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Hot Wax
Gina Rain/ginarain@aol.com

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Part 8

Ryan Wilkins' Apartment
March 23, 2000
7 A.M.

Ryan woke with a headache. He got up from the couch and 
took some Tylenol, then went into his bedroom and closed 
the drapes against the morning sun. He almost never 
slept in his bedroom. He wasn't used to a large bed.

He threw a hand over his eyes. God, he didn't want to do 
this. He hadn't wanted a lot of things in his life.

What was he thinking? Well, that was the trouble. He 
wasn't thinking. He was feeling. He was always, always 
feeling. If he had to do it all over again, he would  
not have worked to cultivate the gift he knew he was 
born with. He would have squashed it down into the 
deepest recesses of his mind and heart. He would have 
listened more to his father. Become hard. Had lots of 
lovers and toss them out the minute they became older. 

Yeah, right.

He should have hated his mother. He knew that a part of 
her was selfish for taking a risk that would not only 
cost her child the loss of a parent, but the loss of 
childhood, innocence, a "life" of his own. But he knew 
that wasn't the whole story. He knew before it happened 
that the pain she experienced, simply in living a life 
with a man who no longer loved her, blinded her to 
anything else. He knew she would not knowingly cause him 
pain, but simply wanted her own pain to stop. 

He thought for a moment of his mother and women like 
her. Living lies, searching for comfort in a 
relationship that only flourished in their own minds. 
Never seeking or accepting options. Did they only see 
themselves through the eyes of men? Did that reflection 
taint their own views of who they were, both physically 
and spiritually?

He prepared for a profession when he knew that parole 
was a likelihood. By choosing a "beauty" career, he 
really thought he could make a difference in the way 
some women saw themselves, not through artificial 
reconstruction but by building up what nature herself 
provided.  And for some, he did. But women like his 
mother would never be convinced by a man like him. They 
would only be convinced by men who never possessed the 
generosity of spirit needed to give them the reassurance 
they desired. That was when the seed was planted. That 
was when he had the idea of salvation for the women, and 
damnation for their men.

His mother didn't make him do what he did. He couldn't 
even attribute his actions to his father. It was all 
one. The spirit given to you at birth, the circumstances 
of your family and upbringing, your friends, your 
relatives, your experiences, your feelings. His 
feelings. . .were they his feelings alone or those of 
everyone connected to him? Was he completely responsible 
for his actions or was everyone around him partially to 
"blame?"

He turned over, willing the thoughts to stop.

They came anyway. 

Bill and Katherine Fox. They weren't like the others at 
all. There was much, much more going on with them. At 
first, Ryan had done what he always did. He only felt 
Katherine's pain. He had a natural inclination to side 
with women. He knew it stemmed from his love of his 
mother. It remained forever frozen in his mind as the 
ideal relationship because adult conflict never entered 
into the equation. He had read that much in his 
psychology books. But yesterday, what he felt from Bill 
was amazing. It was a complete understanding. 

Bill had known pain and guilt and Bill had been lying to 
him. 

That much he knew.

He closed his eyes and tried to think of something else. 
Today would be a difficult day. He only had three days 
to prepare. To do things perfectly. 

To make things right.


Regency Hotel
7:30 AM

"Scully. You have to get some sleep."

"I did."

"For only an hour after you. . .passed out, for lack of 
a better term?"

She looked up from her position at Mulder's midsection. 
She was lying in her robe with her head on Mulder's 
stomach, absentmindedly running her fingers up and down 
his pelvis.

"That's a good term. I think I actually did pass out."

Mulder shook his head in amusement.

"Scully? You having fun with your new toy?"

She lifted herself up and lay down on the pillow next to 
his.

"You're embarrassing me, Mulder."

"No, I'm not," he ran his finger down her cheek. "You 
get all pink right here. . .when you're embarrassed. 
Besides, nothing you do in here should ever embarrass 
you."

"Well, except for falling asleep while you are in the 
middle of things."

"I believe you had a doctor's excuse for that. So it 
doesn't count anymore."

"Good. You know I hate having anything on my permanent 
record." She touched his lower lip and leaned forward 
and kissed him softly. She put her hands in his hair and 
brought him a bit closer. "Ryan said people don't know 
how to touch anymore."

"Um, Scully? Perhaps it's best if we leave serial 
killers' quotes outside of our bed."

"Perhaps. But I just brought up the concept because I 
think we do a pretty good job of touching."

He kissed her nose. 

"We have two options here, Scully. We can either take 
the next hour and get some rest, or I can try to make 
you pass out again." 

"Let's try for both. I'm an overachiever."

Mulder smiled at her before parting her robe and 
traveling in a more southern direction, where everything 
was much warmer.

Ryan Wilkins' apartment
11 A.M.

Ryan called in sick. He never did that before but felt 
justified today.

He had to do this. This was the hardest thing.

The last two bricks of wax had to go in. 

He padded over to his immaculate kitchen and poured 
himself another glass of water to go with the additional 
Tylenol tablets.

He sat on the floor and unwrapped the wax.

Laura Adler. "Call me Laurie." She was sweet. Very 
sweet. But, like most of the women he had come to know, 
she was not happy with herself. She had lost sixty five 
pounds in the past year and her face was not as firm as 
she had wanted it to be. She wanted overnight results. 
She came right out and said it. She finally had the body 
for her husband, now she wanted the face to match.

He had known them for only two months. No one else that 
year had even come close. He heard Laurie's story and 
immediately imagined what her husband must be like. He 
suggested that she bring him along for treatments and 
she listened.

He was funny. Always cracking jokes. He found his wife's 
desire for cosmetic surgery funny. He found life 
amusing.

Ryan hated that. 

And so it was decided.

He booked them for the special treatment.

He had carefully prepared the wax baths and they came 
in. Laurie first, as the woman was always first. He 
watched her while she lay back in the wax. He did what 
he always did. He prayed that the goddesses his mother 
was with would bring her a good night's sleep and awaken 
her in a land that was beyond human comprehension. 

When it was Louis' turn, he stood in the doorway and 
damned him to a living hell. Laura was cleaning up in 
the bathroom. This part never took long. He walked into 
the room and sat next to the chamber.

"Comfortable, Louis?"

"Yes, this is great."

"Open your eyes, Louis."

Louis opened his eyes and looked straight into Ryan's. 
He seemed uncomfortable and wanted to look away but 
couldn't. Ryan knew when the moment happened. When the 
subject was ready. When the window to the soul was 
opened.

"There is a side door to your apartment building, Louis. 
Where the janitors bring out the trash. There is a 
pretty simple lock there. Make an excuse while getting 
your mail and unlock that door, all right?"

"Yes."

"Don't lock your front door. Make it seem as if you do, 
but keep it opened. Okay?"

"Fine."

"When you see me, Louis, I won't be me anymore. I will 
be the face you see in the mirror every morning. I will 
be you. I know everything about you, Louis. Everything. 
I am you and you are me. You will watch yourself quietly 
tonight Louis. You will think about the things you see 
for the rest of your life."

"Yes."

"Close your eyes, Louis. I am myself now. For a little 
while. Until tonight--after you wake up."

Louis closed his eyes and seemed to drift off for a 
moment. When he came to, the room was empty and Ryan was 
just walking in from the kitchen.

"Time to peel away all that dead skin, Lou."

Ryan now touched the wax formed from remnants of Louis' 
bath. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, forcing himself 
to remember. Remember the murder. 

He had slipped into their apartment silently, as he 
always did. Surgical gloves on. He went into their 
bedroom and went straight to Laura. He injected her with 
the morphine left from last year's prescription. Soon, 
she would be dead. He would wake up Louis and hand him 
the hypodermic. He would mimic Ryan's previous actions 
with the empty syringe. There was a ritual to the 
actions. Louis would wake up and watch "himself" while 
in reality, Ryan was the one who made up the face of the 
dead woman, perfumed her body and slipped one of his 
mother's old nightgowns over her head. So many, many 
nightgowns. So pretty. He had always admired them. These 
ladies deserved to wear something very pretty and his 
mother would recognize them as special when she greeted 
them.

Then, Louis would go to sleep, waking up remembering 
seeing himself doing all of these things. He would pay. 

Tears silently made their way from Ryan's tightly shut 
eyelids.

It didn't work that way.

It all went wrong.

He woke up Louis after he gave Laura the injection. 

"Here, Louis. Take this. You know you want to. She's 
just holding you back. Holding you back from someone 
younger--prettier. Take it."

Louis took the empty hypodermic and went through the 
motions of holding it in his hand next to Laura's skin. 
Louis was in a trance-like state but Ryan jumped when 
Laura started to wheeze. Death had always occurred 
quietly with the others. Quickly and quietly. Laura was 
wheezing. . .her eyes open. . .gasping for breath.

Ryan had to keep his composure. He needed to stop her 
suffering. He took the hypodermic from Ryan's fingers 
and pulled the small bottle from his jacket pocket. 
There were a few cc's of medication left. He quickly 
filled the syringe and plunged it into Laura's arm, as 
close to the site of the first injection as possible.

She stilled after a moment. 

Ryan's head had been reeling. He needed to step back and 
do this right. Louis must be punished and no doubt must 
be shed on his crime. He had him hold the syringe again, 
to make sure the prints were fresh and not blurred from 
his reuse of the needle. Then, he prepared Laura. 

Something else had been wrong. As he was preparing to 
leave, he looked back. Louis had crawled back into bed 
and curled his body around that of his wife's. 

"I love you baby," he murmured to her lifeless form.

Ryan listened. For the first time, he listened to the 
husband. 

He had loved her.

Ryan had made a mistake.

An irreversible mistake.

End of Part 8