*******************************
NOWHERE TO HIDE
by Thalia D'Muse
<thalia@goodnet.com>
Completed: November 1997
*******************************

Summary: Someone from Scully's past resurfaces...
Classification/Rating: TA, strong R
Keywords: Mulder/Scully friendship, with lightly-scattered UST
Timeline: Happens in late fall of 1996, but does not involve
anything from Season 4.
Spoilers: None from Season 4 (yes, I'm intentionally being vague)
Warnings: Disturbing and violent content. Not for the weak of
heart or stomach.

Disclaimer: No surprises here. Mulder, Scully and any other
characters you recognize from the XF universe are property of
Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox. The song 'Nowhere to Run' belongs to
Holland/Dozier/Holland (I think). I mean no infringement with any
of them. Honest.

Author's Notes: At the end of Part 7.

Feedback: All feedback is graciously accepted at
thalia@goodnet.com.


*******************************
NOWHERE TO HIDE: Prologue 
by Thalia D'Muse
*******************************


I have dreamt of this day for so long.

Days seemed like years, years seemed like decades. The prospect of
seeing you again has fueled my desire to get through these days as
calmly and quickly as possible. I knew this day would come if I
waited patiently.

I have always been a patient man.

My time away from you has not lessened my wanting you. Although
they tried to weaken my spirit and my mind, my desire for you has
grown like a sunflower in the Spring, bending and swaying toward
the sun. You have been the sun in my dreams and I await the moment
when I can feel your warmth under my fingertips.

They know not of my dreams about you. I could not tell them. They
would not understand. They told me I was sick and needed help.
They were right. I knew they were right. I am a vile excuse for a
human being.

But no amount of psychologists' fancy words and fancy medications
can kill the demon lurking within. That demon owns me and I do his
bidding. He owns me - mind, body and soul.

I am who I am.

Society believes in a standard set of norms, of acceptable
behavior. Anyone who veers from those norms is considered deviant.
How can one be deviant in doing what only comes naturally? I do
not regret anything I have done.

It is who I am, who I have become.

At a young age, I knew I was different. No one appreciated my
unique outlook on life, least of all my mother, but she did
nothing to help the boy who filled his days with 'deviant'
fantasies. If anyone is to blame for my actions, it is her. She
was a selfish woman, apathetic in my upbringing and uncaring to my
plight. An unwanted child, I got in her way. She would brush me
aside like an annoying gnat buzzing in her face.

After the unfortunate accident that claimed my father and sisters,
I reached out for my mother's love and she turned a blind eye. I
wanted her attention, craved it, but her only interest in life was
her beauty: how to improve upon it, how to prolong it and how to
disguise her imperfections. Imperfections, she said, that were my
fault. I decreased her beauty with my delinquency, she used to
say. I made her old beyond her years. She resented me for that,
and I in turn loathe her for the life to which her cruelty has
banished me.

I am the man I am today because of her.

My mother was the one who told me our bodies are but a shell for
the spirit to linger while we walk this earth. When we die, the
spirit has two options. If the spirit is good, it will take flight
toward the Heavens. If it is evil, it will sink to the fiery
depths below. She said my spirit was evil and I would meet my
demonic creator soon enough.

Maybe my mother was right. If so, I will see her in Hell.

Through much patience, I have escaped my own earthly version of
Hell: the psychiatric prison, where I have been forced to reside
for the past two years. The guards there are ignorant fools. Put
on an angelic face, eat all of your vegetables, say "Yes sir" and
"No sir" when spoken to, and they become putty in your hands. The
lifeless guard who now occupies my cell knows how an angel can
become a demon in the blink of an eye. However stupid they are,
they will soon know I have escaped and will come looking for me.

But not before we meet again, my darling Dana. Our time together
before I left was so brief, the fine details of your exquisite
face threatening to melt from my mind like the wax from an
overused candle. Those memories have stayed with me for so long,
visiting me in dreams, caressing me in sleep.

From the moment I learned your name I have dreamt of you. Scully,
like the baseball announcer. Such an unfeminine image that name
conjured up in my mind. Since then I have thought of you as Dana.
Only Dana. Dana, Mother of the Gods. Much more appropriate.

Such a beautiful girl. Hair so much like fire I hesitate to reach
out and touch it for fear of being burned. I remember what those
red strands feel like between my fingers. I have dreamt of having
those silky soft strands, slippery and sudsy from the shampoo,
slide through my fingers as I squeeze the life from your body,
wordless gasps escaping your lips, which are painted in Copper
Cascade - my favorite shade. My fingers dig into the flesh of your
delicate neck, leaving scarlet imprints in your creamy skin. You
scream for mercy. I scream in pleasure. Finally, your body goes
limp. And that is when my fun really begins.

That fantasy has filled hundreds of nights for me. The reality
will fill me for the rest of my life.

I see you exiting your vehicle, your magnificent hair announcing
your presence before I can recognize your body. You have your
luggage with you. Another investigation for the pretty FBI agent.

I hope you enjoyed your trip, dear Dana. It was your last.

It is my destiny to decide your fate, and your fate is to be my
possession. You will be my piece de resistance, my finest trophy.
You eluded me once, but never again. I will find you no matter
where you are.

There's nowhere to hide, girlie-girl.


Dana Scully's apartment
Annapolis, Maryland
Thursday, 12:05am


Home sweet home at last.

Dana Scully heaved the garment bag onto her bed and kicked off her
shoes. Another bizarre case with a predictable, and very human,
ending. At least this one solved itself quickly and painlessly.
She and Mulder had been gone less than two days. She winced at the
thought of how much paperwork awaited her for a case that lasted
less than forty-eight hours.

After shedding her jacket and tossing it next to the garment bag,
Scully walked to the living room and hit the play button on her
answering machine. Two messages from her mom, one from Hammersely
in Fingerprinting. She scribbled his phone number on a pad of
paper and was about to hit the stop button when the last message
began. It was a snippet of a song, she realized:

   Everywhere I go,
   your face I see.
   Every step I take,
   you take with me.

   Nowhere to run to, baby.
   Nowhere to hide.
   Got nowhere to run to, baby.
   Nowhere to hide.

Scully's eyebrow arched as she listened to the lyrics and the
disconnecting click immediately following. She shrugged and headed
to the bedroom to change.

She slipped into a pair of jeans and a light cotton sweater, then
began unpacking her garment bag, separating the clothing into
piles for laundry and dry cleaning. She gathered the laundry pile
and a handful of quarters from her dresser. She was on her way out
to the kitchen when the phone rang.

Juggling the clothes over one arm, she grabbed the phone. "Hello?"

Before she finished her one-word greeting, Scully could here the
familiar upbeat music begin:

   Nowhere to run to, baby.
   Nowhere to hide.
   Got nowhere to run to, baby.
   Nowhere to hide.

"Listen, I don't know who you are but..." She heard a click, then
another.

The line went dead.


///////////x///////////


I don't look like the Motown type, do I, girlie-girl?

You probably pegged me more the country boy. Never could get into
that twangy stuff. I guess I should hate Motown, as it was always
on the radio or record player at my house growing up. My mom loved
it, would walk around the house singing and humming to the likes
of Sam Cooke, The Temptations, and yes, Martha Reeves and the
Vandellas. I should hate that music because my mom loved it but it
grew on me. The steady, rhythmic beat was mesmerizing. It had the
ability to brighten the darkest of my moods. I spent so much of my
time in the dark as a child but the music always seeped in, like a
tiny beacon of light, lifting me, carrying me away from the
darkness.

I welcome the darkness now like an old friend. I hold a certain
reverence for it now. The darkness hides that which wants to hide,
allowing the shadows to cover the secrets of the night like a
blanket. I am one of those secrets. For now. Soon I will crawl
from beneath the protection of the blanket and claim what is
rightfully mine.

Your face was a vision as you listened to that message. Your
beautiful brow furrowed in analytical thought, wondering why the
song was left on your machine. Your sea-green eyes narrow in
confusion for a second before dismissing the message as a mistake.
A wrong number.

Wrong, indeed.

The memory of your beautiful hair silkily twining around my
fingers grows stronger. I can almost feel it, my fingers twitching
with the memory. So soft, your hair. Not dry, not oily. A pleasure
for eyes and hands. My breath quickens every time I think of the
feel of your luxurious hair on my hands, my face, everywhere on my
body.

Soon, Dana. Soon.


///////////x///////////


Scully pulled the receiver away from her ear and stared at it.
Sighing in annoyance, she placed the receiver back in its cradle
and walked into the kitchen. Opening the pantry door, she grabbed
the bottle of liquid laundry detergent and headed for the front
door. She managed to get the door open when her phone rang again.
She took another step before turning back, deciding to put the
caller, and herself, out of their misery.

She re-entered her apartment and stomped to the phone.

"You have the wrong number," she said sternly into the receiver.
"Please do not call again."

She heard a sigh on the other end of the line before a familiar
voice intoned, "I don't know what I did this time, Scully, but I'm
sorry. I think."

"Oh, it's just you."

"So happy to hear your cheerful voice, too."

Her mouth twitched into a smile. "Mulder, you haven't been calling
and playing Motown songs into the receiver, have you?"

"No, but if that will get me somewhere, I'll go update my music
collection tonight."

Her smile widened despite her exasperation. "Don't bother. That
song is beginning to grate on my nerves. Anyway, I'm sure it's
just a wrong number. What did you want to talk to me about?"

"You have my reading glasses in your carry-on."

"Since when?" Scully shifted the clothes in her arms.

"Since I put them in there because my coat was in the overhead.
Remember? I didn't want to climb over anyone to put them away."

Scully nodded. "Yeah, I remember. Don't you have a spare pair?"
She heard the crack of a seed shell reverberate through the
receiver. "Never mind, don't answer that. I know you don't. You
need them before you fly out for that consult, don't you?"

He cracked another shell in her ear. "Yeah, but I can just get
them in the morning."

She closed her eyes, knowing she didn't want to know the answer to
the question she was about to ask. "What time does your flight
leave?"

"Six-thirty." He paused as he heard her groan. "Why don't I just
come and get them tonight. You'll be up for a while, won't you?"

"Yeah, I'm just about to put a load of clothes in the washer. How
long will it take you to get here?"

"I want to grab a quick shower and finish repacking, so how about
an hour and a half?"

"I'll be here."

She replaced the receiver and gathered her laundry again. Before
picking up the laundry detergent and her keys, she grabbed the
newest issue of the New England Journal of Medicine. The magazine
had arrived while she was out of town, and she figured she could
peruse it while waiting for her clothes. Her favorite emerald
green blouse had been stolen from the washer the last time she
decided to wait in her apartment instead of the stuffy basement
laundry facilities. There was no way she was leaving her clothes
unattended in the laundry room again.


///////////x///////////


I'm disappointed in you, Dana.

Your hair is shorter, much shorter than last we met. From the back
the cut looks easy to maintain, I suppose. Thin wisps of fire
lightly kissing your elegant, tapered neck and curling to the side
ever so slightly. From the front it surrounds your face like a
fiery aura. Still that beautiful tone of auburn. Cinnamon Sun, I
believe is the shade. I just wish you hadn't cut it so short. I
don't like it this short.

I can't see your fingernails. Are those shorter, too? I hope not.
I do not approve of your new look, Dana.

You have lost weight. You are much too thin now. Women today,
constantly measuring themselves against the waif-like models in
magazines. I thought you were above that sort of vanity, but I
know from watching my mother for so many years that some women go
to great lengths to make themselves beautiful not only to others
but to the eyes of the mind.

You will never change in my eyes. You will always be my Dana, even
after you are gone. Always the Dana from my mind's eye: shoulder-
length hair of fire, deep seafoam-green eyes, manicured nails at a
functional yet sophisticated length. Fire and brimstone in a
small, beautiful package.

Your phone rings again. Popular gal, aren't you? Is it a man? From
the content smile on your lips I would guess the answer is 'yes'.
Is he asking you out on a date? I would imagine with your job you
have a rather limited social life. Your smile turns seductively
coy. You just accepted his invitation, didn't you, Dana? Where is
he taking you? To dinner, then to his place for dessert?

Don't you dare make any plans, girlie-girl. You have but one man
to meet and that is me. I know where you are headed and I will see
you there.

The laundry room. It's a date.


///////////x///////////


Scully found the room deserted and clean, much to her delight.
Though it was inconvenient having the laundry facilities in the
basement of the building, the padded folding chairs were tolerable
and the room had recently been remodeled. Scuffed bright-white
walls were redone in a soothing beige. The matted carpeting -- she
had never understood why it was carpeted in the first place -- had
been ripped up and replaced with smooth beige and white marbled
tile.

She plunked a dollar's worth of quarters into the washer and added
the detergent while the cylinder filled with water. Once the
washer was half-full, she carefully arranged her clothes in an
even fashion in the washer and closed the lid. She crossed the
room and sat in a chair.

Thoroughly engrossed in an article about molecular pathology, she
was surprised to hear the washer stop so soon. She placed the
journal on the chair next to her and went to the washer,
extracting her clothes and moving to the dryers against the back
wall. She dug a quarter out of her pocket and inserted it into the
coin slot, then shut the dryer door and selected the delicate
setting. The machine whirred to life, the grinding and screeching
of the much-used and abused machine creating the only sounds in
the room.

Scully watched the clothes toss and tumble in the dryer, their
destination never the same, never getting the chance to stay in
one spot too long before being tossed into a new setting. She
thought about how stable her life could be had she chosen
differently, becoming a medical examiner or researcher, even a
wife and mother, instead of being tossed into new and unusual
situations as an FBI agent working on the X-Files.

She laughed to herself. Who was she kidding?  She wouldn't be
happy in that life. In the past four-and-a-half years she had
become addicted to her work as if it were some kind of drug that
she needed in order to survive. She thrived on the variety and
intellectual stimulation of working with someone as brilliant and
driven as Fox Mulder. She enjoyed the challenges of solving cases
that had long since been considered hopeless. For all the strife
and heartache she had experienced while working with Mulder, the
work they did was important and necessary. For all of the cases
that remained unsolved, those few triumphs gave her a feeling of
self-worth. And for all the monsters they faced, being able to
stop even one of them in their quest for the destruction of others
made the work rewarding and life-affirming. At this point in her
life, Scully couldn't see herself doing anything else.

She was so lost in thought, and distracted by the machine's noisy
mechanism, that she failed to hear the footsteps slowly
approaching. Pain exploded at the back of her head, then a welcome
darkness brought her into its embrace.


Dana Scully's apartment building
Thursday, 1:40am


"Scully?"

Mulder knocked on her apartment door again, listening for signs of
life inside. He looked at his watch and realized he had made good
time to her place, less than eighty minutes.

Thinking she might be in the laundry room, he headed down the
stairs to the basement. He had done his laundry at her place a few
times since the aging facilities at his building were
temperamental at best. The laundry room door was open and he
peeked around the corner, hoping to surprise Scully and spook her.
He smiled. She hated getting spooked. He loved doing it.

Disappointment set in as he scanned the room. She wasn't there.
Clothes sat in an idle dryer across the room. He looked around
again and saw a magazine on one of the folding chairs. As he
walked closer, the cover came into view. The New England Journal
of Medicine.

Scully had been in the room earlier, but where was she now? She
knew he was on his way.

*Maybe she ran an errand,* he thought as he walked to the dryer.
He put his hand against the glass. The dryer was cool to the
touch. He opened the dryer door and pushed the clothes around,
feeling slightly naughty as he fingered his partner's lingerie.
The clothes were definitely hers. He recognized one pale blue
blouse as one she had worn during their last case.

Mulder fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and hit the speed
dial. He let it ring until it clicked over to her voice mail.

Something was wrong. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was, but
something about the room made his skin crawl. Looking down he saw
a smudge on the floor, a dark streak out of place on the light
marbled tile. He squatted and ran his finger over a corner of the
smudge, then brought it to his nose.

Blood.

His breath quickened immediately as panic began to invade his
senses.

*Scully.*

Mulder tore the room apart, upturning chairs, opening all washers
and dryers, and even overturning the tall trash can in the corner
of the room. Dryer sheets, empty detergent boxes and lint mixed
together as he kicked the contents around. Then he saw it.

A syringe.

Mulder got on his hands and knees and dug deeper into the mess.
When he found nothing in the debris, he checked between and behind
each washer. He was about to give up when between the fifth and
sixth washers, shoved against the wall, he spied something. He
grabbed a wire hanger from the folding table and straightened it,
then fished out the object between the washers. His stomach went
to his throat when he saw what it was.

A vial.

He read the label. Secobarbitol sodium. A barbiturate of some
sort, a sedative.

Mulder bolted from the laundry room, slamming the door shut behind
him. He took the stairs three at a time and blew through the
stairwell door when he reached her floor. He fumbled in his pocket
for his keys, and with a shaky hand, he inserted her key into the
lock and thrust open the door.

"Scully!"

He ran from room to room, his panic escalating into an
overwhelming sense of dread. Finding no sign of her, he left her
apartment and sprinting back to the stairwell. *Please let her be
there. Please let her have just run a quick errand.* He arrived at
the laundry room, finding it still empty. She wasn't there.

*Where the hell is she?* He leaned against a nearby wall, his
breath labored and his heart racing. He knew he could be
overreacting but the feeling he had when he saw the smudge of
blood had returned with a vengeance. It was the same feeling he
had back in 1994 during the Duane Barry case.

Someone had taken her.


///////////x///////////


Forgive me, Dana.

I'm so sorry for what I had to do. I did not want to hit you but
it was necessary. I should not have hit you so hard. I guess I got
carried away with the moment. Blood is always so difficult to get
out of hair. It clings to the strands, matting it and seeping into
the roots.

And these damn gloves don't make it easy! I cannot feel your hair
through them. It is so aggravating to have your hair at my
fingertips but not have the ability to feel it. But like the blow
to your head, the gloves are necessary. As was the sedative. It
packs a punch, I know from experience, but it was the only one I
could find in the drug cabinet on my ward, the cabinet with the
broken lock.

I was probably foolish to leave the vial there but I was running
out of time and could not stop to retrieve it. Do you think _he_
will find it? Will he be the one, Dana? You know who I'm talking
about. Your partner. Is that all he is, Dana? Just a partner? I
get the impression it is more than that. I got that impression
when you were in the jail two years ago, interviewing the man you
thought was me.

Have you and your partner become more than co-workers, more than
friends? Do you take your work home with you, literally? Do you
two talk about work in bed, your naked limbs entwined and sated
bodies still joined? Just what kind of partner is he, Dana?

Never mind. It doesn't matter, really. You will never see him
again. He will not find you alive. None of them will. I know they
will eventually figure out what has happened to you, but not until
my mission is complete. I need to keep the foxes at bay for just a
bit longer.

They cannot take you away from me again. I will not let them. Not
until I have realized my biggest dream. For two years this dream
has filled my existence with the promise of the ultimate
fulfillment: possessing you.

My dreams during my incarceration consisted of dozens of scenarios
of how I would come to possess you. Taking you from your office,
from the airport parking lot, from the grocery store or the beauty
salon. Over time I narrowed them down to one, the one that is
becoming reality before my very eyes. I knew this was the right
one. I knew it would work.

It's not far, the journey we have to make. The place I have chosen
is a dream in itself. The guard at the facility I was at, Jim...
this was to be his retirement home. I have seen pictures of it,
and I even know the exact location. Jim was so proud of it, saved
his whole life to afford such a luxury in his golden years. I
hated to snatch it from him. Made me sad to think I was taking
something from someone who wanted it so. But I need it. _We_ need
it, Dana.

The cabin is set back in the woods, two miles from the nearest
dwelling. It is perfect. Your screams will be for my ears only. A
sweet symphony with me as the sole audience. I shudder in
anticipation as I remember your voice: a deep, sensuous alto,
caressing my ears like a sultry torch song. I want to hear that
voice again so badly. I want to hear that silky-smooth voice speak
my name. I want to hear it scream, cry, beg for mercy. These are
the sounds that will be music to my ears.

Sleep now, my Dana. We will be there soon.


///////////X///////////


Mulder's mind went into overdrive. His fingers danced
automatically over the cell phone. He dialed a pager number he had
been told to never dial unless it was a dire emergency. Punching
in his cell phone number, he added the numbers '911' as an
afterthought. It couldn't get any more dire than this.

For ten minutes, he paced the length of the laundry room, stopping
only to look at his watch and curse. He hated bringing someone
into it but he knew he needed the help and resources. If it was
_Them_ who had taken her, he wanted this man on his side. He had
learned over the past few years that he was an ally of sorts, not
completely trustworthy but one who had a similar vision. One who
also had some resources far more underground and invisible than
Mulder's own contacts.

He nearly dropped the phone when it rang. "Mulder," he barked.

"This had better be good, Agent Mulder."

He immediately recognized the strained tone of his boss' voice.

"Sir, Agent Scully is gone."

"What?"

Mulder could visualize the vein in Walter Skinner's head throbbing
to some internal beat. "I found a syringe and vial of a strong
sedative, along with blood. Someone has taken her."

Silence filled the air as the younger agent again mentally
pictured his boss, his jaw clenched and jutted out slightly as he
mulled over Mulder's words.

"You're sure?" was his ultimate response.

"Sir, I wouldn't have called you if I wasn't."

More silence followed before Skinner replied. "Agent Mulder, if I
send a forensics team down there and they..."

"Sir," Mulder interrupted, "I'm positive this is foul play." He
knew Skinner wouldn't deny him an investigation. This was Scully
they were talking about.

"I'll send a team out within the hour," Skinner finally said. "The
men I'm sending are not going to be in an official capacity. Let
them do their job, Mulder. They are not there to obey your every
wish. I hope I have made myself clear."

Mulder never got the chance to reply, as the disconnecting click
stopped him mid-breath. Placing the phone in his jacket pocket, he
walked to the chairs, lowering himself into the one next to her
magazine. He stared at the cover, wondering what article she had
been reading before...

He cupped his face in his hands while he fought the intense waves
of dread and nausea crashing through his body. Someone came into
this very room and forcibly took his partner. He arrived too late
to keep it from happening. She was gone.

"I'm sorry, Scully."


///////////X///////////


Very nice car, Dana. I have always liked these sport utility
vehicles. Always wanted to own one but never got the chance. And
nearly a full tank of gas. So thoughtful of you. It's almost as if
you knew I would be coming for you. Everything has gone so
smoothly. You must have known somehow and resolved yourself to the
fact that I would come for you.

Fate is a powerful force, Dana. I don't suppose you believe in
that sort of thing. You probably believe that we decide our own
destinies. No, fate and destiny are decided for us, not by us. We
are a product of our environment, as well as our genes.

Do you think I chose to have these urges and desires, to find
sexual and emotional pleasure from mutilating another human being?
Although, I must admit that if I had been given a choice, I'm not
sure I would have chosen differently. The power derived from each
lock of hair I cut, the sheer pleasure of feeling it between my
fingers and knowing it is mine to take, is too addictive. More
addictive than any drug.

I am too weak to fight the urges. They devour me. They control me.
They make me who I am. Even the tragic death of my family members
could not stop the demon within. Instead of reminding me of their
deaths, these acts have fueled the ever-growing urges flowing
through my veins. The more I take, the more I want.

But you know this already, don't you, Dana? Your partner knows all
about people like me, doesn't he? One of the perks of my
incarceration was my nearly unlimited access to a library. Boswell
has one of the best library facilities of any prison, psychiatric
or otherwise. I read all about your partner in past issues of
newspapers and journals. A golden boy, a brilliant profiler with
the unenviable ability to get into the minds of men like me. I'm
sure he filled you in about all of my faults and flaws, what makes
me tick, how and why I do what I do.

A fat lot of good that will do him now. I have you, and all of his
abilities and intelligence cannot change that fact. I have you
because fate has decided that you are to be mine. No one can
challenge fate.

No one.

Not your partner.

Not you.

Not even me.


///////////X///////////


The forensics team arrived an hour after Mulder had spoken with
Skinner. Through clenched teeth, the agent answered their
requisite questions of "Did you touch anything" and "Was this how
the room appeared when you arrived." He then left the team of two
to gather evidence.

He trudged his way up the stairs, his legs moving instinctually
and reaching their destination before he knew where he was. He
pushed her front door open, looking around the room, noting how
'Scully' it looked. Comfortable, inviting, familiar.

Their discussion earlier that evening flared in his mind, and out
of curiosity, he pressed the play button on her answering machine.
He heard her mother's familiar voice on two of the messages, then
a male voice identified as Hammersely from the Bureau. The fourth
message intrigued him, probably as much as it had intrigued Scully
when she heard it:

   Everywhere I go,
   your face I see.
   Every step I take,
   you take with me.

   Nowhere to run to, baby.
   Nowhere to hide.
   Got nowhere to run to, baby.
   Nowhere to hide.

If it was a clue to her disappearance, he had no idea what it
could mean. With a sigh, Mulder lowered himself to the couch and
buried his head in his hands. They did it again. Coming in on the
shadows of the night, they whisked her away in mere minutes. He
had spoken to her less than ninety minutes before he arrived at
her doorstep. Amazing how ninety little minutes, a microscopic
speck in the grand scheme of time, could change one's life so
drastically.

They had broken him, nearly destroyed him the last time they took
her. He went through the motions of living in those three months,
his body alive but his soul dark and lifeless. The two most
important people in his life were taken from him and he had been
helpless to save them. The smoking bastard had told him Scully had
been "returned" to him, as if she were his property or a material
possession. That was how the old man thought of people. Trophies
to be won or lost, possessions to be kept or taken. In all his
cynicism, Mulder thanked whomever was listening above that they
had not taken from him his genuine caring for others. If not for
that, he would be even less human than the Cancer Man himself.

A familiar voice startled him, shattering his mental visit to
Hell.

"Any word from her?"

Mulder's head snapped up to see his boss standing in the doorway.
"No, sir. Nothing."

"You're sure she has been taken and just didn't..."

"Look," Mulder replied, his voice like gravel, "she's gone. I
found her gun on her bedroom dresser. I _know_ her. She rarely
leaves her apartment without her gun anymore. And if she did leave
without it for some reason, she wouldn't take off with it sitting
in plain sight, even if it was an emergency."

Skinner ground his teeth together, his jaw moving like the
mechanism of an old watch, back and forth. "Agent Scully's car is
gone. Were you aware of that?"

"So?" Mulder replied, his eyes narrowed to skeptical slits. "What
difference does that make? That bastard had her taken and they
moved her car to make it look like she took a little trip. They
couldn't know I was on my way over here tonight." He rose from the
couch, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets.

Skinner's nod was barely perceptible. "We'll know soon enough.
They just finished downstairs and are heading to the lab. I hope
you haven't wasted their time."

"Yeah, well I hope I have," Mulder mumbled as he brushed past his
boss and out the open door.


Walter Skinner's office
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Wednesday, 4:05am


Skinner watched as Mulder paced the distance between the door and
the long table seated just inside the office. The agent looked
like a caged tiger, his eyes darting around the room at each tiny
noise, each soft word spoken.

The assistant director surprised himself by being able to amass a
small team of three men and one woman, including the two forensics
personnel, at such an ungodly hour of the morning. These were
agents he knew to be clean, each having gone through an official
background sweep, as well as a thorough check through unofficial
means. The game had changed and Skinner never knew who was in
whose pocket. The players changed frequently and the four agents
he had woken from sleep in the early morning hours were the most
reliable he had.

Not that he trusted any of them. He surprised himself again by
coming to the realization that the only person in the room within
whom he had an inkling of trust was Fox Mulder. They had a common
enemy: corruption. They had a common goal: the truth. They went
about it by different means, but the goal was still the same.

Out of the corner of his eye, Skinner saw one of his forensics
team at the open door, tentatively waiting for permission to
enter.

"Agent Quiroz, come in."

Mulder turned to the door and rushed to Marco Quiroz, beating the
assistant director to the young agent's side.

"Is it her blood?" Mulder asked in as even a tone as he could
muster.

Skinner insinuated himself between the agents and turned to
Quiroz. "What have you found?"

Quiroz's big brown eyes looked indecisively between Skinner and
Mulder. He had only been with the Bureau for six months, but he
had heard about Spooky Mulder and his partner the first week he
was in Forensics. Mulder was... well, just like his nickname.
Spooky. And no one knew for sure why Dana Scully had remained by
his side for so long. Some speculated that the relationship went
beyond partnership but there was no evidence to support it.
Despite the rumors, Quiroz treated Mulder and Scully with the same
respect he would any agent. Their requests were sometimes odd but
he knew their success rate was one envied by every other agent in
the building.

Quiroz finally settled his gaze on the senior-ranking man in the
room. He was no fool. This was his chance to shine in front of the
Assistant Director. "Sir, the blood on the floor as well as the
blood residue on the needle did match Agent Scully's bloodtype. I
ran a preliminary DNA test. It's not completely accurate, mind
you, but it does seem to match Agent Scully's DNA as well. A more
reliable DNA testing will take several more hours..."

"We don't have several more hours," Mulder mumbled under his
breath. He ran a hand over his face before continuing. "The
secobarbital. It's a sedative, right?"

Quiroz nodded. "Yes, a powerful one. The vial you found was a one-
hundred milligram per milliliter vial. It was completely empty
when you found it, Agent Mulder?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Well, the syringe is a six-cc syringe, indicating a much larger
dose than normal."

"What is considered normal?" Skinner interjected.

"I would say one-hundred to three-hundred milligrams. If Agent
Scully was given the full one-thousand milligrams that the vial
holds..." He paused, shaking his head.

"What?" Mulder bit out through clenched teeth.

"A dose that high could seriously poison or even kill an average
adult. Given Agent Scully's size..." Quiroz let his voice trail
off, but he continued in a different direction before Mulder could
reply. "However, I did see proof that the vial may have been used
before. I found two puncture points in the rubberized top of the
vial, indicating another possible time of use."

Skinner eyed Mulder, noting the agent's flaring nostrils and rigid
jaw. He was ready to explode. The A.D. cleared his throat. "Agent
Quiroz, in your opinion, how long would the effects of this
sedative last?"

"I can't give you an accurate assessment without knowing the full
dosage..."

"Then a ballpark figure," Skinner said, his jaw tight.

Quiroz swallowed before replying. "Given intramuscularly? Anywhere
from thirty minutes to two hours maybe. But that would be for a
normal dose. A higher one could last several hours."

Skinner nodded. "Thank you, Agent Quiroz. That will be all."

Quiroz opened his mouth to speak but closed it upon eyeing the two
men in front of him. He chose instead to back away and leave the
room as quickly as possible.

Mulder ran a hand across his mouth. "They got her again. Right
under my damn nose."

"There is no evidence to indicate that anyone having to do with
Agent Scully's disappearance before..."

"The hell there isn't!" Mulder rebutted, raising his voice and
drawing the attention of the two other men in the room. "A syringe
with her blood on it. They _wanted_ me to find it."

"Agent Mulder, keep your voice down," Skinner growled forcefully.
"Maybe whoever did this heard the elevator on its way down to the
basement and ditched the vial out of haste. Maybe they didn't
think it would matter since it's obvious they wore gloves and left
no fingerprints. Regardless, we are doing all we can. I've had her
car reported stolen so police agencies, as well as some other
personnel, are aware of it."

Mulder knew better than to ask what 'other personnel' Skinner
meant. Still, he didn't like the odds. "Not good enough," he spat.

"And you think you can do better?" Skinner challenged.

Mulder met his superior's gaze with unwavering intensity. "Maybe I
could. This little piss party sure as hell isn't finding her." His
arm swept out, gesturing to the other agents.

"That's it," Skinner said, barely able to contain his anger. "You
are off this case as of now. You are too close to this to..."

Mulder shoved past Skinner. "Just try and stop me."

Skinner grabbed the younger agent's arm. "That is not a request.
You are not doing Agent Scully any good..."

"I'm not leaving. Sir." He added the last word with exaggerated
emphasis. "If you want my badge after this, fine. You can have
it."

"You're lucky I don't ask for it now," Skinner intoned through
clenched teeth. "Go home, Mulder. I'll call you if we hear
anything."

Mulder lowered his head for a moment, then raised it, a complete
transformation in his features having taken place in that one nod
of his head. His eyes met Skinner's, imploring him to see the
guilt, the pain. The need to be the one to find her.

"Sir, please. I have to be a part of this. Scully's my partner and
my friend. I'll do whatever you say, just don't take me off this
investigation."

Skinner's jaw tightened, his cheek doing a rhythmic dance to the
clenching and unclenching movement. "All right. You will go home
and get some rest..."

"Sir, I don't need rest. I need to get out there..."

"Take it or leave it, Agent Mulder. Those are the terms. Report
back here at oh-seven-hundred." The A.D. paused as he looked at
his watch. "That's over two hours. Take a short rest. You won't be
any good to her dead on your feet."

His downcast eyes and slouched shoulders admitting defeat,
Mulder's head moved in a terse nod. He ignored the stares of the
other agents while he left the office.


///////////X///////////


So quiet. I had forgotten how quiet the forest is. It has been
nearly twenty-five years since I have seen the forest. Our yearly
family vacations were to various campgrounds around the country. I
used to love camping, lying in my sleeping bag at night, staring
up at the stars through the treetops. I used to imagine I lived in
those trees, high above the rest of the living world.

So peaceful, among the trees. So tranquil. And hidden.

The perfect setting, Dana.

The drive is so beautiful. I wish you could see the majesty of the
forest surrounding us. This is true beauty, undisturbed by man's
greed or vanity. This beauty needs no enhancement. It is beauty
and goodness in its purest form.

I hate to do it but I have to stop for gas and supplies. I doubt
the cabin will be equipped with what I need and the gas gauge is
almost at empty. I'm sure there is some sort of gas station and
convenience mart along here somewhere. The sixty-two dollars in
Jim's wallet should be enough.

Poor Jim. I hated to kill him. He was one of my favorite guards at
Boswell. He used to sit with me at the library while I worked and
would talk about his cabin in the woods where he was going to
retire and do everything he had always dreamed about doing.
Fishing, camping, painting oil paintings of the scenery
surrounding his cabin. He even showed me pictures of the cabin,
told me exactly where it was. I knew how much he was looking
forward to his retirement life. I hated to take that away from
him. But it had to be him. Sometimes the good are made to suffer.

He was a lonely old man who loved to talk. And I was willing to
listen, even encouraged him by acting interested. My perseverance
eventually paid off. He had this cabin and I needed it. It was
perfect, like a sign from above.

Here's your chance. Take it.

So I did.

I wonder how long until the gas tank is truly empty. You wouldn't
know, would you, Dana? No, not you. You are the type who always
has at least one-quarter tank of gas and has all scheduled
maintenance done on time. You are the type who has her suits
classified by color in her closet. You are the type who has her
spices alphabetized in the spice rack.

How close am I, Dana? Pretty close, I think. I can tell that you
are very methodical, very organized. Very in control.

Aren't you, Dana?

You like to be in control. You _have_ to be in control. I have
imagined you out of control. Wild, aggressive, passionate.

Is that what you are like, Dana, without your control?

I cannot wait to find out.


///////////X///////////


Mulder tossed his keys onto the coffee table, then shed his
leather jacket and shoes. He flopped down onto his couch and let
his head hit the back cushions.

How had this happened? Why now? Nothing they had worked on in the
past few months had been controversial enough to attract _Their_
attention. It was obvious, even to him, that this was not an alien
abduction. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized
it wasn't the smoking bastard's style, either. Had Mulder not left
his glasses in Scully's bag, he would have flown out on his
consult, none the wiser to Scully's disappearance. He wouldn't
have discovered her missing until he got back the next evening.
Cancer Man would make a more flashy show about it, making sure he
was there to see her being whisked away, helpless to stop it from
happening.

Mulder's thoughts were interrupted by his cell phone. He picked up
his jacket from the table and fished out the phone. "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, Moe Bocks here. How are you?"

Mulder grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. "This isn't a
good time, Moe."

"Well, I think you're going to want to hear this," Bocks replied.
"It concerns Donnie Pfaster."

"What about him?"

"He's escaped."

Silence pierced the air. Mulder stopped breathing, his brain
processing the agent's two words. He swallowed before responding.
"When?"

"Sometime between four and six yesterday evening," Bocks said with
a sigh. "Heard about it from one of the guards up there who used
to work in Vice in Minneapolis. Good friend of mine. Anyway, I got
right on the horn to you. Seems Donnie took out one of the guards,
slit his throat with scraps of aluminum cans he'd somehow been
hoarding."

As Bocks continued filling in the details, Mulder's mind worked
through the time frame. It had to be Pfaster. He must have hopped
a plane to DC immediately after his escape. Had he been waiting
for Scully to return or did he get to her apartment after she had
arrived home? Had Mulder just missed catching him?

Mulder forced his breathing to calm before speaking. "Any leads?"

"Not a one," Bocks answered, frustration evident in his voice.
"The guard's wallet turned up missing so we're running a trace on
his credit cards. Nothing yet. We don't even know if he's left the
city."

"He has." A shiver traveled the length Mulder's spine.

"Now, how would you know that?" Bocks asked cautiously.

"She's gone, Moe. Scully's missing. I was on my way over to her
place to get my reading glasses and..." Mulder realized his voice
must have sounded weak, even pathetic, to the Minnesota agent, but
he didn't care. Scully was in the clutches of her worst nightmare
and once again, he was helpless to do anything. "I found blood, a
syringe, a heavy-duty sedative..."

"Christ Almighty," Bocks exhaled. "Tell me what I can do to help,
Mulder. I'll dig up as much manpower as I can find at this hour."

Mulder's head jerked to the side, snapping the fog from his brain.
"Find out if and when he left Minnesota."

"You got it, Mulder. If he's got her, we'll find them. Don't you
worry."

Mulder clicked the off button and hastily donned his shoes. Bocks'
words offered little comfort, no matter the sincerity in which
they were delivered. He could sense the older agent's reluctance
to bring up the subject of what kind of killer Donnie Pfaster was.
They both knew it wasn't likely that Pfaster would keep a victim
alive for long. His victims served no purpose to him as living,
breathing entities.

Mulder knew the Donnie Pfasters of the world too well. They were
human monsters, untamed rabid animals that lived for nothing but
their next kill, feeding off their victim's pain like a den of
lions would feed off a gazelle.

Part of the thrill was in the chase, but that wore off too soon.
Mulder knew the chase wasn't where Pfaster focused his energy and
received the most gratification. The chase was invigorating but
not the primary goal.

The real thrill came from the kill. And its aftermath.


J. Edgar Hoover Building
Thursday, 5:30am


Mulder burst into his office and ran to the filing cabinet.
Roughly pulling the second drawer open, he fingered through the
files until he found the one he needed. He grabbed it and ran out
of his office, slamming the door shut behind him.

Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way to Skinner's
office in less than a minute. Without knocking, Mulder pushed the
door open. Skinner's head turned as the agent stormed in and
tossed a file folder on his desk.

"That's our man," Mulder stated flatly. He met Skinner's gaze with
a intense glare, defying the man to answer.

"What are you talking about?" Skinner hissed, his anger boiling at
Mulder's intrusion.

"I'm talking about Donald Addie Pfaster."

Recognition flared in Skinner's eyes. He reached for the folder
and skimmed the first page of the report, his recognition
blossoming with each word.

"The fetishist, took hair and fingernails from his victims,"
Skinner remembered aloud. "He kidnapped Agent Scully while you two
were on the case in... Minnesota, right?"

Mulder nodded tightly. "Scully was the only one who got away, so
she is different in his eyes. His need to possess her, to control
her, has to be overwhelming. And we know he's not above killing to
get what he wants." The implication of his words hung in the air
like a thick fog.

Skinner brushed his chin with his fingertips, his gaze still fixed
on the report. "It says here Pfaster is currently residing at the
Boswell Psychiatric Prison."

"He was. Until today." Mulder paused, making sure he had Skinner's
undivided attention. He continued when the Assistant Director's
eyes met his. "I just got a call from Moe Bocks in the Minneapolis
field office. Pfaster escaped, killed a guard in the process. They
figure he escaped sometime between four and six last night. The
guard was found in a supply closet in the same building where
Pfaster worked as a library assistant. Part of his
rehabilitation," Mulder added with a snort.

Skinner's response was interrupted by the sound of a cell phone
ringing. Mulder reached into his jacket pocket. "Mulder."

"Wish I had good news for you."

Mulder tensed at the sound of gloom in Moe Bocks' voice. "What
have you got, Moe?"

"The trace on the guard's credit cards turned up something. His
Visa was used this evening via telephone."

"For what?"

"A one-way ticket to Dulles International," Bocks replied in a
somber tone. "Flight left here a little after six. I'm on my way
to the prison now to interview some of the guards and to take a
gander at Pfaster's cell. I'll call you when I find out more."

Mulder closed his eyes and grunted a "thanks" before
disconnecting.

"What?" Skinner asked impatiently.

Opening his eyes, Mulder swallowed. "Pfaster left Minneapolis by
plane just after six last night. He's here in DC."

Skinner's gaze fell to the file in front of him, his eyes focusing
on the sad, drawn face of Donnie Pfaster. Reluctantly looking
away, he reached for the phone and dialed a series of numbers.

"Agents Parks, get yourself and Agents Givens and Quiroz in here
now." He met Mulder's pained gaze with his own. "And find me a
recent photo of Agent Scully."


///////////X///////////


I cannot believe there was not one convenience store on the way. I
thought every town had a 7-11. I did not want to make a grand
appearance like that, walking among so many other people, but I
had no choice.

My supplies are essential. A small but important part of the whole
picture. The means to an end.

Doesn't really matter anyway. No one from the grocery store will
remember me. My mother, among others, used to tell me how
unspectacular and forgettable I am, and how no one will care, or
even notice, when I am gone. No one would care whether I lived or
died. No one except me. I learned at an early age that the only
person worth living for is me.

If I die as a result of this, that would be most unfortunate but
not unexpected. Nor completely unwelcome.  After this, I could die
a content man, at peace with myself. You are my ultimate trophy,
and I am willing to sacrifice what I must in order to have you.
Even if that means sacrificing my life.

But that will not happen. I have fate on my side, remember? What's
that song? 'Que Sera, Sera'. Whatever will be, will be. _This_
will be, Dana. It will happen. Everything will happen exactly as I
have planned. I have figured out everything down to the smallest
detail.

First, we will have a meal together. Our first date. I will cook
for you. This is a privilege, girlie-girl. I have cooked for no
one but myself my whole life. This occasion seemed to warrant
something special, however. After the meal will be your cleansing.
I can feel my heart beat faster as I think about placing you in
the water and bathing you. You must be clean for me. I will accept
nothing else.

See, Dana. Every detail leads to the next, each part carefully
linked to create the strong chain of events. The cabin, the meal,
the cleansing... all of it will lead up to that one moment, the
moment when my dream becomes reality.

Our reality. Yours and mine. Together.

This has been the one thought in my head every moment of every
day. It is the only thing that kept me going during my days in
prison. Only this. This has been the one driving force fueling my
existence for the last two years.

Only this. And it will be perfect.


///////////X///////////


The population of Skinner's office had grown from five agents,
including Skinner, to ten. Some early risers who were in the
office working on other cases heard about Scully's disappearance
and joined in the manhunt. Despite her nicknames of "The Ice
Queen" and "Mrs. Spooky", Dana Scully was still respected, and
more importantly, she was one of their own.

At varying intervals throughout the strategy meeting, all eyes
found their way to Mulder. He stood against a wall to the side of
the briefing area, his face stony, emotionless. To the casual
observer, he seemed professional, even aloof. To anyone who knew
him, however, his suffering reflected in his unusually dark eyes.
It was something Skinner picked up on immediately.

"You have your assignments, ladies and gentlemen," Skinner said to
the roomful of agents. "Every police department in a two-hundred-
mile radius has a description of Agent Scully's Explorer, as well
as pictures of her and Pfaster. He's had a considerable head
start, so we have to act fast. I want check-ins every fifteen
minutes." He nodded once and uncrossed his arms, his sign for the
meeting to adjourn.

As agents filed out of the office, Skinner made his way to Mulder.
"We'll find her. We have some of our best agents on the case..."

"And not a damn thing to go on," Mulder finished. "They could be
anywhere by now."

"We're doing all we can. If Pfaster is using her vehicle, he's as
good as ours."

Mulder glared at his boss. "It's been over four hours. Pfaster
isn't going to keep her alive much longer."

"We'll find her," Skinner insisted, trying to convince both
himself and Mulder of that point.

Mulder nodded tersely and grabbed Pfaster's file from the table.
"I'll be in my office," he mumbled under his breath on his way out
the door.

As he walked down the corridors to the stairwell, Mulder ignored
the stares and murmurs just as he always had. He played the loner
part well, having had years of practice to perfect the role. What
no one in the building knew, however, was how dependent he had
become on Scully.

He entered his office and stood in the doorway. How many hours had
they spent in this room together? His eyes went to the slide
projector. He smiled as he remembered each time he had subjected
her to one of Spooky's Slide Shows. He knew they were showy and
completely unnecessary but he could never resist evoking a groan
or rolled eyes from his partner every time she saw the projector
loaded and ready.

Mulder walked to her desk. He brushed his hand over the items on
its surface, a memory connected with each one. Her coffee mug, and
her exasperation at his inability to make a cup of coffee that
didn't threaten to put hair on her chest. Her paper clip holder,
and her mock-anger at him when he connected all forty-eight paper
clips together as a prank. The photo frame, and her soft
expression every time she looked at the picture of her family. He
never realized how something as inconsequential as a paper clip
could hold so much emotion.

With Pfaster's file still in hand, Mulder moved away from his
partner's desk and sat in his chair. He opened the file and
flipped through the reports until he got to the last few pages:
the follow-up interview Bocks had done six months after Pfaster's
arrest. Mulder reread the pages, a tiny thread of sadness weaving
its way into his mind as he reviewed Bocks' notes on the troubled
boy who grew up to be a human monster.

Donnie Pfaster was the youngest of five siblings, and the only
boy. Pfaster hinted that his sisters were all considerably older
than him and he sensed he was an unexpected child, or as he told
Bocks, "an unwanted accident." Tragedy struck the Pfaster family
when Donnie was just ten. With the exception of his oldest sister,
who was away at college, the Pfaster family was in a devastating
car crash, careening off an embankment on a mountain highway. The
accident killed Pfaster's father and three sisters.

Only Donnie and his mother were spared, but not before they were
forced to share space with four dead bodies for six hours until
rescue workers discovered the mangled wreckage and freed them from
the steel morgue. Young Donnie spent a hellish eternity on his
stomach, his body pinned under the weight of his three dead
sisters, and his father's decapitated head staring up at him from
the floorboard.

According to Pfaster, his mother blamed him for the crash, never
letting a week go by without telling him how he had killed his
father and sisters. His mother suffered disfiguring scars from
deep lacerations on her arms, neck and chest, and never forgave
him for, as Pfaster said, "turning her from a beauty into a
beast."

Through much prodding on Bocks' part, Pfaster confessed that
during the car trip, he had decided to punish one of his sisters,
Jaclyn, for berating him in front of a group of his friends. He
smuggled a pair of scissors into the car and while his sisters and
mother slept, the rebellious boy cut Jaclyn's waist-length brown
hair to just above her shoulders. When she awoke, she discovered
what he had done and screamed at the top of her lungs. Both
parents tried to calm the children, and in the process, Pfaster's
father lost control of the vehicle.

Pfaster confessed later in the interview that it was not the first
time he had punished his sisters in that manner. He had done the
same to his oldest sister when he was nine, and despite his
actions contributing to the death of his father and sisters, he
repeated the act four times to female classmates during his high
school career. He said it made him feel strong and in control. He
enjoyed taking something so precious and treasured by the girls,
all of whom had refused his sexual advances.

Mulder's cell phone rang, startling him back to the present.
"Yeah. Mulder."

"It's Moe."

Mulder closed his eyes. "Please tell me you have something."

"Well, I can pretty much confirm that Pfaster's our guy," Bocks
said with a sigh. "We found papers stuffed into a rip in his
mattress. Guards think he'd been taking the paper and pens from
the library. There's pages and pages filled with references to a
Dana with fiery hair. Some of them refer to him watching her from
outside of her apartment, like a Peeping Tom. He even has an
address here, but I doubt it's hers."

"It could be," Mulder supplied, thinking back to the case in
Minnesota. "He ran her off the road, remember? He had her badge,
her luggage, all of her ID. He's of above-average intelligence,
and may have an excellent memory. He could have memorized the
address. And Scully's at the same apartment complex she was during
that case." He took a deep breath. "What's the address?"

As Moe read her address, including the apartment number, Mulder's
eyes slammed shut. Pfaster had been fantasizing about Scully the
entire time he was in prison. Bile rose in his throat as he
thought back to Pfaster's other victims and the desecrated state
of their bodies.

"Mulder, you still there?" Bocks asked quietly.

"Yeah. Just thinking. If he's been planning this for years,
chances are he's going to draw it out because he knows this is it,
the culmination of his fantasy..." Mulder stopped, his mind
switching gears immediately. "What have you got on the guard?"

"Interviewed a few of them. Got Bob Akey right here. He's the one
I was telling you about, used to work in Vice. The guard that was
killed, Jim Powers, was sixty-two, and has been working at Boswell
for eighteen years. He was just a few months away from retiring."

"Did you find anything else about the wallet?"

"Nothing," Bocks replied solemnly. "The credit card was used just
that one time. Bob says Jim probably had about fifty dollars on
him. We've checked Powers' house but no sign of anything yet."

Mulder shook his head. "Pfaster couldn't have made it there by
now. He couldn't take Scully by plane back to Minnesota and it
would take days to drive." He paused as his mind changed focus,
his brain no longer functioning as an FBI agent but as the monster
known as Donnie Pfaster. "He has her somewhere close, probably
within a few hundred miles. I would guess some place familiar, but
that might not be possible on such short notice. It will be
somewhere out of the way, maybe a house that's for sale or
possibly a funeral home. It will be clean. He's obsessed about
cleanliness. It will have running water, bathroom and shower
facilities. Somewhere without a lot of traffic but within a
reasonable distance to a supermarket or beauty supply store or
some place that sells cosmetics and hair care products. Maybe..."

"Agent Mulder, I just thought of something."

The second voice on the phone startled Mulder and he suddenly
realized he was on speaker phone.

"What is it, Mr.... Akey?"

"Yeah. Bob Akey. I just thought of Jim and the cabin he bought a
few months ago. He was moving there when he retired. Saved money
for the last thirty years to afford it."

"Where?" Mulder asked, his throat tight.

"West Virginia. Lost River, I think he said," Akey replied. "Jim
yammered on and on about how secluded and peaceful his cabin was.
I'm pretty sure the power was turned on because Jim just flew over
there last weekend to take delivery on some furniture. Don't know
if or how Pfaster would have found out about it, though. I don't
remember Jim talking to any of the inmates about it."

Mulder listened as he tore his desk apart looking for an atlas. He
finally found one buried under a mountain of file folders. He
flipped to West Virginia and searched for Lost River but to no
avail.

"Where is it? Eastern part, northern part of the state?"

"Uh... I think it's the eastern part," Akey answered. "Jim said
the closest big town is Keyser, if you consider a population of
five thousand to be big."

"Got it," Mulder blurted out as his finger pressed on the atlas.
To the right and south of Keyser, in tiny print, were the words
'Lost River'. "It's about a hundred miles from DC." Mulder grabbed
the atlas and ran for his office door. "Got an address?"

"No, sorry, Agent Mulder."

"Moe?"

"I'm on it, Mulder."

"Thanks. And check the library to see if there's an atlas or book
of maps missing. Pfaster may have smuggled one out." Mulder
clicked the off button on his phone and ran for the elevator. He
thought about informing Skinner of the new development but he
quickly brushed the thought aside. It was a long shot at best, and
he didn't want manpower wasted on it if it turned out to be a
false lead. Not to mention how long it would take to amass a team
and ship them to West Virginia. He could move faster alone.

Mulder kept telling himself those were the real reasons he was
refusing to let Skinner know of his whereabouts, and not that he
wanted to be the one to find her. She was there, he knew it.
Something deep within his body told him Scully was there. She was
still alive. He could feel it, could feel her heartbeat in
synchrony with his, could hear her voice in his head. He would
find her. He _needed_ to be the one to find her. Having her
dropped on his doorstep, or at a hospital in a coma, wasn't good
enough. He needed to be there.

Looking at his watch, Mulder swallowed. Almost five hours since he
had knocked on her door and found her missing. He realized he may
not have any choice but to bring in help. The drive was going to
take him an hour and a half, or an hour if he broke every traffic
law on the books, which was the game plan. As soon as Moe got him
the address, he would inform West Virginia police. Then he would
call Skinner.

He needed that address, and he needed it fast. Time was of the
essence, and Scully's was running out.


Jim Powers' cabin
Lost River, West Virginia
Thursday, 6:00am


Pain throbbed behind Scully's eyes, its intensity thrusting her
into consciousness. She blinked several times until she could
focus on her immediate surroundings, which consisted of the
shadowy outlines of a nightstand.

A shiver ran down her spine as she realized she was lying on a
bed, her hands bound behind her. She rolled over and groaned as
her left hip made contact with the mattress. At first she thought
she had been bruised but the soreness in her backside, coupled
with the murky feeling in her head and the putrid film on her
tongue told her otherwise.

She had been drugged.

The last thing she remembered was watching her clothes tumbling in
the dryer. The back of her head hurt, a dull aching associated
with being struck on the head with a blunt object. She had first-
hand knowledge of what it felt like to be cold-cocked with the
butt of a gun.

She could hear footsteps outside. Light broke under the door as
the footsteps got closer. The doorknob moved a fraction of an
inch, then returned to its original position. The footsteps
started again, dimming after six steps.

Scully shivered again. Where was she? Who was out there? Her
senses heightened, she recognized the smell of bacon cooking. Her
stomach growled involuntarily as the delicious scent invaded and
lingered in her nostrils. She doubted she would be allowed to
sample what she was smelling. Kidnap victims were rarely given
home-cooked meals while held captive.

She found it difficult to concentrate on an escape plan, the
effects of whatever she had been injected with still surrounding
her mind like a thick blanket. She shook her head, trying to clear
the fog from her brain, but it only made her dizzy and nauseous.
Suddenly the bacon cooking in the next room smelled vile.
Swallowing back bile, Scully focused on where she was and what she
could do to get out.

Foggy brain or not, she knew she needed a basic plan of escape.
Mulder had executed a few harrowing rescues during their
partnership, but she couldn't count on him to show up in time.

Scully hoped she would have the strength her to save herself.


///////////X///////////


Look at this place! No wonder Jim was excited about retiring here.
Quiet, secluded and as close to Heaven as a man like me will ever
get. I could spend eternity here among the trees and solitude.

I'm surprised with Jim being a security guard that he never bought
an alarm for this place. Maybe he was planning to add one later.
Or maybe he thought he would be safe way out here, what with his
impressive gun collection. He has some old ones that must be worth
quite a bit of money. I'm afraid I may have scratched a few when I
broke the door to the display case. Pity.

A fireplace. What a nice touch. The perfect way to create a warm,
romantic atmosphere. I'll move the table to the living room and we
can have our meal in front of the hearth. We are having eggs,
bacon and toast. Nothing fancy, no omelet or eggs benedict. I
never was much of a cook, never cared for it. Guess I got that
from my mother. I grew up on peanut better and jelly sandwiches,
and macaroni and cheese. I have not eaten a peanut butter and
jelly sandwich in over twenty years. Funny, I don't miss it.

Out of necessity, I did learn to make a few things well. Scrambled
eggs with cheddar cheese and jalapeno peppers is one of my
specialties. The meal smells scrumptious, if I do say so myself.

If you are a good girl and clean your plate, I have a surprise for
you after breakfast. I found the most wonderful shampoo at the
grocery store. Herbal something-or-other. It has kiwi and jasmine,
with a hint of rosemary. Such an odd combination but it smells so
good. The minute I smelled it, I thought of you and how it would
smell on your hair. Fruit and spice, and everything nice.

But first, breakfast. First we have our meal, just the two of us.
A quiet, cozy breakfast in front of the fireplace. Once our
bellies are full, we can retire to the bathroom. The cabin has a
claw-foot tub with brass fixtures. It may be a bit awkward for me
to reach over the edge, but I can make do.

You will look so lovely in that claw-foot tub, surrounded by
bubbles, your hair clean and fragrant, your porcelain skin moist
and smooth to the touch. So lovely.

It's almost time, Dana.


///////////X///////////


According to the clock on the nightstand, thirty minutes passed
before Scully heard footsteps again. She had tried the door but
found it held in place by something. It refused to budge, even
when she leaned her full weight against it. Because of the door
and the fact that she wasn't sure of the layout of where she was
being held, she was unable to hatch an adequate escape plan. She
concluded it was best to assess her captor, then assess her
options.

She held her breath as she heard footsteps. Her eyes widened as
doorknob turned and the door opened. Scully blinked, the bright
light from the hallway temporarily blinding her and shadowing her
captor's face. The tall figure, illuminated by an aura of
backlight, stepped forward.

"Hello, girlie-girl."

Scully gasped.

*No. Oh God, no.*

It had been nearly two years, but the voice sounded as familiar to
her as her own.

His hand went to the wall and the overhead light bathed the room
in fluorescent waves. Aside from more pronounced lines around his
eyes and mouth, Donnie Pfaster looked the same as she remembered.
Same neatly-trimmed light brown hair, same sad taupe-colored eyes,
same thin demonic smile.

"Breakfast is ready, Dana," he said softly as he approached. For
the first time since he had turned on the light, her gaze left his
face. She noticed light reflecting off something in his hand.

A needle.

"What... what did you give me?" she choked out.

"Seconal," he replied matter-of-factly as sat on the bed next to
her. "I'm glad to see you awake. I was afraid I had given you too
much."

"You did, you bastard," she spat, inching away from him. She
forced herself to push the pain away and hold her chin high. "What
do you want from me?"

His smile widened into a sickening grin. "I think you know what I
want, Dana."

Scully swallowed, fighting the urge to retch. Even if she hadn't
known of Donnie Pfaster's past, she could see exactly what he
wanted by the look in his eye. And from the sound of his voice.
Especially his voice. Did he know how much that breathy, almost-
effeminate voice revolted her? She wanted to expunge her body of
the intonations and textures of his voice that her ears had so
carelessly let enter her system.

She had to turn away. "You won't get away with this. You didn't
before, and you won't now."

"I already have." His hand reached out to touch her hair. "He's
not coming, Dana. Your partner isn't going to ride in on his white
horse and save you this time. You belong to me now."

Scully jerked her head away from Pfaster's hand. "Stay the hell
away from me!"

He shook his head in amusement. "I guess I should give you a
second dose after all. Don't worry, I won't give you as much as
last time." Pfaster stood and dug in his pants pocket, producing a
vial. He held the vial in one hand and pushed the needle through
the rubber top.

As he began to draw the fluid into the syringe, Scully made her
move. Channeling her strength, she kicked out with both feet. One
of her shoes made contact with his hand, and the heel of the other
shoe slammed into his crotch. Pfaster dropped the vial, the glass
shattering at his feet. He screamed in pain and let go of the
syringe.

Scully scrambled off the bed. Pain slammed into her head with the
force of a sledgehammer, causing her to sway. She propelled
herself toward the room's entrance, catching herself on the
doorjamb with her shoulder. She shook the dizziness and ventured a
look behind her.

She was sorry she did.

Pfaster grabbed her arm, roughly pulling her from the doorjamb and
pushing her against the wall as he leaned into her.

"Don't do that again," he hissed in her ear. "Don't mess this up,
Dana."

Scully cried out as he stabbed the needle into her hip. She could
feel the fluid being thrust into her muscle, invading her already
weakened system. Pfaster half-dragged her down the hallway and to
the dining table, which sat in front of the fireplace. She fought
him every step of the way, and it took him several minutes to get
her to the table. He finally shoved her down into a chair.

Scully landed on her left side, and pain shot through her entire
body. Silver flecks danced behind her closed eyes and waves of
darkness threatened to engulf her. She was still reeling from the
effects of the first dose, and even though the second dose was
minimal, she realized it could be enough to incapacitate her.

"Time for breakfast," Pfaster said cheerfully, the contempt and
venom in his voice a distant memory. He grabbed a rope sitting on
the table and squatted next to her chair. His hands worked
quickly, tying both of her ankles to one leg of the chair. He
removed her shoes, his hands lingering over the tops of her feet.

"Such delicate toes," he said as his index finger brushed over her
big toe. "You have pedicures, don't you, Dana? I can tell. Even
though the polish is chipping, your toenails are smooth and
healthy. So lovely."

Scully tried to pull her feet away but the bindings kept her in
place. Her skin crawled as his fingers moved up the top of her
foot to the ropes surrounding her ankles, his touch feather-light.

Pfaster flinched, as if slapped, then turned to Scully. The smile
on his face sent her stomach leaping toward her throat.

"Hungry? I know I am," he said as he rose from his squatted
position. He strode to the kitchen, returning seconds later with
three plates of food precariously placed in his hands.

Scully swallowed convulsively as she eyed the contents of the
plates Pfaster placed on the table. The sight of the egg dish,
chunks of green and orange floating in yellowish-white clouds,
might have tempted her under normal conditions. However, her
appetite had long since vanished. She had no idea what he had put
into the food, if anything. Regardless, she wasn't taking any
chances.

"I... I'm allergic to peppers," Scully said, surprising herself
with her quick thinking. Her thoughts were muddled but she could
still fire off excuses to cover her tracks. She silently thanked
Mulder for helping her hone her talent.

Pfaster seemed surprised by her response, but quickly shrugged it
off. "Then bacon?"

She shook her head. "No, no pork."

A small frown formed on Pfaster's lips. He started to mutter, his
words unintelligible, then a smile abruptly replaced the frown. "I
have jelly for the toast, if you like."

Scully ran out of excuses, and her hesitation was taken as consent
by Pfaster. He jogged to the kitchen and returned with a jar of
grape jelly. Waves of dizziness and nausea hit her simultaneously
as he began to spread the purple glob onto a slice of toast.

She could almost feel the drug surging through her veins,
insinuating itself into her thought process and motor skills. She
felt sluggish, like she was moving in slow motion. Control was
slipping away from her like water through her fingers. She had to
stay in control. She had to fight it, to fight him. She was _not_
going to die. Not here, not like this.

Scully raised her head and she found Pfaster looking at her,
concern contorting his features.

"The Seconal is making you sick, isn't it?" He sighed as her head
moved infinitesimally in a nod. His expression turned somber and
he took the dishes to the kitchen. Once the table was cleared, he
untied her legs from the chair.

"You'll feel better after a nice, warm bath," he said with
confidence. "The shampoo is wonderfully fragrant. I've heard about
how aromatherapy can heal upset stomachs and headaches. We can eat
later."

Panic overrode all other senses. "No, no," she said quickly. "I'll
have something to eat now. I'm..."

Pfaster shook his head. "No. I don't want you getting sick all
over the place. I can wait."

A lone tear descended from Scully's left eye as he helped her from
the chair and slowly led her down the hallway. Through the
haziness of the sedative, she recalled the crime scene photos of
the bodies left in the wake of Donnie Pfaster's obsession. Each
face flashed before her eyes like a macabre slide show, the last
image causing her to cry out.

She saw herself: hair butchered, fingers severed, body violated.

Her stomach revolted and she began to dry heave. Pfaster hurried
her the last few steps to the bathroom and sat her on the closed
toilet seat. She forced the contractions down but the effort took
nearly all her remaining energy. Her thoughts became disjointed,
jumping from subject to subject: family, med school, friends,
work.

Mulder.

He had to know she was missing. He had been on his way to her
apartment and once he found her gone, he would not stop until he
found out what had happened to her. She was going to fight Pfaster
with everything she had, but as the Seconal continued to invade
her body like a hungry virus, she realized her best effort might
not be enough.

For once in her life, Dana Scully admitted she was in over her
head. She needed help. She needed Mulder's help, and she prayed he
would find her in time.


Interstate 55
Thirty miles outside of Lost River, WV
Thursday, 6:55am


Scenery flew by at the speed of ninety miles per hour. Mulder had
the pedal to the floor and his arms vibrated against the shimmying
of a vehicle pushed beyond its means. He had the radio off; music
suddenly held no appeal.

He ran over every possible scenario in his head. How Pfaster had
found out about the cabin, how he had escaped, how much he had
planned and how much he improvised. Mulder tried to concentrate on
getting into Pfaster's head but every time he did, all he could
see was Scully, her image superimposed over one of the victims
from the case in Minnesota.

Mulder shook his head violently. She was not dead. He would know
if she was dead. Scully was still alive.

The improvisational profile he had done while talking to Bocks and
Akey replayed in his mind. The cabin fit into the puzzle
perfectly: secluded, within a few hours of DC, uninhabited and
equipped with electricity and running water. It wouldn't be as
familiar to him as a family house but he had a feeling Pfaster had
coaxed details from the unsuspecting guard over a period of time.
He probably had a good idea of the rough layout before setting
foot in the cabin.

A shrill ringing interrupted the silence. Mulder reached inside
his leather jacket for his phone. "Mulder."

"We have an address," a familiar Midwestern-accented voice
exclaimed.

Mulder sighed in relief at Bocks' words. "Go ahead."

"Eight-eighteen River Ridge Drive. How far are you?"

He eyed the odometer, judging his distance from the last signpost.
"About twenty miles east of Lost River."

"Good!" Bocks replied enthusiastically. "This place is about
fourteen miles east of town. You're almost there."

Mulder listened as Bocks gave him landmarks and signs to follow,
two of which he had already passed. He kept the car at sixty, fast
enough to close the distance quickly but slow enough he could read
the signs.

"Stay with me, Moe. I'll need you to call for back-up if this pans
out."

"You got it, Mulder."

Static and rhythmic breathing filled the phone lines for several
minutes, the silence finally broken by screeching tires.

"What? What happened?" Bocks asked.

"I missed the turnoff," Mulder mumbled. He threw the car in
reverse and backed up to the dirt road and the small, worn sign
announcing the road's name. "I found River Ridge. Now where?"

"You'll pass a small cabin about half a mile in. Keep going
another two and a quarter miles beyond that and you'll see a
fairly good-sized cabin on your left. That's Powers' place."

Mulder took the first part of the dirt road faster than the car's
suspension system could handle but he ignored the sharp jarring to
his spine. He passed the small cabin, then continued for two
miles. Slowing to ten miles per hour for the last quarter-mile,
the car barely made a sound on the dirt and loose gravel.

Through a cluster of trees several feet ahead of him, Mulder could
see a structure, rough-cut wood trimmed in dark green, with a long
porch. He stopped short, then backed the car to keep it out of
sight. He got out of the car, his gun in one hand, his phone in
the other. He walked a few feet to a looming oak and crouched
behind it.

His breath caught as he spied a vehicle parked at the side of the
cabin. A Ford Explorer. He read the license plate.

"Moe," he whispered into the phone, "he's here."

Bocks barked an order to someone, then returned to Mulder. "Hang
tight. We'll get West Virginia authorities out there as soon..."

Mulder disconnected Bocks, then clicked the phone in the off
position, not wanting a ringing phone to give away his approach.
He shoved the phone into his jacket and headed toward the cabin.


///////////X///////////


This is it, Dana.

This is what I have been waiting to do for two years. I cannot say
I was disappointed that you did not want to eat. It was just a
formality, really. An old-fashioned gesture of courtship. I did
not want to rush through this, but now that you are here I cannot
help myself.

I can barely control my hands, they are shaking so badly.
Nervousness, excitement, desire... they are all there, making me
light-headed with anticipation. I want so badly to touch you but
I'm afraid. Afraid that if I do reach out, you will disappear and
this will have been a dream.

Dreams are spontaneous, vivid explosions of hopes and desires.
They can be exciting but they are merely fantasies. Only when
dreams cross the threshold into reality can they be a source of
undeniable pleasure. Just as my dream is doing now. I still cannot
believe that you are real, that all of this is real. But it is.

You are here. I am here. Together. Finally, together.

My fantasy has been realized. Not exactly as I had planned, but so
close to it I cannot quibble about the tiny discrepancies. See,
Dana. It was meant to be. I told you that before, and now you have
proof. Fate has delivered you to me. Once you step into the water,
you will truly be mine. I will cleanse you with my own hands, a
baptism of sorts, scrubbing you clean of the impurities from those
who have touched you before, making you fresh as a newborn babe
for me. Just for me.

Foregoing breakfast was a good decision. Nothing in that kitchen
could satisfy the all-consuming hunger in my belly. There is only
one thing that will satisfy me. Your breath is mine to take, your
body is mine to possess.

Now, girlie-girl. The time is now.


///////////X///////////


Scully watched through barely focused eyes as Pfaster went to his
knees and turned on the faucet, letting the tub fill with water.
His hand hesitated over two bottles, indecision furrowing his
brow. He finally smiled and reached for a peach-colored bottle. He
opened it and liberally poured the contents into the tub. Scully
could see fluffy white bubbles forming around the waterfall
created by the faucet.

Pfaster took a handful of bubbles and brought them to his nose. He
lightly sniffed them and his smile widened. He turned to Scully,
his eyes narrowing into a sickening leer. He rose and walked to
her. His hand reached out for her hair, his head tilting slowly
from side to side and his eyes glazing over in a self-induced
trance as he fingered the strands. He blinked, then reached behind
her and untied her wrists.

"It's time, Dana," he crooned as he reached for the buttons on her
sweater. "Time for your cleansing."

Scully forced the bile down and defiantly raised her chin. The
drug was working fast but she still had enough energy to fight,
whether it be with her fists or her dignity. Hate and anger had
replaced the fear in her body, sending more adrenaline coursing
through her veins. If she was to die by his hands, it would not be
without a fight.

Despite the sedative-induced haze in her head, it had not gotten
past her that a gun lay on a hunter green bath towel next to one
of the claw foot legs. A hand towel lay at the opposite end of the
tub, a glass pitcher seated next to it.

As much as she was nauseated by the idea, she needed to get into
the tub to be near the gun.

"Don't touch me," she spat in a venom-laden voice. "I'll do it
myself." She watched as his grin widened and he stepped back to
the bath tub. He bent down to retrieve the gun, a silent warning
for her to behave.

Her hands shook as she loosened the buttons on her sweater. She
shed the material from her shoulders, then unzipped her jeans and
leaned against the back of the toilet to lift her hips from the
seat. She bit back the pain in her hip as the rough material slid
over the puncture wounds where Pfaster had injected her with the
sedative. The jeans slid down her legs and she pulled them the
rest of the way off with her feet.

She stopped, her eyes downcast, refusing to make eye contact with
the monster standing in front of her. She didn't need to see his
face to know what was going through his mind. He was viewing her
undressing as some erotic striptease normally saved for lovers.
Her stomach made another lunge toward her throat.

"The rest of it," he said, his voice thick. "The bra and panties,
too."

Scully swallowed hard as she reached behind her back to unhook the
satin bra. She let the straps fall from her shoulders, then from
her arms and to the floor. She lowered her head, her hair fanning
her face like a protective veil. She lifted her hips and quickly
shed the panties, her gaze never leaving her lap.

Heavy footsteps approached and she could feel Pfaster looming over
her. He reached a hand out to lift her chin. She relented, making
eye contact with him for a split-second before defiantly jerking
her chin from his hand.

"So beautiful, Dana. I knew you would be."

His hand slowly glided over her neck and shoulder to her upper
arm, and he hoisted her from the seat. Scully fought the violent
wave of dizziness as she stood. She drunkenly walked to the tub,
trying to tug her arm from his hand but his grip was unyielding.
She stepped into the tub, the cold water shocking her skin. His
grip loosened and she roughly pulled her arm away from him.

The move cost her dearly.

She lost her balance and she landed hard on her rear end, water
and bubbles splashing over the sides. Pain shot out of every nerve
ending on her body and tears stung her eyes as she cried out. She
fought unconsciousness as she felt it approaching and she barely
succeeded in keeping it from surrounding her completely.

Pfaster chuckled as his hand went to her hair. "So independent, so
stubborn. Aren't you, Dana? You have to be in control. Always in
control." His hand tightened around a chunk of her hair and he
yanked. "Not anymore, girlie-girl," he whispered roughly. "_I_ am
in control now. You belong to me."

Scully's eyes snapped open to find his face close, so close to
hers. His eyes were a dark golden-brown, several shades darker
than his normal eye color, and they had a disturbing intensity to
them.

The eyes of a demon.

Pfaster reached down to retrieve the glass pitcher next to the
tub. Finally letting go of her hair, he put the pitcher under the
running faucet and filled it. He slowly poured the contents of the
pitcher onto her head, his hand smoothing over her hair to
distribute the water evenly.

Scully closed her eyes and shivered. She heard Pfaster begin to
hum a nondescript tune in a breathy tenor, and she took that as a
sign that his guard was lowered. She had to keep up the facade
that she had relinquished control to him. Surprise would be her
only ally.

After pouring another pitcherful of water on her head, he placed
the pitcher on the floor and turned off the faucet. Her eyes
opened to narrow slits, and she saw Pfaster reach for a thin white
bottle. He popped the top and squirted the coral-colored contents
onto his palm. He raised his hand to his nose and sniffed.

"Hmmm, wonderful," he cooed, moving his hand to her nose. "Here,
smell. This will smell so good on you, Dana."

Scully pretended to sniff, then turned her head away from his
hand. She slowly turned back to see him putting more shampoo in
his hand before rubbing the liquid between his hands. He smiled
and raised his arms, his hands parting and going to each side of
her head.

A loud thump caused both of their heads to turn toward the door.
Pfaster looked at her, then at his hands. He grabbed the hand
towel sitting next to the pitcher and rubbed his hands furiously.

Scully watched him long enough to see him reach for the towel. She
held her breath as one thought entered her mind.

The gun.


Jim Powers' cabin
Lost River, WV
Thursday, 7:20am

Mulder ran to the back end of the Explorer. The passenger side was
next to the cabin, so he went around the driver's side, using the
Explorer as cover to get closer. He peered through the driver's
side window. Scully's keys were still in the ignition.

How had Pfaster managed such luck? He had surprised Scully when
she was alone and not near her gun, and she had her keyring. Had
he planned it that way, planned on finding her keys and taking her
vehicle, or was he just winging it and good fortune happened to
smile upon him?

Mulder shook the thought as he went around the front of the
Explorer and hopped over the railing of the porch. Crouched next
to the large bay window, he slowly edged his head toward the
glass. He peeked around the end of the wooden shutter into the
living room. He was taken aback by seeing the dinner table in
front the fireplace.

*What the hell...* he thought as he saw the table set with two off-
white plates and two matching coffee mugs. Mulder's brow furrowed
in confusion. *He kidnapped her and then made her breakfast?* He
took a deep breath, trying to rid himself of the gnawing dread
eating away at his stomach.

He needed a way in. The front door looked intact. Pfaster hadn't
entered from there. Taking another quick look around at the layout
inside, he spied a back door adjacent to the kitchen. He squinted
and saw one of the four panes of glass had been shattered.
Pfaster's point of entry.

Mulder jumped the railing again and headed toward the back of the
cabin. As he passed a small, high window, he heard the sound of
water running. It had to be the window in the bathroom. Running
water. Someone was drawing a bath.

He shuddered, a lump forming in his throat. *Oh, God. Please tell
me I'm not too late. No, I'm not. She's still alive. She is, I
know it.*

Mulder broke into a sprint and turned the corner to find the back
door immediately to his right. He eyed the broken pane of glass as
he tried the doorknob, finding the door unlocked. He slowly opened
the door, listening for any signs of squeaking in the hinges. He
only opened the door wide enough to fit himself through. He walked
on the balls of his feet, carefully avoiding the shards of glass
on the wood flooring. The element of surprise would be his only
hope, so a silent approach was essential.

He continued through the kitchen, eyeing the plates of food as he
went. Fluffy yellow-white eggs dotted with green and orange.
Strips of bacon arranged in a way where no strip overlapped
another. Six slices of toast, the top one covered in a clear
purple gelatin. His stomach moved toward his throat as he looked
at the perfectly domestic surroundings. It could have been a scene
taken from any couple's life: a romantic get-away at a cabin in
the woods, two lovers starting their day with breakfast but unable
to separate their bodies long enough to fill them with sustenance.
Food goes untouched as other hungers are satisfied.

Mulder violently shook the thought from his head as he moved
slowly into the living room, his gun trained on the long hallway
where he could hear water running. Moving through the living room,
he eyed a wood and glass gun case that had been obscured from his
view when he had looked in through the front window. Mulder looked
in the case. One hook looked suspiciously empty.

His head turned toward the hallway when he heard the water shut
off. Listening carefully, Mulder heard a muffled male voice, and
he caught a few words: "...wonderful... smell... on you, Dana."

Mulder's breath quickened at the sound of her name. Was she still
alive? He couldn't hear any response from her. *Scully, why aren't
you responding? Why aren't you telling this bastard to get the
fuck away from you?!*

He moved toward the hallway, but by accident, he brushed against
broken door of the gun case. It was a light bump, but enough to
send the door swinging and slamming against the wall. Mulder
cursed himself mentally.

He stood absolutely still, his gun pointed at the hallway. He
heard Pfaster's voice again, a disturbing monologue that sent
waves of nausea crashing through Mulder's stomach. He waited for
what seemed an eternity before he took one step forward.

*Hang on, Scully.*

Mulder took another step. He could hear Pfaster speaking but the
words were unclear.

*You're fine. I know you are, Scully. I can feel it.* He brought
his foot up and placed it in front of the other.

His shoe hit the carpet as a gunshot pierced the silence.


///////////X///////////


What was that sound?

Nothing. It was nothing.

Just my imagination. Or maybe a bird flew in through the broken
window on the back door.

Do birds make a thumping noise when they fly?

Stop it! The sound was nothing. Nothing.

God, I hate my paranoia! This is my moment, and nothing or no one
is going to ruin it for me, certainly not some stupid imaginary
sound. I have work to do.

"You hair will be freshly washed, your body freshly cleansed and
then it will be my turn. Fate has deemed it so. Possession is nine-
tenths of the law. Right, Dana?"

I said that out loud, didn't I? From the look in your eye, I guess
I did. I like talking to you, Dana. For two years, I have been
talking to you in my dreams, telling you everything I would do
when I came for you. Now, finally, you will know. You will hear my
words and see them become reality.

My words are for only you, Dana. Only you. You and the bird in the
next room...

God damnit! Where is that damn hand towel? I have to check out
that sound. I know my mind will not leave it alone until I see
with my own eyes it was nothing. Damnit! Another inconvenience.
Another break in my stride. Well, no matter. A few minutes will
make no difference in...

What the...

"No!"

The gun. You have the gun. How did you...

"Put it down, girlie-girl."

You can't do this to me, Dana. You won't pull the trigger. You
know this was meant to be. I told you it was and you were ready
for me. You knew I would come for you and I did. This was meant to
be, you and I were meant to be.

"Don't do it."

Your eyes, why are they so hateful, Dana? I can see the hate in
them, directed at me. I have done all of this for you, for us. How
can you hate me for that? How can you...

"No, wait. You don't want to... NOOOOOOO!!!!"

You BITCH! You can't DO this to me! You are MINE, Dana! MINE! You
will pay for this! I am in control, girlie girl! I am...

"NOOOO!!!!"

Ah... ah, God! It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It was
perfect... everything was perfect... just like my dream. You can't
do this... you can't take this... away from me...

"YOU ARE MINE... GIRLIE-GIRL... AND... I AM...."


///////////X///////////


Mulder flattened himself against the wall of the hallway at the
sound of the gunshot. He heard a high-pitched scream immediately
following the shot. It took Mulder a fraction of a second to
realize it was a male voice screaming the word "NO!"

"Scully!" Mulder yelled toward the lighted room.

A second shot rang out. Then a third. Something, or someone, hit
the floor with an echoing thud. A fourth shot sounded, followed by
two clicks.

Mulder sprinted to the bathroom. His mouth opened to say her name
but he wasn't prepared for the sight before him, and his throat
closed before he could speak.

On the floor was Donnie Pfaster, his body motionless. One bullet
had hit his chest, another went into his shoulder, and at least
one had blown off the left side of his face. Mulder raised his
eyes to find Scully staring at the body. She was surrounded by
bubbles and water, her hair wet and her body unclothed. She
clutched the gun with such intensity her knuckles were ghostly
white. Her eyes were wide and dark, and the look of horror and
rage on her face sent Mulder's heart into his stomach.

Mulder swallowed hard. "Scully?"

Her eyes blinked but her gaze remained on Pfaster.

"Scully," he said more forcefully. "Look at me."

His words jarred her, and the gun dropped from her grip and
clanked on the tiled floor. She looked up at him, her gaze locking
with his for a brief eternity before she sank back into the water.
Mulder stepped over Pfaster and went to her, kneeling before the
tub. He panicked at the sight of her: eyes hooded, body shaking,
head lolling back and forth.

"Scully, it's me. Scully? I need you to stay awake, OK?"

Her head nodded infinitesimally. "Drugged. Seconal."

"I know, Scully. I know. I don't want you going into shock. Can
you stand up?"

"I... think so," she said, her words slurred and thick.

He took her hands in his and helped her to her feet. She swayed,
then her legs gave out and she started to fall. Mulder grabbed her
around her waist and pulled her against him.

"Hang on," he said as one arm went under her knees and the other
went to her back. He lifted her out of the tub, ignoring the cold
water sloshing on his clothes, and he looked for a place to put
her down. *Not in here,* he thought as he eyed the blood-
splattered floor. He stepped over Pfaster's body again and walked
down the hallway, following it to a bedroom.

Mulder carefully placed her on the mattress, then reached for the
blanket at the foot of the bed and draped it over her. He sat on
the edge of the bed, his hand lazily brushing wet strands off her
face.

Her eyes opened and a tiny smile formed on her lips. "What took
you so long?"

He laughed, a sound somewhere between joy and relief. "Knicks game
went into overtime," he retorted half-heartedly. "You should stay
awake."

"I know," she whispered as she tried to pull herself up. Mulder
helped her into a sitting position with her back against the
headboard. He pulled her forward and quickly wrapped the blanket
around her shoulders and draped the rest over her torso and
thighs.

"Sheriff's department should be here any minute," he said, his
hand clutching hers. "What happened in there, Scully? I know
you'll have to give a statement but I..."

Her hand squeezed his lightly. "No, it's OK. I... there was a
sound outside the room and... he went to wipe his hands on a hand
towel... His gun was sitting on another towel at the opposite end
of the tub..."

Scully sighed and her shoulders slumped. "I don't remember pulling
the trigger, Mulder," she whispered. "I remember him reaching for
the towel and then... then you came into the room. I don't
remember what happened..."

Mulder ran a hand over her upper arm in a soothing stroke. "It's
OK, Scully. You're fine, you're going to be OK." He repeated the
words in his head, trying to convince himself that she _was_ going
to be all right. His head turned as he heard voices at the front
of the cabin. "I'll be right back." He gave her hand a quick
squeeze and he left the room, closing the door behind him.

He proceeded down the hall until he was stopped, at gunpoint, by a
uniformed deputy.

"Hey, whoa. I'm the good guy," Mulder said, his voice humorless.
"If you'll check the left inside pocket of my jacket, you'll find
my ID."

The deputy regarded him warily, then stepped forward and retrieved
the ID. He read it, looked at Mulder, then lowered his gun. "Agent
Bocks from the Minneapolis Bureau office called this in. We
weren't sure if it was legit or not."

"It is," Mulder stated somberly. He paused as another deputy
walked up beside the first. "We need an ambulance. The victim is a
33-year-old female, 110 pounds, no known allergies to medications.
She's been given an overdose of secobarbital sodium. She's
conscious but lethargic. That drug needs to be pumped out of her
system."

"Closest hospital is pretty limited in what it can handle," the
second deputy said. "If she can wait, I think it would be better
to ship her to Keyser General. Should take about fifteen minutes
for the ambulance to arrive."

"I want her to have the best possible care," Mulder replied
firmly.

"I'll call it into Keyser," the second deputy said as he walked
away, his portable radio next to his face.

"The... suspect is in the bathroom," Mulder continued, directing
his words to the first deputy. "Fatal gunshot wound to the head,
two more to the chest and shoulder." He lead the deputy to the
bathroom, and he heard a low whistle from the young man.

"You shot him?"

Mulder shook his head. "He was dead before I stepped into the
room."

The deputy's eyebrows arched. "The _victim_ shot him? Damn good
shot."

"Yes, she is," Mulder said as he started to gather Scully's
clothing. "She's my partner."

The deputy nodded knowingly, no further explanation needed. "Where
is she now?"

Mulder pointed down the hallway. "The bedroom. Give me a few
minutes to help her get dressed before you question her."

The deputy nodded again, then quickly left, barking orders as he
went.

Mulder watched him for a few seconds, then moved to the bedroom
door. He opened it slowly and saw Scully's head turn toward him.
"Hey. I brought your clothes. Ambulance will be here in about
fifteen minutes. They want to talk to you but I asked them to give
us a few minutes."

Scully nodded and took the clothes from his hands. She slipped on
her panties first, her face contorting with the effort it took to
lift her hips from the bed. She sat up and put the sweater around
her shoulders, slowly threading her arms through the sleeves. She
started on the buttons but her hands were shaking so badly she
couldn't manage the tiny pearlized circles. Mulder's hands stilled
hers and stayed until she loosened her grip on the sweater. She
lowered her hands and let him button the sweater for her.

She mumbled a "thanks" but refused to lift her gaze from her lap.
A dozen innuendoes entered his mind but he didn't dare utter even
the mildest one. He could tell how uncomfortable she was, not
necessarily with her nudity, but with the fact that because of the
drug clouding her mind, she was having trouble doing something as
simple as dressing herself.

"They'll want to know what happened," he said as he fastened the
last button, "and if Pfaster..." He let his words trail off.

"Mulder, he didn't rape me," she said shakily, her gaze meeting
his for the first time since she began dressing. "I undressed
myself. The gun was by the bath tub. I had to get near it and the
only way I could was to..."

Mulder shook his head and placed his hands on her shoulders.
"Scully, you don't have to justify anything. You did what you had
to do in order to survive. That's all that matters. You survived."

She nodded once, then let him help her into her jeans. The only
sound in the room was the rustling of clothing and her labored
breathing. He didn't know what to say to her. He was relieved she
was alive but worried about her mental state. She would never
admit to him the depths to which this was affecting her. He wanted
to say something, something that would let her know she could
trust him with her fears and emotions.

Her voice, an unfamiliar, timid version of itself, broke the
silence. "Mulder, is he..."

"Yes," he interrupted with a whisper. "Pfaster is dead. He's gone,
Scully. It's over."

She nodded quickly, then lowered her head and began to toy with
one of the buttons on her sweater. Mulder hadn't realized she was
crying until he saw her body begin to shake with wracking sobs. He
slowly put his arms around her. At first she stiffened in his
embrace but within seconds he felt her lean into him, burying her
face in his T-shirt, wetting the material with her tears.

Mulder knew nothing he could say or do would bring her more
comfort than letting her rid herself of the pain and fear through
her tears. It was a normal reaction but one he knew Scully rarely
allowed, even in private. He was aware of the sedative's effect on
her, cracking her self-constructed armor just enough to allow what
she would consider a moment of weakness.

A moment of weakness amidst hours of terror.

She shifted against him and he loosened his embrace. He heard her
sniffle, then felt her pull away. She wiped errant tears with the
sleeves of her sweater. Their heads turned as they heard a light
rapping at the door.

"I can hold them off..."

Scully shook her head as she reached for a tissue on the
nightstand. "No. I want to get it over with. I'm fine now."

"I know you are, Scully," Mulder replied, smiling at her choice of
words. "Do you want me to leave for this?"

"It's not necessary." Her eyes met his, a silent request asking
him to stay. He answered with a nod, as no words were needed.
Behind the bluish-green of her eyes, he could see the fire
returning but it was a tiny glimmer of its normal brilliance. But
he was relieved to see it there, fighting to be noticed.

As he walked to the door to usher in the deputy, Mulder knew his
partner would be fine. She would get through the questioning with
dry eyes and a steady voice. She would be the consummate
professional despite the near-poisonous level of a sedative in her
system. Despite the horror and humiliation she had faced in the
few hours that Donnie Pfaster held her in a nightmare she almost
didn't escape.

Mulder knew his partner would get through the ordeal. A little
more of her faith in humanity would disappear, but Scully would
bounce back. She always did. She just needed time.

A moment of weakness amidst a lifetime of courage.



THE END

**************************
**************************

Author's Notes: Pardon the liberties I took with Donnie Pfaster's
life, psyche and motivations but CC left some questions I just had
to answer. For storytelling purposes, I also took a few other
liberties, like giving Scully a desk in the X-Files office. Hey,
it could happen. ;-)

Allow me to indulge in some thank-you's now: Thanks to KL and
Charli, my ever-present and ever-wise beta readers. They're like
my Fanfic American Express card: I never post a story without
them. <grin> Also, thanks to Diane R. for her 'above and beyond
the call of duty' medical research. And finally, to Debbie Wells,
whose advice was invaluable and whose stories inspired me to give
this genre a try.

I would love to hear what you thought of "Nowhere To Hide". This
story was different than anything I have written before and I
would like to know whether it worked or not. Any and all feedback
is welcome at thalia@goodnet.com. Thanks for reading!