-----------------
SUNDAY 11:32 p.m.
-----------------

He heard footsteps approaching again.  Lighter ones than
Dulexy's this time, and for a moment he almost allowed
himself to believe that Scully had come for him, but these
weren't her footsteps--he'd know them anywhere.  Scully
walked lightly, quickly, and purposefully.  This person had
a heavier tread than Scully (although not as heavy as
Dulexy's plodding gait) and was moving slowly and carefully.
This person, Mulder realized, was sneaking.

It was a full two minutes before he saw the face at the
door, illuminated in the bright moonlight.  It was a woman,
somewhere in her mid-fifties, her long silver hair captured
in a ponytail at her neck. Mulder stared, unspeaking, as she
approached him quietly.  She put her fingers to her lips,
and he nodded slightly to show he understood.  Very
slightly.  The pain in his head had receded, but it was far
from gone, and he didn't want to awaken it again.

His body was still but his heart swelled; salvation at last!
All his hours of working at his bonds had only served to
turn his wrists to ground round.  Tugging futilely at the
ropes now, he silently begged her to release him. She knelt
beside him, slowly lowering her body until they were
eye-to-eye.  Before his lips could form the pleading words,
he caught sight of heaven in her hand.  A glass of water.

"Justin's passed out," she whispered grimly.  "I just
brought this over to you.  If he finds out, there'll be hell
to pay."

"Please," he whispered back weakly, his eyes still pinned to
the glass, "If you could just untie me--"

His heart sank when her head began to shake furiously from
side to side.  "I can't do that!" she answered, her barely
audible voice still managing to sound fearful.  "Justin'd
kill me!"

"Please, ma'am," he begged, his eyes beginning to fill with
the hot tears of frustration.  "Please, he's going to kill
*me*."

She guided the glass to his mouth, holding the back of his
head gently with her other hand, while he slurped anxiously
at the water.  When the glass was half-empty, she pulled it
away.

"No..." he moaned, leaning toward it.

"Shh!" she whispered fiercely.  "If you wake him..."

Mulder bit his lip in frustration, but then the glass was
back and he was allowed to finish the water.  When he'd
drained every drop he could from the glass, she pulled it
away again, wiping his mouth with her hand.

"Thanks," he muttered quietly.

"I'm only doing this because your wife was decent to me this
afternoon."

Mulder almost gasped in shock.  "Scully was here?"

She cocked her head.  "I never heard that name.  She was a
little-bitty redhead and she said her name was Mulder.  Same
as yours."

He nodded frantically once, then clenched his eyes tightly
against the pain in his head.

"Please...please tell her where to find me."

There was no answer. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the
woman had risen.  She had begun to stealthily make her way
out of the room when his voice stopped her.

"Ma'am?"

She turned.

"Could I please have something to eat?"  He kept his voice
low, terrified that Dulexy would awaken and discover his
benefactress.

She regarded him for a moment, then shook her head
regretfully.  "I can't risk it," she told him, and in the
next instant she had disappeared down the hall.


----------------
MONDAY 8:04 a.m.
----------------

"Agree to whatever he demands," Officer Allen ordered,
handing her the phone.  "We'll be there to intercept."

Scully nodded, unsure of the plan but unable to come up with
a better one on her own.  Walter was still unconscious and
these men were not impressed with the fact that ten years
earlier she had been a noted FBI agent.  To them, she was
merely the wife of a kidnap victim, less hysterical than
some, but still a civilian.

"Hello?" she said cautiously into the phone, and waited
while the sound of heavy breathing filled her ears.  She
needed to try and keep Dulexy on the line longer this time
in order for them to trace the call.

"You want to see him again?"  The voice was harsh, somewhat
slurred, and it occurred to Scully that Dulexy had been
drinking.  That could make her job easier--for the first
time, she felt hope.

"Yes.  Is he all right?"  She tried to let just the right
amount of concern slip into her voice, hiding from Dulexy
the fact that she was hanging on by a thread.  She simply
wasn't conditioned for this type of stress any longer.
There was a time she'd have taken it in stride, considering
it part of the hazards of day-to-day living, but in the last
ten years Scully had grown used to normalcy.

"Well...he's not very happy, but he's alive."

"What have you done to him?" she demanded.

He ignored her.  "If you want him back, you'll have to
follow my orders. No games this time.  I still want three
million."

She hesitated for a long moment, as long as she dared.
"Okay," she breathed, "three million it is."

"Leave it the same place as before--under the gazebo in
Soldier Park at noon today. There shouldn't be anybody
around in this rain.  If I see any cops around, your pretty
boy is going to pay dearly."

He hung up before she could respond, and Officer Allen shook
his head regretfully at her inquiring look.  Scully bit back
the obscenity that wanted to cross her lips.  Losing her
temper wouldn't help Mulder now.

"Same place.  Noon," she said shortly.

"Noon?" Allen asked with a bark of laughter.  "What is this
guy, an idiot?"

Scully glared at him.  "Whatever he is, he still has my
husband," she reminded him coldly.  "Let's not screw it up
this time."

Allen nodded, and immediately began issuing directions for
his people to position themselves in the general area of
Soldier Park.

Watching from a distance as the undercover cops began to
unobtrusively take their places, Dulexy, who had been there
already when he made the call, shook his head in amazement
at the stupidity of some people,  He quietly crept back to
the place he'd concealed his truck.  This fucking bitch was
either going to learn to play it his way, or he was going to
have even more fun with Mulder than he'd originally planned.


----------------
MONDAY 1:05 p.m.
----------------

Dulexy was returning.

Mulder heard the front door slam, rattling the entire house,
and he shuddered.  Slowly running his fingers along the
ropes that still held his mangled wrists captive, he gave
one half-hearted tug.  It was no use. He no longer had the
strength to try and free himself anyway.  He found himself
hoping that, whatever Dulexy was angry about, he was angry
enough to kill his prisoner.

He closed his eyes, unwilling to watch as Dulexy stormed
into the room, but they flew open again when his hair was
grabbed and twisted painfully in Dulexy's fist.

"That bitch!" The cold black eyes glittered as they stared
down at Mulder, helpless and exhausted.

Mulder simply watched him, certain that whatever he said
would only bring him more suffering.

"That *bitch*!"  He said it again, this time eliciting a
yelp from Mulder as he emphasized the word 'bitch' with a
sharp slap to the side of Mulder's bruised ribcage.

Dulexy gazed at his captive, a thoughtful smile creeping
over his face. Mulder stared dully back at Dulexy, fighting
for breath, and grew cold, wondering what the smile could
mean.  No good for him, he was sure of that.

"I think," Dulexy said after a moment, his head cocked to
one side, "it's time to give her something to remember you
by."

He left the room quickly, and Mulder suddenly found renewed
strength to begin working on his bonds.  This did not sound
good.  No, not at all. With growing strength fueled by a
sudden rush of fear, Mulder realized that he wasn't quite
ready to die.  Not yet.

Dulexy returned too soon, before Mulder even had a chance to
bloody his wrists again, which was probably a good thing,
Mulder thought in retrospect.  If Dulexy had seen that he
was trying to escape, he might have plunged the scissors
into his heart instead of merely cutting off his hair.

The ex-con held Mulder's head steady by placing one big hand
on his captive's chin and pressing him hard against the bed.
Mulder could barely breathe, so great was the pressure, but
his biggest concern was the sharp scissors in Dulexy's hand,
drawing nearer and nearer to his head.  For one horrifying
moment, Mulder actually thought Dulexy was going to cut out
an eye, but Dulexy just gave him that chilling grin again
and began unevenly lopping off his hair.

Mulder held perfectly still as he received his impromptu
haircut, knowing that if he moved, and Dulexy cut his scalp,
medical attention would not be forthcoming.  The last thing
he needed to add to his list of injuries was a bleeding head
wound.  Dulexy turned his head this way and that, cutting
off as much of the hair as he could, sometimes right up
against the scalp, sometimes leaving half an inch on
Mulder's head. Mulder sighed inwardly.  The small part of
him that still thought he might emerge from this ordeal
alive knew how pissed off Scully was going to be over this.
She'd gone ballistic a few months ago when he'd had his hair
cut in a buzz, and it was only now growing back to her
satisfaction.  He'd only done it in order to be cooler
during the hot summer months, he had defended, but she had
pointed out that she liked to be able to run her fingers
through his hair while they were making love (an observation
that had gone straight to his groin), and when he heard that
he'd vowed never to cut it so short again.

Now he sat quietly as Dulexy gathered the locks of
gray-tinged dark brown silk that littered the floor.  Dulexy
left the room briefly and returned with a small cardboard
box.

//A Church's Fried Chicken box, Mulder.  Your hair is going
to smell like stale, greasy chicken the last time Scully
sees it.//

Dulexy carefully placed all the hair in the box and, with
another of those coldly evil smiles, started for the door.

Dulexy paused in the doorway and turned back to look at his
shorn prisoner.  He shook the box in his hand lightly, and
Mulder could almost hear the hair fibers moving against the
cardboard.

"If this doesn't convince her to give me the money, I think
I'll chop off a finger next," he said casually.  He watched
for a reaction, but the impassive face of his prisoner gave
him no satisfaction in that regard. With another shake of
the box, he left the bedroom. He had to prepare his gift for
mailing.

Mulder kept his eyes carefully on Dulexy until the man
disappeared, and then allowed himself to glance at the floor
beside him.

Dulexy had forgotten the shears.

They lay taunting him, their chrome glinting in the
sunlight.  Quickly, Mulder considered what he should do. If
he hid them beneath the bed, Dulexy would spot them easily.
The bed was old-fashioned, standing at least a foot off the
floor, and there were no blankets or sheets to shield hidden
contraband.  If Mulder managed to get the scissors near his
hands or behind his body, Dulexy would probably also see
them.  The only thing to do, he finally decided, was to try
and get them underneath himself so that he was sitting on
them.  With a little luck (and his luck simply had to kick
in sometime, didn't it?) he would be able to effectively
conceal them from Dulexy's often-drunken gaze.

First up, though, was the problem of exactly how he was
going to get his hands, or feet, or whatever, on the shears.
Dulexy was right-handed, and he'd knelt on the floor to
Mulder's left in order to cut off his hair.  When Dulexy had
finished, he'd placed the scissors on the floor to his own
right, which meant that now they were a good two feet away
from Mulder.  Twenty-four little inches that seemed
insurmountable. Discouraged for a moment, he almost
considered giving up before reality slammed home.

//You are going to die here, Mulder// his subconscious
insisted. //You'll never see Scully again, never see Emmie
again, never get out of this filthy, nasty, lonely place.
Unless, my friend, you take this opportunity to do something
about your situation.//


Swallowing hard, Mulder realized his subconscious was right;
Dulexy had no intention of letting him go, even if Scully
paid the ransom.  The man had killed before, and he'd kill
again, and Mulder suspected Dulexy would take great delight
in killing *him*.  It was now or never.

Since his hands were useless, and his shoulders had long
since fallen numb from being yanked into such a taut
stretch, Mulder decided his legs were his only hope.  His
feet were tied together, but other than that his legs were
not secured.  He could still move them.  Experimentally, he
shifted a bit, and bit back a gasp at the sharpness of the
pain in his side.  The rest of his injuries were somewhat
superficial, he knew, although still agonizing, but there
was no question in his mind now that a rib was broken.  He
felt it every time he moved.

Slowly, taking deep, steady breaths and keeping one eye on
the door, Mulder worked on twisting his body to the side in
an effort to get at the scissors.  He finally decided the
only way was to gradually move his bound legs toward the
shears. He could only manage it in short jerks, so weakened
was he from hunger, thirst and his injuries, but
little-by-little the prize became more accessible.

Finally, after many tiny gains, he had reached the scissors
with his feet, stretching his body until he was practically
lying on his side. His exultation died a quick death,
however, when he heard the footsteps. Dulexy was approaching
the bedroom where he lay in this incriminating pose, his
legs barely concealing the shears.  Swallowing a whimper,
Mulder froze, knowing he didn't have enough time to return
to his previous spot.  If Dulexy found him now, he would pay
dearly.

The footsteps drew closer, and Mulder held his breath, eyes
clamped shut against certain death, until he realized the
sound had ceased.  He peeked from beneath his lashes, fully
expecting to see Dulexy standing in the doorway, breathing
fire, but he was still alone.  Then the footsteps sounded
again, receding this time, and Mulder gave a *whoosh* of
relief.  Safe again for a few moments.

Renewing his efforts, he managed, little-by-little, to drag
the shears toward himself with his feet, wincing at the
slight sound they made as they slid across the wood floor.
He paused again, listening, but apparently Dulexy hadn't
heard. Another good pull and they were almost beneath him.
He couldn't draw his legs any closer to his body, so after
painstakingly working himself back around to his original
position, Mulder tried reaching for the scissors with his
fingers.

Too far away.  He needed another inch.

He tried to wiggle his butt over toward the scissors and
this time the gasp did escape.  His efforts had exacerbated
the ache of his broken rib, and now he leaned back against
the bed frame, sweat pouring down his face, hungrily sucking
in air.  Glancing down at the scissors that were still
visible to anyone standing at the bedroom door, Mulder made
a conscious effort to sublimate the pain.  Biting down on
his lower lip hard, hoping the hurt there would distract him
from the greater one in his side, he forced his body to give
a tiny hop toward the shears.

He was able to suppress his yelp when he impacted with the
hard floor, but tears formed in his eyes, falling this time
before he could stop them.  He'd made progress, though.  He
was closer to his goal than he had been before.  Mulder
allowed himself another few seconds, then hopped again,
almost crying out when his bottom landed square on top of
the metal scissors.  The sudden rush of adrenalin from his
victory gave him the strength to maneuver himself back into
the position in which Dulexy had left him, and then he
collapsed, thoroughly exhausted.

He felt wetness trickling down his fingers and realized,
just before losing consciousness, that he'd started his
wrists bleeding again.

----------------
MONDAY 8:57 p.m.
----------------

Mulder raised his head weakly as Dulexy entered the room.
He wondered what had happened now, and how Dulexy would make
him pay.  His drink of water the night before had been too
little, not nearly enough, and his thirst and hunger were
now raging again.  His eyes widened in fear when he realized
that Dulexy was in a deep, drunken fury.  He'd apparently
abandoned the curtain rod as well, for in his hand was
clutched a heavy steel pipe, about two feet long.  It was
nearly identical to the one--

As Dulexy approached him with the weapon, Mulder suddenly
flashed back to his prison days.  Dulexy was a big man, much
bigger than he, and he'd been helpless in Dulexy's grasp.
The guard, also a pretty huge guy, had approached him with a
look of almost glee in his eyes.  Dulexy had covered his
mouth with one enormous hand and Mulder had watched in
horror as the pipe had risen and fallen again and again on
his defenseless body, until finally he had slumped against
Dulexy, sinking into oblivion, certain it was the end of the
line.

He felt that way now as he swallowed hard with the bit of
saliva his dry mouth generated from the fear.  He couldn't
go through that again, he just couldn't.

Dulexy towered over him, his eyes glittering with rage.  His
mouth twisted in a sneer as he hefted the pipe.

"Looks like we're back to square one, old friend," he said
softly, and raised the pipe high above his head.

Mulder winced and tried desperately to squirm out of the way
as the steel began to fall, but moving was strictly
prohibited, and he was a perfect target for Dulexy's anger.

The first blow struck him across his already pain-wracked
abdomen, and the scream that should have erupted was
silenced when all the breath was knocked from his body.
Before Mulder could inhale, the pipe fell again, this time
across both thighs.  He threw his head back reflexively and
banged it against the bed.  Tears came to his eyes, falling
easily as Dulexy concentrated on his stomach again, bringing
the pipe down over and over on his inflamed belly.

The last blow before Mulder lost consciousness was straight
to his groin, and again there was no sound, only a silent
scream of agony as he slipped into the welcoming chasm.


-----------------
TUESDAY 7:33 a.m.
-----------------

Slowly, wincing at the light, Skinner opened his eyes.  He
moaned lightly and immediately felt a cool hand smooth his
brow.

"Walter?"

Forcing his eyelids up further, he was confronted with the
smiling face of his wife.

"Jess?" he managed weakly through his parched throat.

"Shh," she whispered.  "It's good to see you again."

He gave a brief smile, then grimaced as his body began to
register the pain it was experiencing.

He felt Jess squeeze his hand, her fingers stroking his
lightly.  All he wanted was to sink back into the well of
blackness he'd been in, the one where he couldn't feel the
fire in his belly, but first he needed information.

"Ellery?"

"She's safe at home with her family," Jess assured him.

He forced his eyes to open once again.  "Mulder?"

Skinner knew something had gone wrong when he saw Jess'
expression go bland, but then, something had gone horribly
wrong anyway, hadn't it, he reminded himself, or he wouldn't
be here now.

"Mulder?" he asked again, insistently.

"The kidnapper took him," Jess confessed.  "He hasn't been
found yet."

"How long?"

"Walter--"

"How long?" he demanded, and she sighed at his harsh tone.
She knew Walter--he wouldn't go back to sleep until she'd
told him everything.

"Three days."

"Damn him," Skinner muttered.  "Damn him for doing it, and
damn me for letting him. I should have known--"

"Walter, don't.  Don't blame yourself for this.  We all know
how stubborn Mulder can be.  If you hadn't agreed to help
him, he'd have just gone off and done it alone, and then
where would he be?  You couldn't have stopped him in any
case."

"I should have told Scully to drug him and tie him to their
bed," he groused.

"That might have worked," she agreed, pushing the call
button for the nurse.  "We'll try that next time."

"Who was he?"

Jess stared at him, puzzled, until she realized he was
talking about Mulder's kidnapper.

"You were right, Walter, it was someone Mulder knew from
prison.  A Justin Dulexy.  Apparently he and Mulder shared a
cell for a time."

Skinner winced.  He recognized that name, but through the
fog of drugs and pain was unable to dredge up its meaning.

The nurse entered, a syringe of pain medication already
prepared.

"I thought you might be ready for this soon, Mr. Skinner,"
she smiled. "Are you doing all right except for that hole in
your gut?"

He almost grinned.  Nodded once.  Watched while she prepared
his IV port to receive the drug, and then remembered.  He
had to warn Scully.

"Wait," he commanded, and the nurse froze.  Skinner looked
up at his wife's concerned face.  "Scully," he said weakly.
"Dulexy.  I know that name.  He's the one."

Jess Skinner's face registered her shock as she grasped his
meaning, then softened.  She nodded and brushed her fingers
lightly over his cheek.  "I'll tell Dana," she promised.
"She'll find him, Walter."  Her lips replaced her fingers,
bestowing a soft kiss. "Now please, let her give you the
medication so you can rest."

Unable to resist his wife's pleading eyes, he muttered,
"'kay," and seconds later the world went black.

------------------
TUESDAY 12:00 noon
------------------

Her ears were waiting for trouble, and she heard the
scuffling at the front door before the bell rang.  Scully
had spent the night tossing fitfully on the couch--that old
leather couch that had been part of Mulder's surroundings
ever since she had known him.  She had nestled herself into
its thick cushions sometime after midnight, after finally
getting Emmie settled down, and had lost herself in thoughts
of Mulder.

Emmie had gone through a rough time the previous
evening--guilt had settled on her young shoulders like a
boulder, and she'd suddenly been overwhelmed.  She had
buried her head in Scully's shoulder, just as she'd done
when she was a very small child, and cried her heart out.

"Shh," Scully had soothed.  "None of this is your fault,
Emmie."

"Yes it is," Emmie had argued.  "If I hadn't accused
him--Mom, I said such horrible things to him!"

"Emmie Mulder, you know Fox, you know what he's like.  He
didn't try to save Ellery because of what you said to him.
He knew you were just upset and angry.  He did it because it
was the only thing he could do. In all the years I've known
him, I've never seen him sit back and do nothing when
somebody needed help--not even if it meant sacrificing
himself in the process.  He's a very special man, and he
loves you very much."

"Tell me about you and him, Mom," Emmie said after a bit,
her crying beginning to slow to occasional sniffles.  She
still held tightly to her mother's waist, her face against
Scully's shirt which she'd soaked with her tears.

Scully smiled sadly.  "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know about when you fell in love with each
other."

Scully was silent for a long time.  "I never really knew
when I fell in love with Mulder," she said at last.  "It
just snuck up on me, and one day I realized that there was
nobody else in the world for me, and that there never could
be."

"But you married my dad."

Her arms tightened around Emmie briefly.  "I did.  And I
probably shouldn't have, but if I hadn't married him, you
wouldn't be with me today, now would you?"

"What about Fox?  When did he decide he loved you?"

Scully clenched her eyes tightly shut against the sudden
wave of pain that hit her heart.  "I don't know," she
managed.  "You'll have to ask him about that."

The child breathed against her for a few minutes more, and
Scully thought at last that she'd fallen asleep, but then
she spoke again.

"You two aren't very romantic, are you?"

"What do you mean?" Scully asked, surprised.  She'd never
really thought about it.

"Well," Emmie said carefully, "Jessica's mom and dad are
always doing romantic things together, like going off on
dates.  He brings her flowers a lot, and he always buys her
really nice presents.  But most of the time, they just
fight.  You and Fox both forget your anniversary if I don't
remind you of it."

Scully smiled again; it was true.

"He would never think to bring you flowers, and the two of
you don't do all that sappy talking to each other that some
couples do."

"I guess you're right, we're not very romantic.  But we do
love each other, you know that, don't you?"

"Yeah," Emmie said, stifling a yawn.  "That's pretty
obvious."

"I don't need flowers from Mulder, I just need him to be
here."

Emmie squeezed her tightly.  "He'll be back, Mom.  I know
he'll be all right."

"You're right," Scully answered, trying to sound positive in
the face of her growing despair.  "He'll be home again soon,
safe with us."

And she'd turned out the light and left Emmie, already half
asleep. That was when she'd made her way to Mulder's couch
and let the tears come--not many, for Scully wasn't a woman
given to shedding tears, but a few drops, evidence of her
fear and frustration, made their way from beneath her
eyelids.

She'd let Emmie stay home from school the day before, but
today the girl had insisted on going.  Emmie had said she
couldn't afford to miss another day of classes, but Scully
suspected the atmosphere around the house, coupled with
boredom, had driven her back to the comfort and dubious
safety of her friends.

It was just as well Emmie wasn't here now, she thought as
she held the brown-paper-wrapped parcel in her hands.  The
young boy who had delivered it had been questioned by
Officer Allen, who had practically taken up residence there,
but had yielded no useful information.  A man had paid him
twenty dollars to deliver a package to this house.  He'd
stopped the boy outside a local mall (he'd ditched school)
and given him this address, then driven away in a large
black pickup truck.  It was Dulexy, of course, they had no
doubt of that, but they still had no clue as to his
whereabouts, or Mulder's.

They'd found no fingerprints on the packaging, and although
Officer Allen said there could be some inside, Scully
doubted it--and what good could it do anyway?  They knew who
they were looking for.  Scully had been holding the parcel
for the last ten minutes, afraid to open it. She had no idea
what would be inside, but it was clear that the kidnapper
was trying to terrorize her into meeting his demands.
Whatever was contained in this package, Scully was sure it
had been obtained at some cost to Mulder.

Finally, able to stand the suspense no longer, she carefully
slit the tape with a knife held in trembling fingers, and
withdrew the small yellow box.  She gripped it by the edges,
pulling it from its wrapping and discovering the fried
chicken logo written on it with a sort of detached
attention.  Church's Fried Chicken.  Their suspect ate at
Church's Fried Chicken.

"Officer Allen?" she called.

He came from the corner, where he'd been talking on his cell
phone, to see what she wanted.

"We should find out how many Church's Fried Chicken
restaurants are in this general area.  Maybe someone who
works there will remember Dulexy as a customer in the past
few days."  It was a slim clue, barely a clue at all, but
for now it was all they had.

Taking a deep breath, recognizing that she was stalling,
Scully finally slipped her fingernail beneath the lid of the
box and revealed its contents.

She stared at the locks of hair nestled at the bottom of the
box, feeling her eyes beginning to tear up again, and closed
the lid quickly. Mulder's hair.  His beautiful hair, hair
that she loved to touch, that she longed to be able to run
her fingers through right this minute--defiled by a madman.
Forcing herself to get a grip on her emotions, she opened
the box again.  Examining the hair closely, Scully bit her
lip hard when she saw the blood matting some of the strands.

"That could be from when Dulexy hit him," Allen offered, and
she nodded. "It's possible that he's not too badly hurt."

She nodded again, and rose quickly to get herself a drink of
ice water. It was true--Mulder could be relatively unharmed
at this point, but somehow she doubted that was the case.
This was a warning, and a very clear one.

She had just downed the last of her water when she heard
Officer Allen call to her from the other room.

"Yes?" she asked, going back to him, averting her eyes so
she didn't have to see her husbands locks spread out on the
paper where Allen had dumped them.

"There's something else here," he informed her reluctantly.
"A note."

"A note?  What does it say?"

He held up a small piece of paper, carefully gripping its
corner with a pair of tweezers.  Scully leaned closer to
make out the small, spidery handwriting on the note.  It
contained one sentence.

'Next I'll start sending you pieces of him.'


-----------------
TUESDAY 9:30 p.m.
-----------------

"How long has it been now, Mulder?" Dulexy asked casually as
he sipped at the glass of ice water in his hand.  "How long
since you had a good, cold drink of water?"

It had been two days (two fucking *days*, you sonofabitch!),
but Mulder wasn't about to give Dulexy the satisfaction of a
response.  Instead, he closed his eyes and turned his head
away weakly, but opened them again when the pipe battered
his flaming stomach.  Dulexy didn't like it when Mulder
didn't pay attention to his taunts.  Closing his eyes was
likely to bring on another assault, and Mulder knew he now
had more than one broken rib--one from whatever had happened
to him before he regained consciousness and at least one
more from Dulexy's drunken assault on him with the pipe the
night before.  He'd heard the distinct *crack* and had felt
the instant pain.  It was familiar; he'd had broken ribs
before.
                                   
Ignoring Mulder's discomfort, Dulexy took another long
swallow from the glass, seeing the way his prisoner's eyes
were fixated on the water. "Want some?" he asked, with what
could almost have been mistaken for kindness, holding the
glass above Mulder's sandpaper-dry mouth, just out of reach.

Involuntarily, Mulder found himself raising his head, even
while he knew that Dulexy would just pull the glass away,
unable to resist reaching for the life-giving sustenance
that tortured him.  A bead of condensation pooled at the
bottom of the glass, hanging there forever before it looked
like it would finally let go.  Mulder stared at it,
mesmerized, feeling every second tick by as he silently
begged the drop of water to fall on his cracked lips.

"Oops," Dulexy said, swiping at Mulder's precious drop just
before it descended.  "Wouldn't want you to get wet."

Mulder's head fell back weakly, and he fought hard to keep
back the tears of frustration that wanted to flow.  It had
almost been his...one more second...

"Please..." he heard himself whisper, forcing the word past
his aching throat.

Dulexy's face took on a look of concern and he leaned
closer.

"Is that--is that *begging* I hear?" he asked with mock
sympathy.

Mulder lay silently, willing the tears not to course down
his face until Dulexy was gone.

"You know, Mulder," Dulexy commented, taking another sip
from the glass, "your stubbornness won't get you anything.
You, my friend, are completely at my mercy--or haven't you
figured that out yet?"

He grinned, and Mulder turned his head away.  Angrily,
Dulexy grabbed Mulder's chin and forced him to look up into
his face.

"You give me what I want, or you get nothing," he snarled.
"And right now, Mulder, what I want is to hear you beg me
for a drink of water."

Mulder's eyes locked with Dulexy's for a long moment.  He
wanted the water, oh yes he did, so badly he'd be willing to
do almost anything to get it--but not if it would only be
drawn away at the last second like before.  At least, he
beseeched his inner self, let me keep my pride intact.

//*Pride!*// his inner self screeched in response.  //My
friend, you have lost your hair and pissed yourself like a
baby.  How much pride do you think you have left?  And what
the hell good is it doing you anyway? If the man wants to
hear a few harmless words from you before he gives you a
drink, go ahead and say them.  Words mean nothing.//

He attempted to swallow, to lubricate his voice, but there
simply wasn't enough spit to go around and his mouth wasn't
willing to share with his parched throat.

"Please," he said again, hearing his voice crack.  "Please
...water."

Dulexy lowered the glass again toward Mulder's lips, and
again pulled it back at the last second, smiling gleefully
at his prisoner's expression.

"I don't think that was enough," he said mildly.  "I want to
hear you use the 'b' word, Mulder."

"I--I'm--begging," (you motherfucking bastard), but he added
the last silently, knowing that to voice that thought would
end any hope he had of getting a precious sip of water.

Dulexy smiled again.  "That's better."

And then, miraculously, he kept his promise, allowing Mulder
to drink from the glass pressed to the trembling lips.

Mulder sucked frantically at the coveted water, feeling it
dribbling down his chin from his clumsy efforts in this
position.  He'd barely gotten his throat wet when Dulexy
pulled it away again.

"No, please..." Mulder whispered as Dulexy withdrew his
supporting hand. This time the tears did come, regardless of
his efforts to suppress them; he simply couldn't bear the
disappointment. Dulexy hadn't played fair.  He'd only barely
given Mulder a tiny sip.

"If you drink more, you'll just upchuck," Dulexy told him,
and Mulder watched through his tears of rage and
disappointment as Dulexy poured the remainder of the
precious liquid out on the floor.  "You don't want to be
covered with piss *and* puke, do you?"

----------------
Wednesday 8 p.m.
----------------


"Do you believe now that I'll hurt him?"

The voice on the phone sounded coldly cruel, and Scully
closed her eyes against the mental image of Mulder in pain.
It had taken Dulexy a long time to contact her again, and
she had no idea what Mulder had been forced to endure in the
interim.

"Yes."

She heard his breathing, heavy and labored, and the sound of
footsteps. She guessed he was pacing, wherever he was.

"I don't think you do," he said at last.

"No, I--I believe you."  She tried not to sound frantic, but
Dulexy didn't even hear her; he had put the phone down.  She
heard his voice in the background.

"Want to talk to your wife, Mulder?  Convince her I mean
business?"

Instead of Dulexy putting the phone up to Mulder's ear, as
she'd expected, Scully heard scuffling, followed by a
muffled scream that she recognized as her husband's voice,
hoarse and weak, but still definitely Mulder.

"Dulexy!" She yelled into the phone, gripping it so tightly
it was in danger of snapping in her hand.

More scuffling, and Dulexy was back.

"Would you like to know what I did to him?"  The calm
amusement in his voice was Scully's undoing.

"What did you do, you sonofabitch?" she gasped, fighting
herself furiously for control.  She couldn't lose it now, if
she did, she'd never be able to find Mulder.

"I broke your pretty rich man's finger."

Tears spilled down her cheeks.  She wondered vaguely if it
had been the same finger those terrorists had broken all
those years ago.  This time, she wasn't available to ice the
break and provide comfort, and she felt the loss like a
knife through her heart.

"I'm going to kill you, you bastard."  She whispered the
words fiercely into the phone, but Dulexy just laughed.

"Tell you what, little lady.  Let's try this again.  Are you
willing to play the game *my* way yet?"

Scully bit down hard on her lip, almost hard enough to draw
blood.  She could hear soft moaning in the background and
imagined Mulder, alone and in pain, waiting for her to
rescue him.  It was only money, after all. She'd lived
without money before but Scully knew she could never, never
live without Mulder again.

"I'll give you the money," she answered, more control in her
voice than she'd expected.  "When and where?"

"Meet me at the intersection of Bogoda Drive and Eastern
Lake Road."

The location he'd chosen was isolated and desolate, she
knew.  No chance for backup assistance to hide nearby and
come to her rescue if necessary.  It would truly be just she
and Dulexy, come what may.

"I'll be there.  When?"

"Midnight.  Oh, and Dana?  For every hour that I don't have
my money, I'm going to break another bone in your sugar
daddy's body. Don't be late."

"Wait!  You can't--"  But he was gone.

Scully sank to a chair, shaking with nervous energy now that
the call had ended.  Four more hours until the
meeting--three more broken bones Mulder would have to
suffer.  Would it be more fingers?  She hoped it would be
that and nothing worse.  Fingers, at least, were relatively
easy to set and usually healed rapidly.  And who knew what
Dulexy had done to Mulder already?  At least she knew he was
still alive.  Biting back a sob, Scully began her
preparations.

*****

"You can't do this alone, Scully, don't you dare!"
Skinner's gruff voice, dampened only a bit by his weakness,
rolled off her like water.

"I have to, Walter," she insisted stubbornly.  "Every time
we've disobeyed this man's orders, Mulder has suffered for
it.  This time I'm going to give him what he wants.  I don't
care about the money, I don't care if they catch him, and at
this point I don't give a damn about justice!  I just want
Mulder back alive."

He swore weakly as Scully disconnected, and Jess took the
phone from his hands and placed it on the bedside table.

"Don't worry about her, Walter.  If anyone knows what she's
doing in this situation, it's Dana.  You just concentrate on
your recovery."

"How the hell can I do that, Jess?" he demanded angrily.
"We're going to lose them both if she's not careful."

Jess took his face in her hands and forced him to look at
her.  "We are not going to lose them--either of them.  Now
you relax, or I'll have the nurse in here pumping your ass
so full of Morphine you won't wake up for a week, do you
understand me, Walter Skinner?"

He met her stony stare for a minute, then gave in.  There
was really nothing else he could do.  Not when he was being
watched this closely.


*****

Mulder stared warily at Dulexy as he entered the bedroom.
His broken finger throbbed, adding a tympani cadence to the
symphony in the rest of his body.  His capacity for ignoring
the pain had long since abandoned him; his entire world was
now comprised of hurt, hunger and thirst.

Dulexy was carrying something, and as he set it on the floor
near the bedroom entrance, Mulder saw that it was a large
clock.  The hands revealed that the current time was 8:07
p.m.

"You have until nine o'clock to keep the rest of your body
intact, Mulder.  Then I get to break another piece of it.  I
wonder which piece it will be this time?"

Mulder stared at the clock, mesmerized, as Dulexy whistled
his way down the hall, back to his chair and his beer.  Less
than an hour to go before Dulexy would hurt him again.
Trying to disregard the pain in his left hand--(it had been
the thumb this time, and Mulder could report with some
accuracy that having your thumb broken by a pissed-off
ex-con hurt a hell of a lot worse than having your pinkie
broken by a pissed-off terrorist)--Mulder felt around for
the scissors. He could actually feel the spot on the rope
where he'd been making progress. Carefully working the blade
into the proper position, mouth set in grim determination,
he began sawing at the ropes again.

*****

Nine o'clock came, and Dulexy sauntered into the room
carrying his pipe. Mulder had hidden his scissors again, and
now he waited, body taut with expectation, for Dulexy to
hurt him.  He expected taunts and jeers before it happened,
but Dulexy surprised him.  He knelt down at Mulder's feet
and removed both shoes and socks from his prisoner.  Then he
stood, and without hesitation, swung the pipe with all his
force directly at the top of Mulder's right foot.  Mulder
heard the bones crack, felt them give, at the same time he
screamed.  Then the world went blissfully gray.

Nine o'clock, and Scully stared at the clock on the mantle,
her hands tightly clenched in her lap, and prayed that
Mulder would survive. Tears streamed down her face as she
imagined his torment.  She had sent Emmie to her mother's to
spend a few days, and as soon as she'd kissed the girl
goodbye and locked the front door, Scully had begun to
formulate a plan of action.  Now, she considered the weapon
in her purse and wondered if she would really carry it out.

*****

Ten o'clock arrived, and Mulder awakened suddenly when he
heard Dulexy's footsteps approach.  Smelled the liquor on
Dulexy's breath when his captor knelt beside him.  Inwardly
cursing himself for losing consciousness, wasting the
precious hour he could have been working on his escape,
Mulder tried hard to return Dulexy's stare, but felt his
questionable composure slipping when Dulexy produced the
pipe.  He clenched his eyes shut, not willing to watch as
Dulexy attacked again, and was thus completely unprepared
when the steel bar came crashing into the right side of his
ribcage.  This time, a rib punctured his right lung, and
Mulder, who had suffered this once before as well, felt a
familiar sharp pain invade his side and back, and the
accompanying loss of air capacity.  He realized instantly,
in some dim part of his mind that still cared about such
things, what must have happened.

Mulder's mouth opened and a scream tried and failed to
emerge.  Just taking in enough air to survive at that point
became the most important thing in his life.

*****

Ten o'clock arrived, and Scully knew for a certainty that
she would kill Dulexy for what he was surely doing to Mulder
at that moment.  Her tears were gone; a white-hot anger had
replaced them.  Dulexy was a dead man.

*****

The clock showed eleven, and Mulder began to feel tears of
pain and helpless rage slipping down his cheeks.  When
Dulexy entered the room this time, he stood with his hands
on his hips and surveyed his prisoner.  Mulder looked like
shit.  There was still blood on his face from days ago, that
face which now held a sickly grey pallor.  The head wound
was no longer hidden by the dark hair, which now clung to
Mulder's head only in occasional tufts.  He breathed through
his mouth in an effort to stay alive for one more hour.  His
abdomen, visible through his torn shirt, was dark and
swollen with the bruising.  His right foot was also swollen,
hugely so, and behind his back Dulexy knew his left thumb
was in the same condition.

"Time for one more, Mulder," Dulexy said pleasantly, tapping
his chin with one finger.  "I wonder where it should be this
time?"

"Please...no more..." Mulder tried to form the words but his
lungs wouldn't let him put enough air behind them to make a
sound.  He shook his head slowly from side to side, no
longer feeling shame at his condition, or at his tears,
feeling nothing but the familiar suffering, coupled with a
burning desire to do or say anything--absolutely
anything--Dulexy wanted in order to avoid further damage.

Dulexy knelt beside Mulder and gently brushed a bead of
sweat from his victim's brow.  "You look bad, buddy," he
said sympathetically.  "And unfortunately for you, it's time
again."

"...please...beg...don't..."  The words finally forced
themselves past his lips with some volume, barely there but
still discernable, and Dulexy gave a satisfied grin.

"Well if you're going to put it that way," he began, and
watched Mulder's face take on an almost grateful look of
relief.  Then watched it disappear into despair as he
finished his sentence.  "...I think I'll go easy on you and
just break another finger.  The right hand this time."

Then, to his amazement, Dulexy pulled a pocket knife from
his jeans and sliced the ropes holding him to the bed.

Mulder immediately slumped over to his left side, the
feeling completely absent from his newly freed limbs, and
instantly realized what a horrible mistake it had been.

The scissors now lay in full view.

Mulder watched out of the corner of his eye as Dulexy picked
them up, turning them this way and that with a crafty look
on his face.  Then, to Mulder's surprise, Dulexy burst out
in a rich, deep laughter.

He picked up the ropes and examined them, noting the spots
where the fibers were partially sliced, and realized what
had been happening.

"I have to give it to you, Mulder, you are one tough
bastard," he said, almost admiringly.  "Anyone else would
have given up by now, but you just keep taking every chance,
don't you?"

Mulder lay quietly on the floor, wishing he could move,
wishing he could take this chance to wrest the scissors from
Dulexy and plunge the sharp blades into the man's heart.  He
still had no sensation in his arms, and the position in
which he was slumped made breathing still more difficult.
He concentrated on staying alive, grateful that Dulexy
hadn't flown into a rage when he'd discovered Mulder's
secret.

In the fear caused by the discovery of his escape plans,
Mulder had forgotten what was on the agenda.  Until Dulexy
picked up his right hand.

Mulder whimpered and tried to pull away, but hadn't the
strength left to make a serious attempt.  He felt Dulexy
separate his index finger from the others, pulling it into
an unnatural angle, and before he could even plead with
Dulexy not to hurt him again, he heard the distinct *snap*
sound as the fragile bone was broken.  He tried to scream
and again was cut off by lack of oxygen.  Tears streamed
steadily down his face now, and Mulder didn't care if Dulexy
thought he was weak, didn't care what anybody thought.  All
he wanted was for the endless torment in his battered body
to stop.

"Well," Dulexy said, picking up the scissors that still lay
on the floor and tossing them aside, "time to go meet up
with your bitch."  He stood, regarded the man on the floor
for a moment, and then deliberately kicked the scissors into
a far corner.  Moments later, Dulexy disappeared down the
corridor, laughing to himself again.

Mulder stared at the scissors.  They were a good eight feet
away, and in his current condition it might as well have
been eight miles.  He tried to reach out a hand toward the
instrument that could help him gain his escape, and wept in
despair when his arms refused to obey his commands. The
chance for freedom from this monster was so close, but he
knew for certain now that he was going to die here.  Scully
hadn't been able to find him, and even though Dulexy had
left his hands untied, escape in his condition was
impossible.  Dulexy would meet Scully, rape and kill her,
take the money, and then return to finish him off.  His
whole body shuddered at the prospect.

With a plea for her forgiveness on his lips, Mulder slipped
away.

*****

Eleven o'clock arrived and Scully left the house, suitcase
full of money in one hand and her purse over one shoulder,
prepared to kill Dulexy. She would never let him walk away
from this alive.

All her intentions came to nothing when her car skidded off
the road, made slick with the rain, as she tried to avoid
hitting the car that had suddenly swerved in front of her.
She ran headlong into a telephone pole, and if she'd been
driving faster she would have been killed.  As it was, she
was knocked unconscious, and never even knew when the other
driver called for an ambulance and she was transported to
the nearest hospital.

--------------------
WEDNESDAY 11:31 p.m.
--------------------

The sting in his arms was what woke him.  The blood
returning to his numb limbs felt like tiny needle pricks
over every inch of skin, and it forced Mulder to leave that
dark, comfortable place where he'd retreated and face
reality again.

Reality sucked.

With a groan, Mulder opened his eyes and took in his current
situation. He was sprawled on the floor, his all-but-useless
arms tormenting him, his legs still bound at the ankles.
Broken foot, broken ribs, broken left thumb, broken right
index finger, an abdomen that was inflamed and
excruciatingly painful.  And eight feet away, barely visible
in the shadows, lay the scissors Dulexy had left behind.  If
he could get to them...

Mulder tried to lift himself up by his hands and gasped at
the pain in his fingers.  Both hands were swollen to twice
their normal size, and the left one was a dark color,
appearing almost black in the dim light cast by the moon.
He was able, with a good deal of hurt, to prop himself on
his elbows, but he was too weak to hold himself up like that
for long, and soon collapsed back to the floor, tears of
despair once again streaking his cheeks.

Dulexy would be coming back soon, either with or without the
money, and all Mulder had to do was wait.  One way or
another, Dulexy was surely planning to finish him off before
long.  He could simply lay here, maybe slip into blissful
oblivion again, and Dulexy would eventually remove the
burden that his life had become from him forever.  Scully
would grieve, of course, but she had lived without him
before.  Emmie would miss him--she'd already lost one
father--and for that, Mulder was truly sorry, but he
couldn't, no more strength, no more courage, no more--

But maybe, just maybe he could pull himself over to the
corner if he worked it slowly.  He'd be able to get the
shears, cut the ropes binding his feet, and perhaps crawl
out of the house and hide before Dulexy returned.  Did he
have enough time?

//Not if you lie here feeling sorry for yourself, asshole//
that pesky inner voice stated firmly.  //Get moving.//

Taking a deep breath, but drawing it in very slowly, mindful
of his punctured lung, Mulder raised up commando-style on
his elbows.  Ignoring the screaming in his ribs, he dug his
right elbow into the floor, grateful that the wood was old
and rough and gave decent traction, and pulled himself
forward.  He managed to move three or four inches before he
had to stop and rest, gasping for breath that didn't ever
seem sufficient, unable to decide which throbbing piece of
his body hurt the worst.

When he'd recovered from the effort, he gritted his teeth,
raised up again, and made his left arm do its share of the
work.  Another few inches gained.  Determinedly, focusing
only on the glinting silver shape that lay ahead of him, he
ordered his arms to do their part in the rescue effort.
They were the only thing he could rely on at this point.
Sweat broke out all over his body, and the swelling in his
hands and foot made him want to cry out in agony, but he
moved forward yet again. At least his tears were gone.

*****

Dulexy, for his part, waited until Scully was an hour late,
and then left their rendezvous point in the blackest of
moods.  Mulder was going to pay the ultimate price for this,
he decided.  He was tired of fucking around with this
family.  He might not get the money he'd been after, but he
was going to have a good time exacting revenge for his
trouble. Oh yes, Mulder, he thought gleefully as he drove
toward home, you and I are going to play all night long.

------------------
THURSDAY 2:26 a.m.
------------------

Mulder's eyes flew open at the sound of the slamming
door.  Again it shook the house, and Mulder trembled when he
remembered how badly he'd been hurt the last time Dulexy was
this angry.  "Shit," he whispered, biting back a sob.
"Shitshitshit!"

He'd only closed his eyes for a moment to rest, but now he
began sawing frantically at the ropes again.  It had taken
him almost two hours to reach the scissors, and once he'd
obtained his treasure he'd been exhausted and steadily
weeping with the pain.  He'd managed to sit up and prop
himself in the corner, and had begun working on the ropes in
earnest.

Using a pair of shears when you had broken fingers on each
hand was nearly impossible, and Mulder's clumsy efforts had
already resulted in one deep gouge in his left foot which
was bleeding enthusiastically. He'd tried to staunch the
flow with a piece ripped from his shirt, but hadn't had much
luck.  He'd only managed to cut through about half of the
thick rope when he heard Dulexy's angry footsteps stalking
down the hall toward his prison.

A soft moan of desperation escaped him as he renewed his
efforts, keeping an eye on the door, already knowing it was
a useless endeavor but unwilling to abandon the victory for
which he'd worked so hard and which was so close.

Mulder stopped when Dulexy entered the room, glancing around
furiously for a second before spotting him huddled in the
corner.  The man came over and knelt beside him, eyes
glittering in the moonlight.

"So, you thought you could get away from me," Dulexy stated,
and Mulder smelled the familiar drunken odor on Dulexy's
breath.

He stared back silently at Dulexy.  There was nothing to
say; denying the obvious was silly.  He wondered what had
gone wrong this time, but it didn't really matter, did it?
Dulexy was drunk, and angry, and surely this time Dulexy
would finish him off.

Instead, to his amazement, Dulexy gently took the scissors
from his ruined hands and, being careful not to cut Mulder's
skin, released him from the ropes.  Mulder's mouth dropped
open in surprise, but before he could utter a word Dulexy
stood and, grabbing him by his broken foot, dragged him
roughly back to the center of the room.  Mulder screamed.

"I'll be right back," Dulexy said with a wink, "and then
we'll discuss your behavior.  Don't go nowhere."

Mulder scrabbled to crawl back to his corner, foolishly
thinking it might afford him some protection, but before he
could even turn over onto his stomach, Dulexy had
reappeared, this time bearing the steel pipe.

Mulder whimpered deep in his throat, his swollen hands
grabbing at the floor for purchase, instinctively trying to
back away but unable to move even an inch.

"I've been fucked around by her for the last time," Dulexy
announced, beginning to swing the pipe back and forth.  "Now
I'm going to kill you. And then I'm going to kill her.  And
then maybe I'll have some fun with that pretty little girl
of yours before I slit her throat."

He felt his bile rising at Dulexy's words.  The idea of this
sonofabitch laying a finger on either Scully or Emmie sent a
surge of adrenalin throughout his body, but unfortunately,
his body was too broken to make use of it.  He watched
wordlessly as Dulexy swung the pipe around his head a few
more times, and so was not totally unprepared when Dulexy
smashed the steel rod into his right leg with such force
that the bones below the knee were snapped.

He heard the now-familiar sound before slipping into the
darkness.

A few minutes later he was brought back to the surface of
the suffering when Dulexy threw a pan of icy cold water
directly into his face.

"You're not getting away from me that easy," Dulexy informed
him.  "I want you to die with the image of what I'm going to
do to your wife and daughter on your mind.  Maybe you can
watch from hell while I torture them."

Sputtering, Mulder licked the water from his lips, wishing
Dulexy had managed to get more of it into his mouth and less
on his clothes.  He tried to focus on Dulexy's words, but
they didn't make sense in his jumbled mind.  They were
merely nonsensical sounds strung together, forming into
incoherent batches that were only recognizable as sentences
by the punctuating pauses.  Then the sentences stopped, and
Mulder gasped for breath, unable to speak or even scream out
his pain and fear when he saw Dulexy raise the pipe again.

It was his other leg this time, in roughly the same
location, and Mulder did manage to scream, punctured lung be
damned.  Actually, it was more of a loud groan, and he felt
his ribs protest when it emerged.

"Maybe I'll tie your wife up and force her to watch while I
play with your daughter a little bit.  Is she a virgin,
Mulder?  Has any boy ever touched that hot, wet part of her?
Have *you*, Mulder?"

Again the words made no sense, which Mulder was currently
unable to appreciate as the blessing it was.  Had he
understood Dulexy's taunts, it would only have served to
increase his helpless rage.

Dulexy raised the pipe once more, and Mulder found himself
begging, with no thought to the humiliation, or even the
probable outcome of such an action.  His mind was focused on
nothing but the agony he was experiencing, and he was
willing to do whatever was required to make it stop.

"Please...no more...," he cried weakly.  "Please just shoot
me...Dulexy...ohgodpleasenomore!"

He was cut off when Dulexy brought the pipe down hard on his
right arm, shattering it below the elbow.  His scream this
time was high-pitched and girlish, and he barely heard it
before he passed out.  Dulexy brought him back with the cold
water again and, ignoring Mulder's pleading whimpers,
repeated his task on his victim's other arm.  Then he stood
back and surveyed his work.

The battered, broken man on the floor lay there moaning
softly.  A long, pathetic sound of distress broke the night
that had otherwise fallen silent, interspersed with panting
breaths that didn't bring in enough oxygen.  Mulder wasn't
long for this world, it was apparent, and for a moment
Dulexy considered bashing his head in and putting the man
out of his misery.  Then, with a wicked smile, he decided
otherwise.  It might be interesting to see just how long it
took Mulder to finally die.  He thought he might just watch.

-------------------
THURSDAY, 2:53 a.m.
-------------------

Sylvia Stiles sat huddled in her bed, trying hard to ignore
the pathetic wailing that made its way through the clear
night, in past the curtains blowing at her bedroom window
and lodging in her brain without mercy. Justin had said he
wouldn't hurt the man too badly, but it was apparent that
Justin had lied once again.

She wanted so badly to go to him, help him, pull Justin away
from him, but she didn't dare.  If Justin found her
tampering with his plans, he'd kill her in an instant--she
had no doubt of that.  It was bad enough she'd given the
prisoner a drink of water, but to actually try helping him
escape...well, she was just lucky Justin hadn't discovered
that drink, or it might be she who was wailing and moaning
in pain now.

At last, the awful noises stopped, and Sylvia wondered if
the hostage had finally given up life.  She sniffed
angrily--Justin hadn't needed to kill him.  He looked like a
nice man, even if he had been in prison once, and his wife
was one of the few people who had treated her with respect
for as long as she could remember.  She hated to think of
that sweet little woman without her husband.

A thought struck her, and she crept from her bed, feeling
her way purposefully to the kitchen without turning on any
lights.  It wouldn't do for Justin to discover she was
awake.  When she reached the kitchen, she opened the top
drawer beside the refrigerator and felt near the back until
her fingers closed over the small white card the man's wife
had given her.  It had a cell phone number printed on it,
she remembered. First thing in the morning, she was going to
call that number.  She didn't care if Justin went back to
prison.  She didn't even care if she got in trouble for
hiding him.  She didn't want to live with that poor man's
death on her head...she couldn't take that again.  Mama and
Justin had always thought Grandpa died of the alcohol, and
Sylvia had never told a soul that she knew more--quite a bit
more than she'd ever let on. Grandpa had just hurt her once
too often.

She padded slowly back to her bedroom, and as she climbed
under the covers, the wailing started again.  Sylvia covered
her ears with her hands, and buried her head beneath the
pillow.

------------------
THURSDAY 3:47 a.m.
------------------

Mulder was pulled from his blissful oblivion when Dulexy
again doused him with water.  Again, Mulder lapped hungrily
at the droplets that fell on his lips.  Through the haze of
pain and fear that surrounded him, he was dimly aware that
Dulexy had perched himself on the bare mattress of the bed
and was watching him.  Dulexy continued to taunt him with
meaningless words and phrases, but they were lost on Mulder.
The only thing he could focus on was the unbelievable level
of agony he was experiencing, and the fact that whenever his
body would give up and slip into the darkness, Dulexy
brought him back with the water.

Eventually, Mulder came to terms with the hurting enough to
produce coherent thought, and when he did, it was to marvel
at the persistence of life.  If he'd been watching the scene
from the outside, Mulder would have bet the farm that the
man on the floor wouldn't have lasted the night, but as the
light of dawn slowly began to seep in through the broken
window, he realized he was still alive, against all odds.

The water that Dulexy had continued to douse him with had
actually improved his situation somewhat, although in
bringing him back from the brink of death by dehydration,
Dulexy had only managed to fully awaken the nerve endings in
his extremities.  Mulder had suffered broken bones before
and hadn't thought it all that bad, once he made it past the
initial pain, but this...he was fascinated to note that the
pain increased exponentially with each additional break.

His mind tried to focus on that math problem, to add up all
his broken bones and increase the total by a factor of, oh
say ten, but he found himself unable to concentrate long
enough to come up with the initial tally.  Each individual
break was screaming for attention, and once he focused on it
long enough to add it to the count, Mulder found he couldn't
wrench his thoughts away from the pain.  After a while he
gave up on the task and absorbed himself in simply staying
alive a little while longer.  Maybe if Dulexy left...maybe
if he could move a little...maybe...

-------------------
THURSDAY, 6:14 a.m.
-------------------

The persistent ringing of her cell phone brought Scully back
to consciousness.  She opened her eyes, gazing around
herself in confusion for a moment before realizing she was
in a hospital bed.

Her mother sat beside her--had obviously been there all
night.  She was just beginning to stir toward wakefulness at
the sound of ringing.

"Mom," Scully croaked, and tried again.  "Mom."

Maggie opened her eyes and looked, tired but happy, into her
daughter's face.

"You're awake," she observed in a soft, pleased voice.

Scully struggled for reason through the fog in her brain.
What had happened to her?  Her mind tried to piece together
the puzzle when memory hit her like a sledgehammer.  Mulder.
Dulexy.  Her car, skidding off the road.  Dulexy, waiting,
surely growing more angry every minute that she did not
arrive for their rendezvous.  And Mulder, at his mercy...

"Mom, could you please grab my phone out of my bag?  It
could be about Mulder."  Scully tried not to sound frantic,
but she was afraid of what the consequences to Mulder would
be after she'd been unable to keep her meeting with Dulexy.
What if he'd hurt Mulder...or worse?

Her mother finally located the ringing phone, but by the
time she handed it to Scully, the ringing had ceased.  A
moment later, to her relief, the flashing symbol indicating
a voice-mail message began flickering. Hastily, Scully
pushed in the numbers to access her messages.

"Mrs. Mulder, this is Sylvia Stiles," the tremulous voice
announced when she'd connected.  "It's about your husband.
I think--maybe you'd better come over and talk to me.  I
think maybe Justin has him--well, I can't talk on the phone.
You come see me today, as quick as you can."

Scully's face paled when she heard the message, and it took
all her self-control not to fling the phone angrily across
the room.  She'd been sure Sylvia was lying when she said
she knew nothing about Mulder, of course, but there had been
no way to prove it at the time, and Scully hadn't wanted to
alienate the woman by voicing her suspicion.  Upon
reflection, she decided as she pulled her bruised self from
the bed, it was better she hadn't alienated her.  Unless
Mulder was already dead.

"Dana, what are you doing?" Mrs. Scully demanded, horrified
to see her daughter removing the IV from her left hand.
"You can't do that!"

"I have to go, Mom," Scully said patiently, holding a
washcloth over the wound to staunch the bleeding.  She made
her way slowly toward the closet, pleased to find her
clothing hanging neatly there.  "It may already be too
late."

"Too late for what?" her mother asked, confusion in her
voice.

"For Mulder."  Seeing her mother's frightened expression,
Scully added gently, "I'm all right, Mom.  I just got a
little bruised up is all. I'll be fine.  I have to find my
husband."

She steadied herself by leaning against the bed as she
pulled her jeans on, ignoring the nurse who had been
summoned by the beeping IV monitor. In the background, she
was dimly aware of her mother attempting to explain the
situation to the nurse, but she was already inside herself,
pulling on all her strength to help her cope with what she
was afraid she would find.

Taking her personal possessions, Scully started for the
elevator. Hearing a familiar shout, she held the door as her
mother came racing down the corridor.

"You can't drive anywhere, your car was totaled," her
mother informed her.  "Wherever you're going, you'll have to
let me take you there."

"Just let me borrow your car, Mom.  I'm fine," Scully
answered impatiently, reaching for the keys, but Maggie
deliberately held them behind her back.

"I am not letting you drive in this condition," she insisted
with that note of steel that Scully remembered from her
childhood.  "You still have narcotics in your system.  The
last thing you need is to have another accident, and maybe
finish yourself off.  Now--where are we going?"

"We have to go to Walter," Scully told her as she followed
her mother into the parking garage.  "I'm not going off
alone without at least letting him know."

"Good idea," her mother agreed, and helped Dana into the
car.  She carefully but swiftly drove them to the nearby
hospital where Skinner had been incarcerated for the better
part of a week.  Scully was silent and tense on the ride
over, poring over Sylvia's message in her mind. Did this
mean the woman knew where Mulder was being held?  Or did she
only suspect?  Either way, it was more than they'd had to go
on previously.

She tried not to get her hopes up as they rode the elevator
up to Skinner's room, but it was impossible not to grasp
onto the belief that she'd find Mulder, safe and sound.
Except for the broken bones, she reminded herself fiercely.
Dulexy still needed to die for that.

*****

When Mulder opened his eyes again, Dulexy was gone.  He
glanced carefully around the room, half-afraid his tormentor
was hiding in some darkened corner, but he was alone.
Slowly, he took stock of his situation.  He was completely
helpless, he told himself.  He couldn't walk, he couldn't
even move without excruciating pain.  Nobody knew where he
was, he was practically starved and nearly dead from
dehydration, although Dulexy's perceived torture of
continually soaking him to bring him back to consciousness
had had one positive side-effect--he'd managed to get enough
water into his mouth to revive himself a little.

He was helpless, and yet, he reminded himself, if he didn't
do something, Dulexy was going to kill him, then go after
Emmie and Scully. He no longer dreaded his own
death--welcomed it, in fact--but his women must be
protected.  It was all he had left to give them.  They must
not suffer because of him and his past.

With an effort borne of sheer will, Mulder managed, after
several agonizing tries, to roll over onto his stomach.  His
broken, swollen limbs screamed mercilessly at him, and the
pressure of landing on his ribs drove what little breath he
had out of his body.  He lay there, flailing weakly for a
few minutes, until he recovered enough stamina to raise his
head and survey his goal.  The bedroom exit lay three feet
in front of him.

Dulexy had been gone for only a few minutes, but Mulder knew
he could return at any time.  If he was halfway down the
hall when his captor came back, Mulder knew he would
probably be killed--maybe this time Dulexy would bash his
head in with the steel pipe, or break his spine in two.  At
any rate, he had nothing to lose.  He was going to die
anyway. If he could only get to a phone, possibly warn
Scully, then he could at least die in peace.

Forcing himself up onto his elbows as he'd done before,
groaning at the sharp ache of moving his arms at all, he
began to inch forward.

*****

Dulexy had watched Mulder drift in and out of consciousness
until he grew bored with the activity.  He'd brought his
hapless victim back from oblivion four or five times,
sputtering each time with the water Dulexy had thrown in his
face.  Dulexy had grinned with glee when he saw the look in
Mulder's eyes as the beaten man realized once again that he
was still alive.  Finally, he'd gotten tired of his game,
and decided to cruise on over to the main house to see
Sylvia.  He'd need money--after he disposed of Mulder's
body, he'd do better to leave town for a while, he reasoned.
Surely the bitch had some cash stored away somewhere in that
big old house.  She'd give it to him, or he'd kill her.

He left the truck in the driveway and took the shortcut,
walking through the trees toward the house where he'd grown
up.  Justin had known these lands like the back of his hand
when he'd been a kid, and not much had changed since then.
He approached the house from the north, around the corner
from the kitchen door, and was about to change course for
the sidewalk when he heard his sister's voice drifting from
her open bedroom window.

"I think--maybe you'd better come over and talk to me.  I
think maybe Justin has him--well, I can't talk on the phone.
You come see me today, as quick as you can."

A bolt of fury shot through him, quicker than lightning.
Instantly his mood changed from lighthearted glee to
murderous rage.  She was trying to double-cross him.  His
own sister!

He looked around for something to use as a weapon, but saw
nothing suitable.  Instead, Dulexy slipped quietly inside
the kitchen and crept softly through to the adjoining den.
There, in front of the fireplace. An iron poker.  That would
do the trick.  Gripping his prize tightly, he made his way
down the hall toward Sylvia's room.

Sylvia heard the footsteps on the creaky wood floor, and
immediately shoved the phone and the card beneath the
pillow.  It had to be Justin. Maybe if she offered him a cup
of coffee, acted cheerful, she could get rid of him.

"Hello, Justin," she said quickly when he entered the room.
"Would you like--"

She never got to finish her sentence, barely had time to
notice the fireplace poker in his hand before he raised it
high in the air and brought it down hard on her skull.  The
cracking, squishing sound it made was the last noise she
heard.

Dulexy hit her twice more, just to be sure, before throwing
the poker aside.  He wrapped the bloody mass that had once
been his sister's skull in the bathrobe that lay on the end
of the bed, then picked up her body in his arms and carried
her down the hall and out of the house.  Setting her
none-too-gently on the ground, he pulled open the door of a
root cellar that lay a few feet from the kitchen.  He picked
up Sylvia's lifeless body again and watched dispassionately
as she tumbled down the stairs.  Then he slammed the door
shut and strode toward the other house.  He'd get in his
truck and go take care of the Mulder women, he thought with
satisfaction as he trod through the woods.  Maybe he'd even
bring them back here and make Mulder watch while he played
with them, if the sonofabitch was still breathing when he
got back.  He laughed out loud at the prospect.  The day was
just getting better and better.

*****


"What are you doing here so early--and what the hell
happened to you?" Skinner demanded from his hospital bed
when Scully entered the room. Her face was pale, with dark
circles forming under her eyes, and there was a nasty bruise
covering her left cheekbone.

"There's no time for explanations.  I need your help."

He raised his bed to a sitting position, cocking an eyebrow
at her curiously.

"I thought you were meeting with Dulexy last night--what
about Mulder?"

Scully bit her lip firmly, refusing to give in to the
despair that wanted to sweep over her.

"I had a car accident on my way to see him.  I ended up
being taken to the hospital, unconscious.  I woke up this
morning, to the ringing of my cell phone.  Dulexy's sister
left me a message to come out there immediately--she seems
ready to talk."

"Did she tell you where to find Mulder?" he demanded
anxiously.

She shook her head.  "I'm betting she knows where he is,
though.  I'm on my way there now.  I just hope I'm not too
late."

"Then why are you here?  There isn't time to--"

"I need backup," she interrupted.  "FBI backup.  No more
dealing with these locals."

He stared at her for a moment, then his head started to
shake back and forth slowly, thoughtfully.  "No backup,
Scully," he said firmly, pushing back the covers and
unsteadily attempting to stand.  "Every time backup's gotten
involved, Mulder's situation has worsened.  We'll go alone."

"Walter, you can't--"

"Yes I can.  I'm a lot stronger than you think.  My wound
wasn't nearly as bad as yours that time you got
gut-shot...they've already had me up and walking around.
And we're probably Mulder's last hope."

He then proceeded to do exactly as Scully had done, removing
his IV and, ignoring the protesting monitor and the
accompanying protesting nurse, donning his clothes as
quickly as possible.  He was just finishing tying his shoes
when Jess entered the room, holding a cup of coffee in one
hand.

"What the *hell* do you think you're doing?" she demanded,
setting the cup down quickly and going to stand over him.

He ignored her anger as he calmly finished tying his shoes.
Then he looked up into her face, touched by the concern and
love he saw there.

"Scully and I have to go get Mulder," he explained, standing
up and placing his hands on her shoulders.  "We're the only
ones who can help him now."

"Why?" she asked softly, wanting to rail against him, order
him back into the bed, plead with the nurses for enough pain
medication to knock him out if it would keep him out of
danger.  "You're in no condition to leave here, Walter.  Why
can't you send the police?"

"She's right, Walter, you're not in any condition.  Just
call me in a couple of agents and let us handle this.  We
have to hurry, and you don't look like you can do anything
close to hurrying right now." Scully was practically dancing
from one foot to the other in her anxiety.  They were
wasting time here, while Mulder--heaven knew what was
happening to Mulder.  "Besides, you could lose your job over
this," she reminded him.

"We'll handle this alone, Scully," he insisted as he started
for the door, ignoring any and all pleas from Jess, Mrs.
Scully and the two nurses who were busily trying to convince
him to get back into bed. "I'm less than a year from
retirement. If they want to fire me over this, I'll gladly
forfeit my pension if it means we get Mulder back alive."

Scully nodded agreement, unwilling to waste any more time
arguing. Recognizing defeat, Mrs. Scully handed her daughter
the keys to her car.

"You *will* come back alive," she ordered, fixing first Dana
and then Walter with her special glare.  "Both of you.  And
bring Fox back home, too."

"Yes, Mom," Scully flung over her shoulder as they left,
making their way to the car as quickly as two injured people
possibly could.

*****

Mulder stopped again to rest, finally giving in to the
exhaustion that enveloped him.  He had no strength, no
ability...but he'd discovered hope.  It had taken him almost
an hour, but he was halfway down the hall leading to the
kitchen, and there, hanging on the wall above him, ten feet
ahead, was his goal.  A telephone.

He'd almost wept with relief when he'd seen it.  He'd been
ready to give up, his broken limbs relentlessly protesting
every movement.  His vision would gray out occasionally, and
he'd be forced to stop, but as soon as it would clear, aided
by the deepest breaths he was able to take--not deep enough,
but adequate--he'd begin his quest anew.

He'd found he could do little more with his legs than
wriggle them at the hips, trying to push with his knees but
unable to lift his shins to give the knees the purchase they
needed.  Most of the work was still being done by his
elbows, and his shattered forearms screamed at him with
every movement.  He was moving slowly, inching forward, but
making noticeable progress.  Luckily, the floors of the old
house were wood instead of carpet, so he slid more easily,
although he did have some splinters in his stomach and arms
from the long-neglected surface. Right now they were the
least of his worries.

He'd just raised his head from his latest forced rest period
when he heard a noise that made him shiver with terror.  He
froze, listening to the footsteps approaching, treading on
the creaky surface of the porch outside the kitchen door.

Tears of frustration and fear tried to leak out of his eyes
once again, but he held them back with a will, reminding
himself that he was a dead man anyway.  It didn't matter if
Dulexy found him here or where he'd left him.  Either way
this was going to be his last day on earth. Gritting his
teeth against the agony, more obvious now, less ignorable
since he wasn't concentrating on moving, he waited for the
worst.

He heard the kitchen door open, and Dulexy's heavy gait
treading across the floor, but couldn't bring himself to
watch as his captor approached. He lay his cheek against the
cool floor and closed his eyes, anticipating the first blow.

It never came.

Instead, the footsteps moved off the kitchen into another
room, and then quickly back toward the door, leaving the
house.  Moments later, Mulder heard a vehicle start, and the
unmistakable sound of Dulexy's truck driving away.  He
couldn't believe his good fortune.  Dulexy had gone.

In the next second he realized exactly *where* Dulexy was
probably headed--toward Scully and Emmie--and stared at the
telephone on the wall with new determination.  He had to
reach that phone before Dulexy reached his women.

It took almost another hour for him to make it to the phone,
grab the cord, manage to yank the receiver down from where
he lay on the floor, and scream out his frustration when,
instead of a dial tone, his ear met silence.

The phone had been disconnected.

*****

Scully glanced worriedly over at Skinner as she drove.  He
didn't look good at all--his face was pale and drawn.  He
leaned against the headrest, his eyes closed, and she could
see the sheen of sweat on his skin.  Every time the car hit
a slight bump, he winced.

"Damn well should have stayed in the hospital," she muttered
angrily.

"I told you, Scully, you need me.  I'll be fine."

She said nothing more, but drove more carefully, trying to
avoid bumps. Eventually, she turned off the road onto a dirt
driveway.  She drove slowly, biting her lip in concentration
as she tried to avoid the ruts so as not to further jostle
Skinner.

When at last she pulled the car to a stop in front of the
house, Skinner opened his eyes wearily.

"Looks deserted," he commented.

"It didn't have a lot of life the last time I was here,"
Scully replied as she unfastened her seatbelt.

She half-expected Sylvia Stiles to come running out to meet
them, but was greeted by nothing but silence as she
approached the front door.

"Miss Stiles?" she called through the screen, knocking
loudly.  "Is anyone home?"

There was no answer.  Finally, after several more attempts
at knocking brought no satisfaction, Scully pulled the
screen door open and stepped into a large entrance hall.
She blinked her eyes a few times to accustom them to the
dimness, and made for a doorway she assumed would lead to
the main portion of the house.  Skinner followed, and they
stepped into a small den, cozy and with a lived-in feeling,
but still deserted.

"Sylvia?" Scully called again.  She motioned to the corridor
leading off the den.  Down the corridor to their right lay a
large kitchen, and to the left appeared to be several
bedrooms.  They turned left, and had only gone a few feet
when she stopped suddenly.

"Oh my God," she moaned softly, staring at her feet.

Skinner's eyes lowered to where she was looking, and he
discovered what had caught her attention.  Small droplets,
random and few in number, but unmistakably blood, spattered
the floor.  The droplets became fewer and farther between
leading toward the kitchen, and larger and greater in number
as they continued to approach what turned out to be a
comfortably-sized bedroom.

Skinner steadied her as she swayed on her feet, staring
fixedly at the large bloodstain on the bed.

"What did that bastard do to him?" she ground out, unable to
look away from what she was certain now must have been the
place Mulder had taken his last breath.

*****

"Of course it's disconnected, you idiot--this house hasn't
been lived in for years!" he reprimanded himself, once he'd
gotten his silent screams of frustration under control.
"You just have to find another way."

The sound of his own voice calmed Mulder considerably,
scratchy and hoarse though it was.  It somehow managed to
remind him that he was, in fact, still alive, and as such,
should be doing whatever he could to remain in that
condition for as long as possible.

Notifying Scully of Dulexy's approach seemed impossible
now--she'd have to rely on her own wits to save her and
Emmie.  On the other hand, nobody was going to save him
except himself, he realized.  He'd made it down the hall to
the kitchen.  Maybe if he gathered all his strength he could
make it out of the house and find someplace to hide.

His muscles screamed in protest when he informed them they
were going to have to get to work again, but he ignored
their complaints.  "Let 'em form a union," he muttered, his
eyes on the kitchen door which, he thankfully noted, was
unlatched.  There was no way in hell he could stand up at
this point.  It was all up to the elbows, knees and hips.

Slowly, with a stubbornness Mulder would have previously
sworn he no longer possessed, he began to inch his way
toward the door.  After another twenty minutes of effort, he
reached it, and almost wept with relief when the door swung
open easily from his spot on the floor.  He pulled the front
part of his body over the threshold and bit down hard on his
lip to keep from crying out when he dragged his shattered
legs across the hump.  Another couple of feet and he was at
the edge of the steps.  This time, Mulder did put his cheek
down on the hard, cool wood and allow the tears to course
down his cheeks.

Five steps.  Five steep steps to the ground and it looked
like a mile. How was he ever going to make it?  It had taken
him too long to get this far--Dulexy had probably already
done away with his family and was on his way back here.
Even if he managed to get to the bottom of this flight of
stairs without breaking his neck, there was nothing there
but dirt and tall weeds.  He wouldn't be able to drag
himself across the ground as easily as he'd managed the
hardwood floors.  Dulexy would likely return to find him
five feet across the yard in his escape attempt.  At that
point, he would no doubt be beaten the rest of the way
toward that death that seemed so near.

At the same time the despair washed over him, Mulder felt
hope on its heels.  For the first time in days, he was
outside, and just the feeling of freedom helped perk him up
a little.  The sun was shining, it was a crisp autumn day,
the birds were singing...  "And you're lying here soaking up
the sunshine instead of trying to save your life, dipshit,"
he groused to himself.

Taking another survey of the steps beneath him, he pushed
back the discouragement that wanted to overwhelm him.

"One step at a time, Mulder," he panted to himself as he
carefully lowered his right arm to let the elbow rest on the
first step.  "One at a time."

He'd just placed his second elbow on the step when he heard
a sound and felt his heart nearly stop.

A car swished past on a road somewhere beyond the treeline
ahead of him. He heard it plain as day.  Not too far
distant, either, if he guessed correctly.  For a few minutes
he feared Dulexy's return, but after gazing intently at the
road leading toward the house for several minutes, he
decided it had been someone else, merely passing by.

On the other hand, he reminded himself, if there was a road
that close, maybe he could manage to crawl to it.  Maybe he
could find someone to help him.

"Four more steps," he muttered, leaning downwards to move
toward step number two.

Mulder made it to the ground in record time when his elbow
slipped on step number two, and his entire body slid quickly
down, meeting the hard, packed earth at the foot with an
agonizing collision.  The remainder of the breath in his
body was knocked clean out of him, and he welcomed the
blackness as he slipped into its comforting embrace.

*****

"Don't panic just yet, Scully," he ordered, his hand on her
arm holding her steady.  "You don't know it's Mulder's
blood."

She turned to him, hopelessness in her blue eyes.  "Whose
else would it be?" she asked in a voice that sounded almost
broken, and he realized with sudden clarity just how
difficult all this had been for her.  Of course he'd known
it wasn't easy--having a family member kidnapped and
tortured was one of the worst things that could happen--but
he was able to see the situation clearly through her eyes
now.  She'd done so much and tried so hard to get Mulder
back safely, and everything she had done had resulted in
more suffering for the one she wanted to save.  His voice
took on a new softness.

"I think it's probably Sylvia Stiles' blood," he told her,
and the way her eyes widened told him she hadn't even
considered that possibility.

Together, they followed the droplets of blood down the hall
to the kitchen, but by the time they reached that room the
trail had disappeared completely. They searched the entire
house, finding nothing of any use.

"The barn," Scully said suddenly.  "I'll bet Dulexy killed
her and hid her body in the barn.  If that's the case, he
could have taken Mulder anywhere."

Skinner thought they would most certainly find both Sylvia's
body and Mulder's in the barn, but he didn't voice the idea.
No need to upset Scully any more if he happened to be wrong.
As they made their way slowly toward the barn doors, he
prayed to be wrong.

Scully pulled open the heavy doors while he leaned, panting,
against the side of the barn.  The rush of adrenalin that
had gotten him through his initial exit from the hospital
had long since dissipated, and now all Skinner wanted to do
was collapse in his wife's arms and have her take sweet care
of him.  But Mulder, if he was still alive, probably wanted
the same thing, he told himself, and pushed himself away
from the supporting wall with an effort.  He followed her
inside, blinking to accustom his eyes to the darkness.

Scully, who seemed to have gained energy where he'd lost his
own, scurried as quickly as she could from pile of boxes to
pile, peering behind and around every obstruction.  She
climbed up to the hayloft again, her heart beating with
excitement as she peeked over the edge, and bit back her
exasperation when it was just as deserted and untouched as
it had been the last time she was here.

Finally, after she'd searched every possible nook and cranny
of the old barn, Scully gave up.

"I think we should go ahead and call the locals out,
Walter," she said dejectedly, seating herself on a nearby
box.  "They can search the entire property a lot better than
we can."

He nodded his agreement, knowing how hard it was for her to
give up the control in this situation.

"I left my cell phone in the car, and so did you," he
pointed out, so, with her supporting him this time, they
made their way even more slowly back to the car.

He opened the passenger door and reached in for his phone,
then lay it gently back on the seat as he watched her.  She
was crouching, half-seated in the car, and had frozen,
staring straight ahead.  He followed her gaze and saw what
she was staring at.  A door, near the kitchen entrance on
the side of the house, leading down into the ground--what
appeared to be a root cellar or storm shelter of some sort.

"The trail of blood led toward the kitchen," she said, still
staring.

He looked from the door back to her and jerked his head
toward the cellar.

"Watch yourself," he ordered, and she nodded.  Slowly, she
climbed from the car and walked toward the door in the
ground, wondering if this was something she really wanted to
do.  If she found Mulder's body inside...but maybe he was
alive down there, hurting, waiting for her to find him.

That thought spurred her onward, and reaching the door, she
flung it wide open.  Daylight streamed down the stairs,
illuminating what were obviously a woman's legs at the
bottom.

"Someone's down here," she called back to Skinner.  "I think
it might be Sylvia."

She cautiously made her way down the stairs, and was able to
see before reaching the bottom that it was definitely
Sylvia's body sprawled on the dirt floor.  From the bloody
gash in her skull and the way she lay, it was obvious the
woman was dead.  Glancing around the small room, Scully was
relieved to find no other corpses in residence.  Mulder
wasn't down here alive, but he wasn't dead here either,
which at this point, Scully viewed as a positive
development.

*****

He opened his eyes and cursed.  There was just nothing like
sliding head-first down a flight of stairs when you were
already nearly dead, he decided.  The broken rib that had
been making his breathing difficult had shifted.  Breathing
was almost impossible now, at least on the side where the
rib dug into his lung.  He was barely able to take in enough
air to remain conscious, and he lay there on his stomach,
taking air in short, harsh gasps.

It was over.  He was beaten.  There was nothing else he
could do.  He certainly couldn't get up and walk to the
road, there was no way to call for help, and sooner or
later, Dulexy would return.  He could only hope that Scully
and Emmie had gotten away from the man before he was able to
do them any harm.  He wished fervently that he could know
for sure; if he knew they were safe, he could close his eyes
and die in peace.  That was his biggest regret--that he
would never know.

*****

"He's not here," she announced, reaching the surface and
coming face to face with Skinner.  "But Sylvia's dead.  Her
head's bashed in--apparently that was her blood we saw
inside."

Skinner barely heard her; he was staring thoughtfully at the
trees that lay to the south of the house.

"Walter?  Did you hear me?"

"What's beyond those trees?" he asked, nodding toward them
with his head.

She looked that way.  "I saw a road about half a mile back,"
she commented after a few moments.

"Let's check it out."

"The police..."

"I already called them.  They're on their way.  Let's go
explore that road, then we'll come back here and give them
our statements."

She nodded and gave him her arm to lean on as they made
their way back to the car.  Skinner was weakening, she could
tell; he didn't have much left.

She drove slowly down the paved road, searching for the
turnoff she'd seen before.  Just as she was about to decide
she had either missed it or imagined it, she spotted the
road...hardly a road, really, more of a wide trail.
Carefully, Scully guided her mother's Chevy over the edge of
the pavement, trying not to hear the slight gasps of pain
Walter was emitting.  The old road was deeply rutted and
overgrown, but upon closer inspection, she decided it looked
as if it might have been used recently.

*****

Again, the sound of the car approaching woke him.  This
time, though, it didn't drive on past.  This time, he could
tell it turned off and was coming toward the house.  The
house where he lay, fully exposed, in the back yard.  Dulexy
had been parking his truck on the side of the house--Mulder
had been able to discern that from the sounds of Dulexy's
comings and goings.  If he pulled into his usual parking
spot, what were the odds of him failing to notice Mulder
lying here?

Nil, he decided.  He was dead meat.  Of course, he thought
with a little giggle, he was almost dead meat already.  Just
about ready to be bled and popped in the freezer--one side
of Mulder, enough to get a family of four through the long
winter.

The madness of his thoughts seeped through, and he realized
how utterly insane it was to lie here laughing at morbid
jokes while Dulexy drew ever nearer.  He had to hide, or at
least...well...die trying.

Pushing back another crazed giggle that wanted to emerge,
Mulder eyed a group of shrubs not far from where he lay.
Apparently this house had had quite a well-landscaped yard
at one time, and after years of neglect, was thickly
overgrown in places and sparse in others.  If he could hide
in the bushes, maybe he could wait until Dulexy fell into
his nightly drunken sleep and then make for the road.

Gritting his teeth, he once again raised himself on his
elbows.  His hands and forearms were badly swollen by now,
and it was obvious to him that this mode of transportation
wouldn't work for much longer.  For a moment he considered
trying to body-roll toward the shrubs, but quickly abandoned
that idea.  The constant impact of his chest against the
hard ground would probably succeed in driving his broken
ribs right into his heart.  If he was going to die, it sure
as hell wasn't going to be by his own hand, he thought
determinedly.  Clenching his jaw hard to keep from
screaming, he made himself begin to move forward.

*****

Scully stopped the car in front of the dilapidated house.
It was obviously unused--part of the front porch was falling
in, and several windows were broken--and yet...it had a
feeling about it, a feeling of *aliveness* that shouldn't be
present in a structure so long abandoned.

Her eyes lit up as she emerged from the car.  Mulder was
here, or at least, had been here at one time.  She could
just feel it.  Shaking her head a little, she forced the
thought away as errant nonsense.  There was no such thing as
psychic power, and even if there was, she certainly didn't
possess it.

"Why don't you stay in the car?" she suggested to Skinner,
seeing how pale he was, but she knew before the words left
her mouth what his reaction would be.

He glared at her and flung open the car door, gripping it
tightly as he hauled himself to his feet.

//Lord deliver me from Manly Men// she thought with a flash
of anger, but held her tongue.  There was no point in
discouraging Walter when he was like this.  He was a bull.

She started for the front door of the house, ignoring his
slower pace, and by the time he caught up to her she had
already knocked, received no answer, and gone inside.  She
stood staring around herself, taking in the fact that the
floor plan of this house was remarkably similar to the one
where Sylvia Stiles had lived and died.  She'd been
uncertain whether or not this house was part of the other
woman's property, but was fairly convinced now that it was.

There was nothing amiss in the living room in which they
stood, so with a look of agreement to one another, the
started for the hall which must lead to bedrooms, Scully
again walking ahead.  Again she stopped short, again her
face paled, again she stared at blood on the floor.  This
wasn't delicate droplets of blood, though.  Instead, long
streaks of crimson stained the rough wood beneath their
feet.  Again, it led toward the kitchen, growing thinner and
fainter as it drew closer to that room. The Dulexy family
must certainly have a thing about kitchens, she thought
suddenly, and put her hand over her mouth to stifle a
nervous laugh.

She ignored the trail leading to the kitchen for the time
being, instead forging on toward the room where the blood
had apparently originated. An enormous wooden bed stood in
the middle of the room, and scattered on the floor were
various fragments of rope, and one other thing that caught
her eye.

Lying next to a dark pool of blood was a pair of sharp,
silver scissors. Bloodstained scissors.

"Walter...you don't suppose he--killed Mulder with these and
then dragged his body..." she asked haltingly, forcing the
difficult words past her lips.

He examined the scene with a critical eye and then shook his
head.  "I don't think there's enough blood, Scully.  Seems
to me that if Mulder had been murdered with a pair of
shears, there'd be blood everywhere. It looks as though he
must have stabbed Mulder with them, though."  He glanced
around.  "We should search the entire house.  Mulder might
still be here."

Together they prowled through every room, but all the
others, while in various states of decay, seemed untouched.
The living room contained a reclining chair with a large
pile of empty Budweiser cans beside it, but other than that,
there was no sign the house had been used at all in the past
decade.  Whatever Dulexy had done to Mulder, he'd done it in
the room with the blood.

"If he didn't put any more effort into hiding Mulder's--into
hiding Mulder than he did in concealing Sylvia's body, we
ought to find him easily," Skinner reminded her smoothly,
and with a nod and another dark glance around the room that
had been Mulder's prison, she turned on her heel and stalked
toward the kitchen.  Skinner recognized her rigid
posture--she was close to breaking down.

*****

Mulder lay concealed beneath the thick shrubbery, breathing
in short, shallow gasps.  Getting into this hiding place had
taken it all out of him, he knew.  He had nothing left to
fight with.  If Dulexy found him now, it was all over.  He
almost wished Dulexy would find him, and put him out of the
miserable hell his life had become over the past week, but
Mulder knew things never worked out that easily for him.
He'd lost his sister, his father, his job, his passion, and
the woman he loved, had spent four years inside a federal
prison, and then gone through hell all over again to gain
the happiness he'd finally ended up with.  What in the world
would make him think the gods would stop playing with him
now?  These last ten years of peace had obviously been their
way of lulling him into a false sense of security, making
him drop his guard, in order to pull him into this last,
most horrible game of cat and mouse before he died.

He heard the kitchen screen door bang open and then closed,
and clenched his eyes tightly shut, stifling the whimper of
fear that tried to escape.  Either way, he told himself
desperately, his ordeal would be over soon.  He tried to
make himself view his imminent death as a positive thing.
He could feel himself weakening to the point of collapse,
coming closer and closer to the edge of that cliff every
second, and knew that the starvation, dehydration, beatings,
trauma and blood loss were going to result in his death.
Soon.  Today.  This would be his last day on earth, and for
a brief moment he forgot where he was and who was nearby,
and allowed himself to be grateful it was a nice day.  Above
the sound of Dulexy's footsteps in the yard, he could hear
the twitter of birds in the trees.  It was a soothing sound.

Then, miraculously, he heard a car door slam.  Once again,
it seemed, Dulexy was leaving, giving him yet another chance
to live a little longer.  Only he didn't have the strength
to live any longer.  He opened his eyes and watched as an
ant crawled across his mangled thumb. Normally it would have
tickled his skin, but today, on this last day on earth, he
had no feeling left in his hands.

Suddenly it became overwhelmingly important to Mulder that
he not die here in the bushes.  He wanted to be out in the
open, with the sunlight warming his body before it grew cold
one last time.

Silently, he offered those gods that toyed with him a
bargain: he would let them take him, willingly, if he could
only reach the sunshine first. He measured the distance
between where he lay and where the sunlight touched the
grass. Not more than six feet.  One time the length of his
body.  Surely he could do that, couldn't he, if his body
knew it was the last thing he would ever require of it?
Surely he could do this one more, brief time.

He barely heard the car start and the tires crunching over
the dirt path as, with the single-mindedness that had always
been a trademark of his personality, Mulder began to make
for the sun.

A line from an old children's song popped into his head, and
without realizing it he began to mouth the words, singing
them to himself almost as a chant of encouragement, as he
inched himself from beneath the protective branches.

"Put one...foot...in front...of...the other...," he mumbled
as his elbows, ground almost to hamburger by his previous
trip across the yard, dragged him toward his final resting
place.  "Soon...be walkin'...'cross the...floooooor...."  He
stopped, dropping his face to the ground for a few quick
breaths, as deep as he could make them, gathering strength
for his final advancement.  His place to die lay just a
couple of feet away now, and he knew as soon as he reached
it, he could allow himself to finally rest.

"One...footinfront...of...the oth...other..."  His fingers
touched the warm grass, and he wanted to grasp it but was
unable to make them move on command.  His face, though--he
needed to feel the sunshine on his face before he stopped.
Just another foot.  "Soon...you'll
be...walkin'...out...the...d...d-door," he finished
triumphantly just as his face fell gratefully across the
line that separated light from shadow.

He closed his eyes, basking in the warmth that beat down
upon his broken self, and gave up.  They could take him any
time now.  He was ready to go.

He gradually realized that a sound was intruding upon his
reverie, and with another whimper, understood that it was
Dulexy's vehicle returning. Mulder refused to open his eyes.
The bargain had been that if he made it to the sunshine, the
gods could take him.  If they chose to do that by delivering
him back into Dulexy's hands, so be it--but nothing said he
had to watch.

He heard a car door slam, and from a distance, a voice
called his name. It wasn't Dulexy's voice, not at all.  It
was a soft, feminine voice, one that filled him with wonder
even after all these years, wonder that this woman truly
wanted him and loved him and stayed with him in spite of all
the many ways he was totally fucked up.  It was at that
moment he realized he must have already died.  Scully was
here to greet him, which meant Dulexy had gotten to her
after all, but maybe all the hurting was over now.  Maybe
they could be together now, and be left alone.

He felt a small hand grip his shoulder, and bit back a sob.
He hurt everywhere.  He'd thought death meant the hurting
would stop, but perhaps it took a little time. He turned his
head to look up, opened his eyes, saw her face, and smiled
before his worn out nerve endings registered the pain of the
movement.

Then he tried to scream, but there was no air, there was
nothing but blackness and darkness, and him falling into the
darkness and welcoming it like a long lost lover.

The clock had finally struck midnight.


---------------------
Journal of Fox Mulder
December 24
---------------------

It feels so good to finally be able to sit at the computer
again, although if Scully catches me here this late, she'll
probably start re-breaking limbs.  That woman has no
tolerance for bullshit at all, and I'm supposed to be in
bed.

It's been almost four months since Dulexy tried to rearrange
my bone structure, and at this point, just being able to
walk is a miracle. Even though I still can't go far on my
own, the doctors assure me a full recovery is certain.  I
just have to continue with the all-too-frequent torture
sessions they call Physical Therapy, and by next summer I'll
be close to my old self again. They said I'd even be able to
play basketball, although I probably won't be able to do the
running I used to do.  That's ok, I can still swim, and play
ball, and do any number of things I enjoy.

I can still hold my wife and daughter in my arms.  I'd
gladly sit in a wheelchair the rest of my life just to be
able to do that.

Dulexy never even made it to our house that morning,
although if he had he'd have been greeted by silence.  Emmie
was with Scully's mother, and Scully, of course, was engaged
in the most important rescue mission of my life.  How many
times has that woman pulled my ass back from the edge of
death?  I don't think I want to count that up right now. I'd
rather bask in the glow of the Christmas tree that Emmie
decorated last week, and revel in the knowledge that we beat
the gods again...one more time.

It seems that Justin Dulexy had been driving a car with no
license plates for the duration of his freedom from prison,
and of all the times the police spotted him and let him get
away, nobody noticed.  It took a twenty-four year old
highway patrolman to notice, pull him over, and arrest him.
He spilled his guts as soon as they began questioning him
about my disappearance, but Scully and Walter had already
found me.

Poor Walter, I wasn't sure if Jess was going to hug him or
kill him during his first few days back.  After leaving the
hospital AMA, he found himself right back there, with pulled
stitches and internal bleeding that required another minor
surgery to correct.  I'd have felt downright guilty if I
hadn't been facing several major surgeries of my own, but on
the whole, I thought Walter had the easier time of it.  I
kept that thought to myself around Jess, though.  I'm not
stupid.

Scully, on the other hand, nearly had a nervous breakdown
once she had me safely at the hospital.  At least that's
what they tell me--I wasn't exactly in top form at the time,
and all I remember is a blur of people and activity through
a red haze of pain.  A nervous breakdown doesn't sound at
all like my Scully, but considering all she'd been through,
I believe it.  She was carrying her own huge load of guilt,
blaming herself for Dulexy's hurting me.  I tried to tell
her Dulexy was a psycho, and that he'd have hurt me
regardless of what she did, but she wouldn't hear of it.
Finally I gave in and let her pamper me to her heart's
content.  As I said, I'm not stupid.

By the time she'd gotten me home, after the second of my
surgeries, dealing with a grouchy, bedridden husband had
worn thin and the pampering had ended.  I was at her mercy,
she informed me on one of my particularly pissy days, and
I'd better shape up or she'd take Emmie and go stay with her
mother, and I could lie there and rot.  Realizing that I
*was* at her mercy, although I knew her threats were empty
ones, I clamped down on my temper and tried to behave more
politely.  It was a good thing I did or she might have
starved me to death, because my legs and arms were thickly
casted and I was truly helpless.  I couldn't even take a
leak without her assistance.

Emmie felt so bad about the things she'd said to me before I
was kidnapped that she spent all her free time trying to
entertain me. She'd read to me, or tell me stories of
school, which I miss terribly, or just engage in
conversation until I finally had to order her to leave me
and do her homework or visit her friends.  I growled my best
growl at her, and lowered my eyebrows threateningly, but she
just smiled and kissed my cheek before she left.  Her eyes
told me she was only humoring me, since if she refused to
obey, what could I do about it?  I can see that I'll have a
hell of a time regaining my place as the head of this family
once I'm back to normal.  At least, Scully has always let me
pretend I was the head of the family, to assuage my male
ego, I suppose.

I had to bribe the guys with a promise to supply all the
beer for their upcoming Super Bowl party just to get them to
bring me something decent to eat--Scully's been giving me so
much healthy stuff for the past few months that it's about
to kill me.  It was worth the cost though--they came to stay
with me last week while Scully and Emmie went Christmas
shopping, and were able to smuggle in a huge, greasy burger,
complete with fries and a shake, with my warden being none
the wiser.  At least I don't think she knew--although she
did sniff the air and give me an odd look when she returned.
She didn't mention it, so I'm going to insist to my inner
self-- (the one that reminds me Scully instinctively knows
*everything* I ever do)--that I managed to fool her.

Ellery came to me when I was in the hospital, tearful and
sweet, to thank me for saving her life.  The poor child was
carrying around a load of guilt over my kidnapping, as was
Emmie, even though neither of them were at fault.  I did my
best to reassure her, but it's going to take some time for
her to accept that she was merely a victim. I'll do what I
can to help her, though, in both a professional and a
private capacity--I simply will not allow these two teenage
girls to have their lives destroyed by this incident the way
mine almost was over Sam's disappearance.  They deserve
better, and I'm going to see that they get it or die trying.

Later

Damn, that woman is good!  She heard me up and about, even
though I tried to be as quiet as possible, and came looking
for me.  She tried to order me back to bed, but I guess my
pathetic look worked on her this time--I finally was able to
get her to agree to sit on the couch with me for the rest of
the night.  We cuddled together in the dark, watching the
fire in the fireplace and the lights on the Christmas tree,
and just enjoyed being together.  Such a simple, precious
thing.  Now she's making breakfast and I'm finishing this
journal entry (Jess' orders!) so I can wake Emmie up for our
Christmas morning celebration.

I can't wait to see how she likes her gift from me--she
wanted a puppy when she was just a kid, but the first one we
got her died soon after of a disease we hadn't even known he
carried, and then her beloved Ginger, who she had for six
years, was killed by a car.  After that Emmie seemed
reluctant to commit to a relationship with a pet, so I
finally convinced Scully to let me get her something a
little quieter, a little calmer, something she could keep
safely in the house.

Maybe I'll put the kitten in her bed and let it wake her up.
Who can resist a kitten's purr?  Not me, and not Emmie
either.  I've seen her with Ellery's cats--she's just a born
lover of all kinds of animals. And I've had this kitten
thoroughly checked.  It's as healthy as--well, it's a hell
of a lot healthier than I am.

Hope Scully remembered to buy cat litter...

The End