Part 1/6 by Alyssa Fernandez zzzdoc@toolcity.net SPOILERS: no spoilers. RATING: Rated R, for sexual situations and a couple of swear words CATEGORY/RELATIONSHIPS WARNING: A straight X-files. Excessive UST, but no major lines are crossed. SUMMARY: It's Christmas time, and the agents are tracking a serial rapist--a rapist with some decidedly supernatural aspects. DISCLAIMER: The characters and situations of the television program "The X-Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Additionally, the crime of rape figures prominently in this story and is depicted in a thoroughly unrealistic way. Since it is not my intention to trivialize violent crime or to offend rape survivors, I wish to emphasize that this unrealistic treatment relates to the paranormal theme and is purely for literary purposes. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: Thanks to my Beta readers, Hildy and Kathy. The title is from a Paul Simon song, "You Can Call Me Al": He looks around, around He sees angels in the architecture Spinning in infinity He says Amen! and Hallelujah! It doesn't have all that much to do with the story; I just like Paul Simon. ****************************************************** He was standing at the window when she came to. Apparently the snow was still falling, and the hushed beauty of the snow-covered landscape had drawn him to the window. The bright winter sunshine lit his profile, so that for a moment the girl was robbed of breath--though how she could marvel at him even now, after what he had done to her, she did not know. The girl tugged weakly at the restraints which bound her spread-eagled on the bed. There was no give in them at all. Whimpering, she let her head sink back onto the pillow. He turned his face briefly to glance at her naked body. "Ah, you are still with the living, I see." The ghost of a smile hovered on his chiseled lips. She drew a deep breath, and gathered her courage. "I want to go home," she said. The demand came out sounding sadly plaintive. "You--you said you would let me go home if I did what you wanted." "And I will..." he mused. "Unfortunately for you, I did not put any clear time limit on fulfilling that promise." She squeezed her eyes closed. Every muscle in her body ached. The searing pain between her legs was pure torment. "Please," she whispered. "I'm only fourteen." He shrugged. "Thirteen, fourteen...what does age matter?" He went back to staring out the window. The sunshine flooding the room bathed him in its light. He looked, the girl thought with horrified fascination, more like a daydream than a nightmare. She licked her dry lips and croaked, "Why are you doing this to me?" "It is God's will," he said, and refused to say more. He felt no need to explain himself. He was not some delusional madman, nor some fanatical Apocalyptic preacher. Explanations were beneath him. "Please," she whispered again, the tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. "Let me go. You've already done it to me six times." His perfectly carved features softened into a smile. "Six times? Is that all?" he murmured absently, watching the snow outside float softly down. "And here I was, beginning to feel sated. I am slipping in my old age." Her face crumpled and she began to shake with her sobs. "Please," she wept. "Please..." "But my dear," he taunted in his melodious voice, finally turning the full force of his countenance her way. "You know you don't have to beg." She shut her eyes. "Oh, God! No more!" But her captor, merciless, stepped closer and unfurled his mighty wings... ******************************************************** FBI Headquarters 12/22/97 8:04 AM Mulder had his nose buried in a book when Scully came in. Typical Mulder, she thought. No greeting, no polite smile, no water-cooler conversation. Just a mountain of clutter cascading into several piles on his desk. She hung her coat on the coat tree. "Scully, did you know there are nine orders of angelic beings?" Mulder asked, without looking up from his book. She raised one eyebrow. "Is that with or without Michael Landon?" "No, seriously...Did you know that only the lowest ranks of angels concern themselves with human affairs?" "If you were God's right hand man, Mulder, would you really want to watch me do my laundry?" She went over and poured herself a cup of coffee, then carried it to her desk. "Why this sudden interest in angels?" He gestured to a folder on his desk. "New case. Serial rapist. He kidnaps fourteen-year-old girls." Scully winced. "Great. A pedophile. Just what I needed to put me in the Christmas spirit." Mulder looked up from his book. "Ah, but this is no ordinary pedophile. This one has wings." She should have known by now not to be surprised by anything Mulder said. She should have; but she still nearly choked on her coffee. "Wings?" "Yeah. And according to the victims' descriptions, the rapist is six and half feet tall, well-spoken, and looks"--he picked up a police report and read from it--"'like that Michelangelo statue of David, only much better.'" He set the report down again. "Scully, this guy makes JFK Jr. sound like Curly from the Three Stooges." "The fact that the victims are fourteen years old might have something to do with that, Mulder," Scully remarked. "It sounds like an adolescent fantasy." "If so, these adolescents have an unusually vivid fantasy life. The first victim was missing just five hours. In that period, she claims her captor raped her at least twenty times." "You mean, twenty different act of coitus? In five hours--with one male?" "Possibly more than twenty. She said she passed out a couple of times." Scully rolled her eyes. "I guess so." Mulder looked thoughtfully off into the distance, performing some mental calculation. "I mean, I consider myself pretty healthy, but twenty times?" he mused, seemingly to himself. "Nineteen, maybe...Yeah, that I could see..." Scully interrupted him. "It *is* medically possible, Mulder. There's a condition called priapism, characterized by persistent and abnormal erection. It can be caused by several diseases, or by vasoconstricting drugs." He shook his head. "Nope, Scully, that's not going to wash in this case. The victims were pretty clear on that point. These were completed acts, including both ejaculation and a brief refractory period." "Then maybe they were confused. Maybe there was more than one attacker, or penetration involved some foreign object..." He shook his head again. "Nope, I thought of that, too. The victims were specific: one rapist, and only the traditional equipment." Scully opened her mouth, then thought better of what she had been about to say, and closed it again. "The victims had blood drawn at the hospital, too," Mulder offered, in case she had been about to ask. "They passed a drug screen. No hallucinogens." "But--wings? An angel? Last time I checked, Mulder, angels weren't supposed to get their thrills from hurting people. I've watched 'It's a Wonderful Life' at least ten times, and I don't remember Clarence raping any fourteen year old girls." "Not all angels are good, Scully. Ever hear of Belial? Beelzebub? Lucifer? Even an angel can fall." "Where did this one fall to?" she asked dryly. "Arkansas? New Jersey?" "Ohio, actually," he answered, unruffled. "Four victims have come forward in the last three weeks. All were abducted, tied to a bed, and subjected to repeated sexual assaults over a period of five to seven hours. All claim that the rapist had wings." "If these girls were really raped, Mulder, then I'm certainly on their side," Scully said. "But has it ever occurred to you that maybe these stories are pure fabrication? Maybe each girl simply spent the day playing house with a boyfriend. The first one could have made up this story to cover her tracks, and then the rest simply followed suit." A sly smile tugged at Mulder's lips. "What?" Scully demanded. "Why are you smirking that way?" He leaned his tall frame back in his chair. "Scully, you never snuck off with a boyfriend in high school, did you?" She folded her arms across her chest, refusing to answer. "Because if you had," Mulder explained with lurking amusement, "you would know that claiming to be screwed senseless by a celestial being does *not* make a convincing cover story." ******************************************************** Youngstown, Ohio 12/22/97 6:30 PM Scully was glad that Mulder was driving. It was warm in the car, but the snow was really blowing outside. She could barely see the tail lights of the cars in front of them. Fortunately the near-blizzard conditions did not seem to bother Mulder. At the Cleveland airport he had uncomplainingly carried all their luggage to the rental car himself, allowing her to keep her hands in the warmth of her coat pockets and pick her way unburdened through the shin-deep snow. Then he had not even complained when she set the car's heater on full blast, though he never felt the cold the way that she did and she suspected he was probably roasting. She stared out the window into the wintry darkness. Investigating rapes was not her idea of the ideal way to spend the Christmas season. Normally they did not deal much with sexual assault cases, though in this instance the interstate abduction of the third victim from nearby Sharon, Pennsylvania, made it a federal crime. At least, she thought with a sigh, she could be proud so far of the way she had maintained her professional demeanor. She found it difficult sometimes to talk with Mulder about rape-related matters like erection and ejaculatory frequency. It was not his fault. He was always unabashedly matter-of-fact, and she knew that his primary focus was on solving the case. But sometimes, when he got that little smirk on his face, she found her medical detachment withering in a blast of immature thoughts. "Did you find anything interesting in the police reports?" Mulder asked. She started guiltily, and glanced down at the folder on her lap. "Nothing other-worldly, if that's what you mean. The lab work seems to be missing on the semen samples that were taken. Then again, I can't remember the last time a case file was one hundred percent complete. I'll just have to track down the paperwork." The car was quiet for a moment, except for the thunk-thunk of the windshield wipers and the low roar of the heater. "Scully," Mulder said thoughtfully, "Did it strike you as odd that all four victims were abducted from just outside a church?" "They were parochial school students, Mulder," Scully pointed out. "In each case, the church was just part of the school complex. I don't see anything particularly unusual about a pedophile hanging around a schoolyard. Maybe he has some sort of fetish for young girls in knee socks and blue plaid skirts." Mulder frowned. "That's another thing. Fourteen is an unusual age for a serial molester to target. Pedophiles normally prefer a victim with a childlike physique, and no evidence of secondary sex characteristics. Fourteen-year-old girls are typically post-pubertal." Scully watched the windshield wipers push the clumping snow from side to side. "Maybe he's acting out some unresolved conflict from his past..." "Maybe," Mulder said doubtfully. "Or maybe he's not a pedophile at all. Maybe in his opinion, fourteen is grown up." Scully turned her head to regard him quizzically. "Then why fourteen year olds, if he isn't interested strictly in little girls? Why not abduct older victims--sixteen year olds, twenty year olds, soccer moms?" "I have sort of a theory on that," Mulder said vaguely. "But I don't think I want to get into it just now." He turned the wheel, slowed, and shifted into park. Scully was surprised to find a glowing Budget Inn sign looming over them. She wondered how Mulder had managed to find the motel so easily in the twilight snowstorm. But, then, that was typical Mulder. Sometimes spookiness had its advantages. "I'll check in," he said, opening his car door. A frigid gust of winter air whipped past him as he stepped out. "Mulder--" she called, huddling deeper into her coat. He stuck his head back in the car. "Yeah?" "If you were going to say that he's counting on their being virgins," Scully said grimly, "it occurred to me, too." ******************************************************** End part 1/6 From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:05:04 1996 Angels in the Architecture - 2/6 by Alyssa Fernandez DISCLAIMER: See part 1. ****************************************************** Budget Inn 12/23/97 2:00 AM The ringing telephone woke Mulder from one of his favorite dreams. He fumbled for the receiver of the hotel phone, and picked it up only to hear a dial tone. Groggily, he realized the ringing was coming from his cell phone. He groped around the nightstand blindly until he found it. Damn, he thought vaguely as he flicked the telephone on. He wouldn't have minded finishing that dream. Though if Scully ever guessed what he'd been dreaming, she would probably kill him... "Mulder." There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. Apparently the caller had been expecting a more traditional greeting. "Is this Fox Mulder, with the FBI?" "Yeah." "Agent Mulder, this is Detective Kearney. I'm with the Youngstown Police Department," said the caller. "I got your number yesterday from the FBI branch office. It's about that rape case we've been working on..." "What is it?" "We caught a male-model type loitering near Ursuline a couple of hours ago. He says he was just cruising, but that's where our first rape victim was abducted. We're going to try him in a line-up around 7:30 AM. The victim is coming in then to take a look." Mulder rubbed his temple. "Yeah, okay," he said. "We'll be there." He hung up, and blearily checked the clock. Two o'clock in the morning. He switched to the hotel phone and dialed Scully's room. She answered on the second ring. "What is it, Mulder?" she mumbled, her voice still scratchy from sleep. He smiled. "What makes you so sure it's me?" "Who else is going to wake me up at this hour?" He thought for a moment. "Maybe someone who just wants to do a little heavy breathing?" "Then I would *know* it was you." "Sorry, Scully," he said, grinning into the darkness. "Just thought you'd want to reset your alarm. We have to be at a police line-up at 7:30." "Okay." He could hear her yawn on the other end of the line. "I'll meet you outside at 7:00, then..." "Okay. 'Night, Scully." He hung the receiver back up, and rolled over onto his back. Scully must have been sleeping soundly. Her voice had sounded drowsy and contented. He was sorry he'd had to wake her. ...Or maybe, he admitted with unaccustomed honesty, not so sorry. He felt a little twinge at his own selfishness. He knew Scully had had to cancel most of her holiday plans for the sake of this investigation. He also knew that he'd dragged her through a northern Ohio snowstorm on what would likely turn out to be a wild goose chase. But he couldn't really feel repentant about it. Working with her was the only bright spot in an otherwise bleak season. He hated the holidays. Without the excuse of this case, he would undoubtedly be spending this time alone. Even the case wasn't ideal, of course. He wished it were not rapes they were investigating. Not only did the violation of fourteen-year-olds make him want to throw up, but, as much as it pained him to admit it, he felt a little uncomfortable discussing sexual assault with Scully. She was always cool and professional and adult; he, for some reason, almost had to force himself to say words like "ejaculation" and "coitus." The whole situation made him feel like some hopelessly inept schoolboy. He wished he knew why it embarrassed him so much. He was a fucking Oxford-trained psychologist, for god's sake. He had not only *said* most of those words before, he had actually done them...or seen them...or whatever. He was not supposed to get all flustered just because Scully said "erection." So what if she was nice Catholic girl? She was also a doctor and his partner. Just trading professional opinions was not supposed to get him rattled. But it did. At least he was doing a good job of hiding his discomposure, he thought tiredly. At least he had not actually turned red or, worse yet, been unable to meet her eye. At least she did not know that he wanted to wince every time he heard himself using a stupid euphemism like "doing it" or "equipment." At least he had been able to cover some of the worst embarrassment with jokes. Immaturity. It was a failing he was sure Scully could not possibly understand. ********************************************************* Youngstown Police Headquarters 7:40 AM The victim shook her head. "No, I'm sorry," she said, her voice slightly unsteady. "I don't see him there." "You're sure?" asked Detective Kearney. "Positive," sighed the girl, looking through the glass at the line-up. "He was much taller than any of those men. Also way, way better looking. He had a face like a statue, a really beautiful face." "And wings..." muttered the frustrated detective. The girl blushed. "Yeah, wings," she agreed, looking down at her shoes. "But I was already making allowances for those." The policeman frowned at her. He was obviously not happy that the line-up was a failure. He did not even try to hide his skepticism, or his disapproval. Mulder spoke up. "Miss Slezak, do you think you could answer a few questions for us?" he asked. "My partner and I are with the FBI." The girl looked in surprise from Mulder to Scully. "I have to get to school." Scully smiled gently. "We won't take up much of your time," she said. "Just a few things we need to know. We can talk next door." The girl hesitated, then nodded her acquiescence. She slung her backpack over one shoulder and headed out into the hallway. Mulder turned to follow her. Scully grabbed him by the elbow. "Mulder, this girl's been through a lot," she murmured. "And at age fourteen, she's probably already fairly self-conscious around men. I think we'd get further if I talked to her alone." He considered for a moment. "I guess you're right, Scully." "Good," she said. "You can observe from behind the glass. The room next door is set up for questioning." Scully found the girl sitting straight-backed in a chair, arms braced defensively on the table in front of her. She was a strikingly pretty girl--still showing a few signs of the gawkiness of early adolescence, but with pale, clear skin and long, red-gold hair. She was dressed in her school uniform. Judging from her dry eyes and the self-possessed way in which she had examined the line-up, Scully thought she was handling the rape remarkably well. Scully offered a small, reassuring smile, and sat down across from her. "Now, Miss Slezak--" "Miri," the girl corrected. "Miri," Scully agreed. "I'm Agent Scully. There are a few things I need to ask about because they weren't very clear in the police report." She took out her notebook and pen. "First of all, could you tell me how your attacker approached you? Did he speak with you first? Did he try to lure you into his car?" "No." The girl shook her head. "He just--grabbed me, you know, from behind. He threw my jacket over my head so I couldn't see, and then made me get into the trunk. I never even got a look at him until later--after he tied me up." "And you have no idea how far he drove you, or in what general direction?" "No. I think he took me somewhere out in the country, because I never heard any voices outside or any cars driving by, and the house felt really big and old and empty. But I'm not even sure about that." "Did it appear to be his home, or just an abandoned building?" "I don't know...Like I said, he kept my jacket over my head. But in the room where he tied me up, the only furniture was the bed. It was a really big bed, one of those old ones with big tall posts at the corners, like Scarlett had in 'Gone With the Wind.'" "Okay." Scully kept her tone brisk. "How was he dressed?" "I never saw him dressed," said Miri, blushing. "By the time he took the jacket off my head, he wasn't wearing any clothes. And he blindfolded me again before he let me go." Scully made a quick entry in her notebook. "He told me not to be afraid," the girl blurted out suddenly. "But it hurt. I mean, I haven't really had any prior experience with these kinds of things, Agent Scully, if you know what I mean. It hurt a lot. He was...you know, big." "You mean heavy-set?" "No--I mean, um, anatomically." She held up her hands. "It was about like this." The girl's hands were spaced a full foot apart. Scully's eyes widened slightly. She quickly ducked her head and made another entry in her notebook. As she did so she remembered Mulder, observing from the other side of the glass. She looked up from her writing. "Did he have any sort of accent, any unusual mannerisms?" Miri frowned. "Not exactly an accent, but the way he talked was kind of different. He sounded aloof and really educated--cultured, I think you'd call it." Scully's pen hovered over the page. "And I also noticed something when he was on top of me," Miri continued. "The house was absolutely quiet--no TV, no radio, not even a clock ticking. But I could hear music. It sounded like it was coming from all around the house. The same song, over and over...'Jesus Christ, Superstar.'" Scully blinked. "'Jesus Christ, Superstar'?" The girl nodded. "And I know nobody believes me about the wings," she rushed on defensively. "I don't know how to explain them myself. I saw this weird old movie once on cable, 'Barbarella' I think it was called, and that's the only other place I've ever seen anything like it. There was an angel in that movie who had wings just like this guy did. But I'm not making it up." Scully made another note, this time on the movie Miri had just mentioned. In her neat script she added the question, "Suggestible?" She was careful not to let Miri see. Just then the girl leaned suddenly closer, as if she were about to speak. But instead she frowned and slumped back in her chair, looking uncertain. Scully looked up. "Yes?" she prodded. "Is there something else you wanted to tell me?" The girl glanced over her shoulder, as if to assure herself that no one else was listening. She leaned forward. "Agent Scully, if I tell you something, will you promise not to be shocked?" she asked in a low voice. Scully nodded slowly. "I haven't told anyone else this. I'm afraid they might think there's something wrong with me," Miri said. "But if I don't tell someone, I think I'll go crazy." Scully gazed at her. "I'm here to help you, Miri." The girl sighed. "This is going to sound sick..." she said unhappily. "I mean, I really was terrified. Even if he didn't kill me, I thought I was going to die from sheer panic. And I don't want anyone to think I *asked* for what happened, because I didn't. But..." She faltered. "Yes?" said Scully again. Miri frowned. "Agent Scully, when I said I passed out, everyone just assumed it was from the pain or the fear or something. It wasn't that. I wish I could say it was--then maybe I wouldn't feel so messed up about all this. It was that I...That he"--Miri gulped--"well, even though in one way it hurt, in another way what he was doing felt really amazing." Scully just stared at her. Was the girl saying what she thought she was saying? Scully could feel the color rising in her face. Miri looked down at the table, flushing. Scully dragged her thoughts ruthlessly back from the unprofessional territory into which they were wandering. "I think that's enough questioning for today, Miri," she said, giving the girl a tight smile and rising to her feet. "I know you have to get to school. I want to thank you for talking with me. I'm sure this whole incident must be something you'd rather put behind you." Miri got up uncertainly. "That's all?" Scully nodded. "Yes, for now. We'll get in touch with you if we have any more questions." Miri picked up her backpack, and slipped quietly out. A moment later, Mulder appeared in the doorway. Scully looked up at him grimly. "Well, you heard her, Mulder," she said. He watched her straighten up her notes, an odd look on his face. "Yeah, I heard her, alright." Scully moved toward the door. "It's pretty clear to me we can safely dismiss these 'angel' references. As frightening as her experience may have been, there's clearly a large element of fantasy woven into her account." "What makes you so sure it's fantasy?" he asked, holding the interrogation room door open for her and then falling into step beside her. "Mulder, she brought up the movie 'Barbarella' on her own," Scully explained patiently. "Not to mention her description of her attacker. Weren't you paying attention? She's claiming she was held captive by a cultured Adonis who brought her to swooning orgasm twenty times in five hours with his untiring twelve-inch penis." Mulder jammed his hands glumly into his pockets. "Actually, Scully, I'm kind of hoping this guy really is an angel," he sighed unhappily. "Because, otherwise...he's definitely giving me a complex..." ******************************************************* End part 2/6 From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:06:29 1996 Angels in the Architecture - 3/6 by Alyssa Fernandez DISCLAIMER: See part 1. ****************************************************** They were halfway through the parking lot when Scully remembered that she had a question for Detective Kearney. Mulder debated warming up the car, but instead followed her back into the squad room, past the garish Christmas garland and the cartoon reindeer that were strung along the police station walls. He told himself that he just didn't want to wait out in the December cold. Deep down, he knew it had more to do with keeping Scully at his side. A uniformed officer pointed the detective's desk out to them. Kearney was hunched over his coffee, talking on the phone. From the sound of things as they approached, he was complaining to his wife about the unsuccessful line-up. Scully caught the words "friggin' wings," and "stuck-up Feds" before Mulder cleared his throat. The detective glanced up and flinched. "Oh, uh, look--I gotta go," he said, speaking quickly into the phone. "I'll call you again later, okay?...Yeah...Me too." He hung up, and looked uncomfortably from Mulder to Scully. "Yes? Something I can do for you two?" "Detective Kearney," Scully said, "I noticed a problem with the file on these rapes. I didn't see any lab analysis on the semen samples. Didn't the department send specimens to the lab?" The detective's face reddened. "Of course we sent them to the lab, Agent Scully. We may just be a local police force, but we're not completely incompetent, you know." "I wasn't implying otherwise, Detective. But there was no lab work in the file. What happened to it?" He frowned unhappily at Scully. "I haven't gotten any back yet. I figured the lab was just taking a little longer than usual." He chewed his lip. "I can phone them about it, if you want." "I'd appreciate that." "Sure," he said grudgingly. "But it might take a few minutes." Mulder strolled off a few steps to give the detective some breathing room. Scully followed. Mulder folded his arms and propped his back against the squad room wall. As he did so, he noticed a young cop eying Scully. Get lost, buddy, he thought to himself, she's out of your league. Just to be safe he inched a little closer to her, guarding his territory. "It's too bad the victim says she was blindfolded most of the time," Scully said. "Yeah," he agreed lazily, watching Kearney as he spoke on the phone. "I wanted to know more about the wings. Like, what kind of clothes would he wear? I'd think it would be really tough for him to buy off the rack. And not only that, but those wings would have to be in his way when he was driving..." She stared at him. "Tell me you're joking." "What, you think maybe bucket seats...?" "No!" she laughed incredulously. "I can't believe you're still talking about the wings. Mulder, how can you possibly believe the wings ever existed? Didn't you hear how unrealistic that girl's story was?" "At least some of it had to be true," he argued. "The rape unit collected semen samples at the hospital." "I never said she wasn't raped, Mulder. But rape isn't a primarily sexual act. It's a violent crime. It certainly isn't enjoyable. Yet that girl talked about her 'rapist' like he was some sort of demigod." "An angel *is* a sort of demigod, Scully." "An angel is also an imaginary creature. An imaginary creature, I might add, that isn't generally known for molesting schoolgirls. She made that up." "Give the girl a break, Scully. She had rope marks on her wrists and ankles." "I don't mean she fabricated the rape. It's obvious from her medical records that she's been the victim of a sexual assault. I mean her account of her assailant is essentially unreliable. She's clearly substituted fantasy elements for the actual details." "But why? She was only gone five hours. That's a little quick for a brainwashing," Mulder pointed out. "She has no history of mental illness. She reported the rape voluntarily, so I doubt she's trying to protect the assailant. And there have been three other victims--all with virtually identical stories." "The other victims probably heard about Miri's case on the news, and adopted elements of her story," Scully said. "Adolescents can be easily influenced. Remember the Salem witch trials? One hysterical girl after another claimed she'd been the victim of witchcraft." Mulder frowned. Across the room, rookie-cop was still giving Scully the eye. Go on, Mulder thought resentfully, get your own partner. To Scully he said, "So you think this is just mass hysteria?" "I accept that the girls were really raped," Scully answered. "At least there's evidence to support that. I'm just not willing to buy the rest of it. I sincerely doubt that the rapist was really an erudite, body-building super-being with a massive twelve-inch p--" "I get your point, Scully," Mulder interrupted hastily. "Maybe some of it is a little hard to believe. But I still say there's more to it than just wishful thinking. What about the music the victim heard?" "'Jesus Christ, Superstar'? I'd say that feeds directly into the fantasy, wouldn't you, Mulder? She even claimed it wasn't the radio. The song just floated down from the heavens." "No, she said it came from outside. She never implied it had a heavenly origin. And does that really sound like heaven to you--hearing the same Andrew Lloyd Webber tune played over and over? Because if that's the best I can hope for, Scully, I'm not dying." Scully shook her head in resignation. "Give up, Mulder," she said pityingly. "This is one argument you aren't going to win. She invented the story." Two desks away, Detective Kearney hung up the phone. "Agent Scully?" he called, beckoning. "I got the information you wanted." Scully moved back to his desk, Mulder following. "You were able to track down the paperwork?" Kearney shook his head. "Not exactly. It turns out there isn't any. That is, there was, but the lab threw it all away." "They--what?" The lab had thrown its own work away? Scully had heard of mix-ups before, but this took the cake. Kearney scratched his jaw. "Apparently they've been having some kind of equipment problems. I don't really understand all the technical jargon, but it seems the computer was giving them some kind of junk data. Like, they always do this test on the semen, some kind of blood type--" "ABO blood typing, on the genetic markers in the seminal plasma," Scully supplied. "Yeah, ABO. That's what the guy said. Only the computer kept telling them the samples we sent weren't testing correctly. They had to run the tests over and over." "What do you mean, they weren't testing correctly?" asked Mulder. Kearney swiveled his head to look at him. "I mean the blood type wasn't coming out A, B, O, or any combination of the above. The computer just said 'data error.' They did the test four times and it just kept screwing up." Scully traded a glance with Mulder. "What about other testing?" "More computer problems. Everything they did came out ass-backwards. Like, they said they tested this stuff for some chemical that's supposed to prove it's really semen--" "ACP," Scully furnished. "Prostatic acid phosphatase." "Yeah, that was it," Kearney agreed, nodding. "And what?" demanded Mulder, frustrated at the detective's plodding explanation. "It turned out not be semen after all?" "No," said Kearney, blinking at him in surprise. "It was semen, okay. But the lab values were through the roof--like, a hundred times what they were supposed to be." Kearney shrugged. "The lab is calling the equipment manufacturer to come and fix whatever's wrong." Scully sensed rather than saw the smirk which transformed Mulder's face. Data errors. No blood group. Super-concentrated semen... Why, she wondered, did these sort of anomalies always show up just *after* she had given him one of her "rational explanation" speeches? ********************************************************* He was not pleased with his choice this time. The girl was a disappointment, plain and simple. It had taken her nearly twenty minutes to calm down after he had removed the blindfold. And, even then, she had not spoken a word. She had merely gaped at him, dumbly giving in to her fate like some barnyard animal submitting to its slaughter. He had raped her three times in quick succession. Not because he found her beautiful or even interesting--this time, it was more to take the edge off his own annoyance. Her face had been red and mottled from all the crying she had done. She had sniffled occasionally as he worked in her, making an inelegant hiccuping sound which set his teeth on edge. No, he was not pleased. But at least she was young and healthy, he thought as he took his customary post-coital stretch before the window. That was what mattered most. He stared out at the drifting snow, hands braced against the jamb. Ah, well. He must not be too hard on himself. There were so many ignorant young women these days. Certainly the odds had been against him. On the bed behind him, the girl came unexpectedly to life, shattering the peace and quiet. "I don't want to die," she cried out suddenly. "Don't kill me!" He turned his head and stared at her. "Kill you?" he said coolly. "Don't be melodramatic." "You're going to kill me! You are!" she shrieked. He raised one mocking eyebrow. "My dear, calm yourself. Killing you would be decidedly counter-productive. One cannot beget a child on a dead girl." She had been thrashing hysterically, but at this she froze. "You--you want me to have a baby?" "Not just *a* baby," he corrected. "My baby. A very special baby. 'And he doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men, and deceiveth them that dwell on the earth by the means of those miracles which he had power to do.'" "What is that?" she asked dully. "What do you mean?" "I mean for my child to do these things. 'For it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.'" Seeing her look of confusion, he smiled in faint amusement. "Do they teach you nothing in that school of yours, my child? Nor in that church you attend?" She turned her head away. "You're not making any sense." "Those of you who think you know everything are annoying to those of us who do," he replied. The twentieth-century cliche pleased him so well that he added more charitably, "I was quoting from the Bible." "Oh." "The book of Revelation," he explained. "You are not familiar with it?" "Of course I am," she said. After a moment she added, "Well, I've heard of it, anyway. But my parents don't let me watch 'Millennium.'" She surprised a laugh from him. He turned back to the window, his perfectly-cut features once again silhouetted in the silvery light. "Rest assured, I'm not going to kill you," he said. "I have more important plans than that. For too many years to count, I have praised and exalted and served. Now I want something more. The time is drawing nigh." "What time?" she asked. "Christmas time?" "No, my dear." He thought for a moment. "And yes. Yes, I suppose you are right...Christmas time is coming soon. I suspect I will be gone by Christmas." She wondered if she was supposed to know what he was talking about. "Where are you going?" "I am not sure..." he said. "But I will be gone by Christmas--yes, I am quite certain of it. 'Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, this bird of dawning singeth all night long...and then they say no spirit dare stir abroad; the nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, no fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm; so hallowed, and so gracious, is that time.'" His voice had sunken to a murmur. He was still staring out the window, but she sensed that he was no longer looking at the snow. She gathered her courage and asked, "Is that from the Bible, too?" The question broke him from his reverie. He turned to her and smiled. "No, my little ignorant one," he said sadly. "Hamlet." "Oh," she sighed. "For some reason I thought it had something to do with God." "It does..." he murmured. "And with Christmas. And"--his expression grew even more sober--"with me." ******************************************************* Mulder wanted to shoot himself. Just whip out his Sig, take off the safety, and blow off the top of his own head. Or at least do enough damage to ensure brain-death. Yeah, brain-death would probably do it. At least then he wouldn't be able make an utter ass out of himself any more. Maybe Scully hadn't noticed, he thought hopefully. But, hell, how could she not have? How could she not notice a grown man actually flinching every time she said the words "twelve-inch penis"? How could she not notice a grown man turning as red as a beet? What was wrong with him, anyway? Didn't he have *any* professional detachment? Apparently he couldn't talk about anything sexual--in proper clinical terminology, yet!--without turning into a hormone-crazed fifteen-year-old. Yet Scully, it seemed, could say absolutely anything with perfect coolness. He had been embarrassed enough when she had used that phrase in the police station. TWELVE INCH PENIS--he could still hear the words echoing in capital letters in his head. But the worst moment had come later in the car, when he and Scully had been on the way to the hospital which had treated the victims. For some inexplicable reason, he had been unable to keep from bringing up the topic of semen. Semen, for god's sake! "So what do you think the odds are that a non-angelic, un-winged rapist would have one-hundred times the normal concentration of ACP in his ejaculate?" he had asked. Scully had turned to skewer him with a look. "Who says he really had that much? I thought Detective Kearney said it was a computer error." "Scully, you know it wasn't," he insisted. "One erroneous result I could see, but test after test? Come on, what do you think the odds are? A non-ABO blooded, super-potent rapist..." "Mulder, an unusually high ACP level does not make a man more potent. If anything, it would probably reduce fertility. I doubt that sperm would really thrive in semen with the pH of a lemon." "A lemon?" He rolled his eyes. "God, like women need another excuse to avoid fellatio..." Scully took a long, slow, calming breath. "Mulder," she said in a voice of barely-controlled exasperation, "enough, already. This whole X-file is predicated on a schoolgirl fantasy. Get it? A fantasy. A fantasy that, for some reason, seems to be threatening to your male ego. Now even the ambiguities in the lab work are feeding your insecurities." He could feel the blush rush over him like the blast from a nuclear detonation. He did not dare to look at her. He was quite sure his face must be scarlet. "I don't have any insecurities," he said tightly. "Fine," said Scully, staring out the car window at a plastic lawn-Santa, "Whatever you say." "I don't, Scully. Really. I'm not insecure," he protested. "Sheesh...can't you take a joke?" He meant it to come out sounding light and teasing, to cover his terrible embarrassment. But he was struggling too hard for a little bravado. He realized even as he said the words that they practically screamed "Ice Queen." Scully was silent. Oh, god. What had he just said? He braced himself for her scathing reply. Or for a quick flash of Irish temper. Or for the hearty laugh she would have at his expense--the blushing porn-obsessed nerd, daring to call her maladjusted... Pot! Kettle! Black! But when at last she spoke, it was with a note of weary resignation. "Look, Mulder, it's Christmas time," she sighed. "I know that doesn't mean much to you, but it does to me. I could be back home trimming my tree, instead of sliding over icy roads in a rental car that smells like an ashtray. I could be shopping for presents with my mom, instead of investigating a series of rapes involving confused young girls. And I could be curled up on my sofa getting weepy over 'A Charlie Brown Christmas,' instead of trading ejaculation quips with you. So please, Mulder," she said, turning to him with a beseeching look, "please give me a break." He had swallowed past the lump in his throat. Yep, definitely his Sig, he thought with a painful grimace. Right through the brain. No more immature remarks. No more insensitive blunders. Just one little bullet ought to do it... ****************************************************** End part 3/6 From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:08:21 1996 Angels in the Architecture - 4/6 by Alyssa Fernandez DISCLAIMER: See part 1. ******************************************************* Dr. Paul Moore, the chief resident at St. Elizabeth's emergency department, turned out to be a sincere young doctor of average height, with nicely curling brown hair and John Lennon spectacles. Scully liked him right away. Mulder, for some reason, thought he looked like an insinuating suck-up. But that might have had something to do with the way he kept smiling at Scully, the smug little bastard... "So, Dr. Moore," Scully said after introducing herself, "I understand that you examined three of the four rape victims in the parochial school case." "That's right,” the doctor agreed. “They all came in at between eight and ten o'clock in the evening, when I was just lucky enough to be on duty. Of course, most of the attendings had been at home for hours by then, drinking martinis and enjoying their twenty-thousand-dollar home theater systems..." Scully smiled. "I was a resident once, too, Dr. Moore." "Really?" he said, surprised. "Not emergency medicine, I suppose?" She shook her head. "No, forensic pathology. But the hours were almost as cushy, I assure you." They were standing in an exam room, a harshly-lit, sterile cube which a few enterprising hospital employees had tried to turn festive with construction-paper angels and the ubiquitous tinsel garland. The paper angels were effeminate looking creatures, Mulder noticed. They had blonde page-boys and held their hands clasped serenely in front of them. Perversely he wondered whether any of the demure robes hid the construction-paper equivalent of a twelve-inch penis. "I didn't know the FBI employed physicians," Dr. Moore was saying to Scully, clearly impressed. "Not too many. But it's interesting work." "I'll bet. Any need for a good trauma guy with a background in biochem? I'm a great cook, too, in case you were wondering." "Look, if I can interrupt this little meeting of the Doctors Without Dates society," cut in Mulder nastily, "I have a few questions I'd like to ask about the rapes we're investigating." Dr. Moore flushed, and glanced guiltily at Mulder. "Sorry," he said. Mulder avoided Scully's glare, though he could feel it burning through him. "I suppose you know there were some pretty unusual aspects to the victims' testimony," he said to Dr. Moore. "Did you see anything unusual in your examinations that would either support or discount their stories?" Dr. Moore folded his arms over his chest. "I saw lots of unusual stuff. Restraint marks on the patients' wrists and ankles. A pronounced degree of vaginal tearing. The fluorescing light we use to detect the presence of semen practically lit up the room. But I don't know if any of that necessarily supports their stories, Agent Mulder. Actually, it struck me as more indicative of gang rape." "What about the second and third victims you saw?" asked Scully. "Were they consistent in telling the same story from the beginning?" "Are you asking if their descriptions evolved over time, to match the first patient's account?" Dr. Moore shook his head. "Sorry, Dr. Scully. They all said the same thing right off the bat. 'Wings' and 'incredibly good-looking'--not to mention an impossible number of sexual encounters." "So there's nothing you can tell us that you haven't already mentioned to the police?" Mulder asked. "No," said the doctor. "Believe me, I'd help you if I could. Did you know that studies show only seventeen percent of rape victims come to an emergency room for treatment? Which, to my way of thinking, means this guy probably has more than just four victims. He probably has more like twenty." *Twenty?* Mulder thought in amazement. Twenty victims times approximately twenty acts of coitus each...Four hundred individual acts in about one month. Jesus. If Scully ever figured out what he was thinking, she would have the word "insecure " tattooed on his forehead... "I'm just hoping you catch this guy before one of these girls turns up pregnant," said the doctor, reaching for his beeper and checking it for pages. "The last thing a fourteen-year-old rape victim needs is a baby." "Don't you give them some kind of morning-after pill?" Mulder asked, frowning. "Isn't that standard procedure following a rape, even in a hospital with religious affiliations?" "We counsel them about it," Dr. Moore explained. "But it's up to each patient whether or not she consents to take anything. So far, these patients have all been from strict Catholic backgrounds. Two of the three I treated refused on religious grounds to ingest anything that might terminate a possible pregnancy. And, like I said, there may be additional victims we don't even know about." "Thank you, Dr. Moore. We're sorry to have interrupted your work," said Scully, figuring they'd hit another dead end. "No problem, Dr. Scully. Any time." He smiled at her, then remembered Mulder and glanced uneasily in his direction. But Mulder wasn't paying attention. Instead he was staring out the exam room door, his eyes fixed rather vacantly on a crepe-paper Christmas star that the hospital nuns had tied above the reception desk. Young girls...fourteen-year-olds...virgins. Catholic girls who would not take contraceptive medication. An angel...and the promise of a baby... "Christ," he breathed, everything suddenly becoming clear. Scully heard his whisper. She had been irked at him over his dating wisecrack, but her anger vanished as she took in his pale face and wide, staring eyes. He looked as if he were seeing a ghost. "Mulder," she said, putting a hand on his sleeve, "what is it?" "Christ," he breathed again, still not looking at Scully. His skin had gone paper-white. "Or maybe--Antichrist..." ********************************************************* By the time Scully said good-night to Mulder and closed the door of her motel room, she was exhausted, physically and mentally. From the early-morning line-up to their last interview with the teen-age rape victims, she had been struggling all day to appear cool, objective, and professional. Now her energy was spent. She pulled a set of knit pajamas from her suitcase, tugged them on, and climbed gratefully between the sheets. She sank into the pillow with a sigh. Then she remembered that she had not yet brushed her teeth or set the alarm clock, and forced herself to drag her weary bones back out of bed. She wondered where Mulder got his energy. As if the angel factor had not been offbeat enough for him, he had added a new component to the case. Now he excitedly insisted they were on a mission to stop the birth of the Antichrist--shades of Damien and "The Omen." He had badgered her all through a late meal with his theories, throwing out so many arcane apocalyptic references that at times her fogged brain had been unable to keep up. In vain she had explained that the book of Revelation was never meant to be taken literally. In vain she had pointed out that just because the rapes were occurring at Christmas time did not necessarily mean they had any connection to Christianity. Even Mulder himself had not been able to explain the relevance of the demonic number "666" to this case. Well, not yet, anyway...She was sure he would come up with something sooner or later... Not that Mulder's theory particularly surprised her, she thought with exhaustion. After all, Mulder would not be Mulder if he didn't read supernatural involvement into even the most commonplace events. And, from a psychological stand-point, it *was* remotely possible that this rapist was singling out young Catholic girls to act on some sick Virgin Mary fetish. So Mulder's bizarre theory had not really been that disturbing to her calm... No, what had really rattled her was that argument in the car. Mulder was plainly carrying a grudge. That nasty dig about "Doctors Without Dates" in the hospital showed he was still steaming. He had been keeping his distance since then, too, studiously avoiding any small talk or friendly ribbing. And his hostility was completely justified. She had been way out of line. She still didn't know what had come over her... She didn't know? Ha! She knew perfectly well what had come over her. Sex. She simply couldn't talk with Mulder about sex. She was supposed to be the doctor. She was supposed to be the scientific one. She was Scully the Ice Queen. Yet put the words "Mulder" and "sex" together in her mind, and her brain immediately suffered meltdown. Oh, she could manage a joke now and then. But more often than not, sexual conversations made her turn uncomfortably self-conscious. Too many thoughts ran through her head at once: Was she blushing? Would he notice? And if he did, would he guess *why* she was blushing? Sometimes it actually threw her into a panic. Sometimes she was seized by an unreasoning fear that he could actually see into her thoughts. She worried then that the professional walls they had built between them might collapse without warning into rubble. She worried that she might involuntarily begin to send out all the signals she had thus far been so careful to suppress. She even worried that her thoughts might suddenly transform Mulder into an uncontrollable sex maniac, making him do something they would both regret. Talk about an X-file... Had she really lectured him about sexual insecurity? If anything, he was the one who had been behaving like an adult--treating the rapes with the exact same attention and irreverence that he always paid to any other case. *She* had been the maladjusted one: riding stiffly in the car beside him, silently praying that somehow he would refrain from mentioning anything remotely related to the rapes they were investigating...steeling herself to act blase...completely losing her cool when he finally made a harmless and expected joke. And then--she still cringed when she thought of it--projecting her own unease onto him, accusing him of feeling threatened. Very mature, Dana! Why not just come right out and announce, "Look at me, I'm completely uptight?" Of course he had picked up on her hypocrisy right away. He was not called "Spooky" Mulder, the FBI profiling wunderkind, for nothing. They didn't just hand out psychology degrees at Oxford. "*I'm* not insecure," he had corrected her bluntly. "Can't *you* take a joke?" She had wanted to sink into the ground. Sink, or open up her car door and jump out head-first into the oncoming traffic. Instead she had merely swallowed her pride and begged him to understand. It was Christmas! She was feeling out of sorts! Her mind was not on the job! Such weak excuses. Even now she could hardly stand to replay them in her head. It actually pained her to reflect on the day. Special Agent Dana Scully? Doctor? Ice Queen? God, she was a ten-year-old masquerading in a grown-up's body. Mulder must be either pitying her, or having a good laugh at her expense. ******************************************************** End part 4/6 From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:10:21 1996 Angels in the Architecture - 5/6 by Alyssa Fernandez DISCLAIMER: See part 1. ****************************************************** Budget Inn Youngstown, Ohio 12/24/97 7:45 AM Scully knocked timidly on the door of Mulder's hotel room. "Just a second," he called from inside, "I'm on the phone." The frigid northern air sliced through her. She ducked her head deeper into the collar of her coat, and turned her back to the wind. Christmas Eve, she thought bitterly. It's Christmas Eve, and I'm standing in the motel equivalent of a wind tunnel, knocking on the door of a man I've completely pissed off, just so I can spend the day focused on rapes. Finally the door swung open, and Mulder stood looking out at her. "Jeez, Scully, I'm sorry. You look frozen," he said, stepping back and opening his door wider to let her in. "I *am* frozen," she said, brushing past him. She hugged herself, shivering. "Come on, get your coat. We can go grab some breakfast." He glanced at her sheepishly. "Sorry, Scully. I already ate. I went for a run this morning and grabbed a breakfast burrito at a fast-food place." "Oh." Scully wondered if he had purposely eaten without her just to punish her for her outburst the day before. "How long have you been up?" He shrugged. "A couple of hours." "Well, then..." She tried to hide her disappointment that he had not bothered even to knock on her door. "In that case, I thought we could start checking out the parochial schools. Maybe there's a connection besides the religious element, like a workman or a delivery man who visits all of the campuses." He crossed to the desk on the other side of the room and picked up the keys to the rented Taurus. "Here, Scully," he said, returning and holding them out to her. "You take the car and check that out yourself. I've got a few phone calls I need to make." She stared at him. "What, you mean go without you?" "Yeah," he said. "You don't mind, do you?" "No..." she lied, and reached out hesitantly to take the keys from his hand. "You want me to come back and pick you up for lunch?" "No, that's okay. I can call you if I get finished in time to eat. Just keep your cell phone on." She nodded, and turned to go. "You sure you don't mind?" Mulder asked behind her. Of course she minded, Scully thought with irritation. Wasn't that the whole point of sending her away? Mulder was still angry with her, and this miserable little game of avoidance was his way of showing it. "Mind?" she said with exaggerated cheer. "Why should I mind?" ******************************************************** Mulder never called about joining her for lunch. Scully debated whether she should call him, but then decided not to. He had made a point of implying that he would probably be too busy. Her inquiries at the schools were getting her nowhere. For one thing, she found it nearly impossible to locate anyone on Christmas Eve. The staff were all off work and preparing for the holiday. She had to content herself with interviewing the home-owners who lived next-door to the schools, and that was turning out to be equally fruitless. It was also depressing her thoroughly. Every home seemed to boast an array of Christmas cards strung over the mantle and a richly trimmed Christmas tree. As she stood by the doorway questioning the adults, numerous toddler faces, pink with holiday excitement, peeped from around their parents' legs to regard her with curiosity. Carols played on every radio, and the houses all smelled of cookie baking, pine needles, and egg nog. At lunchtime, she didn't even bother getting out of the car. She had no desire to sit all alone in a restaurant, chewing her food in conspicuous isolation while strangers gawked at her. Instead she bought a chicken sandwich at a drive-thru window, and ate it at the red lights. Just to augment the self-pity factor, she pictured Mulder lunching in an intimate Italian restaurant, eating tiramisu and flirting with a mysterious, leggy brunette. Some Christmas Eve she was having... More questioning. More blind alleys. Lacking Mulder's uncanny sense of direction, she got lost three different times. She stopped and bought a map at a gas station, but it didn't help much. Apparently every major street in Youngstown had more than one name. Either that, or she just didn't know how to read a map. By a quarter to five the daylight had disappeared, and she was thoroughly discouraged. She had one last abduction scene to visit, however, and she made up her mind to squeeze it in. Unfortunately she misjudged the distance to the school. A misguided convenience store clerk had assured her that it was only about ten miles to Sharon, Pennsylvania. That might have been true from *some* point in Youngstown, but it certainly wasn't true for the route she took. She wound up completely lost in the dark back roads of Pennsylvania. At six thirty, she pulled over and reached for her cell phone. She supposed she ought to let Mulder know where she was. Not that he was likely to care; she just didn't feel comfortable, driving around in another state when no one knew her whereabouts. Besides, she was lost and depressed and hungry, and she wanted to hear his voice. But when she tried to dial the hotel number, she got a rude shock. Her phone was switched off. She had forgotten to turn it on at the start of the day. Oh, lord, she thought, hurriedly flipping the switch to "on" and punching in the digits. Mulder was going to be more unpleasant than ever. Hadn't he told her to keep her phone on? What if he'd tried to call her for lunch after all? What if something important had happened on the case? When the front desk put her through to Mulder's room, he answered on the first ring. "Mulder, it's me--" "Scully, where are you?" he demanded impatiently. "I've been trying to reach you for two hours." Just two hours? Well, at least she hadn't missed a lunch invitation. "I'm in New Castle, Pennsylvania," she said. "I should be back there in about half an hour." "Jeez, you could have checked in with me, Scully. I told you to keep your phone on. Not to mention I'm starving. What are doing in New Castle? What, did you get lost or something?" Scully sighed. Some Christmas Eve. ********************************************************* Mulder had had the world's most frustrating day. No Scully, no car, no lunch, and nine out of ten phone calls he had made had gotten him nowhere. Every person he'd tried to contact seemed to be either out Christmas shopping, or on some sort of extended holiday travel. And it was an important question he wanted to ask. He *knew* it was important. In the end, he'd just had to leave messages, trusting unreliable answering machines and even less reliable humans to relay his question. With nothing better to do, he'd turned on the TV in his hotel room and channel-surfed through daytime talk shows and every version of "A Christmas Carol" ever made. That had turned out to be even more boring than merely waiting for the phone to ring. Desperate for something to do, he had finally ended up stretched out on his bed with his hands behind his head, wiggling his big toes and counting the number of times in a row he could make his joints crack. No Scully. No car. No lunch. By the time four o'clock rolled around only two of his phone calls had been returned, and his stomach was growling. He bought a snack from a hotel vending machine, some sort of oatmeal cookie sandwich with gooey white stuff in the middle. It tasted so nasty that he spit it out and actually gargled with diet cola. Then he tried calling Scully. No ringing. No answer. No Scully. He had filled most of his empty hours that day with worrying. He had worried that Scully blamed him for ruining her Christmas, worried that Scully thought he was an immature jerk, and worried that she actually did know all about his sexual insecurities. He obsessed about her cheery reply that morning, when he had asked if she minded working without him. "Mind?" she had inquired brightly. "Why should I mind?" Why, indeed? Why mind leaving him behind? Why mind escaping the FBI's most unwanted? But those were typical Fox Mulder worries. They were nagging and personal and he lived with them on a daily basis. Now he began to worry whether she was okay or not. Now he began to sweat in earnest. When the phone finally rang, he pounced on it. And not because he hoped it was one of the Youngstown residents he had been trying to track down all day. No, he knew who he wanted it to be. And when he heard her voice, he literally sagged with relief. "Scully, where are you?" he blurted out anxiously. "I've been trying to reach you for two hours." ********************************************************* "Well, at least your day was better than mine," Scully said morosely over a dinner of Buffalo wings. "You got to stay inside in your warm hotel room, lazing around and watching holiday movies." "Yeah, it was a real frat party..." "Well, don't blame me because you decided to stay behind. You could have borrowed the phone book from your room and made all your calls from the car." Luckily, Mulder was spared from answering this--why *hadn't* he thought of just taking the phone book along?--by the trilling of his cell phone. He took the phone from his coat pocket and flipped it open. "Mulder," he answered. "Yeah, that was me." He nodded to the invisible person on the other end of the line. "Right, does that song mean anything to you?...Really? Including the sixth of December?" His face registered increasing interest. "Yeah, that's just what I've been hoping to hear. Thanks. And--good luck in Pasadena." He shut off the phone. Scully had been following his half of the conversation with growing puzzlement. "Mulder...?" she prodded gently. He grinned across the table at her, a smile spreading across his features. "I think we've found our rapist's lair. Or at least narrowed it down to a very small area." Scully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "How? What was that call all about?" "I'd been thinking about that song, 'Jesus Christ, Superstar,'" he said. "This morning I tried to get in touch with every high-school bandleader in the greater Youngstown area. That was the Mill Creek High band teacher just now. He says his students are going to California next week to march in the Rose Bowl parade. Guess what song they're going to be playing?" Scully felt a stirring of excitement. "This is just a wild stab, but would it happen to be 'Jesus Christ, Superstar'?" He nodded. "And they were out on the football field rehearsing it for over two hours the day Miri Slezak was abducted." Scully twisted in her seat to grab her coat. "Come on, Mulder," she said, jumping to her feet. "I have a sudden urge to go for a drive and look at the Christmas lights near Mill Creek High." ****************************************************** End part 5/6 From zzzdoc@toolcity.net Fri Dec 13 22:14:14 1996 Angels in the Architecture - part 6/6 by Alyssa Fernandez DISCLAIMER: See part 1. ****************************************************** Outside Youngstown, Ohio 12/24/97 11:55 PM It took three hours to get the search warrant for 666 County Line Road. Mulder was inclined to think they might have gotten it more quickly, but explaining to the judge why they wanted to search a vacant house with nothing to commend it except a few odd tracks in the snow and its proximity to a high school football field proved difficult. Mulder had considered it more politic not to point out the satanic significance of the street address. Now they were part of the law enforcement cordon surrounding the big, gabled Queen Anne farmhouse. Police cruisers with flashing red and blue lights were lined up and down the quiet rural road. Mulder crouched with Scully behind one of the police cars, staring up at the corner bedroom which he suspected was the site of the rapes. It was the only window with no frost on the panes. "What time is it, Mulder?" Scully asked as they waited for the police to finish securing the perimeter. He checked his watch by the strobing brilliance of the police lights. "Almost midnight," he said. "Well, let me be the first to wish you a merry Christmas, then," she said ironically, slipping off one shoe just long enough to dump a blob of melting snow out onto the rough gravel. "Any sign he's in there?" Mulder nodded. "One of the cops around the back says he saw somebody moving inside. There's no telephone service to the address, so we can't call in, but once we get the go-ahead we'll try contacting him over the loudspeaker." "What if it's not him? What if we've got the wrong house?" "It's him," said Mulder with absolute certainty. "I can feel it, Scully. It's him okay." "Mulder," Scully whispered, "If you get on that loudspeaker and say 'Come out with your wings up,' I'm going to tell Skinner." He smiled into the darkness. He was relieved that, despite his juvenile behavior the day before, she was still willing to joke with him. Not that he dared to read too much into it. He knew it was probably only excitement over the case that accounted for her teasing comment. She did not necessarily want him to tease back. "The police should be ready in just another minute--" Mulder began, then stopped as he noticed movement in the upstairs window. "Mulder?" whispered Scully. "Do you see that?" His mouth fell open. See it? He could not take his eyes off of it. A golden light glowed from the window. And in the center of that light, a breath-taking silhouette: the tall, superbly-proportioned figure of a man, broad-shouldered but with the lean grace of a classical athlete. The figure turned his impressive head, lazily surveying the forces gathered outside, and for an instant Mulder was reminded of a Renaissance statue, a Michelangelo or a Cellini, come impossibly to life. "Wings..." breathed Scully. "He really does have wings..." Mulder could only swallow, too awed to answer. An angel. It could only be an angel. Even in silhouette, he had never seen anything so beautiful before. Then, as they watched, the figure raised his hands above his head. But it was not the "hands up" gesture of a surrendering fugitive--instead, it looked more like a supplication, a salute or a prayer to some unseen force. "What's he doing?" Mulder whispered. "I want that loudspeaker--" But before he could finish the thought, there was a brilliant flash. And then, in front of all the watching eyes--his, Scully's, and the score of policemen's--Mulder saw the figure erupt into a sudden spout of flame. "My God!" cried Scully. "Somebody call a paramedic!" But for a seemingly endless interval no one could move. Not the policemen, not Mulder, not even Scully herself. Behind the window, the fire burst into a mighty column--raging, white-hot. And every last one of the witnesses stood frozen, transfixed by the terrible sight of an angel bathed in flame. ********************************************************* "Self-immolation," said Scully grimly, staring down at the still-smoking mound of ash and bone on the soot-blackened floor. "I put the time of death at about 12:01, Christmas day." Mulder dropped down onto his haunches to examine the remains. "Self-immolation? You think so, Scully? Because I don't see any signs of gasoline or matches anywhere around here..." "I don't think an asbestos barbecue could have survived that fire, Mulder," Scully answered dryly. "Imagine the suspect's state of mind. Discovered. Cornered. And he can't have been too stable to begin with." "Because he raped young girls? It's sick, granted, but it doesn't imply he was suicidal. Rape is usually not the act of a person who turns his frustrations inward." "Mulder, only a mentally unbalanced person would strap costume wings on his back." He leveled a piercing stare at his partner. "Costume wings? Come on, Scully..." "Costume wings," she said firmly. "They might have looked convincing in silhouette, Mulder, but that's all. There's no evidence to prove this man was anything but an ordinary rapist." No evidence? Of course not. It had all been incinerated, he thought angrily. What did Scully expect? And why should anybody believe him--he was only 'Spooky' Mulder, the outcast and insecure kook from the depths of the FBI basement. Why should she buy his theory that Christmas and divine retribution had arrived here at the same instant? Damned angel. He reached out and, very tentatively, poked one long finger at the ashes on the floor. A tingle traveled up his arm. But maybe Scully was right, he thought in a sudden generous impulse. What did it really matter now if the rapist had been an angel or a madman? Whatever had happened here, clearly justice had been meted out. At least he was confident that the rapes were at an end. From the antique bed to the silken restraints still tied to the carved bedposts, the scene fit the victims' descriptions to the last detail. He stood up and gazed soberly at Scully. "Scully..." he began awkwardly, dusting off his hands, "I'm really sorry..." She looked at him in surprise. "Sorry?" she said. "For what?" "For the other day, in the car," he said. "I shouldn't have said what I did. I guess it's important to remember that everyone reacts a little immaturely now and then." She looked down at her shoes and smiled. So her juvenile outburst was finally forgiven. She nodded, and sighed with immense relief, "Yeah. Thanks, Mulder." ******************************************************** Outside the J. Edgar Hoover Building Washington, D.C. 12/25/97 7:52 AM "Scully," said Mulder softly into her hair. "Wake up. We're here." Scully stirred, and opened her eyes. For a moment she could not remember exactly where "here" was. What was she doing waking up next to Mulder? And why did her neck feel as if she had slept sitting up? Then she looked around her, and realized that she *had* slept sitting up. She was in the front seat of the rental car, slumped against Mulder's shoulder. She straightened with a blush, and looked around. "What time is it?" she asked fuzzily. "Where are we?" "It's nearly eight," he said. "And we're back in D.C. You've been asleep since just outside of Pittsburgh." "Eight?" she asked. "It's still Christmas morning?" He laughed. "Yeah, Ebeneezer. You didn't sleep through the whole thing." He stretched his stiff right arm, the one she had been leaning against. "I just have to duck inside the office to get some paperwork, and then I'll drop you off at your place." The previous night came flooding back: the farmhouse, policemen, a brief conference with the coroner--and Mulder, looking down into her tired face and telling her that she deserved a better Christmas. He had wrapped up the investigation on his own. Then he had checked them out of their motel and loaded up the rental car for the six-hour drive to Washington--all so that she would not miss spending the holiday with her family. "Mulder, you can't do paperwork on Christmas," she protested. Though she knew even as she said the words that she might as well have saved her breath. Mulder was nothing if not single-minded. She suspected he would even be checking Youngstown area birth records for the next nine months, just to be sure no loose ends had slipped past him. He ignored her objection, as she'd known he would. "Wait here. I'll be back in a minute." He let himself out and began walking toward the building entrance. Scully watched from the front seat. For some reason Mulder's tall figure struck her as terribly forlorn--he looked so alone, trudging by himself through the deserted parking lot. On an impulse she got out of the car and started after him. "Mulder, wait!" she called. He turned around and regarded her in surprise. She caught up with him. "I figured I ought to make a pit-stop while I had the chance," she explained, sensing that some excuse was required. He smiled faintly, and they continued together toward the building. Scully debated whether or not to ask him the question which she had been turning over in her mind. She hated to think of him spending the holiday all alone. Finally she plucked up her courage and asked, "Mulder, instead of just dropping me off, why don't you come with me today to my Mom's?" He looked startled. "For Christmas? Scully, that's a family get-together. Your Mom doesn't need strangers dropping in unannounced." "You're not a stranger," she said. "You'd be very welcome." They entered the building, and signed their names for the security guard before turning toward the elevators. "So?" Scully persisted. "Will you come?" The elevator doors opened and they stepped in. "I'm not much of a Christmas person." "We won't make you wear a Santa hat, or sing 'God Rest ye Merry, Gentlemen,'" she assured him with a smile. "I don't know..." Mulder said. "Your family would probably get the wrong idea, if I came tagging along." The elevator stopped to let them off, and they made their way down the dark corridor toward the basement office. "No, they wouldn't," Scully insisted. "Besides, what if they did? It's not like we can't take a little ribbing. *We* know where we stand." "Yeah," he agreed half-heartedly, taking out his keys. He unlocked the office door and flipped on the lights. She followed him in, and waited as he opened first one of his desk drawers and then another, collecting letterhead and expense account forms. "Come on, Mulder..." she urged. "You can't really do paperwork on Christmas day." He didn't answer. "So what if my brothers tease us a little? It's not like I'd be uncomfortable around you, or you'd be uncomfortable around me. We're grown-ups." "Mmm-hmm," Mulder agreed, without looking at her. "I mean, what's the big deal?" she went on. "We should be able to spend the holiday together if we want to. We're partners. Two mature, professional people." "Right," said Mulder. For some reason he kept his eyes trained on his desk, staring with unwarranted concentration at the forms which he had stacked there. "Scully, why don't you go ahead and call the elevator, and I'll be right with you?" "Does that mean you'll come?" asked Scully hopefully. "Maybe..." said Mulder, turning faintly pink. "Yeah, I guess it does." Scully grinned, and hurried off to summon the elevator. ...And, in so doing, missed seeing a red-faced Mulder vault suddenly up onto the seat of his chair. He reached up, and yanked down the sprig of mistletoe that some FBI wag had taped to the ceiling above his desk. "Frigging smart-ass," he said of the absent prankster, tossing the offending mistletoe smartly into the wastebasket. "When I want your help, I'll ask for it..." ******************************************************* Once again, I fail to depict Mulder as a studly he-man. Oh, well. Thanks to all who provided such nice feedback after my first story. Comments are welcome--write me at zzzdoc@toolcity.net. And happy holidays!