From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:03:23 1996
Angels in the Architecture
Part 1/6
by Alyssa Fernandez
zzzdoc@toolcity.net
SPOILERS: no spoilers.
RATING: Rated R, for sexual situations and a couple of swear words
CATEGORY/RELATIONSHIPS WARNING: A straight X-files. Excessive UST, but
no major lines are crossed.
SUMMARY: It's Christmas time, and the agents are tracking a serial
rapist--a rapist with some decidedly supernatural aspects.
DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program
"The X-Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox
Broadcasting, and Ten Thirteen Productions, and have been used without
permission. No copyright infringement is intended.
Additionally, the crime of rape figures prominently in this story and is
depicted in a thoroughly unrealistic way. Since it is not my intention
to trivialize violent crime or to offend rape survivors, I wish to
emphasize that this unrealistic treatment relates to the paranormal
theme and is purely for literary purposes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Thanks to my Beta readers, Hildy and Kathy. The title
is from a Paul Simon song, "You Can Call Me Al":
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen! and Hallelujah!
It doesn't have all that much to do with the story; I just like Paul
Simon.
******************************************************
He was standing at the window when she came to. Apparently the
snow was still falling, and the hushed beauty of the snow-covered
landscape had drawn him to the window. The bright winter sunshine lit
his profile, so that for a moment the girl was robbed of breath--though
how she could marvel at him even now, after what he had done to her, she
did not know.
The girl tugged weakly at the restraints which bound her
spread-eagled on the bed. There was no give in them at all.
Whimpering, she let her head sink back onto the pillow.
He turned his face briefly to glance at her naked body. "Ah, you
are still with the living, I see." The ghost of a smile hovered on his
chiseled lips.
She drew a deep breath, and gathered her courage. "I want to go
home," she said. The demand came out sounding sadly plaintive.
"You--you said you would let me go home if I did what you wanted."
"And I will..." he mused. "Unfortunately for you, I did not put
any clear time limit on fulfilling that promise."
She squeezed her eyes closed. Every muscle in her body ached. The
searing pain between her legs was pure torment. "Please," she
whispered. "I'm only fourteen."
He shrugged. "Thirteen, fourteen...what does age matter?"
He went back to staring out the window. The sunshine flooding the
room bathed him in its light. He looked, the girl thought with
horrified fascination, more like a daydream than a nightmare.
She licked her dry lips and croaked, "Why are you doing this to
me?"
"It is God's will," he said, and refused to say more. He felt no
need to explain himself. He was not some delusional madman, nor some
fanatical Apocalyptic preacher. Explanations were beneath him.
"Please," she whispered again, the tears streaming unchecked down
her cheeks. "Let me go. You've already done it to me six times."
His perfectly carved features softened into a smile. "Six times?
Is that all?" he murmured absently, watching the snow outside float
softly down. "And here I was, beginning to feel sated. I am slipping
in my old age."
Her face crumpled and she began to shake with her sobs. "Please,"
she wept. "Please..."
"But my dear," he taunted in his melodious voice, finally turning
the full force of his countenance her way. "You know you don't have to
beg."
She shut her eyes. "Oh, God! No more!"
But her captor, merciless, stepped closer and unfurled his mighty
wings...
********************************************************
FBI Headquarters
12/22/97 8:04 AM
Mulder had his nose buried in a book when Scully came in. Typical
Mulder, she thought. No greeting, no polite smile, no water-cooler
conversation. Just a mountain of clutter cascading into several piles
on his desk.
She hung her coat on the coat tree.
"Scully, did you know there are nine orders of angelic beings?"
Mulder asked, without looking up from his book.
She raised one eyebrow. "Is that with or without Michael Landon?"
"No, seriously...Did you know that only the lowest ranks of angels
concern themselves with human affairs?"
"If you were God's right hand man, Mulder, would you really want to
watch me do my laundry?" She went over and poured herself a cup of
coffee, then carried it to her desk. "Why this sudden interest in
angels?"
He gestured to a folder on his desk. "New case. Serial rapist.
He kidnaps fourteen-year-old girls."
Scully winced. "Great. A pedophile. Just what I needed to put me
in the Christmas spirit."
Mulder looked up from his book. "Ah, but this is no ordinary
pedophile. This one has wings."
She should have known by now not to be surprised by anything Mulder
said. She should have; but she still nearly choked on her coffee.
"Wings?"
"Yeah. And according to the victims' descriptions, the rapist is
six and half feet tall, well-spoken, and looks"--he picked up a police
report and read from it--"'like that Michelangelo statue of David, only
much better.'" He set the report down again. "Scully, this guy makes
JFK Jr. sound like Curly from the Three Stooges."
"The fact that the victims are fourteen years old might have
something to do with that, Mulder," Scully remarked. "It sounds like an
adolescent fantasy."
"If so, these adolescents have an unusually vivid fantasy life.
The first victim was missing just five hours. In that period, she
claims her captor raped her at least twenty times."
"You mean, twenty different act of coitus? In five hours--with one
male?"
"Possibly more than twenty. She said she passed out a couple of
times."
Scully rolled her eyes. "I guess so."
Mulder looked thoughtfully off into the distance, performing some
mental calculation. "I mean, I consider myself pretty healthy, but
twenty times?" he mused, seemingly to himself. "Nineteen, maybe...Yeah,
that I could see..."
Scully interrupted him. "It *is* medically possible, Mulder.
There's a condition called priapism, characterized by persistent and
abnormal erection. It can be caused by several diseases, or by
vasoconstricting drugs."
He shook his head. "Nope, Scully, that's not going to wash in this
case. The victims were pretty clear on that point. These were
completed acts, including both ejaculation and a brief refractory
period."
"Then maybe they were confused. Maybe there was more than one
attacker, or penetration involved some foreign object..."
He shook his head again. "Nope, I thought of that, too. The
victims were specific: one rapist, and only the traditional equipment."
Scully opened her mouth, then thought better of what she had been
about to say, and closed it again.
"The victims had blood drawn at the hospital, too," Mulder offered,
in case she had been about to ask. "They passed a drug screen. No
hallucinogens."
"But--wings? An angel? Last time I checked, Mulder, angels
weren't supposed to get their thrills from hurting people. I've watched
'It's a Wonderful Life' at least ten times, and I don't remember
Clarence raping any fourteen year old girls."
"Not all angels are good, Scully. Ever hear of Belial?
Beelzebub? Lucifer? Even an angel can fall."
"Where did this one fall to?" she asked dryly. "Arkansas? New
Jersey?"
"Ohio, actually," he answered, unruffled. "Four victims have come
forward in the last three weeks. All were abducted, tied to a bed, and
subjected to repeated sexual assaults over a period of five to seven
hours. All claim that the rapist had wings."
"If these girls were really raped, Mulder, then I'm certainly on
their side," Scully said. "But has it ever occurred to you that maybe
these stories are pure fabrication? Maybe each girl simply spent the
day playing house with a boyfriend. The first one could have made up
this story to cover her tracks, and then the rest simply followed suit."
A sly smile tugged at Mulder's lips.
"What?" Scully demanded. "Why are you smirking that way?"
He leaned his tall frame back in his chair. "Scully, you never
snuck off with a boyfriend in high school, did you?"
She folded her arms across her chest, refusing to answer.
"Because if you had," Mulder explained with lurking amusement, "you
would know that claiming to be screwed senseless by a celestial being
does *not* make a convincing cover story."
********************************************************
Youngstown, Ohio
12/22/97 6:30 PM
Scully was glad that Mulder was driving. It was warm in the car,
but the snow was really blowing outside. She could barely see the tail
lights of the cars in front of them.
Fortunately the near-blizzard conditions did not seem to bother
Mulder. At the Cleveland airport he had uncomplainingly carried all
their luggage to the rental car himself, allowing her to keep her hands
in the warmth of her coat pockets and pick her way unburdened through
the shin-deep snow. Then he had not even complained when she set the
car's heater on full blast, though he never felt the cold the way that
she did and she suspected he was probably roasting.
She stared out the window into the wintry darkness. Investigating
rapes was not her idea of the ideal way to spend the Christmas season.
Normally they did not deal much with sexual assault cases, though in
this instance the interstate abduction of the third victim from nearby
Sharon, Pennsylvania, made it a federal crime.
At least, she thought with a sigh, she could be proud so far of the
way she had maintained her professional demeanor. She found it
difficult sometimes to talk with Mulder about rape-related matters like
erection and ejaculatory frequency. It was not his fault. He was
always unabashedly matter-of-fact, and she knew that his primary focus
was on solving the case. But sometimes, when he got that little smirk
on his face, she found her medical detachment withering in a blast of
immature thoughts.
"Did you find anything interesting in the police reports?" Mulder
asked.
She started guiltily, and glanced down at the folder on her lap.
"Nothing other-worldly, if that's what you mean. The lab work seems to
be missing on the semen samples that were taken. Then again, I can't
remember the last time a case file was one hundred percent complete.
I'll just have to track down the paperwork."
The car was quiet for a moment, except for the thunk-thunk of the
windshield wipers and the low roar of the heater.
"Scully," Mulder said thoughtfully, "Did it strike you as odd that
all four victims were abducted from just outside a church?"
"They were parochial school students, Mulder," Scully pointed out.
"In each case, the church was just part of the school complex. I don't
see anything particularly unusual about a pedophile hanging around a
schoolyard. Maybe he has some sort of fetish for young girls in knee
socks and blue plaid skirts."
Mulder frowned. "That's another thing. Fourteen is an unusual age
for a serial molester to target. Pedophiles normally prefer a victim
with a childlike physique, and no evidence of secondary sex
characteristics. Fourteen-year-old girls are typically post-pubertal."
Scully watched the windshield wipers push the clumping snow from
side to side. "Maybe he's acting out some unresolved conflict from his
past..."
"Maybe," Mulder said doubtfully. "Or maybe he's not a pedophile at
all. Maybe in his opinion, fourteen is grown up."
Scully turned her head to regard him quizzically. "Then why
fourteen year olds, if he isn't interested strictly in little girls?
Why not abduct older victims--sixteen year olds, twenty year olds,
soccer moms?"
"I have sort of a theory on that," Mulder said vaguely. "But I
don't think I want to get into it just now."
He turned the wheel, slowed, and shifted into park. Scully was
surprised to find a glowing Budget Inn sign looming over them. She
wondered how Mulder had managed to find the motel so easily in the
twilight snowstorm. But, then, that was typical Mulder. Sometimes
spookiness had its advantages.
"I'll check in," he said, opening his car door. A frigid gust of
winter air whipped past him as he stepped out.
"Mulder--" she called, huddling deeper into her coat.
He stuck his head back in the car. "Yeah?"
"If you were going to say that he's counting on their being
virgins," Scully said grimly, "it occurred to me, too."
********************************************************
End part 1/6
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:05:04 1996
Angels in the Architecture - 2/6
by Alyssa Fernandez
DISCLAIMER: See part 1.
******************************************************
Budget Inn
12/23/97 2:00 AM
The ringing telephone woke Mulder from one of his favorite dreams.
He fumbled for the receiver of the hotel phone, and picked it up
only to hear a dial tone. Groggily, he realized the ringing was coming
from his cell phone. He groped around the nightstand blindly until he
found it.
Damn, he thought vaguely as he flicked the telephone on. He
wouldn't have minded finishing that dream. Though if Scully ever
guessed what he'd been dreaming, she would probably kill him...
"Mulder."
There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. Apparently
the caller had been expecting a more traditional greeting. "Is this Fox
Mulder, with the FBI?"
"Yeah."
"Agent Mulder, this is Detective Kearney. I'm with the Youngstown
Police Department," said the caller. "I got your number yesterday from
the FBI branch office. It's about that rape case we've been working
on..."
"What is it?"
"We caught a male-model type loitering near Ursuline a couple of
hours ago. He says he was just cruising, but that's where our first
rape victim was abducted. We're going to try him in a line-up around
7:30 AM. The victim is coming in then to take a look."
Mulder rubbed his temple. "Yeah, okay," he said. "We'll be
there."
He hung up, and blearily checked the clock. Two o'clock in the
morning. He switched to the hotel phone and dialed Scully's room.
She answered on the second ring. "What is it, Mulder?" she
mumbled, her voice still scratchy from sleep.
He smiled. "What makes you so sure it's me?"
"Who else is going to wake me up at this hour?"
He thought for a moment. "Maybe someone who just wants to do a
little heavy breathing?"
"Then I would *know* it was you."
"Sorry, Scully," he said, grinning into the darkness. "Just
thought you'd want to reset your alarm. We have to be at a police
line-up at 7:30."
"Okay." He could hear her yawn on the other end of the line.
"I'll meet you outside at 7:00, then..."
"Okay. 'Night, Scully."
He hung the receiver back up, and rolled over onto his back.
Scully must have been sleeping soundly. Her voice had sounded drowsy
and contented. He was sorry he'd had to wake her.
...Or maybe, he admitted with unaccustomed honesty, not so sorry.
He felt a little twinge at his own selfishness. He knew Scully had
had to cancel most of her holiday plans for the sake of this
investigation. He also knew that he'd dragged her through a northern
Ohio snowstorm on what would likely turn out to be a wild goose chase.
But he couldn't really feel repentant about it. Working with her was
the only bright spot in an otherwise bleak season. He hated the
holidays. Without the excuse of this case, he would undoubtedly be
spending this time alone.
Even the case wasn't ideal, of course. He wished it were not rapes
they were investigating. Not only did the violation of
fourteen-year-olds make him want to throw up, but, as much as it pained
him to admit it, he felt a little uncomfortable discussing sexual
assault with Scully. She was always cool and professional and adult;
he, for some reason, almost had to force himself to say words like
"ejaculation" and "coitus." The whole situation made him feel like some
hopelessly inept schoolboy.
He wished he knew why it embarrassed him so much. He was a fucking
Oxford-trained psychologist, for god's sake. He had not only *said*
most of those words before, he had actually done them...or seen
them...or whatever. He was not supposed to get all flustered just
because Scully said "erection." So what if she was nice Catholic girl?
She was also a doctor and his partner. Just trading professional
opinions was not supposed to get him rattled.
But it did.
At least he was doing a good job of hiding his discomposure, he
thought tiredly. At least he had not actually turned red or, worse yet,
been unable to meet her eye. At least she did not know that he wanted
to wince every time he heard himself using a stupid euphemism like
"doing it" or "equipment." At least he had been able to cover some of
the worst embarrassment with jokes.
Immaturity. It was a failing he was sure Scully could not possibly
understand.
*********************************************************
Youngstown Police Headquarters
7:40 AM
The victim shook her head. "No, I'm sorry," she said, her voice
slightly unsteady. "I don't see him there."
"You're sure?" asked Detective Kearney.
"Positive," sighed the girl, looking through the glass at the
line-up. "He was much taller than any of those men. Also way, way
better looking. He had a face like a statue, a really beautiful face."
"And wings..." muttered the frustrated detective.
The girl blushed. "Yeah, wings," she agreed, looking down at her
shoes. "But I was already making allowances for those."
The policeman frowned at her. He was obviously not happy that the
line-up was a failure. He did not even try to hide his skepticism, or
his disapproval.
Mulder spoke up. "Miss Slezak, do you think you could answer a few
questions for us?" he asked. "My partner and I are with the FBI."
The girl looked in surprise from Mulder to Scully. "I have to get
to school."
Scully smiled gently. "We won't take up much of your time," she
said. "Just a few things we need to know. We can talk next door."
The girl hesitated, then nodded her acquiescence. She slung her
backpack over one shoulder and headed out into the hallway. Mulder
turned to follow her.
Scully grabbed him by the elbow. "Mulder, this girl's been through
a lot," she murmured. "And at age fourteen, she's probably already
fairly self-conscious around men. I think we'd get further if I talked
to her alone."
He considered for a moment. "I guess you're right, Scully."
"Good," she said. "You can observe from behind the glass. The
room next door is set up for questioning."
Scully found the girl sitting straight-backed in a chair, arms
braced defensively on the table in front of her. She was a strikingly
pretty girl--still showing a few signs of the gawkiness of early
adolescence, but with pale, clear skin and long, red-gold hair. She was
dressed in her school uniform. Judging from her dry eyes and the
self-possessed way in which she had examined the line-up, Scully thought
she was handling the rape remarkably well.
Scully offered a small, reassuring smile, and sat down across from
her. "Now, Miss Slezak--"
"Miri," the girl corrected.
"Miri," Scully agreed. "I'm Agent Scully. There are a few things
I need to ask about because they weren't very clear in the police
report." She took out her notebook and pen. "First of all, could you
tell me how your attacker approached you? Did he speak with you first?
Did he try to lure you into his car?"
"No." The girl shook her head. "He just--grabbed me, you know,
from behind. He threw my jacket over my head so I couldn't see, and
then made me get into the trunk. I never even got a look at him until
later--after he tied me up."
"And you have no idea how far he drove you, or in what general
direction?"
"No. I think he took me somewhere out in the country, because I
never heard any voices outside or any cars driving by, and the house
felt really big and old and empty. But I'm not even sure about that."
"Did it appear to be his home, or just an abandoned building?"
"I don't know...Like I said, he kept my jacket over my head. But
in the room where he tied me up, the only furniture was the bed. It was
a really big bed, one of those old ones with big tall posts at the
corners, like Scarlett had in 'Gone With the Wind.'"
"Okay." Scully kept her tone brisk. "How was he dressed?"
"I never saw him dressed," said Miri, blushing. "By the time he
took the jacket off my head, he wasn't wearing any clothes. And he
blindfolded me again before he let me go."
Scully made a quick entry in her notebook.
"He told me not to be afraid," the girl blurted out suddenly. "But
it hurt. I mean, I haven't really had any prior experience with these
kinds of things, Agent Scully, if you know what I mean. It hurt a lot.
He was...you know, big."
"You mean heavy-set?"
"No--I mean, um, anatomically." She held up her hands. "It was
about like this."
The girl's hands were spaced a full foot apart. Scully's eyes
widened slightly. She quickly ducked her head and made another entry in
her notebook. As she did so she remembered Mulder, observing from the
other side of the glass.
She looked up from her writing. "Did he have any sort of accent,
any unusual mannerisms?"
Miri frowned. "Not exactly an accent, but the way he talked was
kind of different. He sounded aloof and really educated--cultured, I
think you'd call it."
Scully's pen hovered over the page.
"And I also noticed something when he was on top of me," Miri
continued. "The house was absolutely quiet--no TV, no radio, not even a
clock ticking. But I could hear music. It sounded like it was coming
from all around the house. The same song, over and over...'Jesus
Christ, Superstar.'"
Scully blinked. "'Jesus Christ, Superstar'?"
The girl nodded. "And I know nobody believes me about the wings,"
she rushed on defensively. "I don't know how to explain them myself. I
saw this weird old movie once on cable, 'Barbarella' I think it was
called, and that's the only other place I've ever seen anything like
it. There was an angel in that movie who had wings just like this guy
did. But I'm not making it up."
Scully made another note, this time on the movie Miri had just
mentioned. In her neat script she added the question, "Suggestible?"
She was careful not to let Miri see.
Just then the girl leaned suddenly closer, as if she were about to
speak. But instead she frowned and slumped back in her chair, looking
uncertain.
Scully looked up. "Yes?" she prodded. "Is there something else
you wanted to tell me?"
The girl glanced over her shoulder, as if to assure herself that no
one else was listening. She leaned forward.
"Agent Scully, if I tell you something, will you promise not to be
shocked?" she asked in a low voice.
Scully nodded slowly.
"I haven't told anyone else this. I'm afraid they might think
there's something wrong with me," Miri said. "But if I don't tell
someone, I think I'll go crazy."
Scully gazed at her. "I'm here to help you, Miri."
The girl sighed. "This is going to sound sick..." she said
unhappily. "I mean, I really was terrified. Even if he didn't kill me,
I thought I was going to die from sheer panic. And I don't want anyone
to think I *asked* for what happened, because I didn't. But..."
She faltered.
"Yes?" said Scully again.
Miri frowned. "Agent Scully, when I said I passed out, everyone
just assumed it was from the pain or the fear or something. It wasn't
that. I wish I could say it was--then maybe I wouldn't feel so messed
up about all this. It was that I...That he"--Miri gulped--"well, even
though in one way it hurt, in another way what he was doing felt really
amazing."
Scully just stared at her. Was the girl saying what she thought
she was saying? Scully could feel the color rising in her face.
Miri looked down at the table, flushing.
Scully dragged her thoughts ruthlessly back from the unprofessional
territory into which they were wandering. "I think that's enough
questioning for today, Miri," she said, giving the girl a tight smile
and rising to her feet. "I know you have to get to school. I want to
thank you for talking with me. I'm sure this whole incident must be
something you'd rather put behind you."
Miri got up uncertainly. "That's all?"
Scully nodded. "Yes, for now. We'll get in touch with you if we
have any more questions."
Miri picked up her backpack, and slipped quietly out. A moment
later, Mulder appeared in the doorway.
Scully looked up at him grimly.
"Well, you heard her, Mulder," she said.
He watched her straighten up her notes, an odd look on his face.
"Yeah, I heard her, alright."
Scully moved toward the door. "It's pretty clear to me we can
safely dismiss these 'angel' references. As frightening as her
experience may have been, there's clearly a large element of fantasy
woven into her account."
"What makes you so sure it's fantasy?" he asked, holding the
interrogation room door open for her and then falling into step beside
her.
"Mulder, she brought up the movie 'Barbarella' on her own," Scully
explained patiently. "Not to mention her description of her attacker.
Weren't you paying attention? She's claiming she was held captive by a
cultured Adonis who brought her to swooning orgasm twenty times in five
hours with his untiring twelve-inch penis."
Mulder jammed his hands glumly into his pockets. "Actually,
Scully, I'm kind of hoping this guy really is an angel," he sighed
unhappily. "Because, otherwise...he's definitely giving me a
complex..."
*******************************************************
End part 2/6
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:06:29 1996
Angels in the Architecture - 3/6
by Alyssa Fernandez
DISCLAIMER: See part 1.
******************************************************
They were halfway through the parking lot when Scully remembered
that she had a question for Detective Kearney. Mulder debated warming
up the car, but instead followed her back into the squad room, past the
garish Christmas garland and the cartoon reindeer that were strung along
the police station walls. He told himself that he just didn't want to
wait out in the December cold. Deep down, he knew it had more to do
with keeping Scully at his side.
A uniformed officer pointed the detective's desk out to them.
Kearney was hunched over his coffee, talking on the phone. From the
sound of things as they approached, he was complaining to his wife about
the unsuccessful line-up. Scully caught the words "friggin' wings," and
"stuck-up Feds" before Mulder cleared his throat.
The detective glanced up and flinched. "Oh, uh, look--I gotta go,"
he said, speaking quickly into the phone. "I'll call you again later,
okay?...Yeah...Me too." He hung up, and looked uncomfortably from
Mulder to Scully. "Yes? Something I can do for you two?"
"Detective Kearney," Scully said, "I noticed a problem with the
file on these rapes. I didn't see any lab analysis on the semen
samples. Didn't the department send specimens to the lab?"
The detective's face reddened. "Of course we sent them to the lab,
Agent Scully. We may just be a local police force, but we're not
completely incompetent, you know."
"I wasn't implying otherwise, Detective. But there was no lab work
in the file. What happened to it?"
He frowned unhappily at Scully. "I haven't gotten any back yet. I
figured the lab was just taking a little longer than usual." He chewed
his lip. "I can phone them about it, if you want."
"I'd appreciate that."
"Sure," he said grudgingly. "But it might take a few minutes."
Mulder strolled off a few steps to give the detective some
breathing room. Scully followed. Mulder folded his arms and propped
his back against the squad room wall. As he did so, he noticed a young
cop eying Scully. Get lost, buddy, he thought to himself, she's out of
your league. Just to be safe he inched a little closer to her, guarding
his territory.
"It's too bad the victim says she was blindfolded most of the
time," Scully said.
"Yeah," he agreed lazily, watching Kearney as he spoke on the
phone. "I wanted to know more about the wings. Like, what kind of
clothes would he wear? I'd think it would be really tough for him to
buy off the rack. And not only that, but those wings would have to be
in his way when he was driving..."
She stared at him. "Tell me you're joking."
"What, you think maybe bucket seats...?"
"No!" she laughed incredulously. "I can't believe you're still
talking about the wings. Mulder, how can you possibly believe the wings
ever existed? Didn't you hear how unrealistic that girl's story was?"
"At least some of it had to be true," he argued. "The rape unit
collected semen samples at the hospital."
"I never said she wasn't raped, Mulder. But rape isn't a primarily
sexual act. It's a violent crime. It certainly isn't enjoyable. Yet
that girl talked about her 'rapist' like he was some sort of demigod."
"An angel *is* a sort of demigod, Scully."
"An angel is also an imaginary creature. An imaginary creature, I
might add, that isn't generally known for molesting schoolgirls. She
made that up."
"Give the girl a break, Scully. She had rope marks on her wrists
and ankles."
"I don't mean she fabricated the rape. It's obvious from her
medical records that she's been the victim of a sexual assault. I mean
her account of her assailant is essentially unreliable. She's clearly
substituted fantasy elements for the actual details."
"But why? She was only gone five hours. That's a little quick for
a brainwashing," Mulder pointed out. "She has no history of mental
illness. She reported the rape voluntarily, so I doubt she's trying to
protect the assailant. And there have been three other victims--all
with virtually identical stories."
"The other victims probably heard about Miri's case on the news,
and adopted elements of her story," Scully said. "Adolescents can be
easily influenced. Remember the Salem witch trials? One hysterical
girl after another claimed she'd been the victim of witchcraft."
Mulder frowned. Across the room, rookie-cop was still giving
Scully the eye. Go on, Mulder thought resentfully, get your own
partner.
To Scully he said, "So you think this is just mass hysteria?"
"I accept that the girls were really raped," Scully answered. "At
least there's evidence to support that. I'm just not willing to buy the
rest of it. I sincerely doubt that the rapist was really an erudite,
body-building super-being with a massive twelve-inch p--"
"I get your point, Scully," Mulder interrupted hastily. "Maybe
some of it is a little hard to believe. But I still say there's more to
it than just wishful thinking. What about the music the victim heard?"
"'Jesus Christ, Superstar'? I'd say that feeds directly into the
fantasy, wouldn't you, Mulder? She even claimed it wasn't the radio.
The song just floated down from the heavens."
"No, she said it came from outside. She never implied it had a
heavenly origin. And does that really sound like heaven to you--hearing
the same Andrew Lloyd Webber tune played over and over? Because if
that's the best I can hope for, Scully, I'm not dying."
Scully shook her head in resignation. "Give up, Mulder," she said
pityingly. "This is one argument you aren't going to win. She invented
the story."
Two desks away, Detective Kearney hung up the phone. "Agent
Scully?" he called, beckoning. "I got the information you wanted."
Scully moved back to his desk, Mulder following. "You were able to
track down the paperwork?"
Kearney shook his head. "Not exactly. It turns out there isn't
any. That is, there was, but the lab threw it all away."
"They--what?" The lab had thrown its own work away? Scully had
heard of mix-ups before, but this took the cake.
Kearney scratched his jaw. "Apparently they've been having some
kind of equipment problems. I don't really understand all the technical
jargon, but it seems the computer was giving them some kind of junk
data. Like, they always do this test on the semen, some kind of blood
type--"
"ABO blood typing, on the genetic markers in the seminal plasma,"
Scully supplied.
"Yeah, ABO. That's what the guy said. Only the computer kept
telling them the samples we sent weren't testing correctly. They had to
run the tests over and over."
"What do you mean, they weren't testing correctly?" asked Mulder.
Kearney swiveled his head to look at him. "I mean the blood type
wasn't coming out A, B, O, or any combination of the above. The
computer just said 'data error.' They did the test four times and it
just kept screwing up."
Scully traded a glance with Mulder. "What about other testing?"
"More computer problems. Everything they did came out
ass-backwards. Like, they said they tested this stuff for some chemical
that's supposed to prove it's really semen--"
"ACP," Scully furnished. "Prostatic acid phosphatase."
"Yeah, that was it," Kearney agreed, nodding.
"And what?" demanded Mulder, frustrated at the detective's plodding
explanation. "It turned out not be semen after all?"
"No," said Kearney, blinking at him in surprise. "It was semen,
okay. But the lab values were through the roof--like, a hundred times
what they were supposed to be." Kearney shrugged. "The lab is calling
the equipment manufacturer to come and fix whatever's wrong."
Scully sensed rather than saw the smirk which transformed Mulder's
face. Data errors. No blood group. Super-concentrated semen...
Why, she wondered, did these sort of anomalies always show up just
*after* she had given him one of her "rational explanation" speeches?
*********************************************************
He was not pleased with his choice this time.
The girl was a disappointment, plain and simple. It had taken her
nearly twenty minutes to calm down after he had removed the blindfold.
And, even then, she had not spoken a word. She had merely gaped at him,
dumbly giving in to her fate like some barnyard animal submitting to its
slaughter.
He had raped her three times in quick succession. Not because he
found her beautiful or even interesting--this time, it was more to take
the edge off his own annoyance. Her face had been red and mottled from
all the crying she had done. She had sniffled occasionally as he worked
in her, making an inelegant hiccuping sound which set his teeth on edge.
No, he was not pleased.
But at least she was young and healthy, he thought as he took his
customary post-coital stretch before the window. That was what mattered
most. He stared out at the drifting snow, hands braced against the
jamb. Ah, well. He must not be too hard on himself. There were so
many ignorant young women these days. Certainly the odds had been
against him.
On the bed behind him, the girl came unexpectedly to life,
shattering the peace and quiet. "I don't want to die," she cried out
suddenly. "Don't kill me!"
He turned his head and stared at her. "Kill you?" he said coolly.
"Don't be melodramatic."
"You're going to kill me! You are!" she shrieked.
He raised one mocking eyebrow. "My dear, calm yourself. Killing
you would be decidedly counter-productive. One cannot beget a child on
a dead girl."
She had been thrashing hysterically, but at this she froze.
"You--you want me to have a baby?"
"Not just *a* baby," he corrected. "My baby. A very special
baby. 'And he doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down
from heaven on the earth in the sight of men, and deceiveth them that
dwell on the earth by the means of those miracles which he had power to
do.'"
"What is that?" she asked dully. "What do you mean?"
"I mean for my child to do these things. 'For it is the number of
a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.'" Seeing her
look of confusion, he smiled in faint amusement. "Do they teach you
nothing in that school of yours, my child? Nor in that church you
attend?"
She turned her head away. "You're not making any sense."
"Those of you who think you know everything are annoying to those
of us who do," he replied. The twentieth-century cliche pleased him so
well that he added more charitably, "I was quoting from the Bible."
"Oh."
"The book of Revelation," he explained. "You are not familiar with
it?"
"Of course I am," she said. After a moment she added, "Well, I've
heard of it, anyway. But my parents don't let me watch 'Millennium.'"
She surprised a laugh from him.
He turned back to the window, his perfectly-cut features once again
silhouetted in the silvery light. "Rest assured, I'm not going to kill
you," he said. "I have more important plans than that. For too many
years to count, I have praised and exalted and served. Now I want
something more. The time is drawing nigh."
"What time?" she asked. "Christmas time?"
"No, my dear." He thought for a moment. "And yes. Yes, I suppose
you are right...Christmas time is coming soon. I suspect I will be gone
by Christmas."
She wondered if she was supposed to know what he was talking
about. "Where are you going?"
"I am not sure..." he said. "But I will be gone by Christmas--yes,
I am quite certain of it. 'Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, this bird of dawning singeth
all night long...and then they say no spirit dare stir abroad; the
nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, no fairy takes, nor witch
hath power to charm; so hallowed, and so gracious, is that time.'"
His voice had sunken to a murmur. He was still staring out the
window, but she sensed that he was no longer looking at the snow.
She gathered her courage and asked, "Is that from the Bible, too?"
The question broke him from his reverie. He turned to her and
smiled. "No, my little ignorant one," he said sadly. "Hamlet."
"Oh," she sighed. "For some reason I thought it had something to
do with God."
"It does..." he murmured. "And with Christmas. And"--his
expression grew even more sober--"with me."
*******************************************************
Mulder wanted to shoot himself. Just whip out his Sig, take off
the safety, and blow off the top of his own head. Or at least do enough
damage to ensure brain-death. Yeah, brain-death would probably do it.
At least then he wouldn't be able make an utter ass out of himself any
more.
Maybe Scully hadn't noticed, he thought hopefully. But, hell, how
could she not have? How could she not notice a grown man actually
flinching every time she said the words "twelve-inch penis"? How could
she not notice a grown man turning as red as a beet?
What was wrong with him, anyway? Didn't he have *any* professional
detachment? Apparently he couldn't talk about anything sexual--in
proper clinical terminology, yet!--without turning into a hormone-crazed
fifteen-year-old. Yet Scully, it seemed, could say absolutely anything
with perfect coolness.
He had been embarrassed enough when she had used that phrase in the
police station. TWELVE INCH PENIS--he could still hear the words
echoing in capital letters in his head. But the worst moment had come
later in the car, when he and Scully had been on the way to the hospital
which had treated the victims. For some inexplicable reason, he had
been unable to keep from bringing up the topic of semen. Semen, for
god's sake!
"So what do you think the odds are that a non-angelic, un-winged
rapist would have one-hundred times the normal concentration of ACP in
his ejaculate?" he had asked.
Scully had turned to skewer him with a look. "Who says he really
had that much? I thought Detective Kearney said it was a computer
error."
"Scully, you know it wasn't," he insisted. "One erroneous result I
could see, but test after test? Come on, what do you think the odds
are? A non-ABO blooded, super-potent rapist..."
"Mulder, an unusually high ACP level does not make a man more
potent. If anything, it would probably reduce fertility. I doubt that
sperm would really thrive in semen with the pH of a lemon."
"A lemon?" He rolled his eyes. "God, like women need another
excuse to avoid fellatio..."
Scully took a long, slow, calming breath. "Mulder," she said in a
voice of barely-controlled exasperation, "enough, already. This whole
X-file is predicated on a schoolgirl fantasy. Get it? A fantasy. A
fantasy that, for some reason, seems to be threatening to your male
ego. Now even the ambiguities in the lab work are feeding your
insecurities."
He could feel the blush rush over him like the blast from a nuclear
detonation. He did not dare to look at her. He was quite sure his face
must be scarlet. "I don't have any insecurities," he said tightly.
"Fine," said Scully, staring out the car window at a plastic
lawn-Santa, "Whatever you say."
"I don't, Scully. Really. I'm not insecure," he protested.
"Sheesh...can't you take a joke?"
He meant it to come out sounding light and teasing, to cover his
terrible embarrassment. But he was struggling too hard for a little
bravado. He realized even as he said the words that they practically
screamed "Ice Queen."
Scully was silent. Oh, god. What had he just said? He braced
himself for her scathing reply. Or for a quick flash of Irish temper.
Or for the hearty laugh she would have at his expense--the blushing
porn-obsessed nerd, daring to call her maladjusted...
Pot! Kettle! Black!
But when at last she spoke, it was with a note of weary
resignation. "Look, Mulder, it's Christmas time," she sighed. "I know
that doesn't mean much to you, but it does to me. I could be back home
trimming my tree, instead of sliding over icy roads in a rental car that
smells like an ashtray. I could be shopping for presents with my mom,
instead of investigating a series of rapes involving confused young
girls. And I could be curled up on my sofa getting weepy over 'A
Charlie Brown Christmas,' instead of trading ejaculation quips with
you. So please, Mulder," she said, turning to him with a beseeching
look, "please give me a break."
He had swallowed past the lump in his throat.
Yep, definitely his Sig, he thought with a painful grimace. Right
through the brain. No more immature remarks. No more insensitive
blunders. Just one little bullet ought to do it...
******************************************************
End part 3/6
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:08:21 1996
Angels in the Architecture - 4/6
by Alyssa Fernandez
DISCLAIMER: See part 1.
*******************************************************
Dr. Paul Moore, the chief resident at St. Elizabeth's emergency
department, turned out to be a sincere young doctor of average height,
with nicely curling brown hair and John Lennon spectacles. Scully liked
him right away. Mulder, for some reason, thought he looked like an
insinuating suck-up. But that might have had something to do with the
way he kept smiling at Scully, the smug little bastard...
"So, Dr. Moore," Scully said after introducing herself, "I
understand that you examined three of the four rape victims in the
parochial school case."
"That's right,” the doctor agreed. “They all came in at between
eight and ten o'clock in the evening, when I was just lucky enough to be
on duty. Of course, most of the attendings had been at home for hours
by then, drinking martinis and enjoying their twenty-thousand-dollar
home theater systems..."
Scully smiled. "I was a resident once, too, Dr. Moore."
"Really?" he said, surprised. "Not emergency medicine, I suppose?"
She shook her head. "No, forensic pathology. But the hours were
almost as cushy, I assure you."
They were standing in an exam room, a harshly-lit, sterile cube
which a few enterprising hospital employees had tried to turn festive
with construction-paper angels and the ubiquitous tinsel garland. The
paper angels were effeminate looking creatures, Mulder noticed. They
had blonde page-boys and held their hands clasped serenely in front of
them. Perversely he wondered whether any of the demure robes hid the
construction-paper equivalent of a twelve-inch penis.
"I didn't know the FBI employed physicians," Dr. Moore was saying
to Scully, clearly impressed.
"Not too many. But it's interesting work."
"I'll bet. Any need for a good trauma guy with a background in
biochem? I'm a great cook, too, in case you were wondering."
"Look, if I can interrupt this little meeting of the Doctors
Without Dates society," cut in Mulder nastily, "I have a few questions
I'd like to ask about the rapes we're investigating."
Dr. Moore flushed, and glanced guiltily at Mulder. "Sorry," he
said.
Mulder avoided Scully's glare, though he could feel it burning
through him. "I suppose you know there were some pretty unusual aspects
to the victims' testimony," he said to Dr. Moore. "Did you see anything
unusual in your examinations that would either support or discount their
stories?"
Dr. Moore folded his arms over his chest. "I saw lots of unusual
stuff. Restraint marks on the patients' wrists and ankles. A
pronounced degree of vaginal tearing. The fluorescing light we use to
detect the presence of semen practically lit up the room. But I don't
know if any of that necessarily supports their stories, Agent Mulder.
Actually, it struck me as more indicative of gang rape."
"What about the second and third victims you saw?" asked Scully.
"Were they consistent in telling the same story from the beginning?"
"Are you asking if their descriptions evolved over time, to match
the first patient's account?" Dr. Moore shook his head. "Sorry, Dr.
Scully. They all said the same thing right off the bat. 'Wings' and
'incredibly good-looking'--not to mention an impossible number of sexual
encounters."
"So there's nothing you can tell us that you haven't already
mentioned to the police?" Mulder asked.
"No," said the doctor. "Believe me, I'd help you if I could. Did
you know that studies show only seventeen percent of rape victims come
to an emergency room for treatment? Which, to my way of thinking, means
this guy probably has more than just four victims. He probably has more
like twenty."
*Twenty?* Mulder thought in amazement. Twenty victims times
approximately twenty acts of coitus each...Four hundred individual acts
in about one month. Jesus. If Scully ever figured out what he was
thinking, she would have the word "insecure " tattooed on his
forehead...
"I'm just hoping you catch this guy before one of these girls turns
up pregnant," said the doctor, reaching for his beeper and checking it
for pages. "The last thing a fourteen-year-old rape victim needs is a
baby."
"Don't you give them some kind of morning-after pill?" Mulder
asked, frowning. "Isn't that standard procedure following a rape, even
in a hospital with religious affiliations?"
"We counsel them about it," Dr. Moore explained. "But it's up to
each patient whether or not she consents to take anything. So far,
these patients have all been from strict Catholic backgrounds. Two of
the three I treated refused on religious grounds to ingest anything that
might terminate a possible pregnancy. And, like I said, there may be
additional victims we don't even know about."
"Thank you, Dr. Moore. We're sorry to have interrupted your work,"
said Scully, figuring they'd hit another dead end.
"No problem, Dr. Scully. Any time." He smiled at her, then
remembered Mulder and glanced uneasily in his direction.
But Mulder wasn't paying attention. Instead he was staring out the
exam room door, his eyes fixed rather vacantly on a crepe-paper
Christmas star that the hospital nuns had tied above the reception desk.
Young girls...fourteen-year-olds...virgins. Catholic girls who
would not take contraceptive medication. An angel...and the promise of
a baby...
"Christ," he breathed, everything suddenly becoming clear.
Scully heard his whisper. She had been irked at him over his
dating wisecrack, but her anger vanished as she took in his pale face
and wide, staring eyes. He looked as if he were seeing a ghost.
"Mulder," she said, putting a hand on his sleeve, "what is it?"
"Christ," he breathed again, still not looking at Scully. His skin
had gone paper-white. "Or maybe--Antichrist..."
*********************************************************
By the time Scully said good-night to Mulder and closed the door of
her motel room, she was exhausted, physically and mentally. From the
early-morning line-up to their last interview with the teen-age rape
victims, she had been struggling all day to appear cool, objective, and
professional. Now her energy was spent.
She pulled a set of knit pajamas from her suitcase, tugged them on,
and climbed gratefully between the sheets. She sank into the pillow
with a sigh. Then she remembered that she had not yet brushed her teeth
or set the alarm clock, and forced herself to drag her weary bones back
out of bed.
She wondered where Mulder got his energy. As if the angel factor
had not been offbeat enough for him, he had added a new component to the
case. Now he excitedly insisted they were on a mission to stop the
birth of the Antichrist--shades of Damien and "The Omen." He had
badgered her all through a late meal with his theories, throwing out so
many arcane apocalyptic references that at times her fogged brain had
been unable to keep up.
In vain she had explained that the book of Revelation was never
meant to be taken literally. In vain she had pointed out that just
because the rapes were occurring at Christmas time did not necessarily
mean they had any connection to Christianity. Even Mulder himself had
not been able to explain the relevance of the demonic number "666" to
this case. Well, not yet, anyway...She was sure he would come up with
something sooner or later...
Not that Mulder's theory particularly surprised her, she thought
with exhaustion. After all, Mulder would not be Mulder if he didn't
read supernatural involvement into even the most commonplace events.
And, from a psychological stand-point, it *was* remotely possible that
this rapist was singling out young Catholic girls to act on some sick
Virgin Mary fetish. So Mulder's bizarre theory had not really been that
disturbing to her calm...
No, what had really rattled her was that argument in the car.
Mulder was plainly carrying a grudge. That nasty dig about
"Doctors Without Dates" in the hospital showed he was still steaming.
He had been keeping his distance since then, too, studiously avoiding
any small talk or friendly ribbing. And his hostility was completely
justified. She had been way out of line. She still didn't know what
had come over her...
She didn't know? Ha! She knew perfectly well what had come over
her.
Sex.
She simply couldn't talk with Mulder about sex. She was supposed
to be the doctor. She was supposed to be the scientific one. She was
Scully the Ice Queen. Yet put the words "Mulder" and "sex" together in
her mind, and her brain immediately suffered meltdown.
Oh, she could manage a joke now and then. But more often than not,
sexual conversations made her turn uncomfortably self-conscious. Too
many thoughts ran through her head at once: Was she blushing? Would
he notice? And if he did, would he guess *why* she was blushing?
Sometimes it actually threw her into a panic. Sometimes she was
seized by an unreasoning fear that he could actually see into her
thoughts. She worried then that the professional walls they had built
between them might collapse without warning into rubble. She worried
that she might involuntarily begin to send out all the signals she had
thus far been so careful to suppress. She even worried that her
thoughts might suddenly transform Mulder into an uncontrollable sex
maniac, making him do something they would both regret. Talk about an
X-file...
Had she really lectured him about sexual insecurity? If anything,
he was the one who had been behaving like an adult--treating the rapes
with the exact same attention and irreverence that he always paid to any
other case. *She* had been the maladjusted one: riding stiffly in the
car beside him, silently praying that somehow he would refrain from
mentioning anything remotely related to the rapes they were
investigating...steeling herself to act blase...completely losing her
cool when he finally made a harmless and expected joke. And then--she
still cringed when she thought of it--projecting her own unease onto
him, accusing him of feeling threatened. Very mature, Dana! Why not
just come right out and announce, "Look at me, I'm completely uptight?"
Of course he had picked up on her hypocrisy right away. He was not
called "Spooky" Mulder, the FBI profiling wunderkind, for nothing. They
didn't just hand out psychology degrees at Oxford. "*I'm* not
insecure," he had corrected her bluntly. "Can't *you* take a joke?"
She had wanted to sink into the ground. Sink, or open up her car
door and jump out head-first into the oncoming traffic. Instead she had
merely swallowed her pride and begged him to understand. It was
Christmas! She was feeling out of sorts! Her mind was not on the job!
Such weak excuses. Even now she could hardly stand to replay them
in her head.
It actually pained her to reflect on the day. Special Agent Dana
Scully? Doctor? Ice Queen? God, she was a ten-year-old masquerading
in a grown-up's body.
Mulder must be either pitying her, or having a good laugh at her
expense.
********************************************************
End part 4/6
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:10:21 1996
Angels in the Architecture - 5/6
by Alyssa Fernandez
DISCLAIMER: See part 1.
******************************************************
Budget Inn
Youngstown, Ohio
12/24/97 7:45 AM
Scully knocked timidly on the door of Mulder's hotel room. "Just a
second," he called from inside, "I'm on the phone."
The frigid northern air sliced through her. She ducked her head
deeper into the collar of her coat, and turned her back to the wind.
Christmas Eve, she thought bitterly. It's Christmas Eve, and I'm
standing in the motel equivalent of a wind tunnel, knocking on the door
of a man I've completely pissed off, just so I can spend the day focused
on rapes.
Finally the door swung open, and Mulder stood looking out at her.
"Jeez, Scully, I'm sorry. You look frozen," he said, stepping back
and opening his door wider to let her in.
"I *am* frozen," she said, brushing past him. She hugged herself,
shivering. "Come on, get your coat. We can go grab some breakfast."
He glanced at her sheepishly. "Sorry, Scully. I already ate. I
went for a run this morning and grabbed a breakfast burrito at a
fast-food place."
"Oh." Scully wondered if he had purposely eaten without her just
to punish her for her outburst the day before. "How long have you been
up?"
He shrugged. "A couple of hours."
"Well, then..." She tried to hide her disappointment that he had
not bothered even to knock on her door. "In that case, I thought we
could start checking out the parochial schools. Maybe there's a
connection besides the religious element, like a workman or a delivery
man who visits all of the campuses."
He crossed to the desk on the other side of the room and picked up
the keys to the rented Taurus. "Here, Scully," he said, returning and
holding them out to her. "You take the car and check that out
yourself. I've got a few phone calls I need to make."
She stared at him. "What, you mean go without you?"
"Yeah," he said. "You don't mind, do you?"
"No..." she lied, and reached out hesitantly to take the keys from
his hand. "You want me to come back and pick you up for lunch?"
"No, that's okay. I can call you if I get finished in time to
eat. Just keep your cell phone on."
She nodded, and turned to go. "You sure you don't mind?" Mulder
asked behind her.
Of course she minded, Scully thought with irritation. Wasn't that
the whole point of sending her away? Mulder was still angry with her,
and this miserable little game of avoidance was his way of showing it.
"Mind?" she said with exaggerated cheer. "Why should I mind?"
********************************************************
Mulder never called about joining her for lunch. Scully debated
whether she should call him, but then decided not to. He had made a
point of implying that he would probably be too busy.
Her inquiries at the schools were getting her nowhere. For one
thing, she found it nearly impossible to locate anyone on Christmas
Eve. The staff were all off work and preparing for the holiday.
She had to content herself with interviewing the home-owners who
lived next-door to the schools, and that was turning out to be equally
fruitless. It was also depressing her thoroughly. Every home seemed to
boast an array of Christmas cards strung over the mantle and a richly
trimmed Christmas tree. As she stood by the doorway questioning the
adults, numerous toddler faces, pink with holiday excitement, peeped
from around their parents' legs to regard her with curiosity. Carols
played on every radio, and the houses all smelled of cookie baking, pine
needles, and egg nog.
At lunchtime, she didn't even bother getting out of the car. She
had no desire to sit all alone in a restaurant, chewing her food in
conspicuous isolation while strangers gawked at her. Instead she bought
a chicken sandwich at a drive-thru window, and ate it at the red
lights. Just to augment the self-pity factor, she pictured Mulder
lunching in an intimate Italian restaurant, eating tiramisu and flirting
with a mysterious, leggy brunette.
Some Christmas Eve she was having...
More questioning. More blind alleys. Lacking Mulder's uncanny
sense of direction, she got lost three different times. She stopped and
bought a map at a gas station, but it didn't help much. Apparently
every major street in Youngstown had more than one name. Either that,
or she just didn't know how to read a map.
By a quarter to five the daylight had disappeared, and she was
thoroughly discouraged. She had one last abduction scene to visit,
however, and she made up her mind to squeeze it in. Unfortunately she
misjudged the distance to the school. A misguided convenience store
clerk had assured her that it was only about ten miles to Sharon,
Pennsylvania. That might have been true from *some* point in
Youngstown, but it certainly wasn't true for the route she took. She
wound up completely lost in the dark back roads of Pennsylvania.
At six thirty, she pulled over and reached for her cell phone. She
supposed she ought to let Mulder know where she was. Not that he was
likely to care; she just didn't feel comfortable, driving around in
another state when no one knew her whereabouts. Besides, she was lost
and depressed and hungry, and she wanted to hear his voice.
But when she tried to dial the hotel number, she got a rude shock.
Her phone was switched off. She had forgotten to turn it on at the
start of the day.
Oh, lord, she thought, hurriedly flipping the switch to "on" and
punching in the digits. Mulder was going to be more unpleasant than
ever. Hadn't he told her to keep her phone on? What if he'd tried to
call her for lunch after all? What if something important had happened
on the case?
When the front desk put her through to Mulder's room, he answered
on the first ring.
"Mulder, it's me--"
"Scully, where are you?" he demanded impatiently. "I've been
trying to reach you for two hours."
Just two hours? Well, at least she hadn't missed a lunch
invitation. "I'm in New Castle, Pennsylvania," she said. "I should be
back there in about half an hour."
"Jeez, you could have checked in with me, Scully. I told you to
keep your phone on. Not to mention I'm starving. What are doing in New
Castle? What, did you get lost or something?"
Scully sighed. Some Christmas Eve.
*********************************************************
Mulder had had the world's most frustrating day. No Scully, no
car, no lunch, and nine out of ten phone calls he had made had gotten
him nowhere. Every person he'd tried to contact seemed to be either out
Christmas shopping, or on some sort of extended holiday travel. And it
was an important question he wanted to ask. He *knew* it was
important. In the end, he'd just had to leave messages, trusting
unreliable answering machines and even less reliable humans to relay his
question.
With nothing better to do, he'd turned on the TV in his hotel room
and channel-surfed through daytime talk shows and every version of "A
Christmas Carol" ever made. That had turned out to be even more boring
than merely waiting for the phone to ring. Desperate for something to
do, he had finally ended up stretched out on his bed with his hands
behind his head, wiggling his big toes and counting the number of times
in a row he could make his joints crack.
No Scully. No car. No lunch.
By the time four o'clock rolled around only two of his phone calls
had been returned, and his stomach was growling. He bought a snack from
a hotel vending machine, some sort of oatmeal cookie sandwich with gooey
white stuff in the middle. It tasted so nasty that he spit it out and
actually gargled with diet cola. Then he tried calling Scully.
No ringing. No answer. No Scully.
He had filled most of his empty hours that day with worrying. He
had worried that Scully blamed him for ruining her Christmas, worried
that Scully thought he was an immature jerk, and worried that she
actually did know all about his sexual insecurities. He obsessed about
her cheery reply that morning, when he had asked if she minded working
without him. "Mind?" she had inquired brightly. "Why should I mind?"
Why, indeed? Why mind leaving him behind? Why mind escaping the
FBI's most unwanted?
But those were typical Fox Mulder worries. They were nagging and
personal and he lived with them on a daily basis. Now he began to worry
whether she was okay or not. Now he began to sweat in earnest.
When the phone finally rang, he pounced on it. And not because he
hoped it was one of the Youngstown residents he had been trying to track
down all day. No, he knew who he wanted it to be. And when he heard
her voice, he literally sagged with relief.
"Scully, where are you?" he blurted out anxiously. "I've been
trying to reach you for two hours."
*********************************************************
"Well, at least your day was better than mine," Scully said
morosely over a dinner of Buffalo wings. "You got to stay inside in
your warm hotel room, lazing around and watching holiday movies."
"Yeah, it was a real frat party..."
"Well, don't blame me because you decided to stay behind. You
could have borrowed the phone book from your room and made all your
calls from the car."
Luckily, Mulder was spared from answering this--why *hadn't* he
thought of just taking the phone book along?--by the trilling of his
cell phone.
He took the phone from his coat pocket and flipped it open.
"Mulder," he answered. "Yeah, that was me." He nodded to the invisible
person on the other end of the line. "Right, does that song mean
anything to you?...Really? Including the sixth of December?" His face
registered increasing interest. "Yeah, that's just what I've been
hoping to hear. Thanks. And--good luck in Pasadena."
He shut off the phone.
Scully had been following his half of the conversation with growing
puzzlement. "Mulder...?" she prodded gently.
He grinned across the table at her, a smile spreading across his
features. "I think we've found our rapist's lair. Or at least narrowed
it down to a very small area."
Scully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "How? What was
that call all about?"
"I'd been thinking about that song, 'Jesus Christ, Superstar,'" he
said. "This morning I tried to get in touch with every high-school
bandleader in the greater Youngstown area. That was the Mill Creek High
band teacher just now. He says his students are going to California
next week to march in the Rose Bowl parade. Guess what song they're
going to be playing?"
Scully felt a stirring of excitement. "This is just a wild stab,
but would it happen to be 'Jesus Christ, Superstar'?"
He nodded. "And they were out on the football field rehearsing it
for over two hours the day Miri Slezak was abducted."
Scully twisted in her seat to grab her coat. "Come on, Mulder,"
she said, jumping to her feet. "I have a sudden urge to go for a drive
and look at the Christmas lights near Mill Creek High."
******************************************************
End part 5/6
From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:14:14 1996
Angels in the Architecture - part 6/6
by Alyssa Fernandez
DISCLAIMER: See part 1.
******************************************************
Outside Youngstown, Ohio
12/24/97 11:55 PM
It took three hours to get the search warrant for 666 County Line
Road. Mulder was inclined to think they might have gotten it more
quickly, but explaining to the judge why they wanted to search a vacant
house with nothing to commend it except a few odd tracks in the snow and
its proximity to a high school football field proved difficult. Mulder
had considered it more politic not to point out the satanic significance
of the street address.
Now they were part of the law enforcement cordon surrounding the
big, gabled Queen Anne farmhouse. Police cruisers with flashing red and
blue lights were lined up and down the quiet rural road. Mulder
crouched with Scully behind one of the police cars, staring up at the
corner bedroom which he suspected was the site of the rapes. It was the
only window with no frost on the panes.
"What time is it, Mulder?" Scully asked as they waited for the
police to finish securing the perimeter.
He checked his watch by the strobing brilliance of the police
lights. "Almost midnight," he said.
"Well, let me be the first to wish you a merry Christmas, then,"
she said ironically, slipping off one shoe just long enough to dump a
blob of melting snow out onto the rough gravel. "Any sign he's in
there?"
Mulder nodded. "One of the cops around the back says he saw
somebody moving inside. There's no telephone service to the address, so
we can't call in, but once we get the go-ahead we'll try contacting him
over the loudspeaker."
"What if it's not him? What if we've got the wrong house?"
"It's him," said Mulder with absolute certainty. "I can feel it,
Scully. It's him okay."
"Mulder," Scully whispered, "If you get on that loudspeaker and say
'Come out with your wings up,' I'm going to tell Skinner."
He smiled into the darkness. He was relieved that, despite his
juvenile behavior the day before, she was still willing to joke with
him. Not that he dared to read too much into it. He knew it was
probably only excitement over the case that accounted for her teasing
comment. She did not necessarily want him to tease back.
"The police should be ready in just another minute--" Mulder began,
then stopped as he noticed movement in the upstairs window.
"Mulder?" whispered Scully. "Do you see that?"
His mouth fell open. See it? He could not take his eyes off of
it.
A golden light glowed from the window. And in the center of that
light, a breath-taking silhouette: the tall, superbly-proportioned
figure of a man, broad-shouldered but with the lean grace of a classical
athlete. The figure turned his impressive head, lazily surveying the
forces gathered outside, and for an instant Mulder was reminded of a
Renaissance statue, a Michelangelo or a Cellini, come impossibly to
life.
"Wings..." breathed Scully. "He really does have wings..."
Mulder could only swallow, too awed to answer. An angel. It could
only be an angel. Even in silhouette, he had never seen anything so
beautiful before.
Then, as they watched, the figure raised his hands above his head.
But it was not the "hands up" gesture of a surrendering
fugitive--instead, it looked more like a supplication, a salute or a
prayer to some unseen force.
"What's he doing?" Mulder whispered. "I want that loudspeaker--"
But before he could finish the thought, there was a brilliant
flash. And then, in front of all the watching eyes--his, Scully's, and
the score of policemen's--Mulder saw the figure erupt into a sudden
spout of flame.
"My God!" cried Scully. "Somebody call a paramedic!"
But for a seemingly endless interval no one could move. Not the
policemen, not Mulder, not even Scully herself. Behind the window, the
fire burst into a mighty column--raging, white-hot. And every last one
of the witnesses stood frozen, transfixed by the terrible sight of an
angel bathed in flame.
*********************************************************
"Self-immolation," said Scully grimly, staring down at the
still-smoking mound of ash and bone on the soot-blackened floor. "I put
the time of death at about 12:01, Christmas day."
Mulder dropped down onto his haunches to examine the remains.
"Self-immolation? You think so, Scully? Because I don't see any signs
of gasoline or matches anywhere around here..."
"I don't think an asbestos barbecue could have survived that fire,
Mulder," Scully answered dryly. "Imagine the suspect's state of mind.
Discovered. Cornered. And he can't have been too stable to begin
with."
"Because he raped young girls? It's sick, granted, but it doesn't
imply he was suicidal. Rape is usually not the act of a person who
turns his frustrations inward."
"Mulder, only a mentally unbalanced person would strap costume
wings on his back."
He leveled a piercing stare at his partner. "Costume wings? Come
on, Scully..."
"Costume wings," she said firmly. "They might have looked
convincing in silhouette, Mulder, but that's all. There's no evidence
to prove this man was anything but an ordinary rapist."
No evidence? Of course not. It had all been incinerated, he
thought angrily. What did Scully expect? And why should anybody
believe him--he was only 'Spooky' Mulder, the outcast and insecure kook
from the depths of the FBI basement. Why should she buy his theory that
Christmas and divine retribution had arrived here at the same
instant?
Damned angel. He reached out and, very tentatively, poked one long
finger at the ashes on the floor.
A tingle traveled up his arm.
But maybe Scully was right, he thought in a sudden generous
impulse. What did it really matter now if the rapist had been an angel
or a madman? Whatever had happened here, clearly justice had been meted
out. At least he was confident that the rapes were at an end. From the
antique bed to the silken restraints still tied to the carved bedposts,
the scene fit the victims' descriptions to the last detail.
He stood up and gazed soberly at Scully. "Scully..." he began
awkwardly, dusting off his hands, "I'm really sorry..."
She looked at him in surprise. "Sorry?" she said. "For what?"
"For the other day, in the car," he said. "I shouldn't have said
what I did. I guess it's important to remember that everyone reacts a
little immaturely now and then."
She looked down at her shoes and smiled. So her juvenile outburst
was finally forgiven.
She nodded, and sighed with immense relief, "Yeah. Thanks,
Mulder."
********************************************************
Outside the J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.
12/25/97 7:52 AM
"Scully," said Mulder softly into her hair. "Wake up. We're
here."
Scully stirred, and opened her eyes. For a moment she could not
remember exactly where "here" was. What was she doing waking up next to
Mulder? And why did her neck feel as if she had slept sitting up?
Then she looked around her, and realized that she *had* slept
sitting up. She was in the front seat of the rental car, slumped
against Mulder's shoulder. She straightened with a blush, and looked
around.
"What time is it?" she asked fuzzily. "Where are we?"
"It's nearly eight," he said. "And we're back in D.C. You've been
asleep since just outside of Pittsburgh."
"Eight?" she asked. "It's still Christmas morning?"
He laughed. "Yeah, Ebeneezer. You didn't sleep through the whole
thing." He stretched his stiff right arm, the one she had been leaning
against. "I just have to duck inside the office to get some paperwork,
and then I'll drop you off at your place."
The previous night came flooding back: the farmhouse, policemen, a
brief conference with the coroner--and Mulder, looking down into her
tired face and telling her that she deserved a better Christmas. He
had wrapped up the investigation on his own. Then he had checked them
out of their motel and loaded up the rental car for the six-hour drive
to Washington--all so that she would not miss spending the holiday with
her family.
"Mulder, you can't do paperwork on Christmas," she protested.
Though she knew even as she said the words that she might as well have
saved her breath. Mulder was nothing if not single-minded. She
suspected he would even be checking Youngstown area birth records for
the next nine months, just to be sure no loose ends had slipped past
him.
He ignored her objection, as she'd known he would. "Wait here.
I'll be back in a minute."
He let himself out and began walking toward the building entrance.
Scully watched from the front seat. For some reason Mulder's tall
figure struck her as terribly forlorn--he looked so alone, trudging by
himself through the deserted parking lot. On an impulse she got out of
the car and started after him.
"Mulder, wait!" she called.
He turned around and regarded her in surprise.
She caught up with him. "I figured I ought to make a pit-stop
while I had the chance," she explained, sensing that some excuse was
required.
He smiled faintly, and they continued together toward the
building. Scully debated whether or not to ask him the question which
she had been turning over in her mind. She hated to think of him
spending the holiday all alone. Finally she plucked up her courage and
asked, "Mulder, instead of just dropping me off, why don't you come with
me today to my Mom's?"
He looked startled. "For Christmas? Scully, that's a family
get-together. Your Mom doesn't need strangers dropping in unannounced."
"You're not a stranger," she said. "You'd be very welcome."
They entered the building, and signed their names for the security
guard before turning toward the elevators.
"So?" Scully persisted. "Will you come?"
The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. "I'm not much of a
Christmas person."
"We won't make you wear a Santa hat, or sing 'God Rest ye Merry,
Gentlemen,'" she assured him with a smile.
"I don't know..." Mulder said. "Your family would probably get the
wrong idea, if I came tagging along."
The elevator stopped to let them off, and they made their way down
the dark corridor toward the basement office. "No, they wouldn't,"
Scully insisted. "Besides, what if they did? It's not like we can't
take a little ribbing. *We* know where we stand."
"Yeah," he agreed half-heartedly, taking out his keys. He unlocked
the office door and flipped on the lights.
She followed him in, and waited as he opened first one of his desk
drawers and then another, collecting letterhead and expense account
forms. "Come on, Mulder..." she urged. "You can't really do paperwork
on Christmas day."
He didn't answer.
"So what if my brothers tease us a little? It's not like I'd be
uncomfortable around you, or you'd be uncomfortable around me. We're
grown-ups."
"Mmm-hmm," Mulder agreed, without looking at her.
"I mean, what's the big deal?" she went on. "We should be able to
spend the holiday together if we want to. We're partners. Two mature,
professional people."
"Right," said Mulder. For some reason he kept his eyes trained on
his desk, staring with unwarranted concentration at the forms which he
had stacked there. "Scully, why don't you go ahead and call the
elevator, and I'll be right with you?"
"Does that mean you'll come?" asked Scully hopefully.
"Maybe..." said Mulder, turning faintly pink. "Yeah, I guess it
does."
Scully grinned, and hurried off to summon the elevator.
...And, in so doing, missed seeing a red-faced Mulder vault
suddenly up onto the seat of his chair.
He reached up, and yanked down the sprig of mistletoe that some FBI
wag had taped to the ceiling above his desk.
"Frigging smart-ass," he said of the absent prankster, tossing the
offending mistletoe smartly into the wastebasket. "When I want your
help, I'll ask for it..."
*******************************************************
Once again, I fail to depict Mulder as a studly he-man. Oh, well.
Thanks to all who provided such nice feedback after my first story.
Comments are welcome--write me at zzzdoc@toolcity.net. And happy
holidays!