The Common Fate of All Things Rare - Chapter 5
SUMMARY: Ever wonder what happened between the silence of Never Again and the flowers from Memento Mori? Well, we did...
RATING: R
SPOILERS: Season 4
DISCLAIMER: We read the IWTB novelization, guys. 'Nuff said.
**********
HOLIDAY INN INNER HARBOR
SUNDAY, JANUARY 26TH
7:29 PM
When I come back in the bedroom, Mulder is still here, sitting on the edge of my bed and watching me approach with a grim determination that doesn't bode well at all.
"Mulder, what are you still doing here?" I ask, tightening the belt of my robe with nervous fingers.
He doesn't stand up; just sits there with his back straight and his jaw tight, like he's bracing himself for an uppercut. "Scully, I want you to pick up the phone. I want you to call Skinner and tell him you're pulling out from this case. And then I want you to go back to DC and check yourself into a hospital immediately."
I cross my arms, feeling my spine stretch with indignation. "Is that all? Mulder, there is really no need..."
"...I'm asking you to do it yourself because I really don't want to be the one to call our A.D. to tell him in what state I found you a few hours ago."
"You can't do that, Mulder."
He finally stands up and walks to me. He lays both hands on my shoulders.
"Dana, I want you to look me in the eyes and answer this: if it had been me in this bathroom - as a doctor and an agent - would you seriously consider keeping me in the field?"
I lower my head, my stomach doing a little flip at how intimate my first name sounds on his lips now. Like some hook he can use to remind me that he knows who I am, where I come from and what I do; now more than ever.
And yet, in bed this morning, the only name on his breath was Scully.
There is only one right answer to his question, and I feel my shoulders slump under his fingers. I will not fight him on this.
"No. No, I wouldn't let you stay."
He nods, his fingers squeezing my shoulders briefly before stepping back.
"What about the case?" I whisper.
"I have your files, Scully. And I can always call you if I need something explained."
"Just tell me one thing Mulder: has this anything to do with the left-handed issue? You were looking at my autopsy reports earlier. Fear I forgot something else?"
I said I would not fight. I never said I would make it easy.
He gives me a hard look. "Nice try, Scully. Baiting me into arguing with you isn't going to work today. I'm not going to be sidetracked here."
Damn him. I feel something smile-like pull at my lips. "All right. I'll go back to DC but on one condition: you let me come to the morning briefing with you. And you promise to call me with regular updates, do you hear me?" I wave a threatening index finger at him.
"That's a deal. Besides, Wickham would never forgive you if you left without saying good bye."
I turn to retrieve my pajamas from my suitcase, muttering, "Wickham can kiss my ass," under my breath.
"Oh I'm sure he'd love that," Mulder says on his way out. "You feel up to watching the second half with me, Scully?"
I shake my head. "No, but thanks. You can just pick up Superstars of the Super Bowl Part Two for me sometime."
He winks. " We'll skip the coma this time though, okay?"
"I'll do my best." I reply, shooing him out of the room.
**********
BALTIMORE POLICE HEADQUARTERS
MONDAY, JANUARY 27TH
7:52 AM
Mulder slows his pace down as we walk in, matching his stride to mine. Exhaustion has made me lag this morning and I wonder if this is something Mulder does deliberately or if it's just second nature by now. Either way, I appreciate the fact that I don't have to trot along at his heels.
Wickham greets us with coffee. "Morning," he says. "Watch the game last night? Fucking Packers."
Mulder looks sympathetic. "Brett Favre is a machine and Parcells' Cinderellas didn't have a chance. Made a decent showing though, all things considered."
"Big Pats fan?"
"I'm from Massachusetts."
"My condolences. You want a shot of something stronger in this, then?"
Mulder takes the steaming cup. "Let's see how today goes and I might take you up on that later."
Wickham hands me my coffee. "You like the Patriots too, Agent Scully?"
"Thank you. I don't have strong feelings either way."
"Please don't tell me you like the Packers. You think Favre is pretty, don't you? Admit it - you only watched to check him out."
"Not much of a football fan, really. I didn't catch the game."
Wickham looks scandalized. "Is that legal? It seems seditious for a federal employee to miss the Super Bowl. Un-American."
"She's a rebel," says Mulder. "Shall we get started?"
Wickham shrugs. "There's not much to start on, truth be told. Just continuing what we've been doing. Following up leads and making phone calls. I've gone over these background checks so many times I could write a series of biographies with my eyes closed, but I'm running out of ideas. Hoping to get something more concrete on the plastic today, so you can expect a call about that before long, Agent Scully."
I can feel Mulder give me a quick glance.
I take a sip of my coffee before speaking. "Actually, I'll be heading back to DC this morning. Agent Mulder is taking me to the MARC train. I just wanted to come in and get the latest updates before I say goodbye."
Wickham looks taken aback. "Is everything all right?"
I am uncomfortably aware that Mulder is about to watch me perform the routine I go through when I lie to him. I wonder if I'll ever be able to do it again, or if every attempt will be thwarted by the memory of how deeply he looked into me yesterday morning.
"Thank you, Detective Wickham, but everything is fine. I've handled all there is within my realm of expertise, though you're welcome to fax me anything new. At this point it's really just Agent Mulder's skills you'll need. I have further engagements in Washington that require my immediate attention."
He perches on the edge of a desk. "Is this your MO, Agent Scully? Sail into town, break a heart or two, and then disappear?"
"I can recommend a good cardiologist."
Wickham chuckles. "It's been a genuine pleasure." He holds his hand out and I take it, shaking it firmly.
I smile. "Thank you. For me as well. Just leave Switzerland alone, would you?"
"I could never deprive the world of fine chocolate and posh boarding schools."
I laugh, then withdraw my hand and glance at my watch. "We'd better get going," I tell Mulder.
He nods. "I'll be back shortly," he says to Wickham.
"Maybe Lichtenstein, then!" Wickham shouts as we step out.
The desire to stay with them and see this through is so strong that it aches, but I know Mulder's right. Staying would be irresponsible and foolish. I follow him out to the car, hanging back a little to watch his coat move around his angular frame; a long, stark figure of a man sketched against the cold haze of midwinter.
In bed - as in all other endeavors - my partner has an admirable efficiency coupled with a careful attention to detail.
Mulder's fingers against my thighs, the way they slide over the muscles as though I am an instrument he's learning to play. The firm press of his hand at my back as...
My breath tingles in the back of my throat and I hurry over to the open passenger's side door and climb in. "Let's go," I say, buckling my seatbelt and closing the door.
Mulder pulls out onto President Street. The morning is wrapped in a freezing mist and the car's headlights turn the world ahead of us into yellow gauze. I see him crane his neck and curse under his breath as he's trying to read the road signs.
"I am perfectly capable of driving back home, Mulder. I could have taken a rental."
He keeps squinting into the fog, not even sparing me a glance. "We talked about this, Scully. You're not driving."
I direct the air vent towards my lap. The damp winter chill has settled in my bones and I can't seem to get warm. "When did you become so bossy?"
"When did you start having nosebleeds and crippling headaches?"
I sigh and settle deeper in my seat, tucking my hands inside my sleeves. I really have no desire to argue with him further. Train it is. We spend the rest of the drive in silence.
Mulder has a tendency to become overprotective when he's worried and I have often been annoyed by it. At first I thought that he didn't trust me to hold my own. Over the years, as I came to understand how the loss of his sister had shaped his vision of the world, I realized that what he didn't trust was the inexorable entropy of the universe around him.
From the corner of my eye I watch him pop sunflower seeds into his mouth as he drives, chewing pensively.
I wonder if his mind is with the case or still in bed with me.
I keep being pulled back in that room over and over again, like a time traveling pendulum - the memories solid and smooth as pebbles under a clear spring.
My head is full of him - his skin, his smell, how his muscles moved against my thighs, the heat of his lips on my shoulder, the way he said my name.
Apart from a few fevered dreams of blinding white light and high pitched drill noises, I have no recollection of what happened or what was done to me after Duane Barry took me, and yet it changed me in ways I never predicted.
But this I remember. This I own. And I know it will change us too.
How it will, I don't know yet.
"Ah, here it is," Mulder says, maneuvering the car into the parking lot.
We step out of the car and I let him retrieve my suitcase from the trunk while I pull my leather gloves on. I can barely make out Camden Yards in the gray mist.
"What on Earth do you have in here, Scully? This thing weighs a ton." My partner narrows his eyes playfully at me. "Did you take a souvenir from the morgue again?"
"There was that autopsy table which looked so very Philippe Stark I just could not resist." I hold out a hand. "Here, let me carry it."
He pushes my hand away, then pulls out the garment bag and drapes it over his arm. "Why don't you let me be the big macho man for a little while longer?"
I hide a smile under my gloved hand - the pendulum holding still for a second over an image of us naked, slowly moving against each other, broken words of awe whispered in my ear.
We start walking towards the platform when I realize that I am short on cash and the ticket machine won't take credit cards. So I leave Mulder perusing magazines at the newsstand while I go locate an ATM. I come back to find him engrossed in the New York Times. I get his attention with a light touch on his back. "What, no Celebrity Skin?"
He turns the next page without looking at me. "No. I recently upgraded."
"I see." I dip my chin and clear my throat a little. "Um, the train is leaving in fifteen minutes."
"Okay." Mulder folds his paper to fit in his coat pocket and grabs my bags again. We walk towards the train and I look up to see the mist curl like pearl ribbons around the lampposts, the fog creating an eerie quiet around us. The platform is nearly empty except for a teenager in a red down jacket hurrying to take the last few drags from his cigarette, and a guy in a suit with a briefcase checking his cell phone. I guess I missed rush hour.
Mulder sets my suitcase by the door and hands me the garment bag. "Here you go."
"Thanks."
And we stand there like two idiots, hands in our pockets, unsure how to say goodbye to each other. Is this how it's going to be now, I wonder. The simplest social interactions warped by our biblical knowledge of one another?
This is ridiculous. Get a grip, Dana. I reach out to pat his arm, then run my hand down to briefly link my fingers with his before letting go.
"Goodbye, Mulder. I'll see you soon."
I am such an adventurous woman.
His eyes betray nothing. "Let's hope so. Call me tonight."
I nod, take my luggage, and climb aboard.
I walk to the third row and then reach up to stow my luggage in the overhead rack. I am about to take my seat when I feel a hand come down on either shoulder. I reach for my gun just as I catch Mulder's reflection in the window.
"Jesus, Mulder! Don't *do* that," I say, slightly breathless. "What is it?"
He doesn't reply but steers me back out into the walkway and towards the door.
"Mulder, the train is going to leave."
He pushes me gently outside and the cold is a shock after just a few minutes in the close, warm air of the train car. "My luggage is in there. My laptop - "
Mulder turns me by the shoulders so that I am facing him. "Let's do this properly, shall we?" He steps closer and I hesitate. Sex in a locked hotel room seven stories above prying eyes is one thing; kissing him in the open before taking a train home in the middle of a case due to an unexplained - and possibly serious - medical condition feels like tempting fate.
So much easier to leave this behind.
"Scully..." he says in the burnt-sugar voice of yesterday morning.
Screw fate.
I close the space between us and tilt my head up.
That's all it takes.
Our lips meet softly; and I realize that every kiss over the past few days has been a mere rehearsal for this one. Shivers slide down my back like rain on a vine at every brush of his tongue against my own. His hands slide under my coat to hold my waist as our kiss blossoms and swells, distilling the essence of who we are and sending it crashing back in my chest.
Our first handshake. Watching the Skies at Ellens Airbase. His hands against my neck in Icy Cape. Catching our breath by the escalator after killing Tooms. Miles of filing cabinets in a dark mine. Quoting Moby Dick on Heuvelmans lake. Screaming my name outside Schnauz's van - saving my life. Bathing him in ice - saving his life. His fingers on my cheek when my father died. My cross deposited in the palm of my hand. Letting myself cry in his arms in Pfaster's house.
The fog curls over our heads like ghostly fern leaves, keeping our secrets. Everything that is us so bright and vivid, as if we were leeching all sound and color from the rest of the world. I reevaluate the notion that time slows down only as one approaches the speed of light because we are standing still and yet each second is imbued with forever.
I feel Mulder's hands slide down from my waist, his fingers moving along my hip and over my skirt to trace the edge of my thigh highs. I smile against his lips and slap his hand through my coat.
His lips move to my ear. "Just checking," he whispers.
I smooth my hands over the thick wool of his lapels. "I have to go."
He strokes my upper arms briefly. "I know. Go catch your train."
I leave him, crossing the platform to the open doors.
Once in my seat, I peer out the window to see Mulder waving goodbye. We hardly ever greet each other and now he's *waving* at me? I shake my head while removing my leather gloves. The businessman I saw on the platform looks up from his newspaper to smile at me. Our case is all over the front page.
My throat is tight with the effort of trying not to feel like I've given up.
As the train lurches forward, taking me into an uncertain future, I lean towards the cold glass.
And I wave back.
*********
BALTIMORE POLICE HEADQUARTERS
8:39 AM
Wickham looks concerned as I walk in but doesn't ask anything and I don't offer up any information.
"I've got two interviews for you at Hopkins." He says. "One guy, Harris, works in an anatomy lab that plasticizes organs. His mother was killed by his father when he was nine and Harris was tried - though not convicted - for aggravated assault on two women at a nightclub. Second is a grad student who is a member of the Poe Society. Raised until age ten by a single mother who then ditched him for a crack pipe. Ex-girlfriend said he raped her, but she dropped all charges as the trial approached. Worth checking out I guess. You ready?"
I nod, hoping this day will be my last on the case. Save the girl and get out of Baltimore- back to the familiar confines of home, hearth, and badgering Scully to take care of herself.
I take the paperwork from Wickham and head back into the cold fog.
**********
JOHNS HOPKINS BLOOMBERG SCHOOL OF PUBLIC HEALTH
11:19 AM
"Thank you, Dr. Harris; I don't have any more questions."
"I should think not."
Theodore Harris gives me an affronted look before rising stiffly to his feet and stalking from the room like a wet cat.
I sigh, drawing little squares on my notepad, and then rest my head on the cool surface of the metal table. I close my eyes for a minute as exhaustion catches up with me. My eyelids are growing heavy and I know I should make a move when the door opens and a young man in scrubs comes in with a large piece of unidentifiable equipment which Scully can probably operate. "Dr. Shaw, I have your - oh! Sorry. I was looking for Doctor Shaw. I'll just leave this here."
He sets the device down on the lab bench and points to my legal pad. "May I?" I nod, handing him my pen. As he writes, I notice that his hands are criss-crossed with long scratches; some almost healed, others nearly new.
"Wow, what happened to your hands?" I ask in what I hope is a casual tone while trying to read his note without attracting his attention. It's a thank-you note to Dr. Shaw for the use of the machine. Signed Leo.
He glances at them and then shrugs. "I work with rats. They scratch when you inject them."
"You don't wear gloves?"
He shrugs again. "Just nitrile. They've got sharp claws and it's hard to take notes in heavy gear."
"I imagine so. What are you injecting them with?"
"Flunitra - Rohypnol." He eyes me suspiciously. "You ask a lot of questions. Are you here about the grant? Because we take OSHA precautions. We have someone from the FDA here observing our research, you know."
I smile. "No, nothing like that. Just nosy, I guess."
He eyes me up, offering the pen back, but I put my hands in my pockets, which earns me an odd look. But he thanks me and sets it on the table before striding from the room. I pull out my phone as soon as he's out of earshot.
"Wickham? It's Mulder. Listen, send one of your fingerprint guys over to the Bloomberg Building on Wolfe. I'm in 832. I need to keep it quiet, but hustle."
I sit back down, guarding the nice fat latent which I can see on the side of the machine, and drum my fingers on the tabletop. Fifteen agonizingly slow minutes pass before Rick arrives and sidles in, looking surreptitiously over his shoulder.
"Whatcha got, Agent Mulder?"
I point to where the man touched the machine and the table. I also pass him the pen. "See if you can scare up any prints from these spots, would you?"
"Wow, a variable automatic gradient HPLC. Nice." He opens his box of tools and begins dusting. "I brought the bi-chromatic today," he says, grinning.
"Trying to kiss some ass?"
He dusts carefully around the tabletop. "I need a raise. Grad school stipends don't do much to impress the ladies." He carefully presses the adhesive to the surface, then lifts it away to secure it to a white card.
I pull out my wallet and hand Rick a twenty. He blinks in surprise. "Agent Mulder?"
"You hustled and I appreciate it. Go buy the ladies a drink."
He accepts the money, a little embarrassed, before packing up his supplies. "No problem. I'll get these to you ASAP and you can go do that voodoo that you do so well."
"Mel Brooks fan?"
"Isn't everyone?"
We take the elevator downstairs together and head to our respective cars.
I pull out my phone then call 411 to get the number for the HR department at the Hopkins main campus. A surly-sounding person named Marie takes my call. "Hi, this is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI. Badge number JTT047101111. I'm working on a homicide investigation and I need the name of one of your employees. His first name is Leo. Late twenties, about 6 feet tall, 185 pounds or so. Dark hair. I just need his last name and current address and if…what? Yeah, I'll hold."
I grit my teeth while she gets her supervisor.
"Ma'am? Yes, this is Agent Mulder. No, I just need to know the last name of…right. No, I understand that. I was just at the Bloomberg Building a few minutes ago talking to two of your employees. Yes, that was me. Yeah, Detective Wickham. Wickham? W-I-C-K…yes. This number. Thank you."
I twist an empty coffee cup from the floor into a mangled lump while I wait for her to call back. The phone finally rings and I jot the information down on my pad, thanking her profusely and bidding her good day.
I call Wickham with the name and drive back to the police station, eager to see what turns up with the prints.
**********
BALTIMORE POLICE HEADQUARTERS
12:42 PM
"I'll let her know, Karen. Yes, thank you." Wickham hangs up the phone and turns to me. "Karen was checking in on Agent Scully," he says. "Quite the little mystery, your partner."
"She always has been. I'll pass along Karen's regards. Rick get here yet?"
Wickham nods. "About five minutes ahead of you. Running the prints now. Jasper offered to chip in and make some calls since he's a student at Hopkins." He rubs his hands together. "Works in a lab with Rohypnol. That's damned fortuitous, don't you think?"
"Very much."
I pull up a chair and scrutinize crime scene photos I know by heart. We are so close I can taste it.
The elevator doors ding and I look up to see Jasper step out with a triumphant look on his face. "Guy was put on warning when twelve milligrams of flunitrazepam went missing on his watch."
Wickham punches the air. "YES!"
I get to my feet to shake Jasper's hand and notice a cartouche tattoo on his wrist. Bird, lion, feather…the rest is covered by the cuff of his Black Sabbath t-shirt. "I'm guessing yours doesn't say Rick?" I ask.
He laughs. "No, Jasper. We're not real creative."
Wickham walks over and drapes an arm around each of our shoulders. "I think we have enough to bring this guy in for questioning. You want to go get him, Agent Mulder?"
"No, you go on ahead. I'm going to head over to my hotel. I want to check on some things."
Wickham shrugs and exchanges a high-five with Jasper as I slip my coat back on.
Something is tickling the back of my brain, but I can't quite hone in on what it is. If Scully were here she might be able to help me articulate it. I should call her. She wanted me to call her, right? This is about the case, so she can't object. And if I just happen to check up on her at the same time...two birds, one stone.
*********
I get in the car and make a right onto the street, watching Wickham in my rear-view as he peels out of the parking lot.
Something feels wrong.
Flunitrazepam's not legal in this country and if the FDA is overseeing a study with it, they're watching it like hawks. No reason to think our killer wouldn't get it on the street like everyone else if he intended not to be tracked. Surely Leo would know that and couldn't possibly be so foolish as to lead us to him this easily. Is someone in his lab framing him?
Why would anyone frame him? It seems so obvious a setup. I have to find out who passed this information to Jasper.
If it's one of his buddies, it could be a prank. Someone trying to get back at Leo for experimenting on rats, maybe. Grad students love their causes. I suspect Jasper and his friends share the same poor taste in T-shirts and lame symbolic tattoos. In my book, the dubious joke of framing poor Leo wouldn't be too much of a stretch.
Now that I have gotten used to the idea, I have to say that Scully's tattoo suits her. Not to mention that, in the artistic department, her Ouroboros trumps RickandJasper's cartouches by several stadions. It's Van Gogh's "Yellow House" next to a Thomas Kinkade cottage.
Not real creative indeed, Jasper.
I think back to his excited face as he came downstairs with the news. High-fiving Wickham, shaking hands…
Shaking hands.
Bird, lion, feather…that should correspond to J-A-S, but Rick's was eye, feather, basket. One of them is lying, because that feather cannot be both an I and a S.
I pull out my phone and call Frohike as I turn into the hotel parking lot. "Frohike, I need you to look up hieroglyphics for me."
"You guys after a mummy?" I can already hear the keyboard clacking.
"Serial killer."
"Boring. Okay, what do you need?"
"This guy had a cartouche tattoo on his arm. The symbols I saw from the top down were a bird, a lion, and a feather. There was more but I couldn't see.
"I'm looking now. How's your delectable partner?"
More delectable than you are capable of imagining.
"Mooning over you, as ever."
"Naturally. Okay, Mulder. Looks like you've got A-L-I on that tattoo. That mean anything?"
"Probably, since the guy with the tattoo said it spelled Jasper. Thanks, Frohike."
"Give the scrumptious Agent Scully my love."
I roll my eyes as I hang up and get out of the car, wracking my mental filing cabinet for anything beginning with Ali.
I can feel the answer circling like a shark; the tip of the dorsal fin peeking above the water but not fully visible. I walk to the elevator and get in, pushing the button for floor number seven and then slumping against the wall to think. I have encountered this name before. I close my eyes and flip rapidly back through the pages of my memory.
Ali...
Ali...
A cold sweat beads on my forehead as my eyes open.
Alibek Chalew - one of the glassblowing students Scully couldn't find.
The doors slide open a moment later and I rush to my room, battling with the keycard and then hurrying to the files on the desk. I tear through them and then find the name. Alibek Chalew, student at Mobtown Glassworks - the same shop where we found Montaldo. He took classes for three years, paid in cash, and hadn't been seen there for over seven months.
I call Scully.
"Scully, it's me. How are you?"
"Fine, thank you."
"Been to the doctor yet?"
"I'm going tomorrow. What's up, Mulder?" She sounds ever-so-slightly testy. I cut to the chase.
"Listen, do you have any info on that Alibek Chalew guy? One of those glassblowing students we couldn't reach?"
I chew my pencil and hear her rifling through some papers.
"He took some beginner classes and apparently showed remarkable proficiency. Then he went through their advanced classes, did some private instruction before leaving. You think he's the guy, Mulder? His name doesn't show up anywhere in any database I checked. That's awfully suspicious in itself."
"Yes it is. Was there a physical description?"
"Um…let me see. Here it is, much good may it do you. Caucasian male, early to mid twenties. Brown hair, brown eyes, of average weight, height and build. That should narrow things down nicely. "
"No kidding. Anything else you can tell me, Scully?"
She pauses and I can imagine her thinking hard, the fine crease between her eyebrows deepening, the way her mouth purses slightly.
"Leap year," she says finally.
I freeze. "What?"
"His birthday is on leap year."
"How do you know that?"
"The students birthdays are listed along with the names. Alibek Chalew was born on February 29th."
My heart is pounding. "Scully?"
"Yeah?"
"I have a good feeling about this one. Talk to you later."
"Mulder, be careful."
"Aren't I always?"
"No, Mulder, you're not."
"Well, I'm bound to get it right one of these days. Gotta run."
I hang up and start pacing around the room.
Well, what do you know? I think young Jasper just became a suspect.
Alibek...Alibek...what does it mean?
Why does he have Alibek tattooed on his arm in Egyptian?
I recall my words to Scully the other night. "You know, certain grimoires instruct practitioners of black magic to carry a heart under their right arm to cast a spell of invisibility."
The Grand Grimoire - described by A.E. Waite as "one of the most atrocious of its class" - was purportedly written by a man known as Alibek the Egyptian.
The Grand Grimoire is also known as the Red Dragon.
I think back to Jasper's shirt at that first crime scene. Manhunter - based on the book Red Dragon. The red dragon in the office. Xena the Warrior Princess… Princess Leia…Tiamat.
Jasper lying to get Wickham out of the station so he could…what?
Go kill the Amazon.
I run out of the room, calling Wickham as I race down the stairs. " Mulder?" he says. "I'm at Hopkins right now and they don't know anything about any missing -"
"It's Jasper," I say. "Jasper's the killer."
"WHAT?"
"I can't explain it now, Wickham, but trust me, it's him. He's going to go kill her now. Tell me where he lives and then get a team over there ASAP."
Wickham gives me careful directions and I get in my car and speed to the highway at a brisk 80 miles per hour.
**********
1218 GAGE COURT
1:37 PM
Jasper Donnelly's house is down a side street in the not-fashionable part of Mount Washington. The car protests a bit as I nudge it along the steep, slippery hill and around a bend into a cul-de-sac.
The house is a prim Cape Cod, showing signs of age but in overall good repair. I park the car and climb out, my face buffeted by the chilling wind. I pull on a pair of latex gloves, then my warm leather ones on top as I pick my way across the muddied snow. I can't tell how recent any of the footprints or tire tracks are. I walk behind the house to peer into the fenced-in yard. There's a two-car garage off to the side and I can just make out a navy blue van through the smudged windows. I can't tell if there's another car in there or not and decide to assume he's home.
I see no evidence of security cameras, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Jasper is not stupid.
Don't screw this up, Mulder.
He's probably in the basement right now. He wants to hurry, but there are also ritualistic components to this that he doesn't want to rush. He'll take his time. He's arrogant too, or he wouldn't flaunt his dragons and warrior women.
He thinks he's invincible.
I decide that Jasper wouldn't put up cameras. He'd consider it an admission of weakness.
I return to the porch and remove the leather gloves, then pick the lock easily. The front door swings open quietly and I walk in to a dim front room with Spartan furnishings. Although Jasper is likely at work downstairs, I keep my gun drawn and move warily through the small rooms. I cannot see evidence of basement steps anywhere. Finally I come to the kitchen. There's a large shelving unit on the back wall and a crumpled rug in front of it. Upon closer inspection, I notice grooves on the floor under where the rug would normally lay. They curve away from the shelves in parallel arcs.
I holster my gun and grab the shelves, pulling hard, then stumble backwards as the whole thing swings forward, rumbling along the floor. The unit is mounted to a door.
I draw my weapon again and move cautiously forward. I take the steps slowly down into the gloom. A pale, sickly light bathes the plaster walls, but it dims as I move deeper into the hallway beyond the steps. Based on what I can make out, the basement extends underground far beyond the area of the house.
I continue inching along and until I reach a door which is cracked open, edges glowing with a cool, silvery light.
I slow down, sensing that I am about to step into the heart of Jasper's madness. Cecilia is near. If I announce my presence, he may kill her in a moment of spite or panic. If I hesitate, I may risk being too late.
Holding my gun in front of me, I start to move into the weirdest of basements. Even by my standards.
The large room has been meticulously decorated to resemble a woodland glade and I feel like I am outside on a summer night. The ceiling is a deep inky color, set with fiber optic stars which twinkle over the fake - though incredibly realistic - trees and a cluster of large rocks. I can hear a rush of water, off to the right. The whole scene is so vivid and serene that I almost forget I am in the basement of a particularly brutal serial killer.
A change in the texture of the floor gives me pause. It feels like I am on a thick carpet now, instead of the cheap tile or linoleum I've been walking on this far. I glance down briefly and realize that what I thought was carpet is a lush lawn of grass.
Grass?
I assume it's artificial, but cannot stop to inspect. I move further in, taking quiet, careful steps and trying not to panic. I have no protective gear on and Jasper - even if he doesn't know I'm here yet - will have the advantage as soon as he figures it out.
I walk forward, straining to see around trees, to get a glimpse of what else is in here. I notice a flash of movement in one of the far corners and point my gun towards it. About three yards ahead, beyond a low hedge, I see four or five deer and a pack of hounds; all stuffed and displayed in lifelike poses. Beyond that I catch the movement again and crouch down among the artificial bushes.
A woman rises to her feet past the deer and dogs. She is naked and wild-eyed, strands of brown hair clinging to her tear-streaked face. She pounds against an invisible barrier, her mouth open in a silent scream. I blink and realize she is in a small room made of soundproof glass, which - based on the fact that she does not look towards me - must also be composed of one-way mirrors.
He watches her here, unseen. I think of the legend of Actaeon, a hunter who dared to look upon the bathing Diana - goddess of the hunt and the moon - and she, in revenge, turned him into a stag and he was brought down by his own dogs.
I think of the venison found in the women's stomachs. Artemis forced to eat her sacred hinds.
I resist the urge to hurry over to the place where Cecilia is confined, watching her scream and sob. She doesn't seem in immediate danger, so I take a moment to scan the room, peering into the corners as far as I can. I don't see any signs of Jasper, so I make my way cautiously to the cage. The walls are smooth and I cannot figure out a way in. Cecilia's nails scrabble against the slick glass and she kicks wildly at it before crumpling to the floor in defeat. I can feel her panic radiate outward from the small prison.
I return to the black hallway and move along the outer wall until my fingers encounter the fabric of a heavy drape.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before...
You've got to hand it to Jasper. He knows his Occult classics.
I lift it to find that it hides an archway leading to another room, this one bathed in an ominous red light.
How original.
I walk further in and look around. The walls and floor are stone and are liberally spattered with gouts and rivulets of dried blood. A couple of yards away is a large stone altar, upon which is resting a stained crystal chalice and an evil-looking knife with an elaborate crystal handle. And a book. A tattered, dog-eared paperback that looks utterly out of place in so gothic a setting. I step closer, squinting to read the title in the dim light.
The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.
I open the cover and see "Veronica Chalew" inscribed on the flyleaf in an elegant hand.
I return it to the altar and begin walking to the wall near the door when, from the corner of my eye, I see a man moving in the shadows. "FBI! FREEZE!" I yell, and point my gun at him.
Well, if Jasper was unaware of my home invasion before now, I've probably just clued him in. Heart pounding, I go to the mirror and see that it is the back of Cecilia's prison. Jasper reversed the glass on this side, likely so he can watch himself kill and so that the women can look out of their prisons and see that awful blood-stained altar and be reminded of what fate awaits them. I run my finger along the seam where the glass meets the wall and feel a tiny button. I push it and the door hisses open. Cecilia drops to the floor, her face hidden in her hands.
"Please, please," she begs. "Please, I haven't seen you. You can let me go. I won't tell anyone just let me go pleaseletmego..." Her voice trails off into keening.
"Cecilia, my name is Fox Mulder. I'm with the FBI and I'm here to take you home." I hold out my badge.
She shakes her head, keeping her eyes covered. "Nononono you can't trick me. I'm not looking, I'm not looking youcantmakemelook..." she starts to rock back and forth.
"Cecila, get UP! You have to get out of here!" I lunge in to snatch at her wrist, but she scrambles into the corner, mumbling sing-song nonsense to herself.
I glance over my shoulder and then toss my badge at her feet, but she ignores it. I curse under my breath then move in backwards to crouch next to her, keeping my gun trained on the doorway. I pick up my ID from the floor and she shudders when I nudge it into her hands.
"Just look at it Cecilia, look at the badge." I tell her, my eyes not leaving the door.
I don't know how long it takes her to summon the courage to do so, but it seems like an eternity elapses before I finally hear her whisper: "Oh God, I didn't think anyone was ever coming." She touches my hand, tentatively at first, and then grips it until her knuckles whiten.
I pull her up and she leans against me. We are just about to reach the cell's threshold when the door slides shut.
As I suspected it would the minute I stepped inside.
Cecilia lunges at the door, pounding at it furiously until I pull her gently away. I see Jasper waving from the other side of the glass. A speaker on the wall crackles to life and his cheerful voice pipes in. "Hi, Agent Mulder. You didn't buy my story about Leo for a minute, did you?"
"Nice to see you, Jasper. Is your buddy Rick here too?" I kick the glass and my shoe bounces off the surface. Behind me, Cecilia has begun to shiver. I remove my jacket and dress shirt, handing her both. She puts them on gratefully.
"I can't see you from my side, Agent Mulder, but don't bother kicking the glass. Cecilia can tell you it won't do any good. She's broken three toes that way. Isn't that right, Cecilia?"
I turn around to look down at Cecilia's feet and see that some of her toes are indeed bruised and swollen. The young woman shrugs. "I'd cut them off if it meant that bastard would let us out."
"And no, Rick isn't here." Jasper continues, taking hold of the chalice and filling it with the content from a green bottle. "You think he has the scope for this kind of thing? Please. He can't even kill lab rats."
I touch the cool wall of our prison. The glass is probably bulletproof and I risk a ricochet if I start shooting.
Jasper starts speaking again. "Before you and Agent Scully arrived, Jack Wickham told us that you were something of an expert on the paranormal. I assume you're familiar with the Red Dragon grimoire?"
"A spell of invisibility, Jasper? Is that how you managed this?"
He smiles. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Jasper is standing in the center of a nearly-finished pentagram drawn in what I presume to be blood on the stone floor. "You're trying to summon the Devil?" I ask. "Why would anyone want the Devil?"
Jasper picks his knife up from the altar and begins sharpening it. "When I was four years old, my mother had the daughter she'd always wanted. She stuck around until I was eight and then she took my sister and left me to the tender mercies of my father. Every night I prayed to God that my father would be too drunk to beat me. Or use me as an ashtray. Or starve me while he ate in front of my face because I forgot to empty the dishwasher. He never answered my prayers, Agent Mulder. Or he said no. Either way, I gave up on God."
This is sadly mundane. Mother leaves boy. Boy meets abuse. Abuse turns boy into a psychopath. I think they covered that pattern my second day at Quantico.
"Which one of them was left-handed?" I ask Jasper.
"Both. Contrary bitches."
"You call yourself Alibek Chalew when it concerns these…things you do, Jasper. Veronica Chalew, the name in that book. I bet that's your mother."
Jasper's smirk is vicious. "Only thing she left behind. A book that I doubt she even remembered. Then again, Mother made a point of forgetting everything she'd abandoned. Me included."
He takes the book, and flips through its pages thoughtfully.
"If she'd left a Bible I might have learned to turn the other cheek. But Poe gave a different view of the world to my eight year old self. Anybody who thinks that revenge doesn't taste sweet is a fool. I know that now."
Safe in the knowledge that he can not see me, I check my cell phone. I cannot say I'm surprised by the lack of signal but it was worth a try. I focus on Jasper again. "Many practitioners of shamanism and other magical arts believe that to possess a person's name is to possess their spirit. Alibek Chalew - the magician and the Amazon. That's what you're doing, isn't it?"
"She gave her name to my sister but not to me. So I took it."
"What else did you take? Where's your sister, Jasper?"
A slow smile crawls over his face. "People are too trusting, really. When the police came to ask where my sister was, all I had to do was give them a sorrowfully earnest look and claim I hadn't seen her in nineteen years."
"That doesn't answer my question."
Jasper lifts the chalice off the altar, then takes a swig of something dark I sincerely hope is a grape product. "I drink to the buried that repose around us."
The Cask of Amontillado, if I recall my Poe correctly. So she's entombed somewhere in this basement. I'd say the smart money's on the floor beneath this chamber.
"Where's your father?"
"He's been dead for years." Jasper holds the knife up and I watch the red light turn the handle to rubies. "Did you know that potassium chloride poisoning is a nearly undetectable way to cause a heart attack?"
Yes, I did. Scully threatens me with it every couple of months.
"How old were you, Jasper?"
"When I killed him? Fourteen. They put me in foster care. But no one wants a troubled teen for very long."
Whine, whine. I change topics. "You know I'm armed, right? And that I'll shoot you the first chance I get?" I decide not to tell him that Wickham is en route with the Quick Response Team.
"Agent Mulder, do you see those chrome pipes in the corners, at the top and bottom of the cell? They're going to start venting sevoflurane. You've got about three minutes of consciousness left before I slit your throats."
Now would be good, Wickham.
A soft hissing sound fills the room and I tear my t-shirt, wadding fabric into the valves. Cecilia does the same with my dress shirt and I lift her up to reach the top corners, but the sweet-smelling gas seeps around our attempts anyway.
We hold our breath and make masks of fabric, but I can feel myself starting to get dizzy. Cecilia blinks with an uncertain look on her face. Her head lolls to one side.
I slap at my cheeks and then see a shadow fall across the floor about six feet behind Jasper, who is kneeling in his incomplete pentagram. He is chanting in a low, even voice. "Non est diabolus, nisi daemonicus. Non est diabolus..." I force my eyelids open and watch as the shadow creeps up closer and closer until it crosses Jasper's line of vision. He jerks his head up and snatches his knife before getting to his feet.
Wickham walks in, gun drawn, and Jasper lunges at him, the foot-long blade flashing in the crimson light. Wickham fires twice. Jasper falls to the floor, twitching. Someone shouts "He's down!" and the last thing I see before the world goes black is the members of the QRT pouring into the room like soldier ants.
**********
"Wakey, wakey," says Wickham.
I blink in confusion and open my eyelids, which seem to have been replaced by solid iron.
"Glargh," I mumble, my mouth cottony.
Wickham hands me a bottle of Gatorade and I sit up carefully. "Where's Cecilia?"
He jerks his head and I see her stretched out on the grass, attended by medics.
"Jasper?"
"Choppered him to Shock Trauma. I did more damage than I needed to and it's touch and go. One of my own guys..." He shakes his head sadly. "How did I not see it?"
"You couldn't have known, Wickham," I say, coughing slightly and drinking some more. "He had everyone fooled."
"I could have aimed for his knees. But I didn't." Wickham's expression looks carved from stone and I can tell it's the face he needs to wear to deal with what just happened.
"He's not dead," I remind him. "And neither is Cecilia."
Wickham shrugs. "So how'd you do it?" he wants to know. "Jasper had a spotless record."
I look around and then whisper, "Magic".
He groans. "I should have left you in there, you asshole. Gone to comfort Agent Scully in DC. Been the strong shoulder for her to cry on. She would have gotten over you in no time."
"And she'd have wiped her tears, blown her nose, and used you for target practice."
Wickham considers this. "We'd have matching gunshot scars."
"You're a real pal, Wickham."
"It was mostly self-preservation. I might have had to wipe a tear if you'd died. It would have been bad for my image."
I bat my lashes at him. "Aw, honey, I didn't know you cared."
He throws his hands in the air. "I give up. I'm just glad this is over and you're finally going back to DC."
"What about my tickets?" I say. "You promised me tickets."
Wickham snorts derisively. "That was before I found out you liked the Yankees. And we won't discuss the Scully situation." He gives me a pointed look.
"I won't push my luck," I concede.
**********
Preliminary Field Report for Case Number H-88742
Special Agent Fox Mulder
January 28, 1997
Jasper Frederick Donnelly was raised - though I use the term loosely - by his father after his mother took his younger sister and abandoned her son and husband when the former was eight years old.
Jasper's father alternately abused and neglected him and, over the years, Jasper came to blame his mother, Veronica Chalew, for his ill-treatment. He likened her to the Amazons who, according to legend, abandoned their male children in favor of their much-desired daughters. Due to his father's treatment, Jasper was often left to fend for himself and became a proficient hunter. He favored deer and geese. Interviews with past acquaintances suggest that he butchered some of the animals while they were still alive.
When Jasper was fourteen, his father died and the boy bounced around a series of foster homes until the age of eighteen. An exceptionally bright student, he won a full academic scholarship to the University of Maryland College Park where he completed his forensic science degree in three years. Jasper graduated summa cum laude and was accepted to Johns Hopkins University for a doctoral program in anatomy. He was working as a crime scene technician up to the time of these crimes and residing in the house he had lived in with his father.
A lab near the one in which he was working was conducting research on plastination based on the methods of Dr. Gunther van Hagens. It seems that Jasper managed to slip in undetected with the hearts and start the preservation procedures. As Agent Scully noted, he worked very rapidly, likely to get the hearts out before they were noticed. Full preservation was not completed.
When interviewed, Cecilia Busby could not explain how Jasper came to be in her apartment on Saturday morning or how she was removed from it. She recalled only opening her eyes to utter blackness and then feeling a numbness overtake her. Her next memory is of awakening in Jasper's mirrored cell. She has no recollection of any drugs being administered before her imprisonment.
Further inspection of Jasper Donnelly's house revealed that he had been using glass spheres to preserve the breasts of the women he killed; each marked to correspond to a point on the pentagram he had inscribed on his floor in what is assumed to be the victims' blood. A large cold-storage unit was located near the northwest corner of the basement and traces of hair and blood were found throughout. Results have not yet come back on the samples from either location. Jasper's sister, Hannah Chalew, was reported missing from her Morgan, Illinois home on January 5th. Her remains were found under the cell where he held his victims captive, her wounds consistent with those on the other bodies. A bow had been placed in her hands. Further analysis revealed it to be comprised of two of her own ribs joined together with a crystal handle. It is believed that her heart was the one left under the body of the first victim found. Their mother, Veronica Chalew, died of ovarian cancer in 1991.
Employees at Mobtown Glassworks recognized the knife Jasper used to kill the women, as he had made a prototype during his time as a student. In the further reaches of the basement, it was discovered that he had a small glassmaking furnace and workshop set up. The crystal of the knife handle as well as other crystal objects found matched perfectly the glass fragments found on Carla Stewart's heart.
The purpose of the selenium beads remain a mystery and Mr. Donnelly has refused to give any explanation regarding their usage or meaning. The number of beads in each victims' chest was found to correspond to a runic number etched on the crystal sphere in which their breasts were preserved. I further postulate that the choice of selenium is in some way connected to Selene, goddess of the moon. The Amazons worshipped the moon-goddess Artemis, whose cult had largely supplanted Selene's.
**********
42 HEGAL PLACE
ALEXANDRIA, VA
JANUARY 29
I take the elevator up to my floor, glad to be home and hoping the neighbor's kid remembered to feed my fish. I set my luggage down to unlock the door and then wander in, pulling my bags behind me and shutting the door with my foot.
I walk over to the aquarium to do a quick head count. They all seem to have survived my absence. I toss my overcoat on the couch and start to take off my jacket when my cell phone rings.
"FBI's Secret Profiling Weapon here."
"I read the headlines." Scully informs me. "Still basking in your glory? Too busy signing autographs to talk?"
"I can pencil you in." I carry my garment bag to my bedroom and start to empty it.
"I saw you on the news again last night. Remind me to buy you a decent tie for your birthday."
"So sweet of you to think of me."
"I can't have you make me look bad. I heard you played the damsel in distress to Wickham's white knight. Should I be jealous?"
"He didn't even kiss me goodbye, Scully. I'm crushed." I say, hanging my shirts in the wardrobe. "Listen, if we're going to start buying clothes for each other, I have a few things I'd like to pick out for you…"
"No, Mulder."
"It'll match your eyes."
"No, Mulder."
"Then you can't pick my ties."
"I can live with that."
"You're no fun." I abandon my unpacking and head for the kitchen. I open the fridge and am greeted by the aroma of beef lo mein that is quietly evolving into a more advanced life form. I shut the door. "What are you doing for lunch?"
"I'm not really dressed to go out right now. Mulder…"
I can hear a subtle shift in her voice; a slight reluctance in the way she says my name and I know right then that the sword of Damocles is falling towards me with deadly accuracy.
"Scully?"
"I need you to meet me at Holy Cross."
"What's wrong?" I grab my coat and head back out into the hallway.
"Just come meet me here, okay?
"Where at Holy Cross?"
Silence stretches over the line. I trot down the hall to the stairs, eschewing the elevator so as not to lose the call.
"Scully?"
"Oncology department," she finally offers.
My blood turns to ice water.
"Scully? What's going on?"
"I'll see you soon, Mulder."
"Wait -"
The dial tone offers nothing further.
**********
The End
RATING: R
SPOILERS: Season 4
DISCLAIMER: We read the IWTB novelization, guys. 'Nuff said.
**********
HOLIDAY INN INNER HARBOR
SUNDAY, JANUARY 26TH
7:29 PM
When I come back in the bedroom, Mulder is still here, sitting on the edge of my bed and watching me approach with a grim determination that doesn't bode well at all.
"Mulder, what are you still doing here?" I ask, tightening the belt of my robe with nervous fingers.
He doesn't stand up; just sits there with his back straight and his jaw tight, like he's bracing himself for an uppercut. "Scully, I want you to pick up the phone. I want you to call Skinner and tell him you're pulling out from this case. And then I want you to go back to DC and check yourself into a hospital immediately."
I cross my arms, feeling my spine stretch with indignation. "Is that all? Mulder, there is really no need..."
"...I'm asking you to do it yourself because I really don't want to be the one to call our A.D. to tell him in what state I found you a few hours ago."
"You can't do that, Mulder."
He finally stands up and walks to me. He lays both hands on my shoulders.
"Dana, I want you to look me in the eyes and answer this: if it had been me in this bathroom - as a doctor and an agent - would you seriously consider keeping me in the field?"
I lower my head, my stomach doing a little flip at how intimate my first name sounds on his lips now. Like some hook he can use to remind me that he knows who I am, where I come from and what I do; now more than ever.
And yet, in bed this morning, the only name on his breath was Scully.
There is only one right answer to his question, and I feel my shoulders slump under his fingers. I will not fight him on this.
"No. No, I wouldn't let you stay."
He nods, his fingers squeezing my shoulders briefly before stepping back.
"What about the case?" I whisper.
"I have your files, Scully. And I can always call you if I need something explained."
"Just tell me one thing Mulder: has this anything to do with the left-handed issue? You were looking at my autopsy reports earlier. Fear I forgot something else?"
I said I would not fight. I never said I would make it easy.
He gives me a hard look. "Nice try, Scully. Baiting me into arguing with you isn't going to work today. I'm not going to be sidetracked here."
Damn him. I feel something smile-like pull at my lips. "All right. I'll go back to DC but on one condition: you let me come to the morning briefing with you. And you promise to call me with regular updates, do you hear me?" I wave a threatening index finger at him.
"That's a deal. Besides, Wickham would never forgive you if you left without saying good bye."
I turn to retrieve my pajamas from my suitcase, muttering, "Wickham can kiss my ass," under my breath.
"Oh I'm sure he'd love that," Mulder says on his way out. "You feel up to watching the second half with me, Scully?"
I shake my head. "No, but thanks. You can just pick up Superstars of the Super Bowl Part Two for me sometime."
He winks. " We'll skip the coma this time though, okay?"
"I'll do my best." I reply, shooing him out of the room.
**********
BALTIMORE POLICE HEADQUARTERS
MONDAY, JANUARY 27TH
7:52 AM
Mulder slows his pace down as we walk in, matching his stride to mine. Exhaustion has made me lag this morning and I wonder if this is something Mulder does deliberately or if it's just second nature by now. Either way, I appreciate the fact that I don't have to trot along at his heels.
Wickham greets us with coffee. "Morning," he says. "Watch the game last night? Fucking Packers."
Mulder looks sympathetic. "Brett Favre is a machine and Parcells' Cinderellas didn't have a chance. Made a decent showing though, all things considered."
"Big Pats fan?"
"I'm from Massachusetts."
"My condolences. You want a shot of something stronger in this, then?"
Mulder takes the steaming cup. "Let's see how today goes and I might take you up on that later."
Wickham hands me my coffee. "You like the Patriots too, Agent Scully?"
"Thank you. I don't have strong feelings either way."
"Please don't tell me you like the Packers. You think Favre is pretty, don't you? Admit it - you only watched to check him out."
"Not much of a football fan, really. I didn't catch the game."
Wickham looks scandalized. "Is that legal? It seems seditious for a federal employee to miss the Super Bowl. Un-American."
"She's a rebel," says Mulder. "Shall we get started?"
Wickham shrugs. "There's not much to start on, truth be told. Just continuing what we've been doing. Following up leads and making phone calls. I've gone over these background checks so many times I could write a series of biographies with my eyes closed, but I'm running out of ideas. Hoping to get something more concrete on the plastic today, so you can expect a call about that before long, Agent Scully."
I can feel Mulder give me a quick glance.
I take a sip of my coffee before speaking. "Actually, I'll be heading back to DC this morning. Agent Mulder is taking me to the MARC train. I just wanted to come in and get the latest updates before I say goodbye."
Wickham looks taken aback. "Is everything all right?"
I am uncomfortably aware that Mulder is about to watch me perform the routine I go through when I lie to him. I wonder if I'll ever be able to do it again, or if every attempt will be thwarted by the memory of how deeply he looked into me yesterday morning.
"Thank you, Detective Wickham, but everything is fine. I've handled all there is within my realm of expertise, though you're welcome to fax me anything new. At this point it's really just Agent Mulder's skills you'll need. I have further engagements in Washington that require my immediate attention."
He perches on the edge of a desk. "Is this your MO, Agent Scully? Sail into town, break a heart or two, and then disappear?"
"I can recommend a good cardiologist."
Wickham chuckles. "It's been a genuine pleasure." He holds his hand out and I take it, shaking it firmly.
I smile. "Thank you. For me as well. Just leave Switzerland alone, would you?"
"I could never deprive the world of fine chocolate and posh boarding schools."
I laugh, then withdraw my hand and glance at my watch. "We'd better get going," I tell Mulder.
He nods. "I'll be back shortly," he says to Wickham.
"Maybe Lichtenstein, then!" Wickham shouts as we step out.
The desire to stay with them and see this through is so strong that it aches, but I know Mulder's right. Staying would be irresponsible and foolish. I follow him out to the car, hanging back a little to watch his coat move around his angular frame; a long, stark figure of a man sketched against the cold haze of midwinter.
In bed - as in all other endeavors - my partner has an admirable efficiency coupled with a careful attention to detail.
Mulder's fingers against my thighs, the way they slide over the muscles as though I am an instrument he's learning to play. The firm press of his hand at my back as...
My breath tingles in the back of my throat and I hurry over to the open passenger's side door and climb in. "Let's go," I say, buckling my seatbelt and closing the door.
Mulder pulls out onto President Street. The morning is wrapped in a freezing mist and the car's headlights turn the world ahead of us into yellow gauze. I see him crane his neck and curse under his breath as he's trying to read the road signs.
"I am perfectly capable of driving back home, Mulder. I could have taken a rental."
He keeps squinting into the fog, not even sparing me a glance. "We talked about this, Scully. You're not driving."
I direct the air vent towards my lap. The damp winter chill has settled in my bones and I can't seem to get warm. "When did you become so bossy?"
"When did you start having nosebleeds and crippling headaches?"
I sigh and settle deeper in my seat, tucking my hands inside my sleeves. I really have no desire to argue with him further. Train it is. We spend the rest of the drive in silence.
Mulder has a tendency to become overprotective when he's worried and I have often been annoyed by it. At first I thought that he didn't trust me to hold my own. Over the years, as I came to understand how the loss of his sister had shaped his vision of the world, I realized that what he didn't trust was the inexorable entropy of the universe around him.
From the corner of my eye I watch him pop sunflower seeds into his mouth as he drives, chewing pensively.
I wonder if his mind is with the case or still in bed with me.
I keep being pulled back in that room over and over again, like a time traveling pendulum - the memories solid and smooth as pebbles under a clear spring.
My head is full of him - his skin, his smell, how his muscles moved against my thighs, the heat of his lips on my shoulder, the way he said my name.
Apart from a few fevered dreams of blinding white light and high pitched drill noises, I have no recollection of what happened or what was done to me after Duane Barry took me, and yet it changed me in ways I never predicted.
But this I remember. This I own. And I know it will change us too.
How it will, I don't know yet.
"Ah, here it is," Mulder says, maneuvering the car into the parking lot.
We step out of the car and I let him retrieve my suitcase from the trunk while I pull my leather gloves on. I can barely make out Camden Yards in the gray mist.
"What on Earth do you have in here, Scully? This thing weighs a ton." My partner narrows his eyes playfully at me. "Did you take a souvenir from the morgue again?"
"There was that autopsy table which looked so very Philippe Stark I just could not resist." I hold out a hand. "Here, let me carry it."
He pushes my hand away, then pulls out the garment bag and drapes it over his arm. "Why don't you let me be the big macho man for a little while longer?"
I hide a smile under my gloved hand - the pendulum holding still for a second over an image of us naked, slowly moving against each other, broken words of awe whispered in my ear.
We start walking towards the platform when I realize that I am short on cash and the ticket machine won't take credit cards. So I leave Mulder perusing magazines at the newsstand while I go locate an ATM. I come back to find him engrossed in the New York Times. I get his attention with a light touch on his back. "What, no Celebrity Skin?"
He turns the next page without looking at me. "No. I recently upgraded."
"I see." I dip my chin and clear my throat a little. "Um, the train is leaving in fifteen minutes."
"Okay." Mulder folds his paper to fit in his coat pocket and grabs my bags again. We walk towards the train and I look up to see the mist curl like pearl ribbons around the lampposts, the fog creating an eerie quiet around us. The platform is nearly empty except for a teenager in a red down jacket hurrying to take the last few drags from his cigarette, and a guy in a suit with a briefcase checking his cell phone. I guess I missed rush hour.
Mulder sets my suitcase by the door and hands me the garment bag. "Here you go."
"Thanks."
And we stand there like two idiots, hands in our pockets, unsure how to say goodbye to each other. Is this how it's going to be now, I wonder. The simplest social interactions warped by our biblical knowledge of one another?
This is ridiculous. Get a grip, Dana. I reach out to pat his arm, then run my hand down to briefly link my fingers with his before letting go.
"Goodbye, Mulder. I'll see you soon."
I am such an adventurous woman.
His eyes betray nothing. "Let's hope so. Call me tonight."
I nod, take my luggage, and climb aboard.
I walk to the third row and then reach up to stow my luggage in the overhead rack. I am about to take my seat when I feel a hand come down on either shoulder. I reach for my gun just as I catch Mulder's reflection in the window.
"Jesus, Mulder! Don't *do* that," I say, slightly breathless. "What is it?"
He doesn't reply but steers me back out into the walkway and towards the door.
"Mulder, the train is going to leave."
He pushes me gently outside and the cold is a shock after just a few minutes in the close, warm air of the train car. "My luggage is in there. My laptop - "
Mulder turns me by the shoulders so that I am facing him. "Let's do this properly, shall we?" He steps closer and I hesitate. Sex in a locked hotel room seven stories above prying eyes is one thing; kissing him in the open before taking a train home in the middle of a case due to an unexplained - and possibly serious - medical condition feels like tempting fate.
So much easier to leave this behind.
"Scully..." he says in the burnt-sugar voice of yesterday morning.
Screw fate.
I close the space between us and tilt my head up.
That's all it takes.
Our lips meet softly; and I realize that every kiss over the past few days has been a mere rehearsal for this one. Shivers slide down my back like rain on a vine at every brush of his tongue against my own. His hands slide under my coat to hold my waist as our kiss blossoms and swells, distilling the essence of who we are and sending it crashing back in my chest.
Our first handshake. Watching the Skies at Ellens Airbase. His hands against my neck in Icy Cape. Catching our breath by the escalator after killing Tooms. Miles of filing cabinets in a dark mine. Quoting Moby Dick on Heuvelmans lake. Screaming my name outside Schnauz's van - saving my life. Bathing him in ice - saving his life. His fingers on my cheek when my father died. My cross deposited in the palm of my hand. Letting myself cry in his arms in Pfaster's house.
The fog curls over our heads like ghostly fern leaves, keeping our secrets. Everything that is us so bright and vivid, as if we were leeching all sound and color from the rest of the world. I reevaluate the notion that time slows down only as one approaches the speed of light because we are standing still and yet each second is imbued with forever.
I feel Mulder's hands slide down from my waist, his fingers moving along my hip and over my skirt to trace the edge of my thigh highs. I smile against his lips and slap his hand through my coat.
His lips move to my ear. "Just checking," he whispers.
I smooth my hands over the thick wool of his lapels. "I have to go."
He strokes my upper arms briefly. "I know. Go catch your train."
I leave him, crossing the platform to the open doors.
Once in my seat, I peer out the window to see Mulder waving goodbye. We hardly ever greet each other and now he's *waving* at me? I shake my head while removing my leather gloves. The businessman I saw on the platform looks up from his newspaper to smile at me. Our case is all over the front page.
My throat is tight with the effort of trying not to feel like I've given up.
As the train lurches forward, taking me into an uncertain future, I lean towards the cold glass.
And I wave back.
*********
BALTIMORE POLICE HEADQUARTERS
8:39 AM
Wickham looks concerned as I walk in but doesn't ask anything and I don't offer up any information.
"I've got two interviews for you at Hopkins." He says. "One guy, Harris, works in an anatomy lab that plasticizes organs. His mother was killed by his father when he was nine and Harris was tried - though not convicted - for aggravated assault on two women at a nightclub. Second is a grad student who is a member of the Poe Society. Raised until age ten by a single mother who then ditched him for a crack pipe. Ex-girlfriend said he raped her, but she dropped all charges as the trial approached. Worth checking out I guess. You ready?"
I nod, hoping this day will be my last on the case. Save the girl and get out of Baltimore- back to the familiar confines of home, hearth, and badgering Scully to take care of herself.
I take the paperwork from Wickham and head back into the cold fog.
**********
JOHNS HOPKINS BLOOMBERG SCHOOL OF PUBLIC HEALTH
11:19 AM
"Thank you, Dr. Harris; I don't have any more questions."
"I should think not."
Theodore Harris gives me an affronted look before rising stiffly to his feet and stalking from the room like a wet cat.
I sigh, drawing little squares on my notepad, and then rest my head on the cool surface of the metal table. I close my eyes for a minute as exhaustion catches up with me. My eyelids are growing heavy and I know I should make a move when the door opens and a young man in scrubs comes in with a large piece of unidentifiable equipment which Scully can probably operate. "Dr. Shaw, I have your - oh! Sorry. I was looking for Doctor Shaw. I'll just leave this here."
He sets the device down on the lab bench and points to my legal pad. "May I?" I nod, handing him my pen. As he writes, I notice that his hands are criss-crossed with long scratches; some almost healed, others nearly new.
"Wow, what happened to your hands?" I ask in what I hope is a casual tone while trying to read his note without attracting his attention. It's a thank-you note to Dr. Shaw for the use of the machine. Signed Leo.
He glances at them and then shrugs. "I work with rats. They scratch when you inject them."
"You don't wear gloves?"
He shrugs again. "Just nitrile. They've got sharp claws and it's hard to take notes in heavy gear."
"I imagine so. What are you injecting them with?"
"Flunitra - Rohypnol." He eyes me suspiciously. "You ask a lot of questions. Are you here about the grant? Because we take OSHA precautions. We have someone from the FDA here observing our research, you know."
I smile. "No, nothing like that. Just nosy, I guess."
He eyes me up, offering the pen back, but I put my hands in my pockets, which earns me an odd look. But he thanks me and sets it on the table before striding from the room. I pull out my phone as soon as he's out of earshot.
"Wickham? It's Mulder. Listen, send one of your fingerprint guys over to the Bloomberg Building on Wolfe. I'm in 832. I need to keep it quiet, but hustle."
I sit back down, guarding the nice fat latent which I can see on the side of the machine, and drum my fingers on the tabletop. Fifteen agonizingly slow minutes pass before Rick arrives and sidles in, looking surreptitiously over his shoulder.
"Whatcha got, Agent Mulder?"
I point to where the man touched the machine and the table. I also pass him the pen. "See if you can scare up any prints from these spots, would you?"
"Wow, a variable automatic gradient HPLC. Nice." He opens his box of tools and begins dusting. "I brought the bi-chromatic today," he says, grinning.
"Trying to kiss some ass?"
He dusts carefully around the tabletop. "I need a raise. Grad school stipends don't do much to impress the ladies." He carefully presses the adhesive to the surface, then lifts it away to secure it to a white card.
I pull out my wallet and hand Rick a twenty. He blinks in surprise. "Agent Mulder?"
"You hustled and I appreciate it. Go buy the ladies a drink."
He accepts the money, a little embarrassed, before packing up his supplies. "No problem. I'll get these to you ASAP and you can go do that voodoo that you do so well."
"Mel Brooks fan?"
"Isn't everyone?"
We take the elevator downstairs together and head to our respective cars.
I pull out my phone then call 411 to get the number for the HR department at the Hopkins main campus. A surly-sounding person named Marie takes my call. "Hi, this is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI. Badge number JTT047101111. I'm working on a homicide investigation and I need the name of one of your employees. His first name is Leo. Late twenties, about 6 feet tall, 185 pounds or so. Dark hair. I just need his last name and current address and if…what? Yeah, I'll hold."
I grit my teeth while she gets her supervisor.
"Ma'am? Yes, this is Agent Mulder. No, I just need to know the last name of…right. No, I understand that. I was just at the Bloomberg Building a few minutes ago talking to two of your employees. Yes, that was me. Yeah, Detective Wickham. Wickham? W-I-C-K…yes. This number. Thank you."
I twist an empty coffee cup from the floor into a mangled lump while I wait for her to call back. The phone finally rings and I jot the information down on my pad, thanking her profusely and bidding her good day.
I call Wickham with the name and drive back to the police station, eager to see what turns up with the prints.
**********
BALTIMORE POLICE HEADQUARTERS
12:42 PM
"I'll let her know, Karen. Yes, thank you." Wickham hangs up the phone and turns to me. "Karen was checking in on Agent Scully," he says. "Quite the little mystery, your partner."
"She always has been. I'll pass along Karen's regards. Rick get here yet?"
Wickham nods. "About five minutes ahead of you. Running the prints now. Jasper offered to chip in and make some calls since he's a student at Hopkins." He rubs his hands together. "Works in a lab with Rohypnol. That's damned fortuitous, don't you think?"
"Very much."
I pull up a chair and scrutinize crime scene photos I know by heart. We are so close I can taste it.
The elevator doors ding and I look up to see Jasper step out with a triumphant look on his face. "Guy was put on warning when twelve milligrams of flunitrazepam went missing on his watch."
Wickham punches the air. "YES!"
I get to my feet to shake Jasper's hand and notice a cartouche tattoo on his wrist. Bird, lion, feather…the rest is covered by the cuff of his Black Sabbath t-shirt. "I'm guessing yours doesn't say Rick?" I ask.
He laughs. "No, Jasper. We're not real creative."
Wickham walks over and drapes an arm around each of our shoulders. "I think we have enough to bring this guy in for questioning. You want to go get him, Agent Mulder?"
"No, you go on ahead. I'm going to head over to my hotel. I want to check on some things."
Wickham shrugs and exchanges a high-five with Jasper as I slip my coat back on.
Something is tickling the back of my brain, but I can't quite hone in on what it is. If Scully were here she might be able to help me articulate it. I should call her. She wanted me to call her, right? This is about the case, so she can't object. And if I just happen to check up on her at the same time...two birds, one stone.
*********
I get in the car and make a right onto the street, watching Wickham in my rear-view as he peels out of the parking lot.
Something feels wrong.
Flunitrazepam's not legal in this country and if the FDA is overseeing a study with it, they're watching it like hawks. No reason to think our killer wouldn't get it on the street like everyone else if he intended not to be tracked. Surely Leo would know that and couldn't possibly be so foolish as to lead us to him this easily. Is someone in his lab framing him?
Why would anyone frame him? It seems so obvious a setup. I have to find out who passed this information to Jasper.
If it's one of his buddies, it could be a prank. Someone trying to get back at Leo for experimenting on rats, maybe. Grad students love their causes. I suspect Jasper and his friends share the same poor taste in T-shirts and lame symbolic tattoos. In my book, the dubious joke of framing poor Leo wouldn't be too much of a stretch.
Now that I have gotten used to the idea, I have to say that Scully's tattoo suits her. Not to mention that, in the artistic department, her Ouroboros trumps RickandJasper's cartouches by several stadions. It's Van Gogh's "Yellow House" next to a Thomas Kinkade cottage.
Not real creative indeed, Jasper.
I think back to his excited face as he came downstairs with the news. High-fiving Wickham, shaking hands…
Shaking hands.
Bird, lion, feather…that should correspond to J-A-S, but Rick's was eye, feather, basket. One of them is lying, because that feather cannot be both an I and a S.
I pull out my phone and call Frohike as I turn into the hotel parking lot. "Frohike, I need you to look up hieroglyphics for me."
"You guys after a mummy?" I can already hear the keyboard clacking.
"Serial killer."
"Boring. Okay, what do you need?"
"This guy had a cartouche tattoo on his arm. The symbols I saw from the top down were a bird, a lion, and a feather. There was more but I couldn't see.
"I'm looking now. How's your delectable partner?"
More delectable than you are capable of imagining.
"Mooning over you, as ever."
"Naturally. Okay, Mulder. Looks like you've got A-L-I on that tattoo. That mean anything?"
"Probably, since the guy with the tattoo said it spelled Jasper. Thanks, Frohike."
"Give the scrumptious Agent Scully my love."
I roll my eyes as I hang up and get out of the car, wracking my mental filing cabinet for anything beginning with Ali.
I can feel the answer circling like a shark; the tip of the dorsal fin peeking above the water but not fully visible. I walk to the elevator and get in, pushing the button for floor number seven and then slumping against the wall to think. I have encountered this name before. I close my eyes and flip rapidly back through the pages of my memory.
Ali...
Ali...
A cold sweat beads on my forehead as my eyes open.
Alibek Chalew - one of the glassblowing students Scully couldn't find.
The doors slide open a moment later and I rush to my room, battling with the keycard and then hurrying to the files on the desk. I tear through them and then find the name. Alibek Chalew, student at Mobtown Glassworks - the same shop where we found Montaldo. He took classes for three years, paid in cash, and hadn't been seen there for over seven months.
I call Scully.
"Scully, it's me. How are you?"
"Fine, thank you."
"Been to the doctor yet?"
"I'm going tomorrow. What's up, Mulder?" She sounds ever-so-slightly testy. I cut to the chase.
"Listen, do you have any info on that Alibek Chalew guy? One of those glassblowing students we couldn't reach?"
I chew my pencil and hear her rifling through some papers.
"He took some beginner classes and apparently showed remarkable proficiency. Then he went through their advanced classes, did some private instruction before leaving. You think he's the guy, Mulder? His name doesn't show up anywhere in any database I checked. That's awfully suspicious in itself."
"Yes it is. Was there a physical description?"
"Um…let me see. Here it is, much good may it do you. Caucasian male, early to mid twenties. Brown hair, brown eyes, of average weight, height and build. That should narrow things down nicely. "
"No kidding. Anything else you can tell me, Scully?"
She pauses and I can imagine her thinking hard, the fine crease between her eyebrows deepening, the way her mouth purses slightly.
"Leap year," she says finally.
I freeze. "What?"
"His birthday is on leap year."
"How do you know that?"
"The students birthdays are listed along with the names. Alibek Chalew was born on February 29th."
My heart is pounding. "Scully?"
"Yeah?"
"I have a good feeling about this one. Talk to you later."
"Mulder, be careful."
"Aren't I always?"
"No, Mulder, you're not."
"Well, I'm bound to get it right one of these days. Gotta run."
I hang up and start pacing around the room.
Well, what do you know? I think young Jasper just became a suspect.
Alibek...Alibek...what does it mean?
Why does he have Alibek tattooed on his arm in Egyptian?
I recall my words to Scully the other night. "You know, certain grimoires instruct practitioners of black magic to carry a heart under their right arm to cast a spell of invisibility."
The Grand Grimoire - described by A.E. Waite as "one of the most atrocious of its class" - was purportedly written by a man known as Alibek the Egyptian.
The Grand Grimoire is also known as the Red Dragon.
I think back to Jasper's shirt at that first crime scene. Manhunter - based on the book Red Dragon. The red dragon in the office. Xena the Warrior Princess… Princess Leia…Tiamat.
Jasper lying to get Wickham out of the station so he could…what?
Go kill the Amazon.
I run out of the room, calling Wickham as I race down the stairs. " Mulder?" he says. "I'm at Hopkins right now and they don't know anything about any missing -"
"It's Jasper," I say. "Jasper's the killer."
"WHAT?"
"I can't explain it now, Wickham, but trust me, it's him. He's going to go kill her now. Tell me where he lives and then get a team over there ASAP."
Wickham gives me careful directions and I get in my car and speed to the highway at a brisk 80 miles per hour.
**********
1218 GAGE COURT
1:37 PM
Jasper Donnelly's house is down a side street in the not-fashionable part of Mount Washington. The car protests a bit as I nudge it along the steep, slippery hill and around a bend into a cul-de-sac.
The house is a prim Cape Cod, showing signs of age but in overall good repair. I park the car and climb out, my face buffeted by the chilling wind. I pull on a pair of latex gloves, then my warm leather ones on top as I pick my way across the muddied snow. I can't tell how recent any of the footprints or tire tracks are. I walk behind the house to peer into the fenced-in yard. There's a two-car garage off to the side and I can just make out a navy blue van through the smudged windows. I can't tell if there's another car in there or not and decide to assume he's home.
I see no evidence of security cameras, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Jasper is not stupid.
Don't screw this up, Mulder.
He's probably in the basement right now. He wants to hurry, but there are also ritualistic components to this that he doesn't want to rush. He'll take his time. He's arrogant too, or he wouldn't flaunt his dragons and warrior women.
He thinks he's invincible.
I decide that Jasper wouldn't put up cameras. He'd consider it an admission of weakness.
I return to the porch and remove the leather gloves, then pick the lock easily. The front door swings open quietly and I walk in to a dim front room with Spartan furnishings. Although Jasper is likely at work downstairs, I keep my gun drawn and move warily through the small rooms. I cannot see evidence of basement steps anywhere. Finally I come to the kitchen. There's a large shelving unit on the back wall and a crumpled rug in front of it. Upon closer inspection, I notice grooves on the floor under where the rug would normally lay. They curve away from the shelves in parallel arcs.
I holster my gun and grab the shelves, pulling hard, then stumble backwards as the whole thing swings forward, rumbling along the floor. The unit is mounted to a door.
I draw my weapon again and move cautiously forward. I take the steps slowly down into the gloom. A pale, sickly light bathes the plaster walls, but it dims as I move deeper into the hallway beyond the steps. Based on what I can make out, the basement extends underground far beyond the area of the house.
I continue inching along and until I reach a door which is cracked open, edges glowing with a cool, silvery light.
I slow down, sensing that I am about to step into the heart of Jasper's madness. Cecilia is near. If I announce my presence, he may kill her in a moment of spite or panic. If I hesitate, I may risk being too late.
Holding my gun in front of me, I start to move into the weirdest of basements. Even by my standards.
The large room has been meticulously decorated to resemble a woodland glade and I feel like I am outside on a summer night. The ceiling is a deep inky color, set with fiber optic stars which twinkle over the fake - though incredibly realistic - trees and a cluster of large rocks. I can hear a rush of water, off to the right. The whole scene is so vivid and serene that I almost forget I am in the basement of a particularly brutal serial killer.
A change in the texture of the floor gives me pause. It feels like I am on a thick carpet now, instead of the cheap tile or linoleum I've been walking on this far. I glance down briefly and realize that what I thought was carpet is a lush lawn of grass.
Grass?
I assume it's artificial, but cannot stop to inspect. I move further in, taking quiet, careful steps and trying not to panic. I have no protective gear on and Jasper - even if he doesn't know I'm here yet - will have the advantage as soon as he figures it out.
I walk forward, straining to see around trees, to get a glimpse of what else is in here. I notice a flash of movement in one of the far corners and point my gun towards it. About three yards ahead, beyond a low hedge, I see four or five deer and a pack of hounds; all stuffed and displayed in lifelike poses. Beyond that I catch the movement again and crouch down among the artificial bushes.
A woman rises to her feet past the deer and dogs. She is naked and wild-eyed, strands of brown hair clinging to her tear-streaked face. She pounds against an invisible barrier, her mouth open in a silent scream. I blink and realize she is in a small room made of soundproof glass, which - based on the fact that she does not look towards me - must also be composed of one-way mirrors.
He watches her here, unseen. I think of the legend of Actaeon, a hunter who dared to look upon the bathing Diana - goddess of the hunt and the moon - and she, in revenge, turned him into a stag and he was brought down by his own dogs.
I think of the venison found in the women's stomachs. Artemis forced to eat her sacred hinds.
I resist the urge to hurry over to the place where Cecilia is confined, watching her scream and sob. She doesn't seem in immediate danger, so I take a moment to scan the room, peering into the corners as far as I can. I don't see any signs of Jasper, so I make my way cautiously to the cage. The walls are smooth and I cannot figure out a way in. Cecilia's nails scrabble against the slick glass and she kicks wildly at it before crumpling to the floor in defeat. I can feel her panic radiate outward from the small prison.
I return to the black hallway and move along the outer wall until my fingers encounter the fabric of a heavy drape.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before...
You've got to hand it to Jasper. He knows his Occult classics.
I lift it to find that it hides an archway leading to another room, this one bathed in an ominous red light.
How original.
I walk further in and look around. The walls and floor are stone and are liberally spattered with gouts and rivulets of dried blood. A couple of yards away is a large stone altar, upon which is resting a stained crystal chalice and an evil-looking knife with an elaborate crystal handle. And a book. A tattered, dog-eared paperback that looks utterly out of place in so gothic a setting. I step closer, squinting to read the title in the dim light.
The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.
I open the cover and see "Veronica Chalew" inscribed on the flyleaf in an elegant hand.
I return it to the altar and begin walking to the wall near the door when, from the corner of my eye, I see a man moving in the shadows. "FBI! FREEZE!" I yell, and point my gun at him.
Well, if Jasper was unaware of my home invasion before now, I've probably just clued him in. Heart pounding, I go to the mirror and see that it is the back of Cecilia's prison. Jasper reversed the glass on this side, likely so he can watch himself kill and so that the women can look out of their prisons and see that awful blood-stained altar and be reminded of what fate awaits them. I run my finger along the seam where the glass meets the wall and feel a tiny button. I push it and the door hisses open. Cecilia drops to the floor, her face hidden in her hands.
"Please, please," she begs. "Please, I haven't seen you. You can let me go. I won't tell anyone just let me go pleaseletmego..." Her voice trails off into keening.
"Cecilia, my name is Fox Mulder. I'm with the FBI and I'm here to take you home." I hold out my badge.
She shakes her head, keeping her eyes covered. "Nononono you can't trick me. I'm not looking, I'm not looking youcantmakemelook..." she starts to rock back and forth.
"Cecila, get UP! You have to get out of here!" I lunge in to snatch at her wrist, but she scrambles into the corner, mumbling sing-song nonsense to herself.
I glance over my shoulder and then toss my badge at her feet, but she ignores it. I curse under my breath then move in backwards to crouch next to her, keeping my gun trained on the doorway. I pick up my ID from the floor and she shudders when I nudge it into her hands.
"Just look at it Cecilia, look at the badge." I tell her, my eyes not leaving the door.
I don't know how long it takes her to summon the courage to do so, but it seems like an eternity elapses before I finally hear her whisper: "Oh God, I didn't think anyone was ever coming." She touches my hand, tentatively at first, and then grips it until her knuckles whiten.
I pull her up and she leans against me. We are just about to reach the cell's threshold when the door slides shut.
As I suspected it would the minute I stepped inside.
Cecilia lunges at the door, pounding at it furiously until I pull her gently away. I see Jasper waving from the other side of the glass. A speaker on the wall crackles to life and his cheerful voice pipes in. "Hi, Agent Mulder. You didn't buy my story about Leo for a minute, did you?"
"Nice to see you, Jasper. Is your buddy Rick here too?" I kick the glass and my shoe bounces off the surface. Behind me, Cecilia has begun to shiver. I remove my jacket and dress shirt, handing her both. She puts them on gratefully.
"I can't see you from my side, Agent Mulder, but don't bother kicking the glass. Cecilia can tell you it won't do any good. She's broken three toes that way. Isn't that right, Cecilia?"
I turn around to look down at Cecilia's feet and see that some of her toes are indeed bruised and swollen. The young woman shrugs. "I'd cut them off if it meant that bastard would let us out."
"And no, Rick isn't here." Jasper continues, taking hold of the chalice and filling it with the content from a green bottle. "You think he has the scope for this kind of thing? Please. He can't even kill lab rats."
I touch the cool wall of our prison. The glass is probably bulletproof and I risk a ricochet if I start shooting.
Jasper starts speaking again. "Before you and Agent Scully arrived, Jack Wickham told us that you were something of an expert on the paranormal. I assume you're familiar with the Red Dragon grimoire?"
"A spell of invisibility, Jasper? Is that how you managed this?"
He smiles. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Jasper is standing in the center of a nearly-finished pentagram drawn in what I presume to be blood on the stone floor. "You're trying to summon the Devil?" I ask. "Why would anyone want the Devil?"
Jasper picks his knife up from the altar and begins sharpening it. "When I was four years old, my mother had the daughter she'd always wanted. She stuck around until I was eight and then she took my sister and left me to the tender mercies of my father. Every night I prayed to God that my father would be too drunk to beat me. Or use me as an ashtray. Or starve me while he ate in front of my face because I forgot to empty the dishwasher. He never answered my prayers, Agent Mulder. Or he said no. Either way, I gave up on God."
This is sadly mundane. Mother leaves boy. Boy meets abuse. Abuse turns boy into a psychopath. I think they covered that pattern my second day at Quantico.
"Which one of them was left-handed?" I ask Jasper.
"Both. Contrary bitches."
"You call yourself Alibek Chalew when it concerns these…things you do, Jasper. Veronica Chalew, the name in that book. I bet that's your mother."
Jasper's smirk is vicious. "Only thing she left behind. A book that I doubt she even remembered. Then again, Mother made a point of forgetting everything she'd abandoned. Me included."
He takes the book, and flips through its pages thoughtfully.
"If she'd left a Bible I might have learned to turn the other cheek. But Poe gave a different view of the world to my eight year old self. Anybody who thinks that revenge doesn't taste sweet is a fool. I know that now."
Safe in the knowledge that he can not see me, I check my cell phone. I cannot say I'm surprised by the lack of signal but it was worth a try. I focus on Jasper again. "Many practitioners of shamanism and other magical arts believe that to possess a person's name is to possess their spirit. Alibek Chalew - the magician and the Amazon. That's what you're doing, isn't it?"
"She gave her name to my sister but not to me. So I took it."
"What else did you take? Where's your sister, Jasper?"
A slow smile crawls over his face. "People are too trusting, really. When the police came to ask where my sister was, all I had to do was give them a sorrowfully earnest look and claim I hadn't seen her in nineteen years."
"That doesn't answer my question."
Jasper lifts the chalice off the altar, then takes a swig of something dark I sincerely hope is a grape product. "I drink to the buried that repose around us."
The Cask of Amontillado, if I recall my Poe correctly. So she's entombed somewhere in this basement. I'd say the smart money's on the floor beneath this chamber.
"Where's your father?"
"He's been dead for years." Jasper holds the knife up and I watch the red light turn the handle to rubies. "Did you know that potassium chloride poisoning is a nearly undetectable way to cause a heart attack?"
Yes, I did. Scully threatens me with it every couple of months.
"How old were you, Jasper?"
"When I killed him? Fourteen. They put me in foster care. But no one wants a troubled teen for very long."
Whine, whine. I change topics. "You know I'm armed, right? And that I'll shoot you the first chance I get?" I decide not to tell him that Wickham is en route with the Quick Response Team.
"Agent Mulder, do you see those chrome pipes in the corners, at the top and bottom of the cell? They're going to start venting sevoflurane. You've got about three minutes of consciousness left before I slit your throats."
Now would be good, Wickham.
A soft hissing sound fills the room and I tear my t-shirt, wadding fabric into the valves. Cecilia does the same with my dress shirt and I lift her up to reach the top corners, but the sweet-smelling gas seeps around our attempts anyway.
We hold our breath and make masks of fabric, but I can feel myself starting to get dizzy. Cecilia blinks with an uncertain look on her face. Her head lolls to one side.
I slap at my cheeks and then see a shadow fall across the floor about six feet behind Jasper, who is kneeling in his incomplete pentagram. He is chanting in a low, even voice. "Non est diabolus, nisi daemonicus. Non est diabolus..." I force my eyelids open and watch as the shadow creeps up closer and closer until it crosses Jasper's line of vision. He jerks his head up and snatches his knife before getting to his feet.
Wickham walks in, gun drawn, and Jasper lunges at him, the foot-long blade flashing in the crimson light. Wickham fires twice. Jasper falls to the floor, twitching. Someone shouts "He's down!" and the last thing I see before the world goes black is the members of the QRT pouring into the room like soldier ants.
**********
"Wakey, wakey," says Wickham.
I blink in confusion and open my eyelids, which seem to have been replaced by solid iron.
"Glargh," I mumble, my mouth cottony.
Wickham hands me a bottle of Gatorade and I sit up carefully. "Where's Cecilia?"
He jerks his head and I see her stretched out on the grass, attended by medics.
"Jasper?"
"Choppered him to Shock Trauma. I did more damage than I needed to and it's touch and go. One of my own guys..." He shakes his head sadly. "How did I not see it?"
"You couldn't have known, Wickham," I say, coughing slightly and drinking some more. "He had everyone fooled."
"I could have aimed for his knees. But I didn't." Wickham's expression looks carved from stone and I can tell it's the face he needs to wear to deal with what just happened.
"He's not dead," I remind him. "And neither is Cecilia."
Wickham shrugs. "So how'd you do it?" he wants to know. "Jasper had a spotless record."
I look around and then whisper, "Magic".
He groans. "I should have left you in there, you asshole. Gone to comfort Agent Scully in DC. Been the strong shoulder for her to cry on. She would have gotten over you in no time."
"And she'd have wiped her tears, blown her nose, and used you for target practice."
Wickham considers this. "We'd have matching gunshot scars."
"You're a real pal, Wickham."
"It was mostly self-preservation. I might have had to wipe a tear if you'd died. It would have been bad for my image."
I bat my lashes at him. "Aw, honey, I didn't know you cared."
He throws his hands in the air. "I give up. I'm just glad this is over and you're finally going back to DC."
"What about my tickets?" I say. "You promised me tickets."
Wickham snorts derisively. "That was before I found out you liked the Yankees. And we won't discuss the Scully situation." He gives me a pointed look.
"I won't push my luck," I concede.
**********
Preliminary Field Report for Case Number H-88742
Special Agent Fox Mulder
January 28, 1997
Jasper Frederick Donnelly was raised - though I use the term loosely - by his father after his mother took his younger sister and abandoned her son and husband when the former was eight years old.
Jasper's father alternately abused and neglected him and, over the years, Jasper came to blame his mother, Veronica Chalew, for his ill-treatment. He likened her to the Amazons who, according to legend, abandoned their male children in favor of their much-desired daughters. Due to his father's treatment, Jasper was often left to fend for himself and became a proficient hunter. He favored deer and geese. Interviews with past acquaintances suggest that he butchered some of the animals while they were still alive.
When Jasper was fourteen, his father died and the boy bounced around a series of foster homes until the age of eighteen. An exceptionally bright student, he won a full academic scholarship to the University of Maryland College Park where he completed his forensic science degree in three years. Jasper graduated summa cum laude and was accepted to Johns Hopkins University for a doctoral program in anatomy. He was working as a crime scene technician up to the time of these crimes and residing in the house he had lived in with his father.
A lab near the one in which he was working was conducting research on plastination based on the methods of Dr. Gunther van Hagens. It seems that Jasper managed to slip in undetected with the hearts and start the preservation procedures. As Agent Scully noted, he worked very rapidly, likely to get the hearts out before they were noticed. Full preservation was not completed.
When interviewed, Cecilia Busby could not explain how Jasper came to be in her apartment on Saturday morning or how she was removed from it. She recalled only opening her eyes to utter blackness and then feeling a numbness overtake her. Her next memory is of awakening in Jasper's mirrored cell. She has no recollection of any drugs being administered before her imprisonment.
Further inspection of Jasper Donnelly's house revealed that he had been using glass spheres to preserve the breasts of the women he killed; each marked to correspond to a point on the pentagram he had inscribed on his floor in what is assumed to be the victims' blood. A large cold-storage unit was located near the northwest corner of the basement and traces of hair and blood were found throughout. Results have not yet come back on the samples from either location. Jasper's sister, Hannah Chalew, was reported missing from her Morgan, Illinois home on January 5th. Her remains were found under the cell where he held his victims captive, her wounds consistent with those on the other bodies. A bow had been placed in her hands. Further analysis revealed it to be comprised of two of her own ribs joined together with a crystal handle. It is believed that her heart was the one left under the body of the first victim found. Their mother, Veronica Chalew, died of ovarian cancer in 1991.
Employees at Mobtown Glassworks recognized the knife Jasper used to kill the women, as he had made a prototype during his time as a student. In the further reaches of the basement, it was discovered that he had a small glassmaking furnace and workshop set up. The crystal of the knife handle as well as other crystal objects found matched perfectly the glass fragments found on Carla Stewart's heart.
The purpose of the selenium beads remain a mystery and Mr. Donnelly has refused to give any explanation regarding their usage or meaning. The number of beads in each victims' chest was found to correspond to a runic number etched on the crystal sphere in which their breasts were preserved. I further postulate that the choice of selenium is in some way connected to Selene, goddess of the moon. The Amazons worshipped the moon-goddess Artemis, whose cult had largely supplanted Selene's.
**********
42 HEGAL PLACE
ALEXANDRIA, VA
JANUARY 29
I take the elevator up to my floor, glad to be home and hoping the neighbor's kid remembered to feed my fish. I set my luggage down to unlock the door and then wander in, pulling my bags behind me and shutting the door with my foot.
I walk over to the aquarium to do a quick head count. They all seem to have survived my absence. I toss my overcoat on the couch and start to take off my jacket when my cell phone rings.
"FBI's Secret Profiling Weapon here."
"I read the headlines." Scully informs me. "Still basking in your glory? Too busy signing autographs to talk?"
"I can pencil you in." I carry my garment bag to my bedroom and start to empty it.
"I saw you on the news again last night. Remind me to buy you a decent tie for your birthday."
"So sweet of you to think of me."
"I can't have you make me look bad. I heard you played the damsel in distress to Wickham's white knight. Should I be jealous?"
"He didn't even kiss me goodbye, Scully. I'm crushed." I say, hanging my shirts in the wardrobe. "Listen, if we're going to start buying clothes for each other, I have a few things I'd like to pick out for you…"
"No, Mulder."
"It'll match your eyes."
"No, Mulder."
"Then you can't pick my ties."
"I can live with that."
"You're no fun." I abandon my unpacking and head for the kitchen. I open the fridge and am greeted by the aroma of beef lo mein that is quietly evolving into a more advanced life form. I shut the door. "What are you doing for lunch?"
"I'm not really dressed to go out right now. Mulder…"
I can hear a subtle shift in her voice; a slight reluctance in the way she says my name and I know right then that the sword of Damocles is falling towards me with deadly accuracy.
"Scully?"
"I need you to meet me at Holy Cross."
"What's wrong?" I grab my coat and head back out into the hallway.
"Just come meet me here, okay?
"Where at Holy Cross?"
Silence stretches over the line. I trot down the hall to the stairs, eschewing the elevator so as not to lose the call.
"Scully?"
"Oncology department," she finally offers.
My blood turns to ice water.
"Scully? What's going on?"
"I'll see you soon, Mulder."
"Wait -"
The dial tone offers nothing further.
**********
The End