel, shielding her nude body as best she could, and grasping
the soap in one hand, reached out with the other to turn the
water on. The flow was not very heavy, nor was it very warm, but
it still felt good. She stuck her head directly into the water and
let it run over her face for a moment before scrubbing one hand over
her eyes, although she left them closed. If she couldn't see him,
then he couldn't see her. A childish thought, she knew, but one she
needed to cling to. She did not want to think of him watching her
as she washed herself.
He had not provided her with shampoo, just the soap, and as she
lathered it in her hands, its fragrance wafted to her nostrils.
It was a scented soap that smelled faintly of roses. She ran the
soap through her hair, scrubbing at her scalp, and then rinsed
it out. She made quick work of the rest of her body and had
turned to rinse completely when a sound reached her ears. She
opened her eyes fearfully, but he was not there.
The sound came again, and she recognized it as the scraping of his
chair on the floor. "Turn off the water and get dressed," came his
voice, echoing slightly in the tiled room. She hurried as much
as she was able, turning the taps off and drying her body quickly
before putting her clothes back on. She then used the towel to
blot the water from her hair.
She made her way to where he was now standing and he spoke again.
"Hold out your hands." She did, and he re-tied them. He tugged
at her and she stumbled into him. He made a sniffing sound and
then whispered, "You smell like Elizabeth." He shook his head,
blinking rapidly and pulled at her again, leading her back to her
prison. He pushed her inside, saying, "I'll bring you something
to eat later. I have to get ready...to torment Mulder."
The door slammed behind her, the lock clicking into place. She
made her way over to the cot and sat down; surprised that he had
not tied her feet up again. She yawned deeply then, her body
extremely tired from the exertions of walking and showering, so
she lay down on the cot.
Her eyes drifted shut, her mind still not quite clear. The words
"torment Mulder" rang over and over. What did he mean? And who
was Elizabeth?
Sleep overtook her.
***
6:00 am
Elliot Andercott moved through the silence of the warehouse
towards the room where he kept Dana Scully. In his hands he
carried his Polaroid camera, ready to proceed with the next stage
of his plan of revenge against Fox Mulder. He looked at his watch;
saw that he was running a bit behind. The scent that had teased
his nostrils when Dana bumped into him, Elizabeth's scent, had
thrown him for a loop. His mind had refused to work, he could not
get Elizabeth's image out. He missed her so. He had barely been
able to leave the room where he was keeping Dana, and he had
forgotten to inject her again.
He was not overly concerned about not having drugged her further,
she had been heavily sedated the night before, and the relaxant
he had given her in order for her to shower had probably been
enough to knock her out again anyway.
Reaching the door, he took a deep breath, trying to focus on the
tasks at hand, and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and saw
that he was correct. Dana Scully was out cold on the cot. He also
saw that he had forgotten to retie her feet. He would have to
rectify that for when he went out.
He crossed the floor to stand over her. She lay partially on her
side, knees drawn up to her chest, facing the door, curling strands
of hair falling onto her face. He bent over and reached one hand
out slowly to brush the hair away, he needed her face clear. The
scent of roses wafted to his nose again and he closed his eyes,
letting his fingers sift through the softness of her hair. Just
like Elizabeth's.
Elizabeth.
His eyes popped open and he straightened with an angry jerk.
Lifting the camera to his eye, he pointed it at her face, and
pressed the button. The camera whirred noisily, but she did not
move. He removed the Polaroid and placed it on the stool to dry.
He stepped back and pointed it at her again, this time including
her body in the shot. He took two that way, laying each picture
aside, and then focused the camera on her bound hands, taking one
of them as well.
Putting the camera aside, he looked around him for the rope to
tie her feet. There wasn't any. He must have left it in the
shower room. He cursed under his breath. He didn't have any
time to waste. He would just have to inject her again. He reached
inside his inner pocket and pulled out another syringe. With
quick movements, he pressed it into her arm, holding the spent
needle carefully in his fingers. The Polaroids were thankfully
dry, so he tucked them into his pocket before picking up the
camera. He left the room and locked the door.
He moved quickly and was soon at a small door that led outside.
Out of habit, he glanced around as he made his way to the van,
but this area of the docks had been deserted for months. That
had been one of the reasons he had decided on this place when he
had first began to plot his revenge against Fox Mulder.
Thoughts of Mulder's reactions to his 'gift' kept him so
occupied, that the drive to Dana Scully's apartment building
took no time at all. As he cruised past it slowly, he spied the
unmarked vehicles that earmarked them as being Bureau issue.
He swore ripely under his breath. His distraction this morning
had thrown his timing off.
He wouldn't be able to deliver his little package for Mulder
himself. He had gotten very excited at the thought of going up
the sidewalk of her building, walking down her hallway, leaving
his gift for Mulder at her door. Knowing without a doubt that
Mulder would be inside. Hoping that he would be the one to find
it.
Elliot pulled the van up to the curb, about a block away from Dana's
building. His hands clenched on the steering wheel as he began to
spit out more curses. He needed this, needed to torment Mulder a
little more before the next step.
Movement outside the passenger side window caught his attention,
and he turned his head to see a young boy walking past. An idea
flared, and he quickly shifted to the other seat, rolling the window
down. "Hey, kid," he called.
The boy stopped and turned around slowly, his head swiveling from
side to side as he tried to find where the voice had come from.
Spying Elliot, beckoning from the van, he moved a little closer,
hitching the knapsack on his back a little higher. His eyes were
wary and curious at the same time. "Yeah?" he asked, trying for a
tough sounding voice, and failing miserably as it cracked.
"You want to make twenty bucks?" Elliot asked.
The kid took a step back, his eyes narrowing.
"Nothing like that, kid," Elliot said quickly, and smiled when
the kid did not move away. "I need you to deliver something for me,
that's all. I'm running behind, I've got to get moving." He held
up the twenty-dollar bill he had pulled from his wallet. "Only
take you five minutes."
The kid tilted his head, considering, staring at the money in
Elliot's hand. He nodded, a grin flashing on his face, and came
over to the van. "Where?"
Elliot told him the building and apartment number, pointing down
the block. He lifted the sealed manila envelope from the floor and
passed it out the window. The money was next, which the kid shoved
deep into his jeans pocket. "Just drop it off in front of the door,
okay?"
"Sure," the kid said. "No problem." He waggled the envelope at
Elliot and headed off down the sidewalk.
Elliot smiled. Plan B would work just as nicely. The kid hadn't
even noticed he was wearing Latex gloves.
***
Scully's Apartment
Georgetown, D.C.
Tuesday
7:30 am
Walter Skinner leaned one hip against the counter in Scully's
kitchen, hands cradling a steaming mug of coffee. The savory
aroma wafted up to his nose, stirring his hunger, and helping to
clear the last vestiges of sleep from his mind and body.
He had awoken twice through the night before finally rising
completely just before six a.m. Once with a very painful crick
in his neck, which he had rectified by changing his position on
the chair, and the second time by Mulder. The agent had done
nothing overt, such as speaking to him or shaking him awake.
An eerie sensation of being watched had invaded his sleeping
thoughts and he had jolted awake to find Mulder sitting upright
on the couch, the cell phone clutched in one hand, staring with
unblinking intensity at him. After confirming Mulder was all
right, or as all right as he could be in this situation, he had
forced himself to relax back into the chair. The experience had
brought to mind memories of terrifying late night patrols in the
jungles of Vietnam, and he had slept uneasily for the remainder
of the night.
Skinner took a cautious sip of the hot liquid, feeling the burn
all the way down to his stomach, which growled in response, still
pondering the previous night and his early rising. He was
normally up with the dawn by habit, but believed he would have
slept a little longer if not for the fact that Mulder had chosen
to sit at the table and go through the photographs yet again.
Skinner yawned, rubbing his hand over the tenseness in his neck,
wanting a hot shower desperately. He flicked a glance at the
clock on Scully's stove. He had convinced Mulder to take a
shower, and the agent had been in there for quite some time.
The image of Mulder, standing hollow-eyed and stubble-cheeked,
holding the cell phone he had refused to relinquish even for a
moment, before nodding jerkily and shuffling defeatedly down the
hall, would remain in Skinner's head for a very long time.
The desperation and desolation apparent on Mulder's face was
haunting, and Skinner hoped with all he had in him that Scully
would be found safely, and soon. For all their sakes.
A rapid knocking at the door startled him from his dark thoughts,
and he nearly spilt coffee on himself. He placed the cup on the
counter and made his way to the door, expecting to find either
Agent Dryer or Agent Taylor.
He opened the door to reveal another agent, whose name escaped
him at the moment, standing with one hand on the shoulder of a
young boy. In his other hand he held a manila envelope.
Skinner had a very bad feeling about the envelope, and could not
control the muscle that began to twitch in his jaw. He resisted
the urge to grab it from the agent, and instead asked, "What is
it, Agent?"
"Sir," the clean-cut, young-looking agent said. "Agent Reynolds
had stationed me in the lobby, to check the names of everyone
entering and exiting, to make sure we have interviewed everyone,
and this young man came in, saying he had to deliver this
envelope. When I asked him which apartment number, I realized
it was Agent Scully's, so I brought him up. Sir."
Skinner looked from the agent to the young boy, who wore an
expression he could not quite define. Fear, with a touch of
belligerence? He nodded to the agent, saying, "Thank-you.
I'll handle this from here. Back to your post."
"Yes, sir," the agent said, and nudged the boy forward with the
hand on his shoulder. He passed the envelope to Skinner and
turned to go back to the lobby.
The boy walked inside, and Skinner shut the door behind him.
He was torn between wanting to look inside the envelope and
questioning the boy. His quick glance showed Mulder's name
printed on it in block letters, and he knew he could not open
it without Mulder. Which left the boy. Skinner sighed, and
rubbed his free hand over his neck again. He had little, if
any, contact with children, and hadn't the faintest idea
where to begin.
He turned to see the boy staring at something off to the side
and spied Mulder standing there in a pair of jeans with a
towel around his neck. His chest and feet were bare, and for
a brief second Skinner wondered where Mulder had gotten the
jeans, before he saw that Mulder's eyes were focused on the
manila envelope he held.
"When did that come?" Mulder asked hoarsely. His hands clenched
spasmodically on the ends of the towel, and his face was white.
Skinner was sure he had not even noticed the boy standing less
than ten feet from him. "Mulder, we just got it. This boy was
delivering it."
Mulder seemed to come alive then, crossing the floor in rapid
strides to stand before the boy, bending at the waist to grasp
the kid's shoulders. "Where did you find it?" he asked, nearly
spitting the words out.
Skinner moved a few steps closer and said Mulder's name warningly.
He was relieved when Mulder released the boy's shoulders and
straightened. He watched the agent's eyes flick from the boy
to the envelope and back, and knew that whatever calmness or peace
Mulder may have gotten from his long shower was gone. He held the
envelope out, saying, "Mulder, let me talk to him."
Mulder's hand shook as he grabbed the envelope, and Skinner
watched him head back down the hall, no doubt to Scully's bedroom,
before turning back to the boy. He smiled, but it must have looked
more like a grimace, for the kid scowled back at him. He gave up
on the smile and said, "Sorry about that, son. My name is Walter
Skinner, and I'm with the FBI. We're investigating a possible
kidnapping, and I really need to know where you found this envelope."
"FBI?" the kid repeated. "Cool!" He seemed to relax with the
information that Skinner was with the FBI. He shrugged his
shoulders, and looked around Scully's apartment. "I didn't find
the envelope."
Skinner frowned, and resisted the urge to grab the kid's shoulders
as Mulder had. He sighed, and perched his butt on the arm of the
chair, to be more level with the kid. "If you didn't find it, where
did you get it?"
"Some guy gave me twenty bucks to bring it up here," the kid said.
Jesus Christ. Skinner sprang to his feet, pointing his finger
at the kid. "Stay there!" he barked, and raced down the hall,
bellowing Mulder's name. Scully's door was closed, but Mulder came
out seconds later. He had put on a tee shirt and a pair of
running shoes, and his face was paler and starker than ever before.
Skinner skidded to a halt, eyes shooting from Mulder's face to his
hand, to what looked like Polaroid pictures clutched in his fingers.
"Mulder?" he asked, feeling his body go cold. Please don't be
pictures of her dead, he repeated over and over in his head.
STOP! He told himself. "Mulder, the kid said some guy paid him to
bring the envelope up here."
Mulder brushed past him to run to stand next to the kid. "What
guy?" he asked, bending at the waist to stare into the kid's eyes.
"What guy paid you to bring the envelope?" he repeated, louder.
The kid shrugged. "Guy in a van. He called me over, asked if
I wanted to make some money. Gave me the address and the
apartment number." He shuffled back a step, looking down at his
sneaker-clad feet, a look of fear crossing his face. "I didn't
do anything wrong, did I?" he asked.
Skinner had followed on Mulder's heels, and he put one hand out to
pat the kid awkwardly on the shoulder. "No, you didn't do anything
wrong. Can you tell us about the van?"
At those words, Mulder ran over to the door and yanked it open.
Skinner could hear the sounds of his footsteps thudding down the
hall. He tightened his grip slightly on the kid's shoulder and
directed him to sit on the couch. "I need you to wait right here.
It's very important. An agent is coming to come in, and I want you
to tell him everything you can remember about the man, and the van
he was in, okay?"
The kid nodded, still looking scared half to death.
"It's okay," Skinner said. "You did good, okay?" He tried to
smile, but his heart was pounding frantically. He needed to move.
"Stay," he repeated and left the apartment, shutting the door
behind him.
***
4:30 pm
Mulder raked one hand through his hair, uncaring that it was
spiked in every direction, and sighed harshly as he stared at the
composite sketch of their suspect. His eyes burned, the image
blurring, and he blinked several times. The paper shook in his
hand, and he finally had to put it down on the table before he
dropped it. His chair caught on the Oriental rug as he pushed it
back from the table and he kicked at it in frustration, muttering
a curse.
The chair fell over with a loud bang, and both Skinner and Agent
Dryer reacted with surprised exclamations. Mulder shot them a
look but did not apologize. He angrily scooped the chair up and
slammed it down in place before stalking over to stare out the
window.
As he stared down at the street, his mind wandered back to earlier
that morning, after the envelope of Polaroids arrived.
He had raced outside of Scully's apartment building, flying past
the two agents stationed in her lobby, vaguely hearing their cries
of startlement, to skid to a stop at the edge of the walk. He
remembered whipping his head from side to side to look up and down
the street. The number of vans had stupefied him, and as he stood
there, his breath panting in and out harshly, he had realized he
didn't even know what type of van. He had run out of the apartment
before the kid had told them.
A mini-van had passed slowly, and he had stepped forward, head
craning to see inside. A woman had been driving, giving him a
narrow-eyed look of suspicion. He had seen a toddler in a car seat
in the middle row, and stepped back, shoulders slumping.
Skinner had come out then, to bring him back inside. He had gone,
unprotesting.
The boy, twelve-year old Joshua Hamilton, had been sitting quietly
on the couch with Agent Reynolds when they got back to Scully's
apartment. Skinner had muttered something about women dealing
better with children. Joshua had told them his story while they
waited for the sketch artist to arrive. It had been a panel van,
and very dirty. He thought it was white, and that it had red
lettering on the side. He did not remember reading what it had
said.
His details of the suspect had been a little better, resulting in a
fairly decent composite sketch.
Mulder cursed again, turning away from the window to start pacing.
The sketch he had been staring at for the better part of the day,
in between staring numbly at the new Polaroids of Scully, and at
the cell phone, which remained stubbornly silent.
He did not recognize the suspect.
He ran through the details yet again. Dark brown hair, slightly
curly, thick eyebrows over deep-set eyes, that Joshua was fairly
sure were brown, a largish nose, a thick mustache over thin lips,
and a small goatee. An average face. A fairly pleasant face.
Agent Reynolds had astutely asked Joshua about the man's teeth,
and he had said they were big and white, not gross at all, which
had made everyone smile.
Everyone but Mulder.
His pacing took him past the table and the Polaroid pictures of
Scully caught his eyes. He stopped, the index finger of one hand
going out almost involuntarily to trace her features on the top
one. He picked it up, bringing it close to his face. He tried
to take solace in the fact that she was dressed in different
clothing, telling himself that it meant she was still alive, that
the pictures were recent.
He cringed as he looked at her bound hands, the slackness of her
face, the dinginess of the bedding on which she lay. It appeared
that she was on a cot of some sort, and he could make out a section
of wall behind her, it looked like concrete. Not that these details
helped any. She could be in a room anywhere. Someone's basement
or garage. An abandoned building. Anywhere.
He was not aware that Skinner had been talking to him, until he
felt the AD's hand on his shoulder. He turned his head slowly,
watching the man's lips move. "What?" he mumbled.
Sound rushed in. "Mulder, I want you to take a break. Have
something to eat. You're not going to do Scully any good, nor
yourself." Skinner's tone was low, but still firm.
He shook his head. Skinner didn't understand, and he could not
explain, that he could not eat, that the thought of food turned
his stomach. "I need to go to the Hoover building. Start going
through my files." He swallowed, corrected himself. "Our files."
He jutted his chin at the composite sketch lying on the table.
"I don't recognize him at all, and that bothers me, because
I don't forget faces. Maybe I'll see a picture in one of the
files, get a name."
"Fine," Skinner said. "I'll come with you, after we eat
something." Implacably. His arms were crossed over his chest
as he stared Mulder down.
Mulder nodded his defeat. Eating could be faked, he had done
it many a time when Scully got in one of her over-protective,
mothering moods, and insisted he needed sustenance to keep up
his strength. Scully.
His gut clenched, and then his mind flashed back to one afternoon
in their office. She had tried to tempt him with her yogurt and
he had accidentally on purpose knocked the container over and
then laughed uproariously at the look on her face as she stared
down at the mess on the floor. She had been so ticked off, but
still unable to keep the smile from lifting the corners of her
mouth. She had used his freshly typed report due to Skinner that
day to wipe the mess up in retaliation.
He closed his eyes as a wave of weariness and pain washed over him,
followed by dizziness, and dimly heard Skinner bark his name.
Then he was being shoved into the chair he had vacated earlier.
He brought his elbows to his knees and propped his head in his hands.
Banging and thumping sounds from the kitchen, and then the press of
something cold against his hand. A voice telling him to drink. He
lifted his head up, seeing a blurred Skinner holding out a glass of
what looked like water. He took it with a trembling hand and
swallowed several mouthfuls before shaking his head and shoving the
glass towards Skinner, feeling the water hitting his empty stomach.
He bolted from the chair and down the hall to the bathroom,
shuddering with dry heaves.
Moments later a cold cloth was rubbing his face and then hands were
lifting him and guiding him into Scully's bedroom. He did not
fight as the hands pushed him gently onto the bed and covered him
with the comforter. He turned his head into the pillow and inhaled
her scent, loneliness and despair clutching at his heart.
Scully, please be okay.
***
end Part 2 of 29
Text file Source (historic): geocities.com/kim_djd
(to report bad content: archivehelp @ gmail)
|
|
|
|
|