Hot Wax
Gina Rain/ginarain@aol.com

********************************************* 
Part 10

Invigoria Day Spa
March 25, 2000
4 P.M.

One more chance.

Scully knew she had one more chance to get one of Ryan's 
special invitations and while she was swirling her feet 
in the paraffin, she discovered she didn't have to think 
of a way to wrangle an invitation. It was handed to her. 
. .special delivery.

"You like that, don't you, Katherine?"

"The wax? Oh, yeah. It's great. I wish we could do the 
entire legs. That would feel so good after running 
around Manhattan all day."

"We can. I was actually going to ask you and Bill. I 
have this contraption. . .it's at home. I give special 
treatments in my spare time. It's kind of an entire-body 
paraffin treatment and my customers love it. I don't 
offer it to everyone because. . .well, frankly, I think 
the salon may feel I'm cheating them out of business but 
I charge the rate for the hour you would spend doing 
just your feet here and with those I trust. . .I 
consider it a service to my special customers."

"Wow. I'd love it. And, Bill loves any kind of beauty 
treatment you can imagine." She smiled to herself. "He's 
kind of vain that way."

Ryan looked away.

"I don't think your husband is all that vain, Katherine. 
And vanity is not the problem anyway. Conceit is.  There 
is a difference. Everyone looks in the mirror and has 
flashes of self-doubt, or self-love. It makes no 
difference. It's an opinion. Conceit is a judgment. It 
places you in the role of judge and jury. Turn it toward 
another, and it can bring out the ugliness in even the 
most beautiful of physical specimens."

He turned and faced her, "That doesn't really describe 
your husband at all, does it?"

There were those eyes again. Sad this time. Very, very 
sad.

"I hope it doesn't," Scully replied, trying to lighten 
the mood for some strange reason she couldn't put her 
finger on.

"Well, I'm glad we're going to give him a new treatment 
to talk about and enjoy. Tomorrow. . .my apartment. . 
.I'll write down the address and give it to you on the 
way out. Around noon? Do you think you both can make it 
at that time? I like having these sessions together 
because. . .well, you are in my apartment. . .alone and 
while you may trust me here, and I can assure you that 
you can trust me in my apartment as well. . .still, I 
want to make sure you are completely at ease and it 
offers me protection as well, from any kind of 
harassment suit. These days. . .litigation and all of 
that."

"I understand. Yes, 12 would be fine, I think. If 
there's a problem, just leave your phone number as well, 
all right?"

"Certainly." 

It was done. They had a date with destiny.


Regency Hotel 
10 P.M.

Mulder took the washcloth and was absentmindedly running 
it up and down one of Scully's legs, as it half-hung 
over the edge. 

"You liked that, I gathered?" Mulder whispered in her 
ear.

"I liked it a lot. I think it will take its place up 
there with the all time top ten things to do in a 
bathtub."

He ran his hand between her legs and listened happily 
for her moan. She reached behind her lazily and pulled 
his head to her neck, where he quietly grazed for a 
while.

"So. . .Mulder. What do you think we should wear to our 
date with a serial killer in the last phase of his 
operation?"

"I have no idea. Something trendy, I would imagine. . 
.since longevity is not something we're aiming for in 
this case."

She smiled, but didn't feel the humor. Neither did he. 
This whole case was built on sadness and misery and no 
amount of witticism would take away that sting.

"You a little scared?" He asked her.

"A little."

"Well, I have just been assured by our buddy, Ed, that 
they will be right outside his door while we are inside 
having our special treatment. He certainly can't 
hypnotize or mind-control or whatever the hell he does. 
. .both of us, at the same time. And, that's really not 
the MO, so we're pretty safe. And there will be no less 
than four officers. . .including Detective Johnston 
himself, in this very suite, in strategic, though 
hopefully hidden locations when we get back."

"The closet?"

"More than likely. Or the bathroom. I'm leaving the 
details up to them."

"So. . .hopefully, they will intercept him before he 
plunges the morphine into my system."

"Scully. . .the minute he picks up the syringe. . .he's 
as good as locked up."

"I know, it's just difficult not knowing exactly what 
Ryan does." She looked thoughtful. "Don't you think it's 
strange. . .that from the very first, we all referred to 
him as Ryan. Not "the suspect" or Mr. Wilkins." 

"It's probably a little sad on some level."

"It is. He pretty much determines it by never 
introducing himself with his last name at all. And, I 
don't think it's just a dislike of having his father's 
last name. . .I think he doesn't see himself as a 
"mister," at all. He sees himself as a boy without his 
mom. You know what I mean?" she asked.

He was completely serious when he responded.

"Yes, I guess I do. Childhood must run its course. It's 
very important.  When it's. . .interrupted. . .the 
effects last a lifetime."

She lifted his hand from her leg and held it against her 
chest.

"I wasn't referring to you, just for your information."

"I know, but I'm a conceited bastard. I personalize 
everything."

"Conceit? What was that speech all about Mulder?"

"Some hidden message, no doubt. To me? To you? To 
himself? Who the hell knows? There are things about this 
case, Scully. . .that we might never know. He just might 
not be willing to open up even after we catch him in the 
act."

She was quiet for a while, rubbing the hand she still 
held against her, while his other hand was wrapped 
tightly around her waist.

"We should probably get a few hours of sleep and then 
get up early and prepare. . ."

Yes, that would be a good idea. 6 AM all right with 
you?"

"Fine. Sure."

"Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"A little life-affirmation before we go to sleep?"

He smiled. Leave it to Scully to come up with a tasteful 
way of putting it. 

"I'm always up for life-affirmation."

She smiled as he playfully pushed his pelvis against her 
backside. Leave it to Mulder to come up with the 
understatement of the year.


Ryan Wilkins' Apartment
11: 50 PM


The hardest part. Pulling out the urn. His father's urn. 
He had never used his ashes before. He felt his father 
was beyond any use to anyone. Ever. But he was wrong. He 
reminded him that there was an arrogance in this world. 
The arrogance born of thinking you were better than 
anyone in this world. He upended the urn and let the 
entire contents float in the wax. 

He went to the mantle and took his mother's urn. She had 
helped a few before her. The urn wasn't quite as full as 
it once was. 

He held the cool metal to his forehead.

"Help me, momma. Please, please help me."

A few tears squeezed out of the corner of his eyes. He 
kissed the urn and opened it. The ashes floated for a 
moment and then gently flowed downwards. He watched 
until his eyes were too blurred to see.


Regency Hotel
March 26
5 A.M.

It was 5 A.M. when they got the call. Scully picked it 
up and talked at length to Genevieve Baker. 
Her rhinoplasty was for a severely deviated septum that 
was interfering with her breathing and giving her bouts 
of dangerous sleep apnea. Ryan knew that. Yes, her 
husband was a bit of a workaholic and could come off as 
a bit of an asshole, but he still was attentive to her 
and did not badmouth her to Ryan. They had many honest 
discussions on that during the last few days. 

Ryan had always been polite and nice and had 
commiserated with her over her one other attempt at 
cosmetic surgery in the past. A breast enlargement that 
had gone wrong when the implant had leaked. Scully put 
down the phone.

"They were not going to be the next victims, Mulder."

"What?" Mulder had been to the bathroom and back and was 
half-dressed by the time she hung up.

"Nope. She was having this nose job for purely medical 
reasons. . .not cosmetic and , unlike the other victims, 
she had had plastic surgery before. A breast job that 
was messed up. She had discussed it with Ryan at one 
point. They both talked about the evils of cosmetic 
surgery done by hacks."

"So. . ."

"So, there is a good chance that Ryan has some other 
couple lined up that Ed might not know about."

"No. That doesn't make any sense, Scully. Ed's been 
watching him for a really long time. No one goes in or 
out of that apartment except the UPS man, and that's 
only for a split second."

She sat back down on the bed. 

"Then, he wasn't planning on killing anyone this year?"

"I can't see that, either."

"So. . .he was waiting for us to make our triumphant 
entry?"

He smirked and picked up a file of faxes from the 
prison. Louis Adler's dreams. He and Scully had read 
them both and they were word for word descriptions of 
the murders as they had already been told. Might as well 
give it another reading. Scully picked up the room 
service menu and looked for something light and fairly 
healthy.

"Wait. Scully. . .look at this."

"What?" She came around to the couch and looked over his 
shoulder.

"Is this an 's'?"

She pulled the file out of his hand and held it closer 
to her face.

"I think. . .I think it might be."

"Shots?  I thought there was only 
one shot."

"Maybe he was writing fast."

Mulder was on the phone to the prison before Scully 
could come up with another possible reason for the 
slight glitch in Adler's handwriting. After about a half 
hour of negotiation with officials, they got the 
prisoner from his cell and put him on the phone.

"What?" Adler's voice was still rough with sleep.

"I was rereading the fax sent to me. About your dream 
Wednesday night. You said. . .I gave her the shots. . 
.more than one shot. Was this just a mistake in writing. 
Think carefully, Louis."

There was silence on the other end for a moment.

"There were two shots. I see myself giving her one, and 
it wasn't enough. I had to give her another. I see 
myself panicking. She had another and everything was 
fine."

"Thank you. I'm sorry to disturb you."

"That's all right. . .just. . ." Mulder hung up and 
started dialing another number immediately.

"Ed. . .get in his apartment now. On any pretext 
whatsoever. . .just get in there. We'll be down there in 
ten minutes. If everything is all right we will meet you 
in the stairwell of his floor. . .don't ask. . .just go 
in there."

"Mulder?"

"It makes sense now, Scully. It makes an awful kind of 
sense."


March 26, 2000
6:10 A.M.

They opened the fire door to the fifth floor after 
finding no one at the landing. The sounds of a full-
blown police investigation were already filling the 
quiet hallway. There were six cops, one coroner, and 
several paramedics basically standing around, useless 
for the moment.

Ed met them at the door.

"Case closed, I guess." He moved aside. The glass coffin 
was filled. In it, Ryan lay lifeless. His feet chained 
to a heavy stone block, his wavy hair free from the 
confines of the elastic band, floating around his grey 
face. The blue-green changeable eyes were in one 
position now, with no life reflected in their oceanic 
depths.

Scully and Mulder both closed their eyes briefly. Too 
late. They figured it out too late.

"How did you know?"

"We got a call from the Bakers. They didn't fit the 
profile after all. Not in the right way. And then. . .we 
found out there was a botch up in the last murder. He 
made a mistake and Laura Adler didn't die peacefully. 
Suddenly, his little speech about conceit and paybacks 
and right and wrong all made sense."

They stood in silence as they watched the detectives 
snap random photos of the crime scene and stayed until 
Ryan was lifted out of the wax. It congealed into a mask 
as his cold body hit the air.



The coroner had determined time of death to have 
occurred shortly after midnight. Ryan had injected 
himself with morphine that was probably quite old and 
took longer to work. He had chained himself into the 
coffin-like structure to avoid any possibility of 
changing his mind due to the panic of a slow death. 

He had left behind a video taped confession, carefully 
explaining the mechanics of how he committed the 
murders, essentially freeing the imprisoned men. He went 
to his death believing in the guilt of three of the 
husbands but told the complete story anyway. He also 
gave quite a detailed description of his theories on the 
body and soul of every living creature but that was 
virtually dismissed as the ravings of a madman by almost 
all but Ed Johnston and the visiting DC investigators

Mulder and Scully were left a little memento as well. In 
Ryan's hand, there had been a plastic bag and in the bag 
was a letter addressed to William Fox.

"Dear Bill, 

You are going to probably be hearing a lot of things 
about me in the next few days and essentially, I'm 
writing to let you know that I never had any intention 
of doing any harm to you or to your wife. My purpose in 
life was to alleviate the suffering of a select group of 
women. Women who, like my mother, were prisoners of the 
lives they had chosen. Prisoners of powerful, careless 
men who used them and then treated them as property. 
Property they felt they had every right to tear down.

I had a gift, Bill. From a very young age. It was 
actually a curse. I felt people's feelings so strongly. 
I understood their pain. Especially women's. My mother 
had made the mistake of loving a man that killed her as 
sure as if he wielded a knife and plunged it into her 
heart. I lived with the pain she felt.

I don't know why you lied to me, Bill. . .but you did.  
I knew it almost from the start. I told your wife that 
the body does not lie. You were telling me words that 
your eyes did not convey the truth of. I've tried to 
figure out the whys behind it. Human nature fascinates 
me. But it doesn't matter. You and I, believe it or not, 
share something. I know you had great pain in your life. 
Great guilt. I wasted my life trying to assuage all of 
it. I hope you do not follow in my footsteps.

Love the wife you already love with all your heart. Live 
your life.

--Ryan"

March 28, 2000
9:30 AM

Scully packed the suitcases in the trunk of the car. 
Mulder was still schmoozing with Ed, receiving his 
eternal gratitude and an open invitation to come to New 
York under more amiable conditions.

Scully closed the trunk and joined them.

"And listen. . .while the other two guys are still shell 
shocked and have started some major league therapy to 
get over their feelings of guilt. . .Louis, I think, if 
he ever remarries and has kids will name his first born 
after you two. You can't even imagine the joy he's 
feeling right now. He was released late last night. I 
pulled a few strings."

"Good. Good. I can't help feeling that. . ."

"Mulder. . ." Scully touched his arm and he looked down 
at her and smiled. She knew it hadn't been easy for him 
to discover that he was perhaps the only man Ryan had 
ever made any real connection with.

"I know, Mulder," Ed said. "You want to save the whole 
fucking world. Maybe if he had therapy. . .maybe if he 
had been born to different parents. . .but, you know, 
he's not the first one who had a really, really rough 
childhood. Some people rise above and some people stand 
still and some people. . .go off the deep end. Ryan not 
only went off the deep end, he took people with him. 
Can't save um all, Mulder. If he hadn't botched up last 
year's murder, he would have gone on killing until we 
stopped him. So. . .thank you. You saved lives. That's 
all we can do."

They shook his hand and bid him farewell. Mulder got in 
the driver's seat and Scully strapped herself in with 
her seat belt. Mulder sat there.

"Well? Come on, Mulder. I want to get home as soon as 
possible. We have some more fishing to do."

He smiled but didn't move.

"Mulder?"

He looked out the window and smiled as a bell hop 
brought down the chair they had first made love on.

Scully blushed bright red as it was being put in the 
back seat.

"I paid a pretty penny for that chair, Scully. You know, 
a good fisherman needs good bait."

Scully laughed and reached out her hand to clasp his, as 
it lay on the seat between them.

"The only bait I need is right here, buddy."

"Now she tells me," he tipped the bellboy and pulled the 
car out into the Manhattan traffic.

The End.

Author's Notes:
Once again, thank you, Christina. Reading something for 
enjoyment is one thing. Reading it with a fine-tooth 
comb, is quite another. I can't tell you how much I 
appreciate all your help.
This is my first case file and I think I'd like to 
dedicate this to all the wonderful authors out there who 
have given me so many hours of enjoyment with their own 
case files. Your creativity made me want to try this 
myself. It was a challenge and I thank you for that.
Personally, this one is for Mom. For her endless 
support. . .even if she doesn't quite understand why 
anyone would spend so much time writing something they 
don't get paid for!