"Too Close" 1/3 An X-Files Story by Jennifer Lyon Jenni10647@aol.com jennyann@ix.netcom.com -------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------- Disclaimer: The X-Files and the characters therof belong to Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, and FOX network. The remainder of this story is mine. Consider this taking place somewhere in the third season. I owe a big thank you to a few people: my editor, Debbie Hewett; Ann Vanderlaan and Lynne (Buddyed) for biblical information; and Suzanne (Ecksphile), Ray (Gylford), Pat (DiRisha) for reading this for me in progress and encouraging me to finish it. Finally, since I have never been to the FBI and have little knowledge of its internal workings, I am exersizing some fictional license, as I am towards certain parts of the Christian religion. No offense meant to anyone's beliefs. The story is unrelated to any I have previously written. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------------------------------------------- Prologue FBI Academy Quantico Virginia Special Agent Trainee Ezekiel Withers leaned back in the uncomfortable auditorium chair, his mind barely noticing the creak of the wood as he shifted his weight. All his attention was focused on the tall, slender man standing on the dais and the soft, but penetrating voice that spoke rhythmically, punctuated with sharp stops. The dark hair was slicked back, shimmering wet under the spotlight, yet already disarrayed, bangs sliding forward, a few loose pieces curling around his neck. Bright red spots on the speaker's tie were the only flash of color in his dark suit, the glimpses of the white shirt stark against the black of the jacket. But that red was a vivid echo of the gore on the screen, almost seeming to be a reflection rather than innate to the silken cloth. An image of a panther Ezekiel had once seen in the zoo flashed before his eyes and held, the big dark shape moving around its enclosure with the same sparity of motion, the same fluidity of muscle and bone as the man pacing the platform. Energy, power, held just below a surface which held the apparent calm of a pond on a clear summer day, barely hinting of the secrets trapped within its depths. A discordant voice broke through the spell the lecturer wove and Ezekiel jerked in his seat, as though coming awake from a dream. His pen dropped from his hand with a loud clatter, and he bent to pick it up, grateful for an excuse to hide the blush that crept into his cheeks as others turned in his direction. Picking up the pen, he nonchalantly settled back into his chair as though nothing had happened, and was glad to see the guest lecturer's bright eyes focused on another student while he spoke. Question, then answer, then back into the flow of the talk. Slide after slide of horror made subject, death turned into bare fact. And yet with a certain reverence always, a softening in that rich voice, a haunted look in those burning eyes. A sense that this man never forgot the humanity of the piles of ragged, torn flesh displayed on the screen. A feeling exhibited, perhaps, only by a downturn of the mobile mouth, a tightening of the jaw, a flicker of emotion across the eyes. Gone in an instant - but there for one who took the time to look. And Ezekiel looked, with unwavering attention. Absorbing it all. And when the lecture was over, the volley of question and answer done, the painfully thin, almost gawky young man was one of the last to leave. Silently getting to his feet and weeding his way through the narrow aisle, he might not have noticed to two of his classmates to his right if they had not suddenly burst out into raucous laughter. Like a startled deer, his head turned, brown eyes wide, staring. Realizing they had caught his attention, one said loudly to his companion. "Well, they say Spooky is supposed to be the best in the Bureau at solving these psych cases. Guess it takes one to catch one." With sidelong glances at the man below, apparently involved in collecting slides, the two left the room together, leaving Ezekiel standing frozen in the aisle. But a crawling feeling on the back of his neck told him he was being watched, and he turned to meet a pair of hazel eyes burning from the stage below. Everything closed down into that moment, the distance between them shrinking into nothingness. Those eyes bored into his soul, questioning, probing, weighing, sorting... and then they were gone. The connection was broken abruptly. The lecturer turned on his heels and was gone, leaving Ezekiel standing alone in the room with nothing but a memory of those green-tinged eyes. - - - - - Memphis Tennessee 3 months later It was a massive manhunt. Nearly fifty of the Bureau's men drawn off of various other assignments, now crowded into the small environs of the Memphis office. All due to one man. If you could call him that. Fox Mulder grimaced at his partner, then took a resigned bite of the semi-stale donut in his hand. Powder flaked down across his dark sleeve, and he shook his hand absently, his mind wandering. The local ASAC was droning on across the room, but Mulder had learned long ago how to let one small part of his mind act as a tape recorder, while the rest was busy elsewhere. Simply put, they weren't going to catch this particular psycho without more bloodshed, and most certainly not by the kind of dogged, blanket-the-town approach this particular Bureau bureaucrat preferred. No, despite a grip on reality that was tenuous at best, this killer was smart. Very very smart. Fifteen dead women, including the governor's niece, all strangled, mutilated and then abandoned. Crosses, dozens of them, little ones, big ones, had been carved with meticulous detail across practically every spare inch of the victims' bodies. Consecrating them perhaps. Sending them off to Jesus - wasn't that always the reason? The perfect rationalization for the adrenaline rush caused by dealing death with a kitchen knife - sending them to the glory of God. An angel told him to do it, therefore he was not to be held responsible. For the chosen of the Lord was only doing what the majestic voice in his head had told him to do. Another bite of the donut, then Mulder gave up. Dropping it on the desk beside him, he brushed the bits of white sugar off his hands and legs, then abruptly froze. An image flashed in front of his mind. One of the victims, spread out as an offering on the cold concrete. And then another and another. Patterns of crosses. Patterns... Could it really be so simple? Suddenly he was on his feet, striding across of the room, ignoring his partner's call, the mix of confusion and jeering amusement from the other agents, as he pushed them out of the way. Another girl was missing, and Mulder knew her time was short. Too short to play games of protocol. "Agent Mulder...what the hell do you think you're doing?" yelled the regional ASAC as Mulder shoved him aside and reached for a large black magic marker sitting below the wall-sized map of Memphis. Giving the man an elbow in the gut when he tried to reach for Mulder's arm to stop him, Mulder began to systematically replace each site of death with a cross. Some little, some big. Each a copy of the one that had sat alone on the victim's forehead. The rest of the bodies had been completely covered with crosses of various sizes, often overlapping, but each had had one single, lonely cross branded onto the space just above the eyes. A swell of whispers broke across the room, voices rising and falling. Snatches of conversation caught at the edge of his awareness, "What is he doing....Spooky's gone around the bend...wait, maybe he knows what those crosses mean...Connolly's gonna fry his ass..." And above them all, the murmur of his partner's voice calmly trying to soothe the ASAC's ruffled feathers. Finally, all fifteen were there, fifteen black crosses disfiguring the bright map of the city like giant black spiders. And three more empty spaces, not boxed in. Grabbing the red marker, Mulder circled them with broad, bloody bull's eyes. Then he stabbed at their centers, leaving behind a splatter of red marks behind. "There...The next victim will be found in one of these three places. There or there or there." - - - - - It had taken some convincing, but desperate men will try any remedy, and they had the governor himself breathing down their necks. So six agents were detailed to the sites, with one more young agent serving as a connection point, wired into a telephone and a computer. Mulder and Scully flitted from site to site, his tension growing. "He will kill her soon, Scully. And he needs to get her on site to do it right." "I know Mulder. I know," she would say. Scully always supportive, always understanding, even when he reached beyond her and pulled knowledge from some place he couldn't describe, some place deep within, a meeting place for memory and consciousness and unconsciousness, all circling each other until a connection was made. But the hours dripped away, and he took to standing below the map, staring at it as though it would somehow speak. Somehow tell him what he had still missed. What he could do to save the life of the young woman held captive by a monster. "Sir...?" a tentative voice spoke to his left. He ignored it, but it spoke again. More insistent. "Sir?" "What is it?" he barked, not turning his eyes away. "I thought you might like some coffee and something to eat." That, and the smell of the thick dark fluid wafting up from the cup in the young man's hand, finally broke through, and Mulder turned with an apologetic half-smile. "Yeah - thanks," he said ruefully. Taking the mug and the plate, he turned and perched on the edge of the desk, and then looked up at the young agent for the first time. The face was narrow and pointed, straight ash-blond hair framing a pair of wide brown eyes. There was something familiar about the face and the way he stood, like a startled deer about to bolt back into the woods, tugged at Mulder's memory. His mouth pursing around the edge of the steaming mug, Mulder tried to bring the memory into focus. "Have we met before?" "Uhn...no, sir, I don't think so." The voice was as hesitant as the face, but there was a strength underlying it. Mulder knew the boy wouldn't have made it into the bureau without something going for him. "Fox Mulder," he introduced himself quietly, waiting for the response. "Yes, I mean. I'm Zeke Withers." Mulder nodded, then took a bite of the sandwich and found himself smiling as he chewed and swallowed. Unless he missed his guess, this was chicken salad and prepared the way he liked it, with mustard instead of mayonnaise. Scully had teased him often about that propensity, and the pleasant memories suddenly made him aware that his partner was no longer in the room. His smile easing into a frown, he glanced anxiously around him. "Where is Scully?" "She went down to admin to pick up a fax from Quantico. The latest autopsy results just came in." "Good." Mulder took another bite, then looked up sharply as the phone rang, jarring him into sudden motion. Swallowing, then chasing with a gulp of the hot coffee, he watched as Ezekiel reached for the phone. Moments later, the young man was handing out the receiver and Mulder grabbed, hardly noticing as their fingers brushed, and then was too busy listening to notice the flood of color that lit up across the other agent's pale skin. "Yes, yes... We'll be there..." he glanced his watch, "in fifteen minutes. Get the place surrounded, I want every possible access blocked." Then he dropped the receiver and took off, nearly leaping around desks and chairs, a predator who had finally caught the smell of his prey. - - - - - Mulder's brainstorm had paid off. It still took several tense hours of stand-off between the psycho and the FBI's local hostage negotiators before it exploded in sudden, final violence, but at long last, it was over. The girl was bloody and in shock, scarred, but alive. And the Memphis slasher was DOA, his body ripped apart by the bullets from nearly half-a-dozen FBI guns. Mulder and Scully retired to their hotel room, Scully insistent that he try to get the sleep he had avoided for the past few days. He had shrugged but gone quietly, knowing full well she would not rest until he did. That familiar, stern look in her eyes would brook no argument. Besides, the ASAC was in his element cleaning up the mess, talking to the governor on the phone, lining up a press conference. This one would look good for the FBI, even though it had taken them 15 deaths to catch the killer. In the end all that mattered was a front-page story with a picture of a live victim. Ezekiel found himself overloaded with paperwork, or at least the computer version thereof, as they began shutting the operation down. Normally, he would not have minded in the least, loving the work itself. When he was at his computer, he felt in control of the world. It was freedom, access, a place where he could outsmart any of these loud arrogant men without a second thought. Well, all perhaps, but one. And thus he found himself distracted from his work. His eyes darted from face to face, form to form, looking for one tall, lanky but graceful man, with a flash of red by his side. But neither the man nor his female partner appeared. So Ezekiel tried harder, watching the screens flow from one to another. Typing almost by rote, turning scribbled notes into smooth easy text. Yet his soul was elsewhere, and snatches of conversation jarred at him. Until the ASAC himself and another of his buddies came wandering by, utterly unaware - or uncaring - of the young agent who sat nearby at his console. "Looks like Spooky pulled off another one." The second agent said. "Who would have believed that writing a bunch of crosses on a map would find this psycho?" The ASAC frowned. "It was pure luck, nothing more. I'm not going to give that crazy credit for a hunch. It was good solid FBI procedure that solved this case, not one man's hallucinations." "Yeah -but he that map of crosses he made - it was an exact replica of the one found in the slasher's basement. It was creepy." ASAC Connolly snorted. "So he got lucky for once. Face it - the man is an embarrassment to the Bureau. For God's sake, when he isn't messing with someone else's case, he's out chasing UFO's." The second agent shrugged. "Perhaps, but he is good at catching these psychos, it's like he knows what they are thinking." He shivered slightly. The ASAC frowned then bellowed out a laugh. "Yeah - well let's hope Washington keeps its pet crazy on a tight leash. I'll be glad to have him out of my hair. He makes my skin crawl." Striding away, the two men did not notice the silent young man they left behind, his eyes focused somewhere below the computer screen in front of him. His hand on the mouse was clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned white, the pads of his fingertips burning red. His lungs held air - held - then released in a loud gasp as soon as they were out of earshot. And neither noticed his eyes following them as they stopped to exchange pats on the back with another agent, then with broad smiles, strode out to meet the incoming press. To take credit for an arrest that wasn't theirs to claim. - - - - - As they were about to separate into their adjacent hotel rooms, a stray thought caught Mulder's attention and he called out her name, "Oh, Scully..." "What Mulder?" she sighed, leaning around the door to peer at him underneath a wing of auburn hair. He grinned a little sheepishly. "Just wanted to thank you for sending me the sandwich." "Sandwich?" "Yeah - you know, my favorite kind. Chicken mustard salad." "Ugh, Mulder. I don't know how you stay alive on the stuff you eat." "Hey - it's GOOD!" he insisted with a bright grin. "Night Scully." And then he was gone. "Good night Mulder," she replied, gently closing her own door behind her. As she tumbled into bed, hardly taking time to remove her shoes and stockings, she wondered briefly why he thought she had sent him a sandwich. But she was too tired to care, and no sooner did her head hit the pillow than she was fast asleep. - - - - - FBI Headquarters Washington DC. 3 weeks later It must have been fate. Less than a month after the Memphis slasher had been caught, ASAC Connolly was promoted and transferred to the organized crime section of the FBI, housed in Washington DC. The first time Ezekiel saw him in the hall of the Hoover building, the young computer expert felt a extraordinary sense of rightness. It was as though a sudden calm had descended upon him, bringing with it a clarity of vision he had never before experienced. He wondered if this what HE felt when he made one of those brilliant, intuitive leaps of logic that left the rest of the Bureau lost in his wake. This narrowing of focus onto one target, the knowledge that all was suddenly as it was meant to be. But time for thought could come later, now was time for action. Slipping unnoticed past clusters of dark-suited men, Ezekiel tracked Connolly to his lair, then found his way back to his own desk two floors below. Waiting the next two days was one of the hardest things he had ever done, but the groundwork must be laid properly. And with steady typing, the machines gave him what he needed, piece by piece, as they always did. Mulder and Scully were safely away, pursuing a serial killer in Cleveland. Connolly's assignment and present case-work was there, easily accessed, easily followed. The arrogant senior agent's new living quarters were a little harder to find - though not much so. And the data on his car soon followed. Bureau security recorded the entrances and exits of its agents from the building, and Connolly was a man of habit. Some judicious conversation with a secretary flustered by a dysfunctional PC and Ezekiel knew every step that man would take. Preparing to leave a short time before he knew Connolly would check out, he found himself sitting at his desk, nearly frozen with fright. So many what if's buzzing through his mind. So many possibilities unfolding before his dilated eyes. His body tensed like a coiled elastic, he reached into the desk and found his Walkman. Soon the familiar, rich tones were falling on his ears, wrapping him in satin, soothing his anxieties, restoring his purpose. It was time. - - - - - The underground FBI parking garage was always dark, even on the brightest of days. And on a dusky fall evening, it was even colder than it looked. Connolly drew the lapels of his overcoat closer together, heading towards his car by habit, his mind elsewhere. Got to get a wiretap approved tomorrow for that bastard Grimaldi, he thought. He knew that sleaze was up to his ears in dirty laundry, even if he couldn't quite put his finger on the proof yet. Just give him time... "Aaaannngghhhh, what the hell?!!" He cried out as something bulldozed into his side and knocked him against one car only to bounce of another and slide into the small space in-between. Twisting onto his side, automatically reaching for his gun, he paused as the face of his assailant came into focus under the dull yellow glow of the ceiling light. "Watch where you're going!" he growled, his hand moving away from his gun to help lever himself off the floor. But before he could get up past one knee, a sudden sharp pain struck him between his ribs. His eyes widened as he clutched at his chest, finding the steel knife handle still there. Blood gurgled out of the corner of his mouth as he tried to speak, his hand curling around the hilt, fingers convulsively opening and closing. Then he toppled sideways and lay still. His assailant freed the weapon from his body, then stood over him, a thin dark shadow in the faint light. Then the slight figure moved swiftly, turning the blade and bringing it down hard on the dead man's wrist. Strike, and strike again, but it still took some careful sawing to break the hand free of the arm. Finally it was done, and the severed appendage was dropped into a plastic evidence bag, sealed away and casually pocketed in the long black overcoat. Two quick steps away, then a sudden pause, the stained knife blade lifted out from below the coat and studied for a single breath. Then a glance backwards, eyes dark pools in a narrow face, followed by a rapid, sweeping motion - turn, down, wrist flipped one way, then another. Pause. And a look of satisfaction. Now the world would know. The thief marked by his deed, by bloody cross and ancient punishment. Justice was done and the one who must be protected was safe forever from this one's hatred and greed. - - - - - X-Files Division Next Day Mulder jabbed at the keyboard angrily. The computer squealed in reply, then sat sullenly. Unresponsive. 'Error. Unable to find components of winword.exe. Check all associated libraries.' "Damn!" he muttered, not noticing the door as it opened and closed behind him. Click on 'ok' and then try again. Buzz and whir, then squeal. "Error...unable to find...." "Damn, damn, damn...!" The frustrated agent wasn't even yelling, in fact he was practically whispering, but that didn't stop his partner from leaning over his shoulder and chiding him with amusement. "Watch your language, Mulder." He simply frowned at her, his high forehead crinkling up into tight furrows as he looked back at the recalcitrant computer screen. "Don't suppose you know what this thing did with my word-processing program, do you?" Scully chuckled lightly, pushing at the back of his chair to give herself room to slip into the corner. Perching herself on the edge of the desk, she glanced at the computer screen. "The real question is, what did YOU do to it?" "I didn't do anything!!!" Mulder protested. "All I did was turn it on and try to go into Word so that I could write my report. Skinner is going to have my ass in a sling if I don't get it to him today." "I told you that you should have started it sooner." He grimaced, though his eyes brightened as they always did looking at her. Definitely a sight for sore eyes, he thought appreciatively, though he held in the comments that came instantly to mind. There were some things you just didn't say to a woman with a gun - especially a woman who had already shot you once. Scully saw the green-tinted glint of growing amusement in his eyes, which had been almost pure black with anger a moment before, and only barely resisted asking him for his thoughts. However, she was too tired from the last case to feel like sparring with him, and settled for simply dropping the latest news in his lap. "By the way, did you hear what happened to Connolly?" "No," Mulder replied with little interest, still glaring at the computer as though he could make it work out of sheer will-power. "But don't tell me, let me guess..." He leaned back in his chair, pretending to think, then the corners of his mouth quirked upwards. "He got one hemorrhoid too many and bled to death in the executive washroom?" Scully sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "No, Mulder. He got murdered in the parking garage." That got Mulder's full attention, and she imagined she could actually hear his cervical spine crack as his head spun in her direction. "Murdered? How? When?" "About three days ago. He was killed nearly instantly by a knife-thrust through one lung and his right ventricle. The knife was yanked free and he bled to death, though not before his killer sliced off his right hand at the wrist and carved a cross into his forehead." Mulder was on his feet by then, pacing the room like caged tiger, his controlled yet frenetic movements a mirror for the wheels spinning in his brain. "A cross? But the Memphis slasher..." "Is dead and buried, Mulder." She eyed him with prepared skepticism, ready and waiting, but he had already moved past her. "No, the slasher made thousands of crosses," he looked at her for confirmation and she silently raised a single finger. He nodded and continued as though he had not stopped, "and he never removed a body part or sliced deeper than a few inches. This one stabbed most of the way through the chest..." "Yes, almost out the back in fact. Must have been a long knife, and it was slightly curved, almost like a scimitar." "Who's handling the investigation?" "Colton and Greenstein." Her mouth pursed as she answered as though tasting something sour. Mulder grimaced, then perched himself of the edge of the desk facing her. "Let me guess, they think it was a signature hit of some kind. Organized crime." His voice dripped sarcasm. Scully shrugged. "Well, he was working in that area for the last month. It seems the most obvious answer." "Sometimes the obvious answer isn't the right answer..." He broke off in mid-sentence at a series of knocks on the door. Leaping to his feet, Mulder went to the door and opened it, glowering down at the young man standing in the hallway, looking like he was trying to fade into the opposite wall. "Yes," Mulder barked, irritated at having his train of through interrupted. "Agent Withers, sir. You requested help from computer operations, sir?" The kid barely squeaked out, but the words drew out a bright, toothy flash of sunshine from the taller agent. Mulder took Ezekiel by the arm and propelled him into the cluttered room. "Yes, about time! This damn computer somehow lost the word-processor and I've got a report due in this afternoon!" Scully smiled at the obviously overwhelmed young agent before going over to sit in her own chair on the other end of the room. Mulder pushed Ezekiel into his old wooden chair and jabbed at the computer screen. "It keeps saying it's missing part of the program!" Ezekiel took hold of the mouse, trying to keep his hand from shaking in response to Mulder's breath coming hot across the crown of his head. Click and click again - and the same response from the computer. "See!" Mulder cried in perverse triumph. "Yes, sir," the computer expert replied. "Something probably got deleted or damaged. Sometimes heat or static buildup can cause problems like this. You haven't been doing anything inside the computer have you? Like installing memory or..." "I didn't do anything to it, except turn it on." Mulder stood back a step, watching as the young agent manipulated the windows, bringing up both file manager and sysedit. "Can you fix it?" "Sure," Ezekiel swallowed hard, then turned to look up into the hazel eyes burning down at him. "The quick fix is to simply delete and reinstall winword, but I'd recommend letting me take a look inside to check the hardware. If it is a bad disk or loose connection, the problem will almost certainly reoccur." "How long?" Ezekiel shrugged. "An hour or two - depends on what the real cause is. Let me see if the reinstalling works first. Do you have the disks?" "The disks?" Mulder looked slightly sheepish. "I...unh...I think I took them home, to install on my own PC..." Ezekiel managed a slightly reassuring smile. "Don't worry about it. I have the disks upstairs, and I can upgrade you if necessary. Besides, I have equipment up there that might help diagnose the cause of the error." Mulder ran a hand through his short dark hair, knocking loose several strands that slid stubbornly over his temples. Ezekiel's eyes followed that hand, and those sliding bangs with nervous attention, then flew back down to stare at the computer screen. Mulder didn't notice the attention, his mind running in other directions. "You're the expert," he agreed. "Do what you think is best." Then Mulder finally 'looked' at the young man perched on the edge of his chair, and his eyes focused. "We've met before haven't we?" "Unh...yes, sir. In Memphis. I..." "That's right. Did I ever thank you for the sandwich and coffee?" "That's ok, sir. You had more important things on your mind." "Still no excuse for bad manners. So thanks." Ezekiel felt sure he was turning bright red, he could feel the flush working its way up through his skin. Terrified he was appearing a fool, he turned his back on Mulder and busied himself with turning off and disconnecting the computer. Every move he made felt obscenely clumsy, but somehow he got the cables unhooked, the monitor put aside, and the hard drive lifted up. Mulder held the door for him, casually asking if he needed a hand bringing it upstairs. Ezekiel couldn't bring himself to gaze into those too-penetrating eyes, instead he murmured, "no," and fled down the hallway with the computer, trailing a loose cable like a tail. Mulder paused for a moment, watching the retreating agent, with a sick feeling curling through his stomach. Did they all have to treat him like he had cooties? Sighing under his breath, he closed the door behind him and turned to his partner. "Ummm, Scully, I don't suppose you'd..." "Let you borrow my laptop? I'm not sure I ought to let you within five feet of it, Mulder." She leaned back into her chair, her full lips curved into a gentle smile. "Haha. Seriously, I'll owe you one." He thrust out his full lower lip in an exaggerated appeal, causing her to shake her head in pretend exasperation. "OK - OK - but you don't owe me 'one', you owe me dinner!" "Done!" - - - - - X-Files Division Later - Same Day Trying to juggle the hard drive and knock at the same time, Wither was surprised when the door swung open before he had a chance to tap on it. He blinked, then barely controlled a sigh of mixed relief and disappointment as he came face to face with Dana Scully. He never did well with women, especially beautiful smart ones, and Scully...well, she simply terrified him. "unnnh, I brought..." "Oh," Scully looked up from the file she was reading in one hand, empty coffee mug in the other. Her glasses slipped down on her nose to give her a schoolmarm look. "Mulder's computer. That was fast." "Yes, Ma'am. It didn't take long." Silence. Then, she answered. "I think it would be best if you set it up, if you don't mind. Safer not to let Mulder do it." Her lips curved in a gentle smile, then she went past him, leaving him space to enter the room. He darted inside and gratefully set the hard drive down on the desk. Mulder wasn't in the office and Ezekiel froze as he realized he was alone. In here. And he took a moment to drink in the room, trying to commit every inch of it to memory. His stomach turned as his eyes fell on a lurid spread of crime scene photos, then he found himself smiling at a large, slightly faded poster. "I Want to Believe," he read aloud. Yes, he thought. Yes. His mother had worked hard to teach him the importance of God's chosen ones, like the saints in her paintings and the preacher who spit fire on the pulpit of their church. She had taught him the names of each of the martyrs, repeated the stories of each of the prophets over and over until they pervaded his dreams and filled his waking hours. And though he himself never would qualify to walk with God's hand upon his shoulder, as his mother had so often bemoaned, he had at last found one of the blessed ones to help and protect. The sound of footsteps set him scurrying to reconnect the computer, and he was bent down under the desk when voices spoke in the doorway. "Damn idiot!" That instantly recognizable, usually silken voice was now vibrant with emotion, anger and frustration clear in the bell-like tones. The reply was warm and throaty, tinged with both amusement and concern. "Who? Colton or Kavorski?" "Both." Mulder pushed the door shut, then stripped his jacket off and tossed it onto the top of the file cabinet. "Though I meant Kavorski. Why bother to have me write a profile if he's simply going to ignore it? It's not like I don't have other things to do with my time. And besides, he's got the wrong guy." "Are you sure?" Scully sat back down at her desk, taking a careful sip of the hot coffee. Mulder perched himself on the edge of the desk beside her, unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves as he spoke. "Of course I'm sure. This was a carefully planned and well-executed set of killings. Time and care was taken with the positions of the bodies. Look at the elaborate way in which the bodies were displayed; these were hardly spur of the moment kills. Also, the lack of an obvious break-in means that the killer looked acceptable. He was able to gain entry without struggle and the neighbors never noticed him. But the man Kavorski arrested is a street case. Sure, he has a history of violent behavior, but he is homeless, hasn't bathed in months, is dressed in filthy salvation army rejects and has a beard Moses would envy. AND he can barely put together a full sentence. Hardly someone a suburban mother is going to let into her nice, clean home or who could pass unmarked in an upper middle class neighborhood." "Did you tell Kavorski all this?" Mulder gave her an aggrieved-innocent look. "Of course I did." "After you told him he was just plain wrong," Scully stated. "Or was it just plain stupid." An auburn eyebrow arched up over one sea-blue eye. "I didn't tell him he was stupid." The eyebrow crept a little higher. Mulder sighed, shrugging his shoulders. "I told him he was a fool." Scully's reply was disrupted by a loud crack. Both agents were on their feet and across the room before Ezekiel could get himself to his feet. "Are you all right?" Scully asked, kneeling down beside him. "Uh...yes, I'm fine. Sorry. I was just plugging in the computer and I think I hit my head on the desk." The pain lancing across the back of his eyes was enough of a distraction to stop him from blushing. However, heat rushed up through his arm to fill his entire body as Mulder took him by the elbow and helped him up to his feet. He settled gratefully into the creaky wooden chair. "Let me see," Scully ordered in a voice Mulder instantly recognized as her 'doctor' mode. "No, really, I'm ok," Ezekiel protested, giving the top of his head one more rub. Mulder eyed the young agent with sympathetic eyes as Scully insisted on not only looking, but also probing at the wound. "Well, you'll have a slight bump," she pronounced, "but nothing too serious. Put a little ice on it if it swells." "Yes Ma'am," he replied, grateful to pull away from her examination. Behind him, Mulder grinned slightly at the old-fashioned honorific. Scully threw him an irritated 'look', knowing she was probably going to get Ma'am-ed by him for at least a week. Ezekiel missed the exchange over his shoulder, his only concern was to get the computer going and get out of there before he embarrassed himself further. Why, oh why, did he always manage to screw things up? He had dreamt so often of how things might go if he got to work with Mulder. But it wasn't supposed to be like this. His stomach doing somersaults, he switched on the computer and was rewarded with a series of beeps and whirs. A few seconds later it had loaded windows and was waiting for further instructions. Pointing the mouse, he clicked on winword and it buzzed happily as it brought up the program screen. "There," he said with some relief. "I reinstalled Word and it should be functioning now. The hardware looks fine, though I cleaned out some dust and rearranged the cables so they would be a little less pinched. I think it was just a fluke of some kind. Let me know if it happens again." He was suddenly aware with every fiber of his being of Mulder's close presence as the taller man leaned over his shoulder. "Great! I owe you one." Ezekiel shrugged, hoping he didn't look as red as he felt. "It was nothing really." Mulder looked down at the pale young agent and found himself wondering if he had ever been that wet behind the ears. No, he thought sadly. He had always had a weight on him, put there at the age of twelve, and it carried years with it. Mulder had given up being young the day Samantha was taken away. Shaking those memories aside, Mulder focused on the nervous young agent. Ezekiel did blush this time under the weight of that stare, and almost missed the question when it came. "How'd you end up on repair duty?" "Oh...Well, the techs were a bit overwhelmed this week, so I offered to help out. I'm really good with computers, and I don't mind the work." What Ezekiel didn't say was that this was the only repair request he had taken, and that only after overhearing two of the techs arguing over who had to brave the basement to deal with 'Spooky' Mulder. Occasionally it amazed him how much time Bureau personnel spent in gossip, and how much of that gossip was devoted to these two agents. But then he only had to gaze into Mulder's glittering hazel eyes to remember why. This man was a chosen one, born with the mind of a prophet and the soul of a saint. The others reacted out of fear, insecurity, and jealousy. His increasingly angry thoughts were broken as Mulder replied with a wry grin, "Better you than me! I don't think they like me very much." It took Ezekiel a moment to realize Mulder meant computers, then he smiled anxiously. "I think they know when you don't like them, or worse yet are afraid of them." Mulder laughed appreciatively. "Yeah, reminds me of my neighbor's dog. At least computers don't bite." He grimaced ruefully. Scully grinned. "Well, maybe you ought talk nicely to it more often." "Sure, sure." Mulder reached over to pat the top of the monitor. "Nice computer. Good computer." A loud electronic bell-like sound filled the room and Mulder jerked his hand back as though he had been bitten. "What?" "It's just the phone." Scully told him with obvious amusement. Then she picked up the receiver and calmly spoke her name into it. Meanwhile, Ezekiel quietly assured Mulder that the computer ought to be fine. "I'd better get back upstairs," he added. Mulder nodded and stood back to give him room to walk past. "Thanks," he said distractedly as his attention was drawn by Scully repeating "yes, sir" into the phone. "No problem." Ezekiel stopped in the doorway to look back at the tall dark man leaning expectantly down over the petite fiery-haired woman, her face warm and vivid as she looked up into his eyes. "Skinner wants to see us. I think he has a case..." Her voice followed the young agent as he slipped away into the dark basement hallway. - - - - - FBI Headquarters Three Days Later Kavorski was easy prey. It took only seconds to catch him round the throat with the wire after a quick stab at the elevator's 'emergency hold button." The agent's gasp of surprise was strangled instantly as the thin metal cut into his skin. Pull, twist, tighten, hold.... and then release. The thick, heavyset body crumpled in a heap to the floor. Then the eye - that took a little longer. But it was late, the building nearly empty, so there was no real hurry. Still, it was difficult to control the surge of nausea when fluid gushed out of the hole in a raspberry swirl of white and red to join the gushing puddle draining onto the floor from the open throat. But it was done. Dropping the severed orb into an evidence bag, which was then secured inside a yellow interoffice envelope, he next sent the elevator sliding down to the basement. One last triumphant glance at his handiwork, then he stepped out into the dusty hallway. This pathway he could have walked in his sleep, he had done it so often in his memory. Around the corner and two doors down, coming to a halt before the thin wooden door with the small bronze plaque. Just one name on it - the only one that mattered. Pulling out two lumpy envelopes from inside his raincoat's copious internal pockets, he carefully propped them against the door. One more deep breath, a raspy catch in his throat, then he tightened the raincoat around his slender frame and hurried off down the hall. The stairwell was dark, but it led to an rarely used side door. Out into the night, and none to know he had been there at all... Except for the evidence left deliberately behind. - - - - - X-Files Division 5 Days Later Mulder balanced his way down the cramped hallway, hands awkwardly clutching the top of a paper sack and two Styrofoam cups, the heat emanating from them warming his cold fingers. Several files were tucked haphazardly under his left arm, squeezed against his side in the hope that they wouldn't fall out until he had reached the sanctuary of his office. But already three slick glossy photos were beginning the slow slide backwards, the corners tipping dangerously towards the floor. He gave one quick thought to what Skinner might say to a request for a secretary, then dismissed it nearly as soon as the idea arose. It was hard enough to convince the powers-that-be to let two agents 'waste' their time on the X-Files. The cost of paying a secretary even minimal wage would be beyond the pale. Besides, when it came down to it, the thought of having someone else poking into HIS files, messing with his carefully arranged system - or worse yet - trying to clean his desk - made him cringe. He LIKED things the way they were. Ah, finally the door. He might - just - make it. Trying to press the two cups against his chest with one hand so that he could free the other to open the door, he lost control of his files and they tumbled to the floor. Folders flew open and documents scattered across the dusty linoleum. "Damn!" he muttered, abandoning the attempt to open the door in favor of putting the coffee cups and paper bag down carefully on the floor. As he began to retrieve the scattered files, his eyes finally alighted on a pair of lumpy yellow interoffice-mail envelopes. Forehead crinkling as he reached out to add them to the pile of paper in his arms, he felt one squish slightly under his fingertips. "What the hell..." he murmured under his breath, a sudden prescient feeling stabbing at his mind. That creepy intuitive sense of knowing that had, even more than his fascination with the paranormal, earned him the nickname 'spooky' was setting off bells. Something was terribly wrong here. And his first instinctive was to drop the envelopes, to pretend irrationally that they weren't there. But the second impulse was stronger. The need to KNOW. With a sense of resignation he picked them up, added them to the pile clutched in his arms, then opened the door. His pulse rate speeding up, he patiently took the time to pile the folders on his desk, the two mysterious envelopes resting precariously on top, then retrieved the two cups and bag from the hall. Closing the door, he rested one cup in the small neat area that was by definition Dana Scully's domain, then took the other and the bag to his own desk. Taking the cover of the cup he breathed on the hot beverage then took a small sip, pursing his lips at the scalding heat, while his eyes never wavered from the waiting envelopes. Then, one hand delving into the paper sack to bring out a powdery jelly donut, he closed the other around the unlatched flap of the top envelope. Just as he took a bite of the donut, causing bright red raspberry jelly to ooze out of the resulting hole, he pushed his fingers into the envelope and pulled on the plastic edge of the bag inside. Using the back of the donut filled hand as leverage, he removed the sheer plastic bag and held it up to the light. And froze as the yellow glare of the ceiling light hit on the contents plainly. He was still sitting there, unmoving, when his partner found him only a few short breaths later. One hand was clutched around a leaky half-eaten jelly donut, red goo sliding down over his fingers, the other clenched on the edge of a plastic evidence bag, the bottom corner swelled out with the unmistakable red-streaked white orb of a detached human eye. - - - - - Office of the Assistant Director Same Day "There is no question, Sir," Agent Scully spoke with the cool professional tones of an experienced forensic pathologist. "The eye found by Agent Mulder is the one missing from Agent Kavorski's body. And then hand belonged to SAC Connolly. The envelopes and the plastic evidence bags are being examined by the labs now, but preliminary results indicate they are clean of any useful fingerprints or trace evidence. It seems obvious that the killer is quite familiar with the Bureau and FBI procedure, which is not surprising since he obviously has easy access to this building." FBI Assistant Director Skinner's scowl somehow managed to deepen. Behind the thin wire-frame glasses, his eyes burned with barely concealed anger as his glared from one of the agents facing him to another. Most squirmed slightly in their seats as he focused on them, but Mulder managed to look relaxed and at ease, his long, lanky body sprawled across the chair with apparent unconcern. However, Skinner knew the brilliant, difficult agent better than that. Nothing could mask the fire in those gleaming hazel eyes, and while the tension might not be apparent in his stance, it was writ large around the eyes and tight-lipped mouth. If Skinner could read his Mulder-sign right, the agent was about ready to explode, his hatred for wasting time in protocol and bureaucratic meetings waxing strong behind the closed face. And that was the last thing his superior needed now - Mulder out playing the Lone Ranger. Especially since the bad feeling between the unpredictable agent and the agent in charge of this case was already legend. Skinner's eyes flickered over to Colton's surfer-handsome face, its skin tone slightly flushed red, even though every strand of his blond hair was perfectly in place. The slightly stocky agent was dressed in an FBI standard suit and tie, pressed and neat, not a single stray piece of lint marring the presentation. A young agent on the rise, appearing in direct contradiction to Mulder, the bureau maverick whose short-cropped hair was already mussed, bangs sliding stubbornly over the high temples, his dark suit thrown off balance by the riot of color in the tie. The AD's eyes narrowed as he contemplated the bright spots on that thin piece of silk. Could those possibly by flying saucers? Good grief! Skinner swallowed hard and forced himself to deal with the mess confronting them. "All right," he said pensively, rising up out of his chair to briefly stare out the window behind him. "I think it is clear that we have a possible serial killer operating within the FBI itself." "Or someone clever enough to gain access. Possibly someone both men knew and thus were willing to bring into the building." That was from Colton's partner, Greenstein, a slightly pudgy man with a receding hairline and streaks of gray in his dark hair. His face had a slight hangdog look to it, but the eyes were sharp, holding the experience and cynicism of a long-time law enforcement officer. It would not do to underestimate his intelligence, as many a criminal had only to find themselves caught in a steel trap. It was Skinner's hope that he would be a good influence on the ambitious, reckless Colton. "Security has no record of visitors entering the building at the times of the deaths," Scully disagreed. Skinner's eyes focused on the only woman in the room, his eyes betraying only a slight flicker of approval. She was an outstanding agent, probably second only to her partner in her sheer talent as an investigator, and Skinner felt a familiar sense of sorrow that she had been caught up in Mulder's dangerous world. "I think it is safe to assume the killer is an agent or staff member with full access to the building," she continued, returning her boss's gaze with cool confidence. "We have lists of everyone who was signed in during the relevant hours," Greenstein took her opinion seriously, he had only been proposing a possibility he still didn't think could be ignored. "But we all know that the agents don't always sign in, especially late at night. And there are side doors that someone with a key could use to enter and leave." With return professionalism, Scully gave a slight nod of her bright auburn head. Tapping her pencil against her knee, she frowned in concentration. "It IS possible that both Kavorski and Connolly met their killer at one of those doors and let the person in. But that still leaves the fact that the killer obviously knew their way around the building, was able to take and use internal envelopes and evidence bags, and was able to find Agent Mulder's office in order to leave the two body parts there." Skinner nodded. That much was obvious. "But why leave the body parts in the basement for Agent Mulder to find, especially since anyone with that much internal access ought to have been able to find out that he - and you - were out of town for several days? They must have sat in the hallway for at least three days." "Closer to five," that was Mulder's first contribution. He shrugged as four pairs of eyes turned to focus on him. "From the amount of dust on them." Colton chuckled slightly, muttering under his breath. "How could you tell?" His partner, Skinner and Scully threw him impatient looks, Mulder simply ignored him the way someone might ignore a buzzing fly. His mind was occupied on another question. "And why me?" He glanced over at his partner. "Or Scully, I suppose. But I think they were meant for me to find." "Maybe the perp just wanted to dump them somewhere they wouldn't be found for a while, and the fact that it was outside your door was an accident," Colton interrupted in a sharp-edged voice. "Maybe it has absolutely nothing to do with you." Mulder considered that for a moment, then shook his head. "No, it wasn't an accident. The killer is trying to communicate with me...somehow..." His brow crinkled as his voice trailed off. He bit at his lower lip in concentration, then he looked up at Skinner. "I'll start piecing together a profile but it would help to have full access to the case files, and to the cases that both agents were presently working on. And..." "No way!" Colton broke in, getting to his feet. "This is my case. We don't need your interference." He glared at Mulder, who slowly, languidly eased himself to his feet. Towering over the shorter agent, Mulder leaned down and stage-whispered. "I think you need all the help you can get." Then he turned and stepped closer to Skinner's desk. "Look, the killer has already involved Agent Scully and myself. For some reason, he wants my attention. And while I don't particularly like giving this guy the attention he craves, I doubt he is going to give up now. If we ignore this now, he'll simply try again - and I think he is likely to escalate." "The whole world doesn't revolve around you, Mulder," Colton snarled. "There is no evidence that the killer meant to involve you. The bags ending up outside your door was pure coincidence. Hell the guy probably thought he was dumping them outside the maintenance supply room." "Yeah, that's right Colton," Mulder replied with taunting humor. "All supply rooms have a plaque on the door that say 'Special Agent' on them. Whether you like it or not, Scully and I are involved in this case." "I won't have you interfering in my investigation!" Colton bellowed. "I've already had to pick up the pieces after you once!" That finally did it, and though Mulder's fury was self-contained, he gave off waves of sheer electricity as he glowered down at the Colton, stepping up to stand bare inches from the other man. Jabbing at his chest, Mulder spoke in a cold, steely tone. "The only mess was one that YOU made, and it almost cost Scully her life. Your damn-fool arrogant stupidity almost got my partner killed!" "THAT IS ENOUGH!" Skinner roared. Colton jerked around to face his angry superior, while Scully tugged at Mulder who was still staring with nearly coal-black eyes at Colton. He resisted her attempt to pull him back, then gave in when she persisted, his shoulders working tensely as he turned towards her uplifted, pleading face. Silence fell, then Skinner pronounced judgment. "This remains Colton and Greenstein's case, they will proceed with their investigation as planned." Colton preened, breaking out into a smile of triumph that instantly fell into an angry scowl as Skinner continued to speak. "However, I expect Agent Scully to continue with the forensics aspect of the case, and I want Mulder to pursue a psychological profile of the killer. All of the case files will be made available to him, and I expect to see the result on this desk in an appropriate period of time. I expect full cooperation from all of you on this case. I don't give a damn if you're not going to be racquetball buddies - but I do expect you to work together in a professional manner. Two agents are dead. I want this killer caught before we end up with more dead agents. IS...THAT...CLEAR?" "Yes, sir!" Scully and Greenstein spoke in unison. Colton bit off the same words. Mulder simply inclined his head. Skinner sighed, it would have to do. Sitting back down at his desk, he waved his hand at them. "Dismissed." - - - - - Next Day The FBI was abuzz with rumors. Fear mixed with curiosity, leaving clusters of agents whispering intently over desks, water cooler, bathroom sinks. People mixed and wandered, each looking at the other with just that slight edge of uncertainty. A killer stalking the halls of the FBI itself was enough to unnerve the most experienced of agents. If you couldn't trust your own, who could you trust? But Ezekiel passed his day in comfortable anonymity. Finishing up the last details of the case that had held him preoccupied for the past week, he finally found some time to sit at his desk, relax and think. His mind circled itself, running around and around. Bits and pieces of conversation floated around his cubicle, most focused on the two deaths, some on the investigating team itself. Of course, Mulder and Scully had become involved - that was only as it should be. But to have COLTON in charge of the case - no - that could not borne. Ezekiel had known from the beginning that he was sacrificing himself, and had little fear of that eventuality. He welcomed it. But not like this. Memory flew him backwards on beating wings. The face of his mother as she lay dying centered in front of his eyes. She looked up at him, her eyes almost bruiselike in their color amid the white, wrinkled parchment of her skin. Her hand clutched on his hand, then pulled away, as she stared at things he could not see. He had knelt there, praying, as he had for so much of his childhood, to be given the gift to see what she did. To see the glory of God's angels as they hovered around his mother's deathbed, to see their wings beating as they took her soul away to heaven. But there was nothing for him, for as always his soul was tainted by his father's evil. The shadow of a father he had never seen, but who had left him with a smudge of the devil in his heart, a darkness that kept him from seeing the light of God as his mother did. As the others of his mother's faith did. How jealous he had been of them, as they collapsed and writhed in the hands of God, speaking in the tongues of the ancients, glowing with the knowledge that their savior was within. And he, always alone on the outside. Praying, begging, for some sign of welcoming that had never come. Until now. The moment he had set eyes on the tall, intense agent whose words held such power, whose eyes burned as though a fire raged within, he had known in an instant of certainty so pure it stole the breath from his lungs. His time had come at last. In the service of this Chosen One, he could finally redeem himself of the taint of his father's evil and purify his soul for the meeting with God. And perhaps, his mother would be there, when it became his turn to ascend to the heavens, her eyes finally shining with the pride he had never before earned from her. But not this way, not at the hands of that devil-spawn Colton. No, it must be at the hands of God's earthly angel that he left this flesh and went to make his maker. Then the realization struck him that again, things were indeed as they should be. For his tasks were not yet done. There was more, much more for him to do before the time came for him to fall at Mulder's feet. And Colton, yes, his heart ached with a burst of pleasure, then he buried his head in his hands, sending up a silent prayer begging for forgiveness for the gladness in his heart. But for all his search for humbleness, he could not fully mask the joy he felt at the thought of crushing that demon with a pretty face and sending him to burn in the fires of hell. - - - - - Afternoon FBI Files and Records Department Special Agent Tom Colton walked briskly down the hallway, ignoring the glances that swung in his wake. His face bent into a scowl, his mind kept reviewing the meeting that morning. Damn that lunatic Mulder, and to hell with Skinner too. He would solve this case without them, and finally win his bump up the ladder. It had taken months to get past the Tooms fiasco, and now that he was back on the VCS's fast track, he intended to make it take him all the way. No one was going to stand in his way! He stepped around a corner and entered the huge quiet file room, his mind barely on the pursuit at hand. Normally, he'd have sent someone else to do the busy work of pulling the personnel records of the people recorded present in the building during both deaths, but this case was too important. He needed to catch this killer and quickly before Mulder could steal the credit. Brusquely giving the yawning clerk his authorization to enter, he waited impatiently as the young woman tapped at the computer in front her then turned and stamped his pass. With barely a muttered thank you, he hurried around her desk and stalked down into the seemingly endless rows of paper folders, lined up in shelf after towering shelf. Behind him the clerk threw him an irritated glance, then settled down to continue her interrupted game of Tetris. An hour later, her eyes focused tightly on the computer screen, she barely noticed the thin young agent who hurried past, waving him by absent-mindedly as she instantly recognized the thin narrow face with its shock of sandy-colored hair. He waved back at her, then slipped quickly into the files. At her desk, the clerk never wavered from her games, except to answer the phone. In the midst of one of those brief conversations, her mouth tightened in annoyance at the impossible demands echoing in her ears, the corner of her eye caught the slender young man as he hurried out, his hands clutching the file he had retrieved from the 'vault.' She grimaced at him as he passed, and gained a quick, shy smile in return. And moments later, she had forgotten he had been there at all, so familiar was his presence, and so preoccupied was she with a sudden influx of calls for information. When the day finally ended, she watched the computer screen turn blank as she switched it off. Then she gathered up her coat and purse, and scurried out the door, locking it behind her. Her only thoughts were focused on the dinner ahead and the movie she had picked up on her lunch hour. "Interview with A Vampire"...nothing like a cozy night curled up on her couch with Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt for company. A stray wish for a live man to share it with impinged on her thoughts, but no stray memory of the agent who had entered her domain so many hours before, and had never come back out, ever cluttered her mind. - - - - - end part 1