From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 6/21 by Windsinger Date: 26 Jul 1995 21:41:38 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (6/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 6 Sunday 6 pm West Tillsbury, Massachusetts Three hours after finding the e-mail message from Phoebe Greene, Dana found herself on a small commuter plane, preparing to land at the county airpark closest to West Tillsbury, Massachusetts, where Mulder's mother now lived. Maybe she could get Mulder to pick up part of the airfare. No discount today. Dana had carefully considered the warning in Phoebe's message. Phoebe, though a witch, was a brilliant investigator and she sensed something wrong here. If she thought this was 'a bad one', then some mysterious woman did not have Mulder's best interests at heart. Mulder was not seriously or even mildly involved with anyone, Dana was sure of that, though she knew he indulged occasionally, especially after drinking too heavily. They had just spent six, mostly horrific, weeks barely out of each other's sight and not a stray phone call or letter had she noted. She also had learned to read him with uncanny accuracy and when he 'got some' he carried a certain glow about him for days. There had been none of that. None for her either. So, which of the dozens of women, whose husbands or lovers Mulder had helped incarcerate over the last ten years, had decided to take revenge up for a hobby? Of course, there was also the possibility of the run of the mill, psychotic infatuation. Perhaps the most likely explanation, given the very strong sexual overtones implicit in Phoebe's message. Mulder turned his share of female heads, even though he would never admit it. It was even possible that he really was unaware of how attractive he was. Whichever the case, the inclusion of Samantha's name gave the whole affair a very dark side. There were only two kinds of people who knew about Samantha. The first were those close to Mulder, and these were very few. The second were those with access to FBI personnel files. Sex was a driving force in any healthy male, but Samantha was the focal point on which Mulder's world revolved. He had been manipulated before, and Dana knew it could happen again. He needed to be warned and soon. For this reason, Dana had taken a deep breath and called Skinner. She did not want to tell him about Phoebe's message. Not yet. That would bring up too many questions she was not prepared to answer. It might seem to some at the Bureau that she was merely being jealous and that would never go over well. Explaining their relationship to anyone, even Skinner, was difficult. Most of the time Dana had trouble explaining it to herself. If they were not 'involved', how could Dana be so sure Mulder was not having a little affair on the side? How could she get anyone to believe that she just 'knew'. "No, Agent Scully, I can't give you the phone number of the safe house where Mulder is, nor his location. That information is kept strictly confidential by the case worker at the WPP. Is there a problem?" By the tone of his voice, Dana knew Skinner was still angry at Mulder for accepting the assignment. Mulder was not playing team ball. He once did, when he worked full time for Violent Crimes, before he had found the X-Files. He had been driven, he had been brilliant, he had earned his nickname 'Spooky'. Those cases had also almost driven him insane. Dana was glad she had not known him then. What she did know was that he had been a team player, then he took on the X-Files to save his sanity, then he had been betrayed. Again and again. Skinner was right. Mulder was not a team player any more, unless it served his purposes. Skinner had asked if there was a problem. "There might be, sir," she hedged. "I was hoping Agent Mulder could help shed some - light on a developing case," she lied. "To tell you the truth," the tired, annoyed voice said, "I'd like to have the number myself. Mulder is not making, either himself or me, any friends at the D.A.'s office. He's neglected to check in three times already and the man's been on the assignment less than a week." "I saw him for a new minutes last night, sir, here at headquarters. It was his night off. He did mention he'd had the flu, which might explain his missing a few days." "If he's too incapacitated to make a phone call, then he's not up to doing his job, but I'll speak to Agent Mulder about that myself. Whatever your problem is, Agent Scully, you're on your own on this one." So was he, she thought biting her lip as she hung up the phone. She rubbed her weary eyes. How far had this gone? After additional soul searching, trying to determine if she was over- reacting, Dana went into Mulder's private account on his computer and found the phone numbers for his father and mother. They were different. Dana was not surprised. She knew they had been divorced for many years. Knowing Mulder protected his mother whenever he could from the pain of his sister's disappearance, Dana reluctantly tried contacting his father first. If Mulder felt protective towards his mother, his feelings for his father were radically different. What the relationship was between father and son, Dana did not know, but Mulder's emotions on the subject were deep and unsettling. The haunted pain of a tortured twelve-year-old always came into his eyes at any mention of his father. She was relieved, therefore, to receive no answer in response to her call. His mother she reached. After a brief introduction, Dana asked if she had been contacted in the last few weeks by anyone asking personal questions about her son. To Dana's dismay, the woman replied in a soft, hesitent voice that she had been interviewed by a young woman. "Is anything wrong?" Dana made an abrupt decision. She could not ask the kind of questions she needed to...not over the phone... not to Helen Mulder. The older woman might become concerned, might begin to worry. She was mildly concerned already. If this came to nothing, Mulder would not be pleased to find that his mother had been frightened unnecessarily. The woman had had enough grief in her life. Trying to sound casual, Dana mentioned that she was in the area and asked if she could drop in. Receiving a surprised, but polite, invitation Dana scrambled for a flight to Boston and had the Bureau travel agency arrange the commuter flight and the rental car at the other end. It was just after seven in the evening when Dana finally stood looking up at the house. It was neat and well cared for with late mums still showing color in the twilight. Dana took a deep breath, climbed the steps, slowly one at a time, and rang the bell. Dana had never met Helen Mulder before. The woman who answered her ring was stunning for her age. She had a beautiful face and eyes. Her hair was white, but her face was remarkably unlined. Dana immediately knew where Mulder got his looks. "I'm Special Agent Dana Scully," Dana introduced herself, showing her credentials. "Please, not so formal." The woman smiled, but Dana could tell she was on her guard, probably suspecting bad news. "Come in. Fox has mentioned you." "Nothing good, I take it," Dana smiled. "Oh, I think he's very impressed with you," the woman said, leading the way, "or at least from what I can read between the lines. He doesn't talk much about his work. I think he is afraid he'll scare me." That he would indeed, Dana thought. His work would scare anyone's mother. The room they entered was perfect. Perfectly decorated, but not cold or impersonal. The accent pieces carefully selected, the colors intermingling for just the right effect. Nothing out of place, nothing dusty. The room of a person with nothing much to do. "Can I get you something?" the older woman asked, raising a bone china tea pot. "Ah, yes," Dana said, trying to sound casual, "tea would be fine." She took the fine china cup gingerly and wondered, with Mulder's frequent attacks of clumsiness, how his mother had managed to keep two pairs of cups and saucers intact during his childhood. "As I said on the phone, I was in the area. I'm afraid it's not all pleasure, however. I'm doing a few background checks." The older woman looked up, a darkness gathering around her. Yes, she was concerned. Very. Dana knew she had been right in coming herself. "No more background checks on Fox, I hope. There was a woman here just a few weeks ago doing that." Dana tried not to raise her eyes and so give away the lie. "Oh, no, I'm actually checking up on the woman who performed the background checks." Dana hesitated, realizing how lame that sounded, but Helen Mulder did not seem suspicious. "I don't think I'll ever get used to the work you people do; circles within circles. Agent Scully -" The woman seemed suddenly shy. "Should I call you 'Dana'?" Dana smiled, trying to put the older woman at her ease. "*He* calls me 'Scully'. You may call me 'Dana'." "Then Fox must like you," the older woman remarked with more life. From the way she said his name, sounding so unfamiliar to Dana, it was obvious Mulder was the light in this woman's life though why she allowed him into hers so seldom, Dana did not understand. "All the girls he was really interested in he always called by their last names and teased them shamefully. The ones that didn't matter he called by their first names." Dana smiled feeling a warm glow. Considering how he liked to tease her, he must be positively smitten. "I'll keep that in mind the next time his teasing gets too rough." She took a sip of the tea and found it tasted good after the long, tense day. Dana knew there were many topics she would like to cover with this woman. She suspected that in addition to Samantha's disappearance there had been other dark and troubling events in Mulder's early life which would help her understand him. But she did not know this woman well, and the present circumstances were grave enough. What confused her was how gentle and normal this woman appeared. She seemed genuinely proud of her son and concerned for him, and yet Dana was almost certain that she initiated contact with him very seldom. Never a phone call, never a visit, seldom a letter, and few visits home for Mulder either. By the hang-dog way he dragged himself around during the holidays, it was clear that being alone was not entirely his decision. "Mrs. Mulder, as I said, we're just verifying the accuracy of the reports created by some of the people who run background checks for us. Could you tell me everything you remember about the interview?" The handsome older woman's eyes got a far away look as she searched her memory. Dana remembered how Mulder's face took on that same expression when he was searching his eidetic memory for some obscure fact. She missed that look. "You have the CIA running background checks for you?" Helen Mulder asked suddenly. Dana's cup rattled in its saucer and she cleared her throat. "Not usually. So this woman introduced herself as being with the CIA?" "Yes. I told her I didn't understand why the FBI would be asking question about Fox after all this time. I was worried he might be in some sort of - trouble." The woman looked disturbed for a moment. "But then she explained that the CIA had some special assignments they were considering using Fox for and so they had to run their own investigation." A very smooth lie, Scully thought, if lie it was. "Can you remember any of her specific questions?" "Oh," Helen Mulder replied, "many of the same sort we answered years ago. I told her all that would be in his files at the Bureau, but then she began asking a lot of questions about Samantha." At this, the older woman's face clouded and she hesitated. Dana put down her cup and moved from her chair to sit beside her on the couch. "I'm sorry, you had to go through that," Dana assured her. "I'm even more sorry that I have to ask you again. Mulder - Fox - has told me what he remembers." The older woman took a deep breath. "Even Fox admits that his memories of *that* night are unclear. Even after his - therapy." Dana cocked her head, trying to interpret that last comment. Was this woman embarrassed that her son had sought professional help in learning to remember and cope with that terrible experience? True, members of her generation seldom appreciated the good that could come from psychiatry. What was surprising was that the young boy, whose sister had disappeared before his eyes while in his care and whose kidnapping he had been unable to prevent, had not suffered more permanent damage. As if his recurring nightmares and difficulties maintaining relationships were not damaging enough. "Specifically, what questions did she ask about Samantha?" Dana inquired. The woman seemed to come back to herself and looked intently at the pretty young woman next to her. Her son could do worse, she thought, wondering if this would be the one. The one to give him some stability, some peace. Heaven knew his parents never had. "That was what was odd, very intimate details, everyday things. What games they played, what books he liked to read to her, what pet names they had for each other. I told her these were strange questions, but she insisted that they were relevant. She said the CIA was most concerned about his mental state. That understanding his relationship with his sister before the -" she hesitated. Dana noticed her hand tightened on her china cup. "Before the - disappearance - was important for understanding the depth of its effect on him. I tried to be thorough, but I don't like to think about that time." Dana gave the woman a sympathetic smile. "Mrs. Mulder, I have to leave soon. I just have one more favor to ask." She opened her brief case and brought out a set of twenty photographs. These were a classic set used at the academy to help trainees learn to classify standard body types. They were also useful in working with witnesses to help develop composites. "Could you pick out the photograph that most resembles the woman who visited you?" Dana had seen the woman tense as she handed her the pictures. Despite Dana's assurances, Helen Mulder suspected. As she began sorting through the cards, her pale hands began to shake. Dana told herself to try to think of something calming and pleasant to say. "I think that Mulder - " she began, then started again. "I think that Fox... may get a little homesick sometimes. If you came for a visit, I think he would like that." Helen Mulder's clear blue eyes leaped to Dana's grey-blue ones. There was much unrest there. "Oh, no!" she exclaimed almost fearfully. Then she took a moment to compose herself. "No, you see, I don't travel." Dana had felt the blow from those emotions and sensed the woman physically leaning away form her. It was obvious what she meant. "I mean," the older woman began again, suddenly twisting her hands so that some of Dana's pictures slipped to the floor. "I mean, she might come back. Samantha, that is. After they helped him remember, that's one thing Fox said they told him. They said she would come back." Slowly, almost as if in a daze, she leaned down and retrieved the fallen photographs. "The doctors wouldn't let me stay in the house. But I'm not too far. If she comes, Bill will call me." Dana knew Bill was Mulder's father's name and that he lived not very far away, but not in the house from where Samantha had been taken. No one lived there any more. After the divorce, Helen Mulder and Fox had moved out, but they had not moved far and now Dana knew why. Because Helen Mulder was clinically, chronically depressed, probably had been since that night, and could not bear to be far away - just in case. Dana shivered thinking of Mulder growing up in this atmosphere. His father a cold, angry, and, Scully suspected, violent man and probably an alcoholic, as well. And his mother - like this. "I'm so very sorry," Dana told the woman, honestly. "I didn't mean to upset you." But Helen Mulder was somewhere else, not in this room, not in this time, and her voice went on without inflection. "Anyway, Fox, he's a grown man now. He doesn't need his mother. Never did." She seemed to shrug. "Not that I was much of a mother to him anyway." For what felt like two very long minutes, neither woman spoke. The older woman sifted through the pictures, very, very slowly. Went through them without order or pattern. Dana doubted she even saw them. Finally, she began to sort them and her posture recovered until she was more like the woman who had met Dana at the door and served tea. Finally, she picked two and handed them to Dana. "I am sorry. One of these. Neither is a very good match. To tell you the truth, the woman resembled you more than any of these." Dana took the pictures gingerly, as if afraid to break the mood, as if afraid that something she might do would bring back the woman who was so full of uncertainty. "Like me? Physically? In what way?" Helen Mulder consulted her memory file again. "For one, she was very small. Even smaller than you. Her hair was light, but more blond than red. And she was dressed very professionally, as you are. A very polite, but shy, young woman." *** Dana let the droning of the jet's engine lull her into dullness. She wished she was already back in Washington. She wanted to check her answering machine to see if Mulder had called, but she could not worry about that now. The visit to Helen Mulder bothered her on many levels and she was so tired... As she slept she had a dream. She was happy... smiling... laughing with a man. A man who made her smile. But the man was Evan... not Mulder, but still handsome... caring... loving her with his eyes, so fervently, she felt warm all over. He helped her into a surgical gown, gloves and mask and led her into the autopsy bay. Evan began to lift back the sheet on the next case. "Poor guy," Evan said, "he was poisoned and no one suspected." Dana stared at the corpse's long, slender hands, hands she knew so well. The cabin seat belt signal chimed. Dana woke with a start and a little cry, instantly aware that her seat partner, a woman of about her mother's age, was looking at her with concern. If she had been alone, she would have jumped up, would have cried out, just to relieve the tension. As it was, she had to sit silently and try not to allow the adrenaline shakes to become too noticeable. She realized, too late, that she had lost the thread of the dream in the waking and remembered only the lingering fear and nothing more. ===================================================================== ====== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 7/21 by Windsinger Date: 26 Jul 1995 21:41:40 -0400 Oh, my, this is the good one.... (mature 13 year olds only) THE ABDUCTEE (7/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/95 HOT PG-13 WARNING on this chapter! This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 7 Sunday 8pm WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland Fox leaned back in his chair, an unusual feeling of contentment warming him. Angela's dinner had not been fancy, but the pot roast, potatoes, and applesauce had gone down easily. His belly was pleasantly too full, even though he had really not eaten that much. The days of the flu had taken their toll and shrunk his stomach, but he had made a respectable showing and there would be leftovers for the next day. He reasoned that he had at least three pounds to replace after his days of fast. For the evening Angela had changed to a soft, blue wrap dress that hugged her small body. Her attire initially disturbed him, but, detecting no other obvious signs of flirtation, he relaxed. Either she had gotten the message or had never intended to send one to begin with. Considering how she had lived these last eight years, she was probably a little naive and he dismissed the entire incident from the afternoon. He told her stories of England and she had listened with rapt attention, laughing at all the right places. Coming to end of a story, the silence settled in, waiting for one or the other to pick up the thread. She moved first, rising and beckoning to him. "Leave the dishes," she said with a small smile. "I have something to tell you." He followed her to the living room, not completely surprised. She had said the night before that she had something which she wanted to talk to him about, but she had not been ready then. Now she sat on the couch, moving slightly with some excitement and he wondered at the change in her. After he had taken the chair beside her, she sat for a long moment not saying a word. "Well, I'm ready," he said with a slight smile in the way of encouragement. She was looking down at her hands, which were not clenched, but were trembling, yet she did not seem afraid. "Do you remember when we first met?" she asked tentatively. She smiled, shaking her head, "I was such a mess." He did. As impossible as it seemed, she had been even more withdrawn than she had been earlier in the week. And he remembered being so very young and very eager to solve her case. This was, however, a topic he had hoped to avoid. He thought that the sparring, during their mock courtroom desensitization session, had covered all that they needed to be said on the subject. She had not seemed overly distressed then about her years in treatment. He calmed, noting that she did not look distressed now either. Expectant, yes. "You felt you were losing time, whole days when you couldn't remember anything clearly. And you thought you were being watched, that you saw faces in the dark." She smiled a little, obviously pleased. "You do remember. We talked a lot back then. You told me about yourself. I told you what there was to tell about me. In the end you asked if I thought a person, or people, not quite ... human ... may have taken me ... to some other place." Mulder felt a stab of the old guilt. "That was a mistake," he apologized. "*I* made a mistake. I had no evidence to back up that sort of theory. The confusion I caused you was unnecessary -" "No!" she disagreed. "Over the years, I thought about what you said. It made sense when nothing else did. The people at the hospital didn't think so, though." Now she was upset, he could tell, but there was a strength there, as if she had a secret these others did not share. "They said it wasn't true. They tried to make me believe that I had just been out wandering someplace. Not thinking, just walking. And they said there were no figures in the shadows." Her eyes lit, as if the whole idea was humorous. "They tried to make me remember, but they tried to make me remember it *their* way. Not the way it really happened! But I fooled them." Fox looked a little confused. "Your records say that part of your treatment involved regression analysis," he explained. "Hypnosis. What you are describing does not agree with that." "Yes, I know you've read the doctor's reports from Longmead, but they don't tell the truth." She shook her head a little angry, though not at him. "Those men... they wouldn't listen! When I tried to tell them what I remembered, about the 'people', about the place, about the lights, they refused to believe me! They said it was only in my mind. They said that they would *help* me to remember it all correctly." She said the last part disdainfully. Mulder's eyes grew round. He had never thought. But therapists could do that. If they thought an explanation implausible, they might make assumptions about what was truth and what was not, what was real and what was symbolic. Angela looked up at him, intently scanning his face. "I wanted to talk with you because I felt you would understand. That in you, there was finally someone who would believe the truth." She stood up, as if now that she had come to this she was too anxious to sit still. "At Longmead I had to pretend all the time," she said in a small voice, almost as though she were planning some conspiracy; the two of them against the rest of the world. "The hypnosis sessions *did* help me to remember, bit by bit. It was very hard, but the worst part was that I had to pretend I *didn't* remember it the way it really happened. At the beginning, when I tried to tell them the truth, they wouldn't believe me, so I started telling them what they wanted to hear." Her face tightened. "It was either that or they just kept at me, they wouldn't let me alone." Fox flinched at the anger he felt in her. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "But in the end, I kept hold of the truth. I didn't let them take that from me." "I was young then, Angela," he said, almost like a confession. "I've spent the years from then until now seeking the truth, and what I've found is that the truth is not always what it appears to be at first. What's your truth?" Angela sat down again on the couch, sat very still. "That I was abducted, just like you said. That it happened several times. I would go walking in the woods when I was really asleep, and grey people with huge eyes would come to me and take me to a place filled with light and greyness...and time there seemed to go on forever." There were no tears in the eyes she raised to his. Fox sat forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees. She had just told him that she really had been abducted. Then he had been right all along. Yes, he knew that eight years of psychoanalysis disagreed. Nevertheless, he felt the old exhilaration start in the muscles of his shoulders. This was like wine to him. It made his blood hum like a fine, tight wire, attuned to those extreme possibilities. "You say time seemed to stand still?" he asked, standing up and beginning to pace. "Each time you were missing, you were gone just a few days. How long did it seem to you?" She swayed, remembering. "Months ... years. But no aging." Her brow furrowed. "The tests hurt, but most of the time we just existed." "We?" he asked suddenly, whirling to face her. "Then there were others? Other abductees?" He fought the urge to shout. His mind leaped in an impossible direction. He sat down quickly, next to her, searching her eyes for falsehood. As eager as he was, he had not lost all caution. He had been lied to before. She put her hand on his shoulder, her eyes directed outward towards him. "Yes! That's what I've wanted to tell you for years, what I've tried to get up the courage to tell you all week." She looked down at her hands. "I'm sorry but I was afraid of you. Afraid you would not believe me. Afraid you would be angry that I had not told you sooner." "I'm not angry, and I'm sorry if I frighten you." He suddenly was aware of her body close to him on the couch. She seemed warm; so did he. A stray throught flickered in this mind that maybe she was catching his flu and maybe he was not over it as completely as he thought. Maybe it was the thought that she remembered interacting with other abductees that was causing this fever of excitement in him. Of all the cases he had studied, only the very rare abductee described being held other than alone or with those of their own party. "What do you remember?" he asked, anxiously. She bit her lip and leaned close to him. "That we talked a lot. All of us in that place. There was nothing else to do. I got to know them all - the farmers and housewives, the pilots, the young lovers, the old couples, the children - but one little girl I remember better than the others. And, during all these years, I wasn't sure why she looked familiar. I guessed, but I didn't know for certain until I saw your face again." Fox felt all the blood squeeze out of his heart. He was so stunned that he did not even notice Angela taking his hand in hers. "Who?" he asked with dry lips, almost afraid to know. "A girl with your eyes, a young girl in her early teens who remembered an older brother, years and years before, who had loved her." His held breath came out is a gush. "No!" he protested, getting to his feet a little unsteadily. "The others called her Sam," the woman continued, speaking rapidly, her eyes large and round on him. "I remember that clearly, but the last name I didn't remember until they reminded me of your name. But that sounds right. Sam Mulder. Agent Mulder," she said clearly. "I *did* meet your sister." Mulder stood in the middle of the room and felt the walls far too confining. A warm slight body came and leaned against his chest, put her arms around his waist. He closed his eyes. *She* would do that now, if she were here. Sam... "Forgive me," he whispered and continued with some bitterness, "but I've been looking for so long and I've found only lies and deceit. It's hard for me to believe..." Why were their positions reversed? Her comforting him; he the doubter. "She loved Dr. Seuss," Angela told him. A smile came into her voice as she remembered. "She could recite *Fox in Socks* by heart..." Eyes closed, he gave a curt shake of his head, feeling like Scully, dismissing it. "That would not be too hard to guess." He started to pull away. She laughed brightly which startled him and kept him by her. She had not laughed at him, but found pleasure like a child to find her own thoughts mirrored in his. "I thought you would say that. Then I remembered a story she told of how she loved vanilla ice cream and you chocolate. How you always fought when your mother asked what kind she should bring home from the store. Finally, Sam bought you a can of Hershey's syrup with her own allowance, so you wouldn't have to fight anymore. And then there was the story about the night light. The little ones always asked her to tell that story. How she was never afraid of the dark, but her big brother was ..." He put a finger on her lips. "Stop." His breath was coming now only in short pants. He could feel Angela with her arms around him, like Sam would do, comforting him. Had he finally, after all these years, found some trace of her? He felt a sweetness in that, and, yes, loss, and it was as if, for a moment, he touched her. His voice shook when he spoke again. In the end there was only one thing he wanted to know. "Did she hurt? Was she ever - happy? Even a little?" He felt Angela's head on his chest again and her voice, full of sympathy, came from below his chin. "Everyone hurt a little. But she was 'special'. They treated her special. We didn't know why. Perhaps because she had been there so long. And I guess you could say she was happy. She knew how things worked there." Angela tilted back her head and looked into his open, gentle face, so beautiful, so wanting to believe. Beginning to glow now with a shining contentment. "She was kind. She helped all the new ones adjust. She comforted them when they hurt." Fox swallowed. He felt so warm, felt so much longing for her. From the tightness in his chest, he knew the tears wanted to come, not only tears of loss but tears of finding... but all of these he held back with a fierceness, all except for one. Angela had stepped away from him, feeling the awakening emotion in him and wanting to give him space. She came to stand below him and traced the track of the single tear with her little finger. But he did not flinch away, for this was what *she* had done for him so many time before, when they were young and living in that house, which was not always such a happy place for him. Suddenly, Angela put her hands on his shoulders, rapidly rubbing the muscles with surprisingly strong hands. "Hey," she said, continuing to massage his shoulders. "You're all tight. I'm sorry I upset you. But I thought you would want to know." He took a shuddering breath. She had broken the mood, as she intended. But that was good. It was time, for it had been growing very tense. He realized that for some minutes his mind had been wandering, as in a dream. "Here," she said, in a matter-of-fact, clinical voice. "Lay down on your stomach on the floor and I'll give you a real massage." Her voice was light, untroubled. He recognized the sound - she had unburdened herself and was on a natural high. He smiled. How like Sam she was. "I'll get my, lotion," she told him, trotting off into her bedroom, calling out as she went. "Don't worry, I won't walk on your back or anything. They trained me at Longmead. Occupational therapy. I might even get my license." As she tripped backed in, a bottle in her hand, he was still standing, unsure. "Hey, it's alright," she told him. "It's very therapeutic. Leave your t-shirt on, if you're so afraid of me, though I promise I won't bite. And afterwards, we'll have dessert and I'll let you cheat at cards this time." He found himself smiling, responding to her, feeling, yes, relaxed... companionable... even happy. In the afterglow of emotion following her news, he knew only that he did not want to be alone, that he wanted to be touched, even just for a back rub. To feel human and wanted. He found himself sitting down on the floor. He took off his shoes and pulled off the sweat shirt, leaving the white cotton t-shirt. As he lay, stomach down on the floor, he heard her turn on the portable cassette player she had brought, and a sweet, mad choral music came forth, which he found he knew very well but had not listened to for a very long time. He rose onto his elbows, but she came up behind him and playfully pushed him back down. The air rushed out of his stomach with a whoosh. "What...?" "'Carmina Burana'. Can you think of anything that sounds more like alien music." He chuckled. He really did not mind. In fact he liked it. It felt just right for tonight. He had listened to it a lot during college, almost incessantly. Angela had settled herself astride his legs. He heard her open the bottle of lotion and pour it into her hands. The scent flowed over him, causing his stomach to constrict pleasantly. It smelled so - *good* - so familiar. She put her hands under his shirt. Rubbed the oil over his skin, beginning down at his waist, gradually working the muscles in his mid back and then the muscles of his shoulders. As she leaned into the joints, probing deeply to ease the tension, he groaned at the sweet release of it. She had to stretch out along him, being almost too short to reach the high muscles. He could feel the heat of her body, touching all along the length of his back. "Why don't you use your first name?" she asked in a silky voice. "Huh?" he muttered dreamily. "Your first name. Why don't you use it?" "Would *you* like it?" he muttered mildly, in his automatic response to that incessant question. "I *love* it," she cooed. "It's so sexy." And then he groaned contentedly as she pressed into the joint under his right shoulder blade. As she worked, the heat of his skin and hers was enhancing the scent of the lotion, subtly changing it. He was trying to think where he had smelled its like before, but thinking seemed too much trouble. He just enjoyed the feel of this. With eager strong hands she had begun to work her way down around his ribs. Instinctively, he raised himself slightly on his elbows so she could get under him to work around the whole of his rib cage. His body was awash in the most perfect pleasure and then, as she lay along him, as her arms wrapped around him, her mouth closed in on the soft skin at the back of his neck just as her hands brushed his nipples. He gasped as a shudder of delight ran through him, the deep breath bringing the heightened scent deep into his lungs where the shivers ran like quicksilver into his head, a perfume that started a cascade of warmth and desire throughout his whole body. Where had that come from? Suddenly, he felt awash in a sea of sensation and could not think. Did not want to. The scent seemed to come from her clothes, her skin, her hair, his skin. She fastened herself along his back, embracing with legs and pelvis, arms and soft body, sighing so against his ear that the wave of arousal repeated itself, stronger, uncontrollably washing over him so suddenly, so ... perfect. His body surged, the blood pounded in his groin, in his head, his body remembering patterns in the scent and the feel of her that completely overwhelmed the one still small voice in his mind which protested weakly in the maelstrom . He suddenly rolled over and found that she had as quickly changed position, so that she was now sitting on his muscular stomach with her knees on either side of him. Her eyes were deep pools, welcoming, wanting. Her smile... he could lose himself in that smile. The little blue wrap dress she wore could be pulled off so easily. Just a tug on the tie at her waist. She followed his wide, dilated eyes and saw where he looked. She took his hand and guided it to the tie and helped him pull it. The dress fell away. The slip she wore was mostly lace on top, and very sheer. She did not wear a bra and he could see the red roses of her nipples, straining forward through the lace. He reached for her with eager arms, but, amazingly, she eluded him. She had scampered to her feet, playfully holding her dress in front of her. "What do you want, Fox?" she asked seductively, daring him with her eyes. Not remembering how he got to his feet, he followed her as swiftly as a hind follows a doe. As he reached her bedroom door, the most dramatic movement of the music began. The part he had heard so often. The part he had edited so that the tape played, over and over... lasting long... long enough for anything *that* one had wanted and she wanted much.... God, but his blood sang! He shivered gloriously all over as he looked at her, as she waited for him on the bed, her slip half- raised. Every muscle, every joint strained happily in the magnificence of being alive... He reached for her as she knelt before him on the bed. He took the slip and pulled it off with barely restrained excitement. She pulled the white t-shirt over his head, her lips ready to catch his as it fell away. Playfully, she reached around him and down under the waist of his sweats, and cupped the soft skin of his buttocks with both hands. He moaned as her chest moved seductively against the center of his desire, every touch like the sweetest flame, but, suggestively, not lingering there. Teasing. The bed, the room, the world revolved in the brightest colors. His body, so long denied, was now like an uncontrollable fire as he enjoyed her. Every touch from her echoed through him in a stunning chorus of sensation. Now she pulled down the sweats, cooing at the long curving muscles of his thighs. He fell onto the bed beside her, almost in a swoon of pleasure, and let her touch him as she would. The ocean of his blood sang in his ears. He closed his eyes and saw, felt, tasted another woman, dark haired and long legged, who played this music and smelled like this, touched his chest and nibbled his throat like this and made his blood hum like this. A mouth was on his, not tender but desirous, possessive, which tasted so sweet. "Having a pleasant dream," she breathed, as she nipped the soft skin of his throat. "Yes," he sighed, but not knowing, or caring, if he had actually formed the words, for he was touching the sky. Certainly he was high enough. There was no pain anywhere, no thoughts beyond now. Skin on skin was so blissful, they gloried in the texture and taste of each other for a minute, two, an hour, but finally he came to that point where he did not want to wait any longer, not today. She fought him a little, not wanting the foreplay to end, but he was insistent and she had no strength to resist him. Only then, with their bodies sweaty and demanding did a single sorrowful thought bid him hesitate. Watching a good friend die had bred it into his bones. Just that briefest of thoughts, however, that there might be need for caution, the need to pause, was agony. She felt his hesitation and without taking her mouth from his, her groin from his, she fumbled in the drawer of the night stand and thrust a small packet into his palm. *** Monday 1 am WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland Fox woke in the dark with a half strangled cry to find himself sitting upright in a strange bed, clutching unfamiliar blankets and feeling the shudders flickering up and down his body. He could make his breath come only in sharp, infrequent gasps which were almost sobs. Oh, damn... Oh, God... Hell had to be better than that nightmare, only it was all jumbled now. A fever dream, but not of Samantha's abduction, not this time, but of Phoebe mostly. Phoebe lying with other men and his standing there watching with tears running down his face, unable to move. Phoebe with a knife, laughing, and ready to cut out his heart. Samantha crying all alone in an alien ship, surrounded by grey forms and frightened mothers and fathers and little children, as thin as skeletons. Angela with her hands on him where she should not be touching him. But most vividly he saw Scully ... Scully with her red hair whipping about her face, running - running away from him as he held out his arms for her. - Scully, please stop! I'm .... s-sorry! - But the sound of his voice was whipped away by the wind and still she ran, crying, as if he had broken her heart... Mulder huddled over his knees, praying for the memory to dim. In the blackness of that room at night, not thinking anyone was there to see, he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand like a child. That was when he felt a movement near him and a small, soft hand begin rubbing his back. It was so comforting. He leaned into it. She had heard him from her room and come to him. But, no. No... There was something very wrong. The hand was touching his naked back and he ever slept even half naked when he traveled, when Scully was in the next room, when one of them might need the other in the night. came the dark dawning. A furtive glance down at his side and he saw slim bare thighs and the dark recesses between, naked to the night and the cool air of the room. He sat for an eternity as still as a stone except that stones do not boil inside with fear and humiliation as he did. He dared not move and risk waking her further. Finally, sensing she had settled, he smoothly, but in haste as if her touch burned him, escaped from under that hand. He slipped so quickly from her bed that he caught his foot in the turn of the sheet and slid to the floor on one bare hip. Fearfully, he stole a wide-eyed look, not able to believe, but finding to his dismay that the woman laying in that bed, the woman with the mockingly peaceful smile on her lips and the dark shadows emphasizing the curves of her body, was Angela. Stumbling, he gathered his discarded clothes in his trembling arms and fled to his own room. As he shut the door, his aching chest let escape a single stiffled moan. *** Monday 1 am Washington DC Dana came awake with a start. She whipped off the sweaty sheets and blankets and sat up, instantly alert, and already shaking in the adrenaline rush. She could have sworn that someone had touched her. Odd, it was 1 am. Mulder's nightmare time. The time the nightmares came for him. But Dana had been asleep less than forty- five minutes, too early for her first REM cycle and, so, too early for nightmares. Exhausted, she had staggered in from the airport, crawled into bed and fallen asleep instantly. She reached for her gun on the nightstand and stalked the rooms of her apartment, flicking on the lights, but she found nothing suspicious and no evidence of forced entry. Sitting back on her bed, Dana replaced the gun and lay back to analyze again what she had felt. Her heart was still pounding. She could still not shake the feeling that she had been touched, seductively, longingly. But she had remembered pain, too, and a horrible loneliness. The memory was like the too infrequent times Mulder had touched her other than casually. Maybe she was overreacting, missing him. How many times had she awakened and within a minute, more often than not, the phone would ring. Mulder had had a nightmare and wanted to talk. Would she mind. Could it be that now? Dana lay awake for five minutes, ten, thirty, and the phone did not ring. She took a second pillow from her bed and curled around it protectively. From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 8/21 by Windsinger Date: 26 Jul 1995 21:41:41 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (8/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/26/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 8 Monday 1:15 am WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland Fox let his head fall back against the door that was still shut between their two rooms... listening... listening to his shallow, fast breathing and beyond that for any sound from her. Nothing. The cold draft of the room played on the nightmare sweat on his skin. Unsteadily, he shook out his gathered clothes. He was shaking so badly it was hard to think. One step at a time. He needed to dress, but his trembling hands found some spots on his sweats, some which were stiff and dry, others which were still slightly damp which he hesitantly sniffed. They smelled of her, the musky scent of woman. Swearing a rude oath, he crumpled the pants into a ball and threw them into the darkest corner of the moonlit bedroom. The shirt soon followed, the shirt that reeked of the scented lotion she had used. His training tried to urge caution, that the clothes were evidence and could prove that she had not been unwilling. His dark, fogged mind chose not to listen. He threw open the drawer of the room's tiny bureau, finding little that was clean. Of course not, he had planned to go home in the morning, had looked forward to it. Thinking about what lay ahead now, telling Scully, Skinner, he almost lost control, almost succumbed to the panic that was stalking him, making his breath come too fast. Instead, he reached for the sweats he had worn running two days before. They smelled of sweat, but at least it was his own honest sweat. He wished he could run now, run until his muscles and his lungs screamed, until he could no longer remember. But he could not go, certainly could not abandon his post during the night. As his client, she still deserved his protection, as ironic as that sounded. He sat down on his bed, ran a hand over the cold sweat of his brow, recoiled as he smelled her and that scent again on his hands. His whole body smelled of her... which brought back the nightmare... which made the images start flashing in his mind... memories he had been striving not to acknowledge were true. he thought, grimly. They would replay endlessly in his mind, like the worst of those those horrible, inhuman scenes he had forced himself to study in analyze in meticulous detail when he worked for Violent Crimes... the ones that plagued him still in his dreams. They said he was blessed to have a mind like his. They were wrong... he was cursed. In the tiny bathroom off the kitchen, the one which was furthest from her room, he brushed his teeth so roughly that the gums bled. He scoured the skin of his back she had so skillfully anointed with a bottle brush from the kitchen. He scrubbed until the skin burned when he rubbed in more soap. He washed his hair with bar soap having nothing else. Too bad consciences could not be cleaned as easily. Finally, he tilted back his head and let the water of the shower fill and overflow his mouth, wondering darkly if one could drown themself that way. In time his chin dropped onto his chest. he moaned, softly, He thought he was too numb to cry, but the tears came and the freezing water washed them away. *** Monday 4 am Washington DC The phone was ringing. Unhurriedly, Dana Scully fumbled for it. Mulder would wait. He always did. He knew she was difficult to wake in the middle of the night, but, as soon as the thought materialized, she realized, that much as she might wish it, long for it, desire to hear even his insomniatic voice, it would not be him. He would not call, for she had made him promise. Anyone else who dared call her at this hour, then, better have a good reason. Finally bringing the receiver up to her ear, she heard a deep, slightly accented voice. "Agent Scully? This is Skinner. I'm sorry to wake you." Her eyes flicked open. She was not instantly awake, but definitely more so. "Sir, is there a problem?" "That's an understatement. Ian McDowell, Angela Larson's WPP coordinator, was found murdered about two hours ago in the woods behind his apartment house." Dana felt her head buzz and tried to make sense of the ramifications through the sleepy cotton in her brain. "Are you there?" the voice asked. "Yes, sir." Dana was searching for what was customary to say here. She had not known Ian McDowell. "Sir, I'm sorry. His family must be devastated." Pause. "Do they believe this is related to some case in the program?" This was the question she asked, but what Dana thought was "As yet there are no suspects. McDowell worked undercover on several other projects and may very well have enemies of whom we are totally unaware. There is also the possibility that this was simply an act of random violence, for if this wasn't a robbery, it was certainly set up to look like one." He sounds tired, Dana thought. His voice was less clipped and authoritarian than usual. "Sir, I appreciate your calling. Is there anything specific I can do? I would be willing to help in any capacity, you know that." "Not immediately, Agent Scully. I will be working with the District police on this. Why I called is that I need to know from you why you tried to contact Agent Mulder yesterday, and if this might have any bearing upon McDowell's death. What you told me was that you wanted to get Agent Mulder's opinion on a case." Dana's sleepy mind went a little blank. Was that what she had said? "Ah, sir, that was not it - precisely." What could she say? She still felt she did not have enough information. A woman of no known description had hunted down Phoebe to extract some very personal information about Mulder. Another woman, possibly the same one, had gone all the way to Massachusetts to ask certain questions. It was not impossible that the second woman did genuinely work for the CIA. But, murder? That was too far afield. "Sir, I would prefer to keep this information to myself for the moment. It's - personal. If I felt it was pertinent to your investigation, I would not hesitate to reveal it." "Agent Scully, under normal circumstances I would leave this up to your discretion, but the D.A. needs something to work with. Due to the nature of the WPP, McDowell was the only staff member who had direct knowledge of the whereabouts of the clients under his protection. A process has been initiated to open those closed records, but these are highly confidential. Very specific legal procedures must be followed." He sounded irritated. Obviously, the constraints of protocol had finally come home to some of the high and mighty. Considering how often she and Mulder had been chastised for ignoring procedure, Dana felt somehow vindicated. At the same time, she was alarmed. "Which means, at this moment, no one knows where any of the safe houses are? Which means that even if there was a need, they could not be contacted?" "Obviously, in a dire emergency, something could be done, but we have no reason to suspect that any of Detective McDowell's clients are in any immediate danger. The system was set up for a purpose. Risks would be greater if their whereabouts became common knowledge." His voice changed a little, beginning to sound more like the man who had come down to the basement office to ask to date her mother. "Agent Scully, I'm sorry about this, but I need to know what you know, no matter how insignificant." She pursed her lips. Sighed. "Sir, I received some information. A woman has been asking questions about Samantha, Mulder's sister. She also asked *other* questions... questions of a more personal nature." The pause at the end of the line was significant. "You think someone is trying to manipulate Agent Mulder?" "They've gotten to him before," Dana reminded him, knowing that Skinner would remember that he had been known to push a few of Mulder's buttons himself to get the unpredictable agent to move in a direction he would normally be unwilling to go. If he remembered, Skinner did not let his voice give him away. "We make enemies in this business, Agent Scully. That's a danger we all share." With this Dana felt she could breath again. At least he was not going to dismiss this altogether. "Do you have anything specific to go on?" he asked. Dana proceeded to tell him about the woman who had visited Helen Mulder. "I have placed a call to the CIA to find out if they sent anyone. Could be a coincidence." "But you don't think so." Her heart cried but she replied soberly, "I can't say, sir." No sound came from the receiver in her hand for a long moment. "Though suspicious, you realize this is not sufficient to warrant accelerating the opening of the WPP records." "I realize that," Dana told him in a voice gone suddenly soft. Skinner must have heard the change in her tone. "Agent Scully, there is something you *can* do for me. Attend Reti Frantilli's hearing at nine-thirty tomorrow at the District Courthouse. He's the young man Angela Larson has implicated in the murder of Mitch Legget. Ms. Larson and Agent Mulder should be there. If I were you, I'd deliver your warning." Dana could not contain her relief. She had planned to go anyway and had wondered how she was going to explain her absense from the Bureau if anyone asked. "I understood, sir. I'll be there." "And Agent Scully," Skinner added, "when you see Agent Mulder, please ask him to contact me. About those daily reports he's missed.... the WPP office is having a fit, and I've had to assure them that in the light of Agent Mulder's past - let us say - casual attitude towards procedure, that they shouldn't assume that a lack of a check in, necessarily, means there is trouble. I don't want to be proved wrong on this." "I'll see that he calls," Scully assured him. Putting down the receiver very slowly, she curled again among her blankets. She very much doubted that Skinner was only interested in giving Mulder a lecture on proper procedure for a few missed phone calls. He, at least, was concerned, but his hands were as tied as hers. *** Monday 7 am WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland Fox did not know that he looked as badly as he felt until, staggering into the dining room seeking coffee, he saw Angela's startled expression from where she was sitting reading the newspaper. Sometime in the first grey light of early morning, he had fallen into exhausted sleep, only to be jarred painfully awake all too soon by the alarm to find that the nightmare of the evening and night before had been no dream. Feeling hung over, even though he was positive that he had had nothing to drink, he had dressed in suit pants and his last clean dress shirt. He had even shaved, though he wondered how he had managed to complete the job without cutting his throat. He had toyed grimly with the idea. Would save Skinner a lot of trouble. His blood-shot eyes, the lines in his forehead from what he recognized was a stress headache, and his haggard appearance had shocked Angela. "You don't look very well, Agent Mulder," she said sympathetically. Then her eyes began to shine as she reached for her purse. "I can give you something to help you feel better -" "I don't want to feel better..." he grumbled, wandering into the kitchen and pulling open the cupboards angrily as he hunted for a coffee cup. "I don't deserve to feel better and a couple of extra-strength Tylenol will not cure what I'm feeling right now." He stopped searching, unable to remember what he had been looking for anyway. "The hearing's today," he said curtly, returning to the dining room and forcing himself to look at her. " We have to leave no later than eight and you should know... I won't be coming back. McDowell will just have to find you someone else." His tone had not been kind. The message had not been sensitively delivered. Fox did not care. He stared out the window, but refused to focus on the bright Indian summer day. Having to work with Angela today was going to be impossible. If he could not bear to look at her, how could he sit in the car next to her for more than an hour, escort her through at least the first part of the day? A shadow passed over his eyes. The memories that had flashed in his mind the night before were back like a dark fog. His hands clutched into tight, balled fists. He felt the fury struggling within him. He wanted to lash out at her, "You've ruined my life! You've taken everything!" But he could not. Because if he angered her, she could cry rape and that would be worse... far, far worse, evidence or no. As if anyone would listen to *him*... "Fox - " she began tentatively, but the look of reproach he shot her was so livid that she knew better then to try that again. "This is not how it is suppose to happen," she said in a small voice, sounding genuinely confused, like a little child. "Don't you want to stay with me?" He looked at her, as if she truly were insane. "I can't stay with you - certainly not now. Don't you understand... I'm going to lose my job over this!" "Then we won't go back," she suggested with a little hope in her eyes. "Neither of us. We won't let them find us-" That stabbed too cruelly at his over wrought nerves. Some control snapped. Without any conscious thought, he sharply raised his arm and almost struck her. For a moment, what he wanted more in all the world was to hurt her. With a physical wrenching, that stopped the very breath in his lungs, he forced his furious anger to cool.. Wearily, he dropped into a chair at the table, the heels of his hands pressing against his temples, wishing the pressure in his head would cease. "Angela, I'm sorry. Forgive me," he whispered. "I'm not myself this morning." He tried but found it difficult to look her in the face. When he had stood over her, his anger flaring, she had leapt from her chair ready to escape. Now she was standing with her back against the wall, her skin the color of paste. "If you don't mind," he asked in an unsteady voice, "maybe I will take those Tylenol." She began to back towards the kitchen. "No, it was my fault," she whimpered. "I'm sorry for what I said. It was stupid. Stay, I'll get you some coffee." Then she vanished and he could hear her making loud noises in the kitchen. He heard a sniffle and something like a sob but mostly just the sound of dishes and the fan from the microwave. When she was gone too long for coffee, he thought he should go in, if only to get his own, but that would mean getting close to her again, and he dare not appear too sympathetic. He had said it, he was leaving, now he dare not give her hope that he could be persuaded to change his mind. And so he waited. She finally returned, her eyes red, and she brought him a full cup, black, and a bowl of oatmeal covered in what looked like maple syrup. "Please don't just drink coffee," she said softly. "Your blood sugar's probably down. Eat. Maybe you'll feel a little better." He stared at the offering. He doubted it. She twisted her skirt in her hands. "Agent Mulder, I promise, I won't get in your way any more. I'll do whatever you say." She looked down at the floor. "And I will be ready by eight." After this, she fled. He stared after her, recognizing that her old fear was back. Doubled. He shut his burning, tired eyes, praised the gods for small favors. For the moment at least she was going to cooperate, though he felt awful about frightening her. Scared himself, too, was still scaring himself. He drank some of the coffee, finding it was instant and too strong, and stared again at the oatmeal. It looked vile. He never cared for oatmeal even on good days. And this was not a good day, looking only slightly better than the night before which had been hell, sheer hell. He couldn't remember when he had felt so low. The blow up at Angela, however, had helped to dissipate some of the anger and frustration he had been feeling, but as a psychologist he knew only too well that the method had not been very constructive. He closed his eyes, for his stomach was definitely balking at the sight and smell of the cereal, but he did realize that he should try to eat something. Scully always complained he was grumpy when he didn't eat. He doubted, though, that even this disgusting stuff would cure his grumpiness today. Lacking the energy to fix anything else, he resigned himself to it. Besides, Angela had made it for him and after exploding and frightening her, he should make some attempt to appease her. It was a small enough concession. He took a bite. Then another. It was as bad as he remembered. He was very close to dumping it all when Angela wandered in on some errand. She saw him eating and smiled a little, though her shoulders still had that defeated, mousey slump, as if he really had hit her. Stealing himself, he managed to choke down half the bowl and then threw the rest in the trash when she wasn't looking. After breakfast, while Angela was working her way through dishes, Fox placed a call to Ian McDowell. He only reached the detective's answering machine, however, because it was so early. He left a message, urgently asking to meet with him after the hearing. This was not a discussion to which he was looking forward, but it would be mild in comparison to what he could expect from Skinner. And Scully.... Fox returned to his room to finish dressing and pack. Unenthusiastically, he fetched his good tie. For a long moment he studied it as it lay limp in his hand. Scully had picked it out for him to wear the days he went to court. As he remembered her teasing smile, her complaints about his usual taste in neckwear, he felt his chest grown tight and the burning begin again in his eyes. He fumbled with the tie, taking three tries even to knot it poorly. What was wrong? He was never like this. In the light of morning, even after coffee, his behavior was no more comprehensible than it had been the night before. And he could not pretend that what had happened had been all Angela's doing. He remembered wanting her and, damn him, he had enjoyed it. But he did not even find her attractive now. He had had nothing to gain from a few minutes of sexual satisfaction and everything to lose. The only good thing to came out of this was that he did not need to worry any longer about how he was going to get off this assignment. He would be booted out so fast he would be lucky if he was not dismissed from the Bureau altogether. He had been allowed to take this assignment because he was considered 'safe' with women. In their rutting hearts, no male wanted to be considered 'safe'. Now he did not have to worry about *that* stigma any longer. Fifteen minutes later, Mudler sat slouched on the couch, his feet on the coffee table, trying to read from a small, red-bound book he had brought with him. William Blake. "Everything possible to be believed is an image of the truth," was written in Scully's elegant hand on the inside cover. If that were true and if he believed hard enough, could he make it so that last night had never happened? he thought wearily. Finding he could not concentrate any longer, Fox set the book down and stared at his watch. It was nearly eight. Impatient, he sprang up to glare at Angela who was still sitting in the kitchen and talking on the phone to her WPP-approved analyst. He pointed to his watch with a frown, but she ignored him. At least she was dressed. He spun on his heel, moving away from the kitchen and her. For some reason he felt suddenly anxious and sweaty. He tore off his suit coat, threw it on the couch and loosened the tie it had taken him so long to knot. "Angela, let's go and get this over with." No answer. He began to pace, up and down the room, from the door of the kitchen to the bedroom. At one point he passed his hand over his forehead. It came away wet. He was at the door to Angela's bedroom, at the far end of his pacing pattern, when the room suddenly tilted at a dangerous angle. He swayed and reached for the door frame he thought was beside him but could not find it. The vertigo was so intense that the room went out of focus, became formless, unnatural, flooded with confused colors. Completely disoriented, he stumbled and fell. He staggered two steps before his knees found the edge of a bed. Fox crumpled down onto it just as the hated nausea began to surge again from his guts. Hands clutched at the blankets when the pain and the chills started. He wrapped his arms around his abdomen as if he could hold in the agony. His stomach felt as if it were in his throat, choking him. He could hardly breathe. The attacks had never hit him with such speed before or such violence. He clenched his teeth to keep from moaning. He had been so close... so close to getting out of here... to going home... Against the shaking chills, he rolled in a blanket, then two, shut his eyes so tightly against the spinning room that he squeezed out two tears of pain. And still the world would not stay still. He had tensed himself to wait out the attack, but unlike the other times, it only got worse as the eternal minutes passed. Now he was going to be sick, he was certain of it. But he only succeeded in falling onto the floor, barely felt the pain in his elbow as he fell. Shaking uncontrollably and too dizzy to move, he knew he would never make it to the bathroom. Blindly, he groped for what he could find. His hands closed upon the waste basket which sat beside the bed. He grasped it and barely got his head over it in time. The wretching lasted so long and was so hard that he felt by the end that his insides must be torn to shreds. Breathing in deep, shakey gulps of air, Fox hung his head over the disgusting mess, barely able to support his weight on his quivering arms. The drops of sweat rolling down his face, tasted of the vileness in his mouth. From somewhere, a spark crept into his brain. Convenient... for Angela? And awfully stupid of him not to have suspected before that this illness was no accident. Fueled both by anger and fear, Fox Mulder awkwardly thrust the basket aside and lurched to his feet, tried to reach for his gun. But before he could close his hand around it, the room reeled madly before shrinking rapidly into darkness. *** Monday 9 am Washington DC Dana was seated in the courtroom at nine, even though the hearing was not scheduled until nine-thirty. "Deliver your warning," Director Skinner had said, "And when you see Agent Mulder, tell him to contact me." Sure, as simple as that, Dana thought. She hoped so, but did not believe it. The wall clock seemed to creep forward more and more slowly. She had brought a file to review, but did not read it. Could not. She could only sit and wait. "Come on, Mulder," she prayed. She stared at her clenched fists. Bid them to unclench. Maybe, Dana thought drearily, she was simply overreacting. Maybe this *was* jealousy speaking. So some woman wanted to give Mulder a good time and had gone the extra mile to contact one of his old girl friends in an attempt to do so. Dana should be happy for the guy. It had been a long, long time since any man had gone that far out of his way to please her - with the exception of the times Mulder had put his own life on the line for her, but somehow she could not place that in the same category. And she had not heard from the CIA yet. The woman doing the background check in Massachusetts could turn out to be legitimate. Then why did she shiver when she thought about how Angela had looked and acted on Saturday night? How had she managed that very convenient headache? Why did the dream of being touched the night before, still haunt her? At nine-fifteen, unable to remain seated any longer, Dana headed for the lobby, found a quiet corner where she could still see anyone entering the courtroom, and using her cellular phone, called the number Skinner had given her at the D.A.'s office. Skinner did not answer, but a woman's voice did. Assistant Director Skinner had gone home to get some sleep, but he had left word Agent Dana Scully might be calling. "Have there been any new developments on opening up the records on the safe houses?" Dana asked, trying to sound casual. "Not, yet," was the response, "but we expect the court order to be issued soon. The phone company did finally release the password on Detective McDowell's voice mail, however, and we've been able to access those messages." Dana's interest perked. "Any messages to Detective McDowell from an Agent Mulder?" "Mulder?" the woman repeated. "Ahh, just a minute." Dana tapped her foot as the woman went off to check something. Obviously, Mulder's name was familiar. The inflected 'Ahh' annoyed Dana. Sometimes there were advantages to working with a guy who was so unique and 'eccentric' everyone in their business knew him by his reputation. Sometimes, like now, when the woman's voice had gone up as if he were some kind of an amusing anecdote, it was just damned irritating. The woman returned. "He left a message at seven-thirty this morning for Detective McDowell. Said he wanted to meet with him right after the hearing this morning." Dana felt a great weight shift somewhere in the center of her being. She let out a long sigh. "Was that all? How did he sound?" "I can play it for you if you want, though the quality won't be very good. I listened to it myself. Like a guy." The woman had sounded disappointed. "Nothing special." Dana swallowed. She could hear his voice? She would like that. "If you could I'd appreciate it. It's important." "As you wish. Hold on then, please." Dana waited, trying to not breath too quickly. After thirty seconds she heard a beep and then his voice, distorted, but unmistakably his. "Detective McDowell, this is Agent Mulder. Monday, seven-thirty A.M. I need to speak with you today after the hearing. I'll call from the courthouse for your schedule." Dana returned to her seat, nearly floating. So what if it was only a sterile, business-like message; it was still his voice and good to hear. He had sounded tired, though, very tired, but also firm. He had meant to convey in as few words as possible that the conference he was requesting was important. Obviously, the purpose was either too important or too sensitive to be discussed over the phone and, certainly, not to be relayed by voice mail. She looked at her watch. He had called at seven-thirty, only a little less than two hours before. And he had been fine. Just fine. But why, then, could she not believe? ===================================================================== ====== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 9/21 by Windsinger Date: 28 Jul 1995 01:08:48 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (9/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/27/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty The Abductee: Lighting and Enlightenment (chaps 9-11) Chapter 9 Monday 10 am Washington DC Nine-thirty arrived and passed, passed by a significant margin, and neither Mulder nor Angela appeared. Dana sat stiffly on the bench in the courtroom, as if she were in church waiting for something to happen. She wished her instincts would be wrong this time, longed to see him come in looking serious and handsome in his grey suit and going-to-court tie she had made him purchase. She would not have minded even to see him with Angela in tow. "Agent Scully?" Dana jumped. The prosecutor, a tall, middle- aged woman was at her elbow. "I'm told you are acquainted with the officer assigned to Ms. Larson. I'm sure you are aware she is our prize witness in this case. In fact, she's also our only witness." The woman was piqued. "Do you know where they are? Are they simply delayed?" The female attorney looked at the wall clock and then at the defendant sitting smugly in the front row. For the first time Dana actually looked at the young man who, according to Angela, had committed murder. She had nearly forgotten the reason for which everyone but her was gathered here. She had thought very little about the case that had brought Angela back into Mulder's life. What did Reti Frantilli know? He seemed so unconcerned. Not cocky, but unconcerned, or was this mere posturing? "Agent Mulder called into the WPP office this morning and left a message. At that time there seemed to be no problems." Dana found herself adding. "However, there have been some irregularities. I think at this point you could say we're concerned." As the young lawyer stiffly returned to her place, not liking at all the answer she had gotten from her question, Dana stood up to take her leave. There was really no point in waiting any longer. 'Concerned' did not begin to describe how she felt. There was a dead spot in the very center of her that was growing, that was trying to paralyze her. She must not let it do that, no matter how much it hurt. She knew, she *knew*, that he needed her to convince the others, to convince maybe even herself, that there was trouble, that he needed help, that this was not just her jealousy making her paranoid. At least she had this: by failing to attend the hearing, both Angela and Mulder were now officially missing. In hesitating, Dana was still present when a female officer abruptly entered the court room and smartly approached the bench where the judge had been idly attending to paperwork while he waited. Dana saw them speaking together and then the judge shrugged and picked up his gavel. "My apologies," the judge announced to all assembled in a bored tone, "but the prosecution's chief witness cannot attend due to illness. This hearing is therefore postponed until a week from Friday." He brought down the gavel with a solid thud that reverberated in the hollow places of Dana's heart. Dana gripped the back of the bench in front of her. she wanted to scream. A *missing* grand jury witness would get the D.A.'s attention, Skinner's attention. Someone would start asking serious questions. A sick one, like the postponement of the hearing, would mean only more delay. For the moment, nothing would be done. The officials would wait a reasonable length of time for Mulder to call in, a call which Dana was certain would never come. Only after that would the official machinery grind into action. But all this would take time, and time, Dana knew in her heart, was her enemy. Aware all too well that she had gone pale, Dana sat down again, knew she had to force herself to think clearly, to analyze the problem as she had been taught. Damn, but it was hard, though. Unconsciously, her eyes strayed to the cluster of people sitting behind the defendant. They had been quiet, respectful, just middle class people, but, since the judge's announcement, they had begun to whisper. Still they did not seem upset, surprised, concerned or even relieved, just thoughtful. Dana's eyes met those of the patriarch of the little group - a tall, mature, strongly built, black man with piercing, dark, confident eyes which at the moment were looking a her. He had the eyes of a great, wise animal. Turning away from the unwavering gaze, Dana shrugged off the feeling, almost the invasion, of his eyes on her and forced herself back into thinking about her own problems which were oppressive enough. She sought out the court officer, presented her credentials and asked to see the person who had received the call reporting that Angela Larson was ill. "They transferred the call here," the dark-skinned woman said, "and because court was technically in session, I took the call myself." "And who called?" Dana asked intently. "A man or a woman?" "Oh, a woman, definitely." Dana's neck prickled. "Can you remember *exactly* what she said?" The court officer critically examined the tired-looking young woman with the FBI credentials, staring at her with almost feverish intensity, and realized this was no frivolous request. "The voice over the phone said, 'I need to leave a message. Angela Larson is scheduled to appear as a witness at the Frantilli hearing. I'm calling to report that she's ill and won't be able to attend.'" Dana waited for more. When none was forthcoming she asked, "That's all?" "Yes, I believe so, though I did tell her to have Ms. Larson stay in touch with the D.A.'s office for the new court date." "And you are certain she used the third person. *She* would not be able to appear. Not *I* will not be able to appear." "Yes, I'm Positive." Dana thanked the woman and turned away, anxious now as well as suspicious. As the attending officer, Mulder should have called, but he had not. And who was the woman, if not Angela? Angela could not very well have called in sick for herself. That would have seemed very odd. If she was well enough to call, she should be well enough to attend. Dana was suddenly aware of an intense gaze upon her again, the hunter's eyes, and knew if she looked in the direction from which she felt the gaze she would find the elder black man scrutinizing her again. Needing to get out from under from those probing eyes, Dana turned and sought out the frustrated, young prosecutor. "Who are those people?" Unobtrusively, the woman led Dana further from the crowd surrounding the young defendant. "Don't tell me you don't recognize him? That's Hector Prince." "No." Dana exclaimed in a surprised whisper. "Here?" She shot a look back at the equivalent of the 'godfather' of the Chain. "Isn't he afraid he'll be arrested?" The young woman huffed. "Him? He's like teflon. Nothing sticks. That's why we had hoped with this case..." Dana read dejection, frustration, in the young lawyer. She touched the woman's arm sympathetically, then handed the lawyer her card. "If you hear anything more from your witness, anything at all, you call me. This is important." The woman took the card solemnly. "There's something wrong, isn't there?" Dana tried to look noncommittal but the woman was a trial lawyer and had seen enough we-know-nothing stares to recognize one. "I thought it was too good to be true," she grumbled with resignation as she swung her heavy briefcase from the table. Dana blinked, hearing the woman's words again. 'Too good to be true.' This case! Not just Mulder's problems, but the whole case was wrong! Too many coincidences. It had certainly been happy coincidence for Angela that a high profile murder would so conveniently occur in the way it did to bring Fox Mulder back into her life. "Agent Scully? Are you all right?" Dana woke up from her thoughts to see the young lawyer looking at her intently. "Frantilli's parole officer," Dana asked, suddenly, "Is he here?" The young woman nodded towards an overweight Hispanic man talking with a court officer. "That's him. James Alfonso." When Dana introduced herself, the man removed himself from the officer. The big man looked tired. Too many cases. Dana was reminded, that as tired as she and Mulder often were, there were many others working under similar burdens of stress. "I have to admit," Dana said to the tired man, remembering back a week when she had flipped casually through the case file, "that this case has me confused. There is nothing in Frantilli's history to lead one to believe he would do a thing like this." The parole officer seemed to appreciate her comment. "I agree. He was doing so well. I felt Reti had a real rapport with his employer. I would not have thought Reti capable of this. But we have the woman's statement, and what reason would she have to lie?" For Dana the lightning trail that had begun snaking its way though the jungle of case details suddenly found itself a path. Not a straight one, but a path. What she was thinking was too horrible to contemplate, but was it still possible? "Mr. Alfonso, do you remember if anyone came to your office asking questions about Reti? Hmm, maybe three weeks ago." The big man looked pensive. "Not that I recall, but I'm out so much. I'll have to ask my staff assistant." Dana pressed her card into the man's hand. "Please," she said, "this is very important. Find out. Call me on my cellular or at home but reach me somehow." He looked at her closely. "You think there's something funny going on?" Dana straightened and caught the eye of the untroubled black man again, just as he and his entourage were leaving. "There's nothing funny about it." *** Monday 3pm WPP safe house somewhere in southern Maryland A voice in his ear. An insistent, irritating tug on his arm, trying to get him to rise, to get off the floor. But Fox Mulder did not want to wake up, much less move. He could seldom remember being so physically ill in his life. Injured, yes, but not ill. His insides might as well be raw meat for all that they felt like they belonged to him. He had no strength. The vertigo was so bad he still felt the room weaving frantically even when lying down, even with his eyes closed. He did not want to think about what it would feel like if he tried to stand up. "Agent Mulder!" A woman's voice fearful, frantic, was shouting in his ear making him wince. Recognizing the voice made his stomach cringe. "We have to leave here. They are coming. Now!" She grunted and groaned as she pushed him into a sitting position. As the room spun, he became aware that he was still on the floor where he had fainted, only at some time she must have covered him with a blanket. Now she had him on his feet and was draping his arm across her shoulder, half carrying, half guiding him out of the bedroom. "S-so...sick," he whispered hoarsely, She paused to adjust her grip around his shrinking waist. He was slipping. "I know," she said more kindly. "...H-help..." he started, but his mouth was too dry and foul. His thoughts weaved like the images in the room. "I'll help," she said. He made a groan of protest and tried to pull away from her. "No!" she barked sharply. "Now, I called your supervisor. He says for you to stay with me, to protect me, but we have to go to a new place." Her voice had an urgency, and was overly loud and crisply enunciated, as if she were talking to a none too bright child. "This place is not safe anymore. He said you can recuperate just as well right with me." She maneuvered him carefully out of the front door. He could never remember how he managed the stairs, even with her help. She leaned him over the trunk of his car as she opened the door and, once she had the door opened, pushed him into the back, where he lay as best as he could across the short seat, completely unable in his dizziness to sit up. She must have already packed the car for, after draping his coat over him, she swung into the driver's seat and pulled away with a screech of tires. Battling with his wavering strength and the sudden nausea he felt from the movement of the car, Fox could not digest the last words she had spoken. If he had, he would have known that she had not talked to Skinner, who never would have left him on any assignment in his condition. *** Monday 4pm FBI Headquarters Dana Scully sat with her elbows on Mulder's desk, her pounding head in her hands, her eyes tightly shut. From the courthouse she had placed a frantic call to Skinner, attempting not to sound frantic. Though obviously tired, Skinner had taken the news of Angela's illness with apprehension, especially when he heard that the person who had called in the report of Angela Larson's illness had not been Agent Mulder, but a woman who had not identified herself. At Agent Scully's alarm, Skinner reminded her that there was still no proof of any aggressive act having been committed against either Mulder or Angela. The most probable explanation for their temporary disappearance, he thought, was that Angela Larson really was ill. Agent Scully herself had reported that Mulder had had the flu. Maybe Angela Larson caught it from him. Everything had sounded under control just a few hours before when Mulder had left the voice mail for McDowell and in a few hours the court would release the information on the safe houses and the house could be checked out. Another explanation could be that Mulder had found a reason to become cautious and taken Angela somewhere to protect her. That was, after all, his assignment. The story of Angela's illness could prove to be just that, a story to explain their absence if Mulder thought the danger too great to risk the trip. Furious, Dana had had to fight to keep the exasperation and fury out of her voice. Men! They were so assured in their size and their strength that it prevented them from seeing who needed protection now. They would wait. No reason to panic yet, Skinner told her just before he hung up. But Dana knew there was reason to panic, knew it in the depths of her. Phoebe had known it, too. The evidence was simply not sufficient to convince Skinner to act other than by the book. All this had happened hours before, now it was late afternoon, and only now did Dana have the information she needed to force them to act. Her hand could still feel the imprint of the receiver as she had clutched it, trying to steady her voice. She had focused her anger and frustration towards the instrument that had brought her, if not the final piece to the puzzle, at least enough of it so she thought she now knew how large the puzzle truly was. Her CIA contact had just responded to her inquiry. No, no one was doing background checks on FBI Agent Fox Mulder, not for a CIA clearance. The way the man had responded had brought a flash of anger to Dana's eyes, as if her very question had been absurd, as if the last thing the CIA would want was 'Spooky' Mulder involved in any investigation of *theirs*. she sighed, for more reasons than one and sent him her prayers wherever he was. If what she now suspected was true, he would need them. Dana looked at the phone, knew she must call Skinner now but needing first to calm her anxiety and her anger. For she would need all of her professionalism to convince him that the danger was real, that the danger was now, that waiting to act would be disastrous. Before she could move, she faintly heard the office door open. She wiped at her eyes, fought for a semblance of calm and turned. Evan Byers stood in the doorway, his open face serious, caring. His hand remained on the door knob as if unsure of whether to come in. There was something in his face. She rose slowly. "What is it?" she asked expectantly. As if he felt that he would not be welcome there, Evan had never come down to the basement office before. This was the Fox's den. "Dana, Skinner just called," Evan told her quietly. "The courts finally released the location and phone number of Angela Larson's safe house." Dana's hand gripped the back of her chair but she said nothing. "The WPP office tried to make contact. There was no answer." He could see her tense. His face showed that he did not want to tell her the rest. "They sent the highway patrol on ahead. They were told only to render assistance, if needed, but otherwise just to secure the scene." Dana's eyes bored into his, feeling her insides twist. "Evan, that's pretty standard when the FBI might be coming in." She bit her lip, the slowness of his report irritating her. She remembered, however, that all this was new to him. "What did they find? Did they need to render 'assistance'." "No," Evan replied and then realizing how that information could be interpreted, he added quickly, "There was no need. No one was home. Not only not home, but the house has been abandoned. They're gone, Dana, and it does not look like they intended to come back." Evan held up a piece of paper. "Skinner gave me directions. He's on his way. He says I can drive you, if you want to come." Dana was almost out the door before he had finished asking. *** Monday 6pm Somewhere in Virginia The car took another sinking turn to the right and immediately rose and turned left. Fox Mulder let his head lull against the bumping, swaying seat, trying to decide if he wanted to stay conscious or not. Three times already on this trip, his agonized insides had tried to eject the contents of his stomach, but he had been empty already for hours and the heaves brought up only a little green bile which left a burning bitterness in his dry mouth and sent his stomach muscles into convulsions. A distant part of him, the well trained investigator, knew he should keep track of turnings and hills, the flicker of objects he could see flash by in the windows above his head, but the images were a blur, and he knew he was fading in and out. For what could have been as little as a half hour, or as long as two, the car kept to winding, hilly, stomach churning back roads. With a lurch that brought him out of his daze, he felt the car slow and heard the sound of the car tires leave pavement for gravel. The car stopped, but Fox felt as if his body, and certainly his head, had not. Angela got out and a few seconds later he heard the sound of quick feet on wooden steps, a key in a lock, a door opening. Within moments she returned and none too gently rolled him out of the back seat. But rising to an upright position only brought back the vertigo and, even with her help, his legs would not support him. Nauseous and mentally confused, he lay face down on the wooden steps that led up to a covered porch, gratefully clinging to the roughly solid and unmoving boards. After making a second, half-hearted effort to get him to his feet, which he patently resisted, she let him lay as she brought the luggage and groceries into the house. The house threw a great black shadow across the porch, the car. The cool fall breeze felt good brushing against his sweat- soaked clothes. Hazel eyes swept up unsteadily to the small frame house, strayed across the flat empty landscape. He saw no other houses. By night he was sure he would have seen no other lights. It was isolated. But then, he knew it would be. He rested his cheek against the peeling paint and prayed for the world to stop spinning around him. What he needed was to run. What he needed was to fight. What he did not need was to be so sick he could barely move. As he lay totally disoriented, Angela had finished unpacking. She sat down next to him on the steps and with her hand, pushed the damp hair from his forehead. Through slitted eyes, he could see she was tired, with a wild, nervous exhaustion. She had driven fast, without stopping. Her eyes now were bright with triumph and not, he thought, quite sane. "Now, we'll be safe," she whispered so that no one but the two of them could hear, as if there were any others about. "No one knows where we are. If they don't know, they can't tell. *They* will never find us." He tried to raise his head, amazed that he could. The cold air had helped revive him a little. "Angela," he said, trying to hide his weakness, trying to hide the fear he felt about being alone with her. "Angela, can't you see... I need a doctor." She shook her head curtly. "No! We have to stay here. It's just the flu," she crooned, obviously mimicking what he had told Scully. "Don't worry, Agent Mulder. I'll take care of you. First let's get you out of this cold air... before you catch your death." She pulled on his arm trying to induce him to get to his feet. he wondered wanly, still refusing to budge and wishing his brain was working better. He just wanted to sleep, to leave this wretched illness behind. As she continued to prod him, he rolled over and tried to sit up, finding he could, but only by leaning weakly over his knees. He had to tell her, but not accuse her, not make her angry. "Angela, I know you mean well, but what you've been giving me -" the words were hard to get out, hard to get out clearly and not sound panicked or blurred "- is *not* up to FDA standards." She leaned down so that she could look into his face. "Agent Mulder, I don't understand what you're talking about." Her voice was a parody of innocence. Fox raised his head, just an inch or two, to give her a side long glance from under his tousled, sweat-streaked hair. The movement triggered a wave of nausea and he had to bite out the last through clenched teeth. "Something in the f-food... making me sick." "Oh, that," she said softly. "I used only a little at first, just as an experiment." She rubbed his back through his sweaty shirt. "I'm sorry I had to use so much this morning, but you forced me. You were talking about going away." She raised her eyes to the sky and the playfulness was gone and replaced with real fear. "And then I would be alone when they came for me." Mulder had followed the expression in her eyes. He tried to summon enough strength to sound sincere. "Angela, I would never leave you alone." She hissed sarcastically. "*Please*, don't lie to me, not like the others. They always lied and talked about me behind my back, laughed at me, even the other patients. If you can't love me, at least, I thought you believed me." She stood up abruptly and nudged him none too gently with her foot, but he made to attempt to follow her instructions. Her voice turned cold. "It doesn't matter. *This* I'm serious about. Into the house. Now!" Somehow, his eyes were able to fix on her hand, which was resting on a bulge at her waist. Only then did he realize she was wearing his gun. With resignation, he allowed her to push him to his unsteady feet and guide him, half crawling, up the last steps. He pulled himself upright in the doorway and, gripping the frame for support, looked back over his shoulder at a twisting, spinning vision of the shadow-crossed, barren fields. She put a firm hand on his shoulder to keep him moving into the cool, musty darkness. He needed only six steps for his body to remind him that standing upright was not a good idea. He barely made it to the small bathroom, where he hung over the commode and felt the nausea overwhelm him again and again. This time, however, he stared in horror. The little bile that he brought up was tinged pink and there were flecks of bright red blood. He sank down onto the bathroom floor, gagging on the spasms in his own throat. He lay his face against the cold tile and prayed to all the gods he had ever tried to believe in for the trembling to stop and for his stomach to twist itself right side out again. She came to him in a few minutes, wet a wash cloth and bathed his face. When he could crawl she got him into the adjoining bedroom where she stripped off his wet clothes, all but his t- shirt and pale blue boxers. While he was being sick, she had put sheets on the bed. Now she pushed him in and piled over his trembling body blankets which smelled like the house, old and unused, but they were warm and after a few minutes the shivering stopped. The warmth was addictive. What he wanted more than anything at that moment was to sleep, he was that exhausted, even though he recognized the real danger of allowing that. He needed to think, move, for only his mind had a chance of convincing his body to function. His body was certainly not going to do it on its own. He had to find some means of getting away from her. He doubted that a time would come when he would be stronger or she less wary. Despite his best intentions, however, the warmth of the bed and his reluctance to move were stronger and he felt himself being dragged downwards into sleep. His mind was still making a brave attempt to overcome the lassitude in his limbs when Angela returned and sat by the bedside. She had a cup of water and four red and white pills in one hand and his gun in the other. Suddenly, Fox did not feel so tired any longer but he did realize how thirsty he was. "Swallow these," she ordered and, when he did not make a move to take them, she tried to force the first pill between his dry lips. When he resisted, she brought the gun out. "I won't kill you, but you would not enjoy a bullet in the arm or leg, not at this range. Take them. They're just sleeping pills. Not enough to harm you. I just need to know you'll stay put for a while." Hooded, sunken eyes focused momentarily. He was as concerned about what four sleeping pills would do to his tortured, empty stomach and his compromised metabolism as he was about the gun. He was fairly sure that she had no intention of shooting him, but, if he startled her, she very well might use it in her panic. She also kept it too far from him for him in his present condition to have any chance of taking it from her. Therefore, he made a show of reluctantly taking the pills, being grateful, mostly, for the water and for a brief obsession he had had with magic when he was twelve. He was not very good at slight of hand, but she was not very sane and had not noticed that he palmed the pills and never actually swallowed them. Angela Larson then sat in the chair by the bed side, the gun in her lap, and waited. Pills or no, he was too sick and exhausted to stay awake. he thought, congratulating himself, and, after a few moments, slept. ===================================================================== ====== From: windsinger@aol.com (Windsinger) Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: New: The Abductee 10/21 by Windsinger Date: 28 Jul 1995 01:09:31 -0400 THE ABDUCTEE (10/21) by S. Esty (AKA Windsinger@aol.com) 7/27/95 This story is based on the characters created by Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. Used without permission and no infringement is intended. Thanks guys, for creating this marvelous stuff. Imitation is the highest form of flattery. Copyright 1995 by S. Esty Chapter 10 Monday 6pm WPP safe house somewhere in southeast Maryland Once past the district borders, Evan picked up a police escort and he took advantage of the opportunity to floor the accelerator on his little Datson. This was not business as usual at the FDA, that was for sure. After the first heady minutes of exhilaration had passed, he looked over, guiltily, at the tense woman at his side, sensing her apprehension. Working for the FDA, however, was never this hazardous. Dana sat huddled in the corner of the passenger seat, saying nothing, but thinking furiously. Maybe it was time to tell Skinner, even the private matters which Mulder would not want discussed. She just needed to decide how to phrase it. She stared out the window unseeing. The highway patrol officers had reported that whoever had once lived at the house had packed up and gone. Dana honestly did not know if this news was good or bad. She blinked into the dying sun, not knowing that Mulder was looking at the shadows from that same sunset ninety miles to the west and seriously fearing he would never see her again. "Do you want to talk about it?" Evan asked quietly. Dana huddled down lower. "Later, if you don't mind," she told him. "I need to get all the pieces together first." Evan stole a look at her. Dana Scully's eyes were sunken and sad. She was obviously exhausted, so unlike the woman he had know only a few days before, except for her determination. If anything, that one trait had grown stronger, so much stronger that it threatened to overpower every other emotion. He felt so helpless. He had known her only a little time and had come to care so much. But Fox Mulder had always been on her mind, even at the beginning when there was no hint of these troubles, and he had had to fight for her attention then. Now she was impossible to reach. Unhappily, he had accepted his place. For the time being, he would have to be content just to be near in case she needed him. Evan Byers pursed his lips and kept his peace. Traveling at close to eighty-five miles an hour, they arrived at the address Skinner had given him in less than seventy minutes. The small brick house was already marked in yellow caution tape, which surprised Dana, because to her knowledge no crime had been committed there. Her stomach sank and then steadied. Skinner would not have lied to her. If they had found anything - any bodies that is - he would have told her. If Skinner was just being thorough, then she thanked him for that. Just as at the beginning of any case, Dana took time to take in the surroundings, absorb the details. Mulder had taught her that. Automatically, she observed the dust on the ground near the front door. She saw it was scuffed and a car's tires had matted the grass very close to the walk. Someone had driven up on the lawn and parked very close to the front door. That was suspicious. An FBI agent, whom she faintly recognized, was taking a plaster cast of the tread, but she already suspected that the car would be Mulder's. They had not taken Angela's. Dana did not even know if Angela owned one. What Dana did know for certain was that Mulder had not been driving when the car was parked here. He liked grass and green spaces. He would never have driven up a lawn like this. Looking up, Dana saw Walter Skinner waiting for her by the front door, looking as if he had just arrived. He was not a fussy man. He was a quiet, still man, and the stillness was there today as he waited. Slowly, she climbed the steps to meet him, aware of Evan walking, protectively, just behind her and to the right. As she joined Skinner, however, the big blond man paused and made the decision to wait outside. As they entered the house's small living room, Dana was immediately assaulted by a strong, sour smell. Memories of hours analyzing gastric specimens from autopsies came back to her, but her own stomach never tightened as sickeningly as it did now. Another puzzle piece fell into place, a big one, and she gritted her teeth, amazed at how badly she had slipped. For the dream had suddenly come back to her, the dream she had had on the plane. Dana realized that she had let herself become distracted, dwelling upon Angela's plotting and planning. She remembered how Mulder had said he had been sick, but she had let herself forget how he had looked, drawn, worse than simple flu would cause, and the dark shadows at the end of his fingers. Angela had stocked her arsenal more than adequately. As she took in the room, Dana was surprised by how very ordinary it all was - couch, lamp, TV - any person's house, looking as if nothing abnormal could ever happen here. It was hard to believe that anyone who had lived here, even for a little while, could weave such an complicated web. Agent Brooks, a former police woman Dana had worked with before, walked up to brief Skinner. She nodded to Dana, obviously knowing the special significance of this investigation to her and, therefore, not knowing who to address first. Dana turned her attention to the bric-a-bract on the fireplace mantle, thus making it simpler for Brooks to know to report her team's findings to Skinner and not to her. Skinner spoke first. "Is that smell what I think it is?" he asked The young woman looked down at her notes, still very uncomfortable in Dana's presence. "Ah, yes, sir. Regurgitated gastric material. Emesis, sir. A few hours old. In a waste basket in the bedroom." Dana thought dully, with a wrench in her own gut. "No clothes, personal items or food of any significance left at the house. Everything points to it being abandoned only about two or three hours ago." Dana bit her lip. The small china dog and miniature oriental vase, at which she was staring, fused into a blur. "The emesis, sir, has a lot of particles in it. Undigested food. Primarily oatmeal. We also found cold cooked oatmeal in the trash can in the kitchen." Dana turned at that. "Have you taken samples for analysis?" she asked intently. Skinner gave her that penetrating glance he did so well. "Do you expect to find something, Agent Scully? I thought we were working under the assumption that Agent Mulder, and possibly Angela Larson, had the flu." "Just do it," she said firmly. "I want a tox report on everything edible you find in this house." Brooks saw the flint in her eyes and, hearing no protest from Skinner, gave the order. The evidence gathering team moved to comply. "Did you find anything which might indicate where they have gone, Agent Brooks?" Skinner asked. "Nothing so far. We're doing a thorough search now..." Dana did not hear any more. She did not want to. She wandered further into the room looking at items on the tables. Her eye caught sight of something familiar. She picked up the slim leather- bound book from the coffee table and looked at the title, although by then she already knew what it was. Skinner came up and looked over her shoulder. "Something?" "A book of Blake's poems," she said sadly and then, with a catch in her voice, "I gave it to Mulder when he was put on electronic surveillance for so long after his infiltration of the military's quarantine operation in Kansas." She wanted so much to remind Skinner about how much Mulder had hated that time. She opened the front piece and there in her writing it said "To Mulder: the only guy I know who can be cheered up by Blake's poetry. - Scully." She had also written a quote about what you believe in being an image of the truth. If that were only true. For a moment she felt his presence, like the touch of his fingertips on hers, just knowing that he had cared enough to have packed it. That warmth was quickly eclipsed, however, by the cold fact that it had been left behind. She looked up into Skinner's face and raised the book. "He would not have left this willingly," she told him with certainty. A young agent Scully did not know appeared at the door of what was probably a downstairs bedroom. He was looking meaningfully at Skinner and trying, just as hard, not to catch Dana's eye. Skinner excused himself; Dana followed slowly, knowing she was probably not wanted but needing to know. The bedroom was not a complete shambles, but it was disorganized. The bed clothes hung haphazardly off the bed. Two of the blankets were on the floor. Dana could see a bathroom off to the side. With his back mostly to her, Skinner was looking at something with the young agent over the bathroom sink. Dana floated over like a ghost. "How many did you find?" Skinner was asking. His voice was tight, unnatural. The skin on the back of Dana's neck pricked. "Just one, sir. Obviously there before someone used the waste basket for... regurgitation." Dana tried to slide in to see. Skinner moved to block her view, but he was not quick enough. She caught a glimpse of the slip of semi transparent plastic, now encased in an evidence bag, resting in the agent's hand. Before her eyes could go round with shock, before she could even go pale, Skinner had taken her by the arm and guided her away from the bathroom. He steered her through the bedroom and into small room which might have been an office, containing a table, an ancient couch and one desk chair. After shutting the door, he stood awkwardly for a moment, as if he was considering giving her his arm or even his shoulder to cry one. He did not, however, but waited in stillness with his back against the door. Dana felt her chin drop, her jaw tighten, her mind deny the implications of that little bit of plastic. She closed her eyes and took in long, ragged, tearless breaths for many long moments. The hurt tore, left a raw wound. she hissed in her mind. Dana found herself clinging to that certainty. She must have faith in Mulder, for if she did not, certainly no one else would. When she raised her eyes, she gave Walter Skinner the sense of someone who had found an eye of calm within a storm. "It's all right," she murmured. "No," Skinner said firmly, "it is not all right!" There was a touch of anger in his voice, but not for her. "Did Agent Mulder make a habit of this sort of thing?" She looked at Skinner, insulted for Mulder's sake. "Sir, what sort of 'thing' are your referring to?" "You know what I'm talking about. I think from the evidence it's pretty clear what went on here." Dana raised her chin, felt the shock, the betrayal, replaced by her own kind of anger. "Regardless of what a lot of bureaucrats, gossips and busybodies might think, Agent Mulder is a dedicated professional. But he is also a man, not a saint... just a man with demons, which none of these people who snicker behind his back could ever begin to comprehend." "Do *you* have an explanation for this, Agent Scully?" Skinner asked sternly, "because if you do I'd like to hear it." His voice dropped to a softer pitch. "I think it's time for your 'personal' information to become public. At least to me." Dana sat down on the couch. Frowning, Skinner straddled the room's one chair in front of her and waited. After a moment, she asked, "Is this off the record, sir?" "Absolutely not," he said abruptly, and then read the set of her jaw. "I'll consider it." Her eyes were fierce as she stared at him. Astounded at her own defense of what - she could not deny it - of what Mulder had obviously done, Dana shut her eyes for a long moment. So Angela had succeeded in her plans, and Dana had not been in time. So why did it still hurt. "You were trying to contact Agent Mulder yesterday to give him a warning," Skinner started. "To give him a warning, yes," Dana began, "but it's too late for that now, isn't it?" Her eyes were accusing. "Agent Scully, ignoring this new 'matter', need I remind you that we still don't know for certain what happened here," Skinner said. "If Ms. Larson is ill, and someone obviously was, then maybe Agent Mulder took her to a hospital." "And packed all their belongings beforehand? And who was the woman who called the courthouse?" Dana asked. "Someone from a hospital would have identified themselves. If that was Angela, she wanted people to believe she was not Angela." "Then Agent Mulder must have moved them. Something must have happened to make him concerned for her safety. He may have felt 'other' parties were getting too close. He did try to contact McDowell." Skinner gave her his intense look again. "I can see from your expression that you don't think much of this. You seem to know a lot about what this is not. Tell me what you think this *is*?" Dana took a deep breath and decided to think like Mulder for once and make the leap of logic, follow that lightening path that had revealed itself in the courtroom. The fact that she did not have nearly enough evidence did not matter to her now. She had gone by the book and it had not gotten her anywhere. "I believe that Angela Larson wanted Reti Frantilli framed for murder. I believe she orchestrated the murder of Mitch Legget and then brought herself forward as a witness for that purpose." Skinner tensed, straightened. His eyes narrowed as the scope of his current problem enlarged exponentially. Even coming from Agent Scully, this was almost as unbelievable as some of Mulder's theories. "That's pretty extreme, Agent Scully. Do you have any facts to back your claim?" After almost a year working with Mulder, Dana could say, with confidence and without hesitation, "Not entirely, but I believe I can find sufficient evidence, maybe not enough to convict her, but enough to let an innocent young man go free." But would she be in time to stop another crime, maybe another murder? Skinner was staring at her. "Considering Reti Frantilli's association with the Chain, that would be a particularly stupid thing for her to do. It's a good way to get herself killed." "Unless," Dana offered, "her motive for choosing a high profile gang member was to insure that she would be asked to participate in the Witness Protection Program. And by appearing particularly 'unstable' she would be offered her choice of a protecting officer." Skinner shook his head unbelieving. "Mulder? You think she would do all that to get to Mulder?" "She was recently released from an mental hospital where she had been under treatment for eight years. He is one of the few people she seems to remember from that time." "I've become accustomed to Mulder's off the cuff theories, but this is like the plot of a bad movie." Skinner did not seem the least convinced. "But I have a feeling this is related to the 'personal' questions you report that someone has been asking. I've heard women think Mulder's a 'fox', excuse the expression, but he's not that cute. Besides, if she just *wanted* him, she could have hired two thugs to kidnap him, less chance that anything would go wrong, safer for her, cheaper than a hired gun." Dana stood up and started pacing. Her eyes were cold in their anger. "But that would have tipped him off. She didn't just want his body, Director Skinner. I don't even think this is about sex, though it figures in. This is about power and maybe revenge. She wanted power over him. Little did she know, she already had a significant edge, for Agent Mulder already felt a special responsibility for her commitment. I think she quickly found that out and I'm certain she used it against him." Scully thought, closing her eyes, and realized that Angela had managed, somehow, to do just that. "From what you are saying, I assume you've heard from the CIA." From Skinner's eyes Dana could see he was ready to believe her. "They never sent out an investigator, did they?" She nodded. "That is correct, sir. I received confirmation of that just before I left D.C. If Angela wanted to get into Agent Mulder's mind, if she, for instance, wanted to convince him that he had been right all along and she really had been abducted, then what better way to hook him than to come to him loaded with details only another abductee might know, especially one who had been held with Samantha." Skinner had nodded through much of what she had said. "You've not disclosed your sources. Assuming Angela Larson was the woman in Massachusetts and the woman who called asking 'personal' questions, I would be interested in knowing how you came by this information to begin with." They had reached the subject area which Dana had hoped to avoid. There were just some topics, like tribal taboos, which were still not discussed openly between members of the opposite sex, unless they were very close. Dana definitely did not feel that close to Walter Skinner, and doubted Mulder would want her discussing such private matters with him, but she felt in this instance, she did not have a choice. If it helped Skinner accept the danger that Dana felt in her heart of hearts Mulder was in, then she would risk his disapproval. Just as long as Mulder came home safely. "I received an email from an old 'friend' of Agent Mulder's yesterday. A few weeks ago she received a mysterious phone call, supposedly from a current girl friend of his, asking questions of a 'personal' nature... a very personal nature." That put it into context for Skinner who got a funny look in his eye. "Phoebe Greene," he began slowly. Dana's head came up. "I... met her when I went to London two months ago for a conference." Even his steady, normally controlled voice sounded embarrassed. "'Met'." Dana repeated meaningfully. "And did Agent Mulder's name come up in any of your *conversations*?" She was about to fume but then remembered. She was trying to defend what looked like Mulder's little indiscretion, so she'd best not throw rocks at Skinner's. Besides, once she thought about it, Skinner and Phoebe together was not such an outlandish notion. Skinner was a handsome man, well placed, and he would be especially attractive to someone like Phoebe who cultivated mature men with power. Dana suspected that Phoebe had kept the younger Mulder dangling so long only because she had enjoyed watching his squirm. But long term? The young Oxford graduate had been much too small a fish to be taken seriously; The current Mulder, too unconventional to be likely to rise high, not that Phoebe was the kind who would be willing to wait. Assistant Director Skinner stretched his neck and loosened his tie a little. "When she found out where I worked, Agent Mulder's name did come up. Yours, too." "Uh huh," Dana coaxed patiently. "Go on." Skinner was looking at a spot on the wall unrelated to Dana's position. "Phoebe's an amazing woman, and a handful to be sure. I gather years ago Agent Mulder had quite an affection for her." "Which," Dana snapped, "she threw back in his face, after she was finished playing with his head." Skinner waded into the uneasy silence. "Agent Scully, it is obvious you think Angela Larson manipulated Agent Mulder. You think she seduced him, too, don't you." Dana sat down in front her superior and looked at him with hard eyes. "Sir, I hope you are not one of those macho men who think males can only be the seducers and never the seduced." Skinner looked back at her without hesitation. "Oh, I believe it is possible. Remember," he confessed with much hesitation, "I've met Phoebe." Dana looked into Skinner's eyes and had to admit she believed him. "Sir, I *know* Agent Mulder. He would never have planned to become involved in this way with a case. I am certain he would not have even packed the 'evidence' which your team found. I'm certain that was hers. Sir, you know Agent Mulder, too. You know he has his weaknesses, especially about being too ready to believe, too receptive. His willingness to look at all possibilities, no matter how extreme, is what makes him exceptional at what he does. But as far as women goes, he can be more than a little naive. Yes, I believe it." A great sadness settled over Dana. As for Dana's more personal sorrow, her disappointment, she would not even put that into words, not even in her own thoughts. At that moment Dana suddenly recalled the look on his face as he had entered the canteen on Saturday. He had not been unhappy to see her, just unhappy to see her smiling and laughing with Evan Byers. She realized how it must have looked to him. So he had been wounded, once again, by a woman he cared for. Ironically, the woman was she. So he had had present disappointments to haunt him, too. Dana slumped. "Sir, I am as certain as breath that Agent Mulder regretted what happened, probably as soon as it was over. You've already said he left a message requesting a meeting with McDowell. Knowing Agent Mulder, he probably wanted to make arrangements to discontinue his involvement. I think Angela became frightened and did whatever she thought was necessary to prevent that." Skinner could put two and two together, too. "You asked for samples to be taken of the stomach contents and the oatmeal from the kitchen trash. You don't think Angela Larson has the flu, do you? Or that Agent Mulder had it either. You think she was poisoning him." "I know she was, and probably gave him a big dose this morning. Something strong enough to incapacitate him, so she could move him out of this house." Someone knocked gently, hesitantly, on the door. Agent Brooks came in holding something the size of a soup can in her gloved hand. "Sorry, sir, but we found this and thought Agent Scully would want to see it, considering her request. This is how we found it under the sink." It was an ancient can with a picture of a rodent on it, a rat on its back waving it's dead feet limply in the air. A measuring spoon sat on the lid. Dana closed her eyes against the sight and continued as if she had never been interrupted. "I believe she took Agent Mulder's car and took him - somewhere. Somewhere, she hopes, we will not be able to find." "That," Skinner began and then paused realizing what he was going to say. "That's a kind of abduction, too." Dana found she was still clutching the book.