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From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *REPOST* "Three Little Words" (1/2)
Date: Sat, 28 Oct 95 16:49:46 -0500


*REPOST*
Three Little Words (1/2)
By Karen Rasch

I'm reposting this because I've heard from several people that
this never showed up on their servers.  I originally sent this
one to the group about four weeks ago.  I apologize for the
excessive use of bandwidth, but not even Vincent got this
story for the archive.

Disclaimer:  Same as everybody else:  Scully and Mulder are the 
property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen, and Fox Television and are 
used entirely without permission.  No disrespect or copyright 
infringement is intended.  I appreciate feedback, and would 
especially like to hear from people this time around as I'm now 
paranoid that no one is seeing this.  Please send all comments 
and constructive criticism to krasch@delphi.com.  Thanks to 
all who took the time to write regarding "Coming Back."  You 
don't know how delighted I was to hear your impressions.  
This is a very supportive group of folks.  I guess this story 
should be rated PG-13 for mature theme, some profanity 
(although I believe that one of the words used would earn 
me an "R" in the movie world), and a degree of violence.  
No sex.  A wee bit of romance.  Since I started this story 
before the third season began, no events from that 
story arc are included here.  Thanks, as always, to Helen, 
Captain of the UST Brigade without whose feedback and 
encouragement this story would not have been written.  I 
am proud to serve as one of your many lieutenants.  

Enjoy.


BRE Incorporated Central Warehouse
Chicago
12:48 a.m.

	Bennett Riggs stared down the sleek metallic barrel 
of the Sig Sauer P229.  The gun's owner stared back, his hazel 
eyes clear and unflinching despite the fear mirrored in their 
depths.  The other man's distress pleased Riggs.  A slow 
cruel smile stretched his narrow lips.
	
	"Let's end this now Riggs, before anyone else gets 
hurt," said the man with the gun, his voice low and calm, his 
eyes never leaving Riggs' face.  "Just throw down the knife."
	
	Riggs slowly shook his head, his longish black hair 
grazing his collar.  He really had to admire his opponent's cool.  
If he hadn't been inside the man's head, felt for himself the 
turmoil, the pain, the complex and often contradictory manner 
in which the man's mind worked, he might have believed him 
totally in control.  But Riggs knew better.  For one brief, 
shimmering instant he had seen the soul of his adversary.  
Then, like any general planning a campaign, he had identified 
his opponent's greatest vunerability.
	
	And struck.
	
	He shifted his grasp on the petite young woman before 
him.  He was a tall man, perhaps only a inch shorter than the 
man he faced.  The woman's bright copper covered head barely 
reached his shoulder.  And yet her small frame did its job.  Her 
partner would not fire as long as she stood between him and 
the bullet's target.  
	
	Riggs held her tightly, his arm locked across her chest, 
his knife a whisper from her exposed throat.  Her bound hands 
pressed uncomfortably between their two bodies.  He chanced 
a glance down.  He could see by the dull brownish smudge on 
his chest that he had broken the skin when he had hit her. 
Finding the chunk of Italian marble the warehouse foreman 
apparently used as a paperweight had been a convenient 
stroke of luck.  The blow had stunned her, making her easy 
prey.  He hadn't even needed to wrestle her gun away from her.  
She had dropped it when the marble came down upon her head.  
It lay there still on the warehouse office's floor perhaps 
100 feet behind them.  He wouldn't need it.  He detested guns.  
They were so clumsy; not elegant weapons at all.  So impersonal.
	
	"I knew you'd follow me tonight, Agent Mulder," he 
called jovially to the tall slender man opposite him.  "And I 
didn't even need to touch you."
	
	For some reason, the reference to their momentary linkage 
unnerved the young F.B.I. agent.  His jaw tightened, and he 
suddenly blinked rapidly as if trying to clear his vision.  "Then 
why, Riggs?" he ventured, his hands holding tightly to his 
weapon, his arms outstretched before him.  "Why come after 
us when you knew we had no proof?"

	Riggs smiled sadly, the malicious amusement in his coal 
gray eyes belying his melancholy.

	"My dear Agent Mulder, haven't you ever been just 
plain bored?"

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Bennett Riggs had been.  Almost since birth.  He couldn't 
remember a time when life had been anything other than easy.  
Simple.  Predictable.  Routine.  Tedious.

	Boring.

	Part of his ever-present ennui had sprung no doubt from 
the manifestation of his talent, that strange little quirk of genetics 
that had  proven so often as much curse as gift.  But an equal share 
of blame had to be ascribed to the circumstances of his birth.  After 
all, being the only child of one of the country's wealthiest 
industrialists had certainly not resulted in a difficult childhood.  
On the contrary, his every whim had been catered to.  No demand 
had been considered too outlandish, no desire too expensive.  
If a concerned few might have pointed out that his ambitious 
father and socialite mother had substituted presents and 
privileges for love, Bennett would merely have shrugged.  A 
strange, self-sufficient child, he would have told the amateur 
social workers that he had welcomed his parents' actions.  He 
had no need of love, that cloying, sentimental emotion.  Things 
brought power.  Power, pleasure.  He had relished being left to 
the care of a succession of highly professional, yet emotionally 
inaccessible nannies.  Like Garbo, he had wanted to be alone.

	It was that same quality he had recognized in Agent 
Mulder.  That same need for separation.  It mattered little that the 
F.B.I. man's need came from a different place than his own, a 
place ripe with pain and emotions that were not missing, merely 
held in check.  Unlike himself, Riggs realized that Mulder kept 
aloof in the mistaken belief that such a course of action would 
protect him.  And those he secretly cared for.

	Riggs looked down again at the woman before him, 
her eyes focused ahead, her back ramrod straight.  Dana Scully.  
Dr. Dana Scully.  Fox Mulder's partner.  His best friend.  His . . . 

	"What do you want, Riggs?" Mulder asked, his eyes 
blazing, his gun never wavering.  "You and I both know a knife 
is no match for a gun.  You're not going anywhere.  Just give 
it up."

	"Oh, I beg to differ, Agent Mulder," Riggs said calmly, 
the smile he used both to disarm and taunt his victims once again 
settling upon his lips.  "I have always found a knife to be a most 
effective weapon.  I believe, if you were able to question any of 
my recent . . . acquaintances, you would find they would agree 
with me."

	He shifted the gleaming blade in his leather gloved hand 
so that the flat of it lay against Scully's face.  Then softly, like a 
lover's caress, he ran it from her temple, down her cheek to her chin.  
To her credit, the woman made not a sound, but stood absolutely 
still, her rapid breathing the only sign of her agitation.  Riggs 
glanced at Mulder, his eyebrow raised in a challenge.  Scully's 
partner was not having the same success as she in schooling his 
emotions.  Sweat had broken out on his forehead.  Pale, eyes wide 
with barely restrained horror, Mulder nervously licked his lips.  
Riggs noted with satisfaction that his opponent looked as if he 
might be physically ill.

	"I see you get my . . . point, Agent Mulder," said the man 
with the knife, allowing himself a tiny smirk at his quip.  "Used 
properly, a knife can hold its own against a gun.  The trick is to 
hold its blade against something the gun's owner values."
	
	He saw Mulder's eyes flit to his partner's.  Sorrow, 
regret and reassurance all shone in the young man's eyes as he 
sought to send a silent message to the woman before him.  Not 
for the first time, Riggs wondered at the connection between the 
two agents.  That a man with Mulder's need for solitude, his 
obsession with his own private demons and crusade would 
allow one person to get as close to him, to matter as much as 
Scully did.  Did either of them realize the depth of their feelings 
for each other?  Riggs thought not.  And yet they had been 
apparent to him, a casual on-looker, even before he had laid a 
hand on Mulder.  

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	He had known the first time he had set eyes on them, the 
night they had brought him to that dirty, rundown Chicago Police 
precinct house to question him.  The two agents had told him 
soon after appearing at his doorstep that they come had to town 
to assist in the investigation of a series of homicides, murders 
which had dominated the city's newspaper headlines for the 
past six months.  Crimes with which Riggs was intimately familiar.  
Not that Scully and Mulder knew that.  Not yet.  Seven total.  
The victims had appeared to have been selected randomly with 
no consistency in age, sex, or race, and no discernible motive.  
The weapon of choice was a knife with a small, non-serrated 
blade.  No clues were left at any of the crime scenes, which 
were as varied as the victims.  Chicago's finest were stumped.  

	Then, they had gotten their break.  A woman, Linda 
Ferguson, age 32, a secretary at a law office in the Loop was 
found in the alley behind her Diversey Harbor apartment building.  
Blood loss had been substantial, but she was discovered alive.  
Barely.  She told the police a curious tale, a story strange enough 
to compel one of the detectives assigned to the case to contact 
two federal agents he had heard specialized in that sort of thing.

	When they had arrived in the Windy City, the agents 
had found they hadn't much to go on.  Just a few mumbled phrases 
from the victim.  Riggs had imagined what she must have sounded 
like,  her voice cracking under the strain, the words blurry as if 
their edges had been sanded off.    At first, 
they must have thought her mad, he had mused, or at the very 
least confused by the pain and the drugs the doctors had 
pumped into her to alleviate it.  But then, because they had nothing 
else to go on, the authorities must have decided to try and 
investigate her claims.

	Still, he hadn't been worried.  He had been able to put 
the pieces together quickly enough.  Somehow, these agents must 
have tracked Linda Ferguson's activity on the night she had been 
killed.   Any of a dozen people could have told them that he had 
bought the unfortunate woman a drink at the club on Armitage. 
However, those same eagle-eyed 12 would also have undoubtedly 
remarked that he had left the place hours before she did.  Other 
than that brief encounter, they would be unable to prove any 
other connection between Ms. Ferguson and himself.  As always, 
he had worn gloves, and had been careful, so very careful that 
nothing linking him to the crime had been left behind.  Besides, 
under any circumstances, he was an unlikely murder suspect.  
Riggs was a pillar of the community.  His corporate empire had 
offices in five countries, he owned a graystone on the Gold Coast, 
served on the boards of six of the city's most prominent charities, 
and had never even had so much as a parking ticket charged 
against him. What possible reason would one of Chicago's 
wealthiest, most eligible bachelors have for taking a knife to a 
total stranger?  They certainly couldn't ask the victim, hoping 
that she might be able to provide a motive, or better still, I.D. 
her assailant.

	She had lapsed into a coma before sunrise, and had 
died less than twenty-four hours later.

	So, Riggs had been breathing easy that night.  No real 
fear or apprehension.  Feeling no threat to himself or his unusual 
pastime, he had done what he usually did when in a crowd of 
strangers.

	He had watched.  Apart.  Alone.  Zeroing in on individual 
people.  The shopworn prostitutes with their garish outfits and 
bored, tired eyes.  The gang members sporting Bulls jackets, $200 
Nikes, and the fiercest attitudes they could cop.  He had listened 
to the cacophony of sounds reverberating within the aged building 
as they layered one on top of another like an old Phil Spector 
forty-five.  He had taken in all the nuances of behavior displayed 
by the station house's denizens as they went about their respective 
businesses of crime and punishment.

	But nothing had piqued his interest quite as sharply as 
the pair of agents who had brought him to that godforsaken place 
to begin with.

	They had shown up at his home right after dinner and 
had requested that he accompany them for questioning.  The man 
was tall, taller than him and lean; lanky, yet graceful.  Square-jawed, 
with a full, mobile mouth, and old eyes that changed color 
depending upon under what light Riggs viewed them.   His thick, 
medium brown hair had been worn swept back from his forehead, 
except for one stubborn shock that hung determinedly over his 
brow.  He was dressed well if conservatively, his steel grey suit 
and light blue shirt appearing strictly government issued.  The 
illusion, however, was shattered by the tie, an eye-catching riot 
of blues and blacks and grays with a smattering of  red.  Not to 
Riggs' taste, but he had to admit the man carried it off.  From the 
first, he had suspected a rebel dwelt within the soul of that 
particular G-man.

	His partner was another matter.  Nearly a foot shorter 
than the man standing beside her, she had nevertheless appeared 
his equal, if not in stature, than certainly in intelligence.  It had 
taken Riggs no more than an instant to discern the keen mind at 
work behind the woman's penetrating blue eyes.  Her red-gold 
hair had framed her face, yet didn't quite reach her shoulders, 
and he was almost certain he had spied a dusting of freckles 
across her small Roman nose.  She too had obviously read the 
section in the Bureau's handbook covering Dress Code.  Her 
tailored suit and matching pumps had been so neutral in color 
as to almost not register at all.  Unlike the other agent, she had 
made no attempt to personalize her wardrobe.  The only jewelry 
he had been able to detect was a small golden cross on a chain 
around her neck.  

	He had gone along quietly, stopping only to pull his 
coat from the hall closet as protection from the chilling November 
wind off the lake.  All the way to the station he had sat in the 
back seat of their rented sedan and watched.  And listened.  
The ride hadn't taken very long, and in truth, not much had 
been said between the two agents.  Yet, there had been enough 
for someone with his powers of observation to pick up the subtle 
clues as to who these people were, both individually and in relation 
to each other.  
	
	He had noted immediately that they were truly a team.  
Neither took the lead, neither acquiesced to the other's authority.  
They hadn't spoken much, being the sort who were comfortable 
with their shared silences.  But, they had caught and held each 
other's gaze.  Often.  Sometimes, the look that flowed between 
them was filled with an unspoken question or comment regarding 
something they had either said or seen.  Other times, it had appeared 
they simply liked looking at each other. 

	When they had arrived at their destination, Riggs had 
still more opportunity to study the two agents.   Enough time to 
witness the closeness with which they stood, Mulder's much taller 
frame bent to listen intently to his partner's voice, to consider 
carefully her opinion.  To notice once again the eye contact 
between them, unwavering, unguarded, and lingering.  To view 
the small incidental ways in which Mulder had managed to 
establish a physical connection with Scully:  a gentle touch 
on her arm to get her attention, his hand on the small of her 
back to guide her down a hall, through a door.  And the smiles.  
Small, intimate, volumes spoken without a word being said.  
	
	Riggs had heard of the special bond that supposedly 
existed between law enforcement officers and their partners.  Yet, 
what he had seen between Mulder and Scully was more than 
professional, while being somehow less than sexual.  This 
unspoken something had intrigued him.  Few things in life did.  
He had made up his mind without even giving the matter 
conscious thought.  

	He wanted to learn more.

	He had his opportunity.  Just after the agents had finally 
brought him into an empty interrogation room, a young Chicago 
cop had stuck his head in the door.

	"Agent Scully.  I've got a call for you from Washington.  
It's an Assistant Director Skinner."

	The redhead had glanced at her partner in consternation.  
He had merely smiled, saying, "Be sure to give him my regards."  
With a wry half-smile, she had excused herself and left the room.

	The two men had waited, each of a similar age, looking 
enough alike to be related.  They had stared at each other across 
the table at which they sat, each at ease with himself and the 
situation.  The row of fluorescent lights overhead illuminating 
the silent stand-off.

	"Are you sure you wouldn't like to go ahead and get 
started?" Mulder had finally asked, a small, polite smile in place.  
"I know Scully wouldn't mind, and if we wrap this up quickly 
enough I just might be able to get back to my hotel in time to 
catch that old Vincent Price movie on the late show."

	"Sorry to disappoint you, Agent Mulder," Riggs had 
replied as if he were declining an invitation for lunch at the country 
club.  "But I'd just as soon wait for my lawyer.  He'll be so annoyed 
if I pulled him away from his aerobics class for nothing."

	Mulder had inclined his head, graciously accepting that 
his ploy hadn't succeeded.  "Well, since this may take awhile, 
can I get you anything?  Coffee?  A glass of water?"

	Riggs had shaken his head.  "Actually, Agent Mulder, 
I'd prefer for you to simply answer a question for me."

	Riggs had then reached across the tabletop, placed his 
hand on Mulder's forearm, and concentrated.

	As he knew they would, images had flooded his brain.  
Most dark, many painful, they had flown by him like a movie run 
at double-speed, snippets of dialogue coming at him like bullets.

	

	Not only did Riggs see snapshots from Mulder's life but 
he understood their significance, sensed the emotions that 
accompanied them.  

	

	

	

	

	

	

	Riggs had smiled, his eyes closed, absorbed in the rush.  
The man's memories had reminded him of a particularly vivid fever 
dream.  It had been tempting to forget what he was looking for, 
to investigate instead any one of the other intriguing images he 
had seen fly by him.  But, he had resisted the urge.  He had known 
he was close.  So close to the answer he sought.  He had kept his 
hand on Mulder's arm.  He only ever allowed himself one touch.  
Otherwise, the hunt wouldn't be sporting.  So, he had to make 
it a good one.  For his part, the F.B.I. agent had sat stunned, his 
mouth agape, his eyes staring, yet unfocused.  When it was 
over he wouldn't understand what had happened.  People never 
did.  But he would realize that something had occurred.

	Only by then it would be too late.

	Riggs had searched Mulder's psyche much the way he 
would flip through his rolodex, looking for the one insight that 
would tell him what he wanted to know.  At last, he had stumbled 
across it.

	

	Riggs had almost reeled with the emotions connected to 
that memory.  They had rolled off of Mulder in waves, stronger 
than anything he had run across previously.

	He had his answer.

	"Thank you, Agent Mulder," Riggs had said sweetly, 
releasing the other man from his thrall.  "You've been a great help."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	"I wonder, do you value your partner, Agent Mulder?" 
Riggs asked conversationally, delicately lifting strands of the 
woman in question's hair with his knife.

	Mulder's mouth tightened.  "I'm not playing that game 
with you, Riggs."

	The raven haired man shrugged without rancor, his eyes 
sly.  "All right.  I can see how you might find that question rather 
personal.  It can wait until we get to know each other better.  Why 
don't we play another game I believe you =will= enjoy."
	
	Mulder shifted warily, his gun still before him.  "Oh, and 
what game is that?"

	"Twenty Questions,"  Riggs answered evenly, relaxing 
against the wall of packing crates at his back.  "Surely, there must 
be some things about me you're just . . . dying to know."

	Mulder thought it over, then said with studied 
nonchalance, "Why don't you let Scully go.  Then we can talk.  
As soon as I know she's all right, we'll play any sort of game 
you like."

	Quick as a snake, Riggs stepped away from the cartons 
and changed his grip on Scully.  The hand that had clasped her to 
his chest reached up and pressed sharply beneath her chin, his 
thumb and forefinger digging into the soft flesh there surrounding 
her windpipe.  Just as swiftly, she began to gag, sputtering for air.  
With his other hand, he pointed his knife at the hollow at the base 
of her throat.  "=Don't= insult my intelligence, Agent Mulder.  Do 
me that courtesy at least.  And do not =ever= forget how quickly 
I can paint the floor with your partner's blood."

	Stricken, Mulder's voice tumbled out of his mouth like a 
rock slide, "All right, all right.  That's enough, Riggs.  Let her go.  
You son of a bitch.  You heard me.  I SAID LET HER GO!"

	Satisfied he had made his point, Riggs released his hold 
on his hostage's throat.   She tried to bend over from the waist to 
catch her breath.  His arm across her collarbone restricted any 
such motion.  So, the young redhead could only bow her head, 
coughing and gasping for air.

	"Scully?  Scully!  You okay?  Can you breathe?"  Mulder's 
worried eyes bored holes into the crown of his partner's head as he 
anxiously waited for her to raise her eyes.

	It took a moment, but she managed it, her voice rough and 
raw.  "Yeah.  It's okay.  I'm okay."

	Mulder nodded in acknowledgment, then raised his eyes 
to meet Riggs'.  The gentle concern that had been there only an 
instant before vanished before a flood of hatred.

	Riggs merely smiled.  "Do you understand the rules now, 
Agent Mulder?" he asked softly.

	Mulder nodded again.  "More than you know."

	"Then ask your questions."

	His eyes never leaving Riggs and the woman he held 
pressed against him, Mulder paced in a tiny square, all the fury 
and frustration he had thus far ruthlessly squelched fueling his 
movement.  Finally, rubbing his hand over his mouth as if wiping 
away the taste of something foul, he spoke,  "Fine, Riggs.  We'll 
play it your way.  For now.  You want questions--Here's number 
one:  Did you kill Linda Ferguson?"

	Riggs dipped his head.  "Yes."

	"And the others?"

	"Of course."

	Mulder's eyes narrowed.  "Why?"

	"Why not,"  Riggs replied with a mischievous grin, 
leaning in to speak the words in a stage whisper into Scully's 
ear.  His breath made her hair flutter against the side of her face.

	Mulder shifted uncomfortably, all too well aware of the 
physical proximity shared by a psychopath with a knife and his 
defenseless partner.  "I thought you were going to give me 
answers, Riggs," he challenged loudly, trying to draw the man's 
attention back to him.  "Isn't that how you play Twenty 
Questions?  One person asks the questions, the other answers.  
Well, I'm doing my part.  But you--you're just feeding me bullshit."

	"My apologies," Riggs said smoothly, his eyes measuring.  
Mulder died  just a little bit every time he physically encroached 
upon Scully.  In that respect, the agent was just like Pavlov's dog.  
You push a button, you get the expected response.  Riggs lived 
for that now familiar feeling of power.  The control.  The ability 
to manipulate others, to bend them to his will.  The psychological 
and emotional high he got from playing god with someone else's 
life was why he hunted in the first place.   How far could he push 
it with Agent Mulder?  What would it take to make the man break?  

	Riggs smiled a secret smile, and decided to try an 
experiment.  He let his hand drift down from its safe, neutral 
position on Scully's shoulder to rest lightly just on the slope of 
her left breast.  He wouldn't have thought it possible, but the 
woman made herself even more rigid.  The only proof he had 
that there was a living, breathing woman before him and not 
a statue carved in stone was the steady if rapid beat of her 
heart against his fingertips.  A muscle in the corner of Mulder's 
jaw jumped, then tightened with what looked like painful force.

	"Save your apologies for my partner," Mulder murmured, 
his voice low and intent.  "Under normal circumstances I don't 
believe she let's a guy go that far on the first date."

	Riggs quirked an eyebrow.  Hmm, although it was costing 
him to remain calm, Mulder was handling this particular maneuver 
better than Riggs had thought he would.  He had expected the 
F.B.I. agent to turn into a latter-day Lancelot defending a certain 
fair maiden's honor.  Instead, the agent had recognized the 
gesture for what it was--a test.  While it pained him to see his 
partner compromised, he controlled himself.   Riggs' respect for 
Mulder raised a notch.  He understood then that he would have 
to go farther to get the reaction he desired.

	"Quite right," Riggs said at last, raising the offending 
hand to gently flick at Scully's cheek in a perversely playful, 
affectionate gesture before resting it once again on her shoulder.  
She merely turned her face away in disgust.  "I was rude.  I'm 
afraid I couldn't help myself.  Agent Scully is a very attractive 
woman.  I got carried away.  Has that ever happened to you, 
Agent Mulder?"

	"I thought I was the one who got to ask the questions," 
Mulder protested, adjusting his grip on the Sig.

	"Ah, yes, the game. "

	Mulder nodded.  "The game.  You were the one who 
wanted to play.  So I ask you again--why?"
	
	Riggs sighed as if put out by the question, and resumed 
his slouch against the wall of packing crates.  "Because I can, 
Agent Mulder.  Because I can."

	"How?"

	"Oh, come now," Riggs said, nearly purring his response, 
his eyes flint hard, unforgiving.  "You, better than anyone, know the 
answer to that."

	Mulder fidgeted, his eyes darting to Scully, then back again 
to rest on Riggs' face.

	"Have you forgotten already, Agent Mulder?" Riggs said 
in a concerned, friendly tone.  He clucked sympathetically, and 
addressed his next comments to Scully.  "I would have thought the 
experience had made a greater impression upon him.  Perhaps I 
should refresh his memory by getting to know you better."
	
	"No!"  Mulder took a step forward.

	Riggs stopped him by smiling darkly.  "Ah.  I see you do 
recall after all."

===========================================================================

From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *REPOST* "Three Little Words" (2/2)/busy
Date: Sat, 28 Oct 95 16:51:59 -0500


*REPOST*
Three Little Words (2/2)
By Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com

For Disclaimer and other info, please check Part I.  As I said in 
that first section, I'm reposting this puppy because it apparently 
got lost in cyber-space the first time around (at least for many 
of you!)Hope you like it.  Comments are appreciated (even if it's 
only to say, yeah I saw it this time ).  Thanks.  Enjoy.


	Mulder froze, his weight on the balls of his feet, torn 
between his desire to take out his frustrations on the man 
opposite him and his knowledge that to do so would result in 
disaster for his partner.  Breathing heavily, he looked at Riggs 
with all the contempt he could muster.  "Sure I do.  You read 
minds."

	"Christ, Mulder!  You make me sound like a fortune 
teller at a fair," Riggs retorted with equal disdain.  "You and I 
both know that what I do is far more sophisticated, more 
selective than merely pulling a person's birth date out of mid-air."

	"Really?" Mulder said with scorn, aware that he had 
pricked his adversary's pride.  Perhaps by attacking his ego he 
could lead Riggs into making a mistake.  "How do I know that?  
It seems to me that all you did was contact those poor people 
and pull out of them whatever you needed to kill them.  An 
address, a  phone number, a clue to where they'd be and who 
they'd be with at a given time.  I don't know--sure sounds like 
fortune telling to me."

	"Then that shows how very little you know," Riggs 
sneered, his arm wrapping itself around Scully's throat, the knife 
poised at the corner of her jaw.  "Perhaps your partner has more 
appreciation for what I do.  You're a doctor, Agent Scully.  Surely, 
you can imagine the intricacies involved in my own particular 
brand of psychic surgery."

	The woman spoke in a hushed, tightly controlled voice, 
taking care to move no more than necessary what with the knife 
point tickling her jawline.  "I don't know what you're talking about."

	Riggs relaxed slightly, and glanced mockingly at Mulder.  
"Do you mean to say that Agent Mulder didn't tell you?"

	"Don't flatter yourself, Riggs," Mulder said blandly.  "I 
only bother her with the important stuff."

	"I'm hurt," Riggs replied, although his smile said he was 
anything but.  "I would have thought our little 'meeting of the 
minds' would be worth sharing. . . .  Seeing as you two are so 
close."

	"Why don't you tell me more about how you were able 
to get to Linda Ferguson without anyone seeing you," Mulder 
suggested quickly, his attempt to change the subject so 
transparent Riggs had to chuckle.

	"But, Agent Mulder," Riggs protested mildly.  "That's 
just what I'm doing."

	He shifted Scully again within the circle of his arms, 
bringing his face beside her's.  Her body rested against his, her 
bound hands jostling against his thigh.

	"You see, I have a certain talent, Agent Scully.  A gift," 
Riggs said conversationally, as if he and the female agent were 
old pals.  His eyes remained pinned on Mulder.  "I can touch 
people.  Really =touch= them.  And when I do, I know everything.  
Or I could if I were to keep the contact between us alive."

	Scully licked her lips, then queried, "Is that how you 
knew where Linda Ferguson lived?"

	Riggs' eyebrows raised sardonically.  He patted her 
cheek.  "You, my dear, get a gold star.  Yes, it was simple really.  
One touch on her arm and I knew she where she lived, her cat's 
name, what she had had for dinner that night.  And yes, Agent 
Mulder, her birth date.  August 14, 1963."

	"Why her?" Mulder demanded, his eyes bleak.

	Riggs shrugged, then shook his head.  "It wasn't anything 
personal.  I had never even met the woman before that night.  
That's one of the rules of the game."

	Mulder looked at him with poorly veiled astonishment.  
"And what game would =this= be?"

	"Oh.  My favorite game.  The one that gives me the most 
problems.  And the most pleasure.  The Hunt."

	Mulder's eyes narrowed as he mulled over Riggs' words, 
not quite making sense of it all.  "The Hunt--You hunt people as 
part of some game?"

	"Not just any game, Agent Mulder," Riggs said, stepping 
away once again from the boxes, his eyes fever bright with 
enthusiasm.  "=The= game.  The one where I play the great white 
hunter and the rest of the world tries to elude me in the brush."

	"What are you talking about?" Mulder asked warily, as 
if he really didn't want to hear the answer.

	"I'm talking about my life, my dear F.B.I. man," Riggs said 
softly as he rubbed his face in Scully's hair, like a cat marking 
something as its own.  "I'm talking about knowing.  Knowing 
anything about anyone.  Can you imagine what that's like?"

	"Not really."

	Riggs continued as if he hadn't heard Mulder's mumbled 
reply.  "At first, it was incredible.  I mean, you can imagine school, 
can't you?  Being able to figure out what was going to be on a test.  
Any test.  Knowing your classmates' minds almost before they did 
themselves.  Touching a girl's hand and discovering exactly what 
it would take to get into her pants."

	Mulder shrugged, determined not to show his wonder at 
what he was hearing, and said lightly,  "Sounds like an episode of 
Weird Science."

	Riggs glared at him.  "It gets weirder.  I inherited my 
father's business empire.  Corporate take-overs.  Mergers.  Stock 
transactions.  Job bids.  All I have to do is be there.  Mingle with 
the powers-that-be, the movers and shakers, and that information 
is mine for the taking.  The only problem is, that like all things, 
it got old."

	Mulder shook his head.  "That still doesn't explain why 
you turned from corporate raiding to murder."

	Riggs grabbed Scully's hair and jerked hard, bending her 
back until the top of her head rested against his shoulder.  A 
small sound of surprise and pain escaped her lips.  "It would, 
if you were only listening."

	Mulder took one hand from his Sig, and reached out 
towards the couple before him beseechingly.  "I am.  I am.  I'm 
listening.  I want to know.  Riggs--Riggs!   Why did you kill 
these people?  What did you believe they had done to deserve it?"

	Riggs giggled.  "Nothing.  =Nothing.=  Don't you see?  
They were merely my prey."

	Mulder blinked, his expression pained.  "In the Hunt?"

	Riggs nodded too, his expression pleased.  "Yes.  You see.  
You were listening, after all.  In the Hunt.  I choose them.  At 
random.  I can't really say how I make my selection.  It's . . . 
it's instinctive, you know?"

	"Of course, " Mulder murmured.

	"Then, it's one touch.  One touch only.  For as long as I 
can hold it,"  Riggs said rapidly, his excitement evident.  "I gather 
what I can and then I release them."

	"Until it's time to hunt," Mulder said, prodding.

	"Exactly."

	Understanding dawning, Mulder considered what the 
man before him had said, then dropped his gaze for an instant, 
before once again engaging Riggs', purpose shining in his hazel 
eyes.  "Then let Scully go.  It's me you touched.  I'm the one 
you chose."

	"Mulder, no!"  Scully cried, twisting in Riggs' embrace, 
the knife in his hand momentarily forgotten.

	"It's all right, Scully," Mulder said soothingly, venturing 
a step forward.  "I'm right, aren't I, Riggs?  That's what happened 
in the station house.  You touched me."

	This was going all too well, Riggs thought with pleasure.  
The F.B.I. agent was playing into his hands so beautifully.  "That's 
right, Agent Mulder. I touched you."

	"Then it's me you want," Mulder said softly in the same 
voice he'd use to talk a jumper off a roof.  "Let her go."

	"Mulder--," Scully said warningly.  Her partner's eyes 
flickered to hers for a moment.  He smiled gently with reassurance.

	"Right again, Agent Mulder," Riggs said in a honeyed 
tone.  Then, he slid the knife under Scully's chin to stop his 
adversary's progress forward.  "But it's not just your life I want."

	"What are you talking about?"
	
	"It's your soul."

	Mulder stopped, bewildered.  He had thought he was 
going to be able to get Scully away from that madman.  He had 
believed that he would finally be able to resolve their stand-off.  
Instead, he was left nearly grinding his teeth in frustration.  
"I don't understand."

	"I know you, Agent Mulder," Riggs said smugly, 
taunting like a schoolboy.  "I know all about you.  Why, I'd 
wager I know you better than the lovely Agent Scully here."

	"Terrific.  I'm sure we'd do really well on The Newlywed 
Game," Mulder gritted out, his gun arm beginning to feel the strain.  
"Just let her go."

	"No, no.  I don't want to exclude Agent Scully from our 
little circle," Riggs said with mock reproof, his eyes wild, his face 
flushed.  "I think you should share with her what you shared 
with me."

	Mulder grimaced, his brow furrowed.  "I didn't =share= 
anything with you, Riggs.  You took it.  Just like you took all those 
people's lives.  But, I'm willing to play along.  What do you want 
me to say?"

	Riggs smiled.  Icy, hard, victorious.  "You're a bright boy.  
You figure it out."

	He then took his knife and turned it with his leather-
covered fingertips, the blade catching the light from the bulb 
directly over the threesome's heads.  Then, before Mulder could 
even register what was happening, Riggs took his weapon and 
flicked against Dana Scully's neck.  Its blade opened a wound 
about three quarters of an inch long.  Red welled up in the 
shallow cut, beaded, then fell.  A small sound of alarm vibrated in 
the back of Scully's throat.

	"NO!"  The words were wrenched out of Mulder as if a 
team of horses dragged them from him.

	"Think of this as an incentive, Agent Mulder,"  Riggs 
purred.  "After all, it's getting late.  And we have been at this for 
quite awhile.  We need to move along.  Just tell Agent Scully 
what you told me, and it will all be over."

	"I don't know what you're talking about--"  

	Riggs could see the F.B.I. agent fumbling, both physically 
and mentally as he tried to come up with the information that would 
satisfy the man before him with the knife.  The black haired man 
chuckled, wanting to shout his pleasure to the world.

	"Oh, come on!  Where's your sporting sensibility?" 
Riggs said with mock encouragement, his hand still locked in Scully's 
hair.  "Think of it as a puzzle.  It can't be all that difficult.  That's 
what you do for a living, isn't it?  Solve puzzles.  Mysteries.  Well, 
this is the same thing.  Only this time, something important is on 
the line."

	"Riggs, this has gone far enough," Mulder said, trying 
reason, though his face hinted that he was fast losing his own hold 
on it.  "This isn't your game.  I didn't think you were into puzzles--"

	"That's your problem, Agent Mulder," Riggs said, his 
voice diamond hard.  "You don't think."

	The knife did its dance against Scully's skin again.  This 
time, it drew blood from the flesh exposed by the vee of her suit's 
blouse.  This gash, like the other, was small, yet the thick scarlet fluid 
rose quickly to the surface and trickled down to disappear inside the 
frightened agent's clothes.  She sucked in a stunned gasp.

	Mulder shifted his weight and his weapon, desperately 
looking for a lane in which to shoot.  "Riggs, so help me god --"

	"I wouldn't if I were you, Agent Mulder," Riggs cautioned, 
as he too began to move ever so slightly.  "What if you chose to 
fire, and I did this--"

	He dipped both Scully and himself sharply to the left, 
then righted them.

	"Sure, you *might* hit me," Riggs continued, the 
amusement in his eyes goading Mulder unmercifully.  "But, look 
who stands in front of me.  What would you do if you hit Agent 
Scully?"

	As he supposed Riggs had intended, Mulder's eyes 
strayed to his partner's terrified gaze.  Tiny red rivulets marred the 
ivory smoothness of her neck and chest.  But she didn't weep.  
She didn't beg.  Mulder stood there, his grey trench coat 
enveloping him like a fog, his eyes frightened, haunted, 
his shoulders bowed.  Not even knowing he was doing so, he 
slowly shook his head.  Riggs pressed his advantage.

	"What would you do if you killed her, Mulder?  If she 
died right in front of you from a bullet fired by your hand?  How 
would you feel?"

	Something in the way Riggs asked the last question drew 
Mulder's eyes back to the man standing before him.  The bastard.  
He was smiling a cocky, sure grin.  Then he nodded as if offering 
some particularly twisted encouragement.  Mulder replayed the 
man's last words over in his head.

	  

	And suddenly Mulder knew.  He knew what Riggs 
wanted.

	But it was hard.  So very hard to say the words.  "Riggs, 
. . . you know . . . I care for her--"

	"Not good enough!"  The knife flashed like lightning.  
Another shallow wound, this one slightly longer than the other 
two, spilled blood again on Scully's throat.  This time she couldn't 
stop the moan that slipped from her lips.

	Mulder tore at his hair with the hand not holding his now 
shaking Sig, and paced back and forth like the proverbial tiger in a 
cage, his voice carrying through that simile with its roar.  "That's 
enough!  THAT'S ENOUGH, YOU FUCKER!  I love her!  Is that 
what you wanted to hear?  =I love her.="

	Riggs merely smiled.

	Mulder stared at his partner, swaying on his feet.  Riggs 
wished he could see Scully's face.  She was trembling now, her 
hands vibrating against his camel's hair coat, brushing against his 
hip.  But not from fear.  That, he was certain.  Something in her 
expression must have asked a silent question.  Mulder answered 
it.  This time softly, the sorrow and longing in his eyes fathomless.

	"I love her."

	Riggs waited, savoring the moment.  

	Then, whispered, "Very good, Agent Mulder.  I knew 
you could do it.  Now, let's wrap up this little tea party, shall we?  
Throw down your gun."

	Riggs felt Scully start in his arms.  "Mulder!"  She 
protested.

	Riggs pulled her against him more tightly, his arm back 
to its original position across her collarbone, smearing the blood 
on her chest as it settled.  "Do it, Mulder.  Or my knife carves 
Agent Scully a new smile right across her very pretty neck."

	"Mulder, shoot!" his partner urged, her voice tight with 
unshed tears.

	Mulder didn't even consider the consequences.  Ghostly 
pale in the warehouse's stark light, he bent down to place his gun 
on the floor.

	Riggs wanted to do a little victory dance.  He liked this 
new game.  He had thought tonight would be different.  Had hoped 
it might be, in fact.  He had realized when he had noticed the agents 
watching his home that he could lure them to this building and 
have his way with them.  But unlike his other crimes, he hadn't 
planned his course of action, hadn't mapped each and every step.  
Instead, he had relied on his own sharp intelligence and 
improvisational skills.  He found the sensation of flying by the seat 
of his pants invigorating.  And despite his words to Mulder, he 
didn't want it to end just yet.  No.  Tonight, he wasn't only going 
to take lives--but secrets, dignity, and dreams. He had lied to the 
agents.  This evening wasn't over yet.  Not by a long shot.  He 
figured he had hours of enjoyment left while he decided which 
of the two star-crossed lovers would watch the other die.

	Riggs watched Mulder lower his weapon to the floor, 
feeling as if he was viewing the action in slow motion, much the 
way a sports fan watches that one impossible catch or basket 
on the instant replay.  He relished the agent's surrender.  As 
soon as the Sig left Mulder's hand this round of the contest 
would be over, and Riggs would be declared the winner.

	But before that could happen, Agent Scully entered 
the game.  His attention so focused on Mulder, Riggs had 
nearly forgotten about the petite redhead in his arms.  She 
used his distraction to her advantage.  Her small hands, 
which had been brushing tantalizingly close to his groin 
all night, grew bolder, finally finding their target.  And when 
she located what she was looking for, she squeezed.

	And squeezed hard.

	Riggs shrieked, high and long like a wounded animal.  
His body contorted, his arm flinging up and away from Scully's 
shoulder in surprise.  She took her opening, and releasing the 
two sacs of skin and nerves she had crushed so tightly, 
dropped down, preparing to roll away from the man behind her.

	Riggs' reflexes were as sharp as his blade, however, and 
before she could get away cleanly, his knife arm plunged.  A 
scream ripped from her throat the same moment the blade ripped 
through her upper arm.  But, before Riggs could raise his weapon 
for another swipe, a shot rang out.  Riggs flew backwards, 
crashing into the wooden crates that had served as his backdrop, 
and slipped to the floor with a heavy thud.

	Mulder sprang from his knees, his gun arm shaking, his 
feet getting tangled in the folds of his coat.  Scully lay on her side, 
her hands still bound tightly behind her.  Crimson was rising 
through her clothes to stain her arm.  He ran to her, his mouth 
thinning in anger when he realized that Riggs had used the belt 
from her trench coat to bind her.  As gently as he could so as not 
to jar her injured arm, he wrestled the knot free

	"Scully!  Scully, are you okay?"  His hands skimmed 
lightly over her as if that alone would be enough to discern 
her condition.

	She nodded, struggling to sit, swaying from a 
combination of adrenaline and blood loss.

	"Riggs--" she mumbled as she simultaneously tried 
to rub her sore wrists and shrug out of her coat.

	Mulder scuttled over to the man, and turned him over 
on the cement floor.  Blood blossomed on his chest like some 
exotic variety of orchid.  The agent put his fingertips to the 
man's throat.  Nothing.

	"He's dead."

	Scully nodded, and wearily tried to stand, her legs not 
quite cooperating.  Mulder hurried back to her.

	"Are you out of your mind, Scully?" he asked in a 
hushed, angry tone as he caught her in his arms, and gently 
smoothed away a fall of hair from her cheek.  Then, as if he 
thought she might shatter from impact, he carefully lowered 
her back to the floor.  "Just sit here, okay?  I'll call for back-up."

	His hand still shaking, he whipped out his cell phone 
and did just that.  Then, while they waited, he settled Scully 
as comfortably as he was able, resting her against a wall a 
discreet distance from Riggs' body, and draping his coat over 
her lap to help ward off shock.  That taken care of, he wanted 
to get a look at the wound.  

	"What you did, Scully--that was stupid," he muttered 
as he eased her suit coat away from her shoulders.

	Really stupid, deadly stupid.  Very nearly unforgivably 
stupid.

	"You're welcome," she rejoined lightly, her brow creased 
with pain and annoyance.

	Mulder shook his head, his concentration centered on 
tending to her.  Blood had soaked through her blouse, saturating 
the silky fabric.  Although she was being stoically brave, he knew 
it must be painful.  Physically and emotionally exhausted, Scully 
just sat with her head against the wall, her eyes closed, her face 
devoid of color.  

	"What I mean is--you could have been killed.  If Riggs 
had swung his knife from left to right rather than straight down---"  
Mulder shuddered.  The thought didn't even bear consideration.  

	"Don't make me out to be Joan of Arc, Mulder," Scully 
scolded quietly, her eyes still closed.  "If you had given him your 
gun, chances are he would have killed us both anyway.  Even 
though he preferred a knife, I'm sure he wouldn't have had any 
trouble figuring out how to use your Sig.  I just didn't want to die 
in this place.  For either of us to."

	His head bowed, Mulder considered her words, then 
nodded.  She was right.  Her move had saved both their lives.  
Yet that knowledge proved an ineffective balm to his abraided 
emotions.  He felt certain that the image of her falling before 
Riggs' knife would be making regular appearances in his 
nightmares for years to come.  Sighing, and wondering if his 
partner was aware just how badly his hands continued to shake, 
he leaned down, and with his teeth, tore away her blouse's 
soaked sleeve.  Now, he could get a better look at the cut.  It was 
difficult to tell, but it didn't look as if the knife had gone deeply 
enough to damage muscle.  Still, there was an awful lot of blood.  
Grabbing the discarded belt which had so recently bound Scully's 
hands, he cinched it around her arm above the wound to staunch 
the flow.

	"Ow!"

	Her eyes flew open, their usual brilliance dulled by pain.  
And yet, she looked at him without any real rancor.

	"Sorry," he mumbled, suddenly shy with her in a way 
he had never been before.

	"S'okay," she murmured, studying him intently, catching 
everything.

	Mulder tried to conceal his discomfiture by fussing.  
Not meeting her seeking gaze, he took her suit coat and folded it 
into a makeshift pillow, then slipped it behind her back.  Next, 
taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket he dabbed at the 
small cuts on her throat and upper torso.  Thankfully, the 
wounds appeared superficial.  Throughout his ministrations, 
his eyes never strayed above the delicate line of her jaw.

	"Talk to me, Mulder."

	The husky request jerked him to attention.  He raised his 
eyes and found them locked on her's.  His face had somehow 
wandered dangerously close to his partner's.

	When he spoke, he almost didn't recognize his voice.  It 
sounded raw, unformed to his ears.  "I think I've said enough for 
one night, don't you?"

	Scully watched him, her eyes wary but warm, considering 
his words.  Then, slowly she shook her head.  "No.  There's still a 
lot to be said.  By both of us."

	Mulder swallowed hard, wishing he could erase the panic 
and embarrassment from his features.  Why at moments like this did 
he always have the sensation that those laser blue eyes of her 
penetrated far deeper inside him than he would have liked?  "Not 
tonight."

	After a moment, she nodded, touching his forearm lightly 
with her hand.  "Not tonight.  But soon."

	He nodded in return, ridiculously thankful for the reprieve.  
"Soon."

	Their eyes held, unspoken questions in each pair.  Finally, 
Mulder broke the contact.  But not before he brought his hand to 
her cheek.  After holding it there a moment, he turned away with a 
regretful twist of his lips.

	Ever so faintly in the distance, he could make out the 
sharp metallic whine of sirens.  He thought he had never heard as 
lovely a sound in his entire life.

THE END