Title: Revenge Author: Lovesfox E-mail: Lovesfox@rogers.com (Feed me, please) Web site: http://www.geocities.com/kim_djd/index.html Rating: NC-17 (violence, consensual M/S sex and strong language) Category: Implied UST then MSR, Angst, Story/X-File Classification: XRA Spoilers: Not really, but up to mid-S7 Archive: As long as my name and everything stays attached Summary: An old case of Mulder's resurfaces seeking revenge Disclaimer: Alas, not mine. They belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions Dedication: To true friendship, through thick and thin. Thanks, T. Warning: This story contains some scenes of violence, a rape attempt, implied character death, references to incest, and graphic sex. Revenge Part 9 of 29 by Lovesfox Leesburg Police Department Leesburg, VA Saturday 6:30 pm Skinner and Mulder made their way from the car into the police station, Mulder carrying the files on the two Andercotts. Skinner looked around for a moment before nodding his chin towards the front desk. They walked over and showed the Sergeant on duty their ID badges, asking for Agent Powell. The Sergeant nodded and called over to a young, gawky, uniformed officer, who led them up the stairs to the second floor, to a largish conference room towards the back of the building. Due to the fact that the nearest FBI field office was over an hour away, the ASAC had liaisoned with the Leesburg Police and the conference room had become their headquarters. They again pulled out their badges, and after he and Mulder shook hands with Agent James Powell, the ASAC, Powell made the introductions. All the agents under his command were male, their crew cuts and dark suits screaming 'FBI'. Skinner snorted to himself, if the agents following Andercott were here, no wonder the man had made them during the surveillance. It was evident the value of a low-key operation had not occurred to anyone. "Sir?" one of the young agents said hesitantly, making his way to stand beside Powell. He fidgeted a little, possibly at having to interrupt them, or just overwhelmed at the presence of an Assistant Director and a senior agent whose exploits had been heard around the bureau, and looked apologetic. The fax sheet in his hands crinkled noisily. Powell had been explaining the results of their canvass of Leesburg, and lifted one hand toward the agent in a halting gesture, bidding him to wait. Skinner noticed the agent had shifted his gaze and was staring at Mulder as he waited for Powell to finish speaking with a mixed look of awe and speculation. Obviously Spooky Mulder's reputation had again preceded him. The muscle in his jaw twitched on Mulder's behalf, wondering how the man stood it, but the look he flicked at Mulder revealed that he showed no outward reaction. Finally Powell stopped talking and turned to the young agent. "You have something for us, Agent Daniels?" he asked. The agent's Adam's apple bobbed nervously, and he cleared his throat before replying. "Yes, sir. This just came over the fax machine, sir. It's from the Arlington P.D. They found the white van at a strip mall about two and a half hours ago. The officer was on patrol, and when he spotted it, he parked his cruiser across the street and watched it for an hour, but no one came. It looks like it was abandoned there." The blank look Mulder had been wearing since they had arrived changed to one of interest, and Skinner leaned forward to speak quietly in Mulder's ear. "We put the van and plates on the wire state wide this morning." He shifted to face Powell and Daniels directly. "Call the Arlington Police and have the van taken to the crime lab at Quantico." "Yes, sir," Agent Daniels replied, and hurried off to make the call. Skinner spoke to Powell this time. "We need a warrant for an address we have for the suspect. How quickly can you get one?" "I'll have someone get right on it, as soon as you give us the address," Powell replied. He stepped back a step, chin lifted as he searched the room. "Peterson!" he called out. "I have a job for you. We need a warrant to search the premises of an address here." An agent whom Skinner presumed was Peterson loped over and nodded briefly at he and Mulder. Mulder reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out the torn magazine page with the address Frohike had obtained. Peterson held a small leather-bound notepad and pen in his hands, and jotted the address down as Mulder read it to him. He dipped his head in another nod and said, "It shouldn't take long." Mulder held up the files in his hand and wiggled them a little, before making his way over to a small table in one corner of the room. Skinner watched him worriedly, after Mulder had told him of his phone call with Elliot, and about the address Frohike had gotten, the agent had not spoken at all. He noticed that Powell was also observing Mulder, his look one of curiosity. Powell seemed to sense he was being watched and turned to Skinner. "That her partner?" he asked. "The missing agent, I mean?" Skinner nodded tersely. He had a feeling Powell was going to dig for more details, and he was not up to discussing his two agents, unless it directly affected the case. "Is there someone you can send to get food and coffee? And handle the hotel details?" He pulled out a faxed sheet of paper with the hotel name and room information that he had tucked into his inner pocket, and handed it to Powell. "I'll see it's taken care of," Powell said. "There's a coffee pot in the kitchen down the hall. Any preferences on the food?" Skinner shook his head wearily. "As long as it's hot and good." He turned to head to the door to get some coffee for he and Mulder, and stopped, looking back at Powell, gesturing with his thumb at the hall outside. "To the right," Powell said, and then turned to speak to another agent, holding out the paper Skinner had given him. Skinner exited the conference room, and spied the men's washroom across the hall. He made use of the facilities, and then removed his glasses and splashed cold water on his face after he washed his hands. He looked up, water dripping from his nose and chin, and met the tired eyes of his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He stared for long moments, seeing the lines of weariness and worry etched on his face. He sighed harshly, his hands clenching the porcelain sides of the sink so tight his knuckles were white. It was at moments like this, alone in silence, that he was unable to keep his thoughts at bay. Thoughts of Scully held in the clutches of a madman. Thoughts of Mulder drowning in his own despair. Thoughts of his own inability to help either one. Enough, he told himself. This isn't helping anyone. Swiftly, he dried off his hands and face, replaced his glasses on his nose and headed out of the men's room to go to the kitchen. Thankfully the coffee pot was almost full, and appeared freshly made. He poured two cups, adding cream and sugar to both, not sure of how Mulder liked his coffee, and made his way back to the conference room. Mulder was still sitting at the table he had claimed as his own, leaning forward on his elbows, chin propped on one hand, intent on the files before him. Skinner headed over, nudged Mulder, and when Mulder looked up, handed him one of the steaming cups of coffee. He sat down in the chair to Mulder's left and took a sip of his own coffee, feeling the heat ease down his throat to his stomach. Mulder took a gulp, seeming not to notice the temperature of the liquid and put the cup down. "I can't find anything in here," he muttered, gesturing at the files before him. "And I feel like I'm missing something, that it's right there in front of my eyes but I can't see it." Skinner didn't know how to respond to that, and knew Mulder would not appreciate him mouthing platitudes, so he said nothing. Apparently Mulder had not really expected a response, for he continued to mumble to himself. Skinner realized he had taken Scully's usual place, that he was being used as a sounding board. "The hanging in the warehouse was symbolic to him, he did it for a reason, besides tormenting me. Yet he didn't hang Scully, he's keeping her for something else." He chewed on his lower lip, eyes staring blankly ahead, looking inward. "He took Scully because he believes I took Elizabeth from him. He's going to kill Scully because Elizabeth died." Mulder slumped back in his seat and lifted his arms, dragging the heels of his hands up over his face and through his hair. "I can't concentrate, and I know it's here." A noise at the door drew Skinner's attention, and he looked up to see one of the agents walking towards he and Mulder, carrying what looked like take-out bags in his hands. Skinner accepted them with gruff thanks, and pushed the paperwork on the table to one side. He placed one bag in front of Mulder, who had not reacted to the intrusion by the agent, and said, "Mulder, eat. Your body has been functioning on little sleep or sustenance, no wonder you are having trouble concentrating. Hopefully by the time we're done, we'll have that warrant." When Mulder still did not move, Skinner spoke more sharply, "Eat, Mulder. Or I'll remove you from this investigation." He noted with grim satisfaction that the threat worked. Mulder sat up again and opened the bag in front of him, pulling out a hamburger and fries. Skinner waited until Mulder actually took a bite before removing his own food and digging in. They made short work of their meal, Mulder eating methodically as he stared at the file he had slid back in front of himself. There was nothing else to do but wait until Peterson returned with the warrant. *** Unknown Location Leesburg, VA Saturday 9:30 pm Elliot's nerves were humming, and he found it hard to concentrate as he drove along the darkened road back to the hospital. Seeing Mulder at the boarding house where he had been renting a room for the last two years had been a shock. Fortunately he had seen Mulder and the tall, balding man he knew was another FBI agent getting out of their vehicle, which was parked in front of Mrs. Lipton's old two-storey brownstone, and he had driven past without being seen. He had only gone back to retrieve some personal belongings, pictures of Elizabeth mostly, that he had forgotten when he had taken most of his clothing and his books and papers earlier in the week after he had gotten Dana settled in at the hospital. The loss of the pictures was painful, but obviously meant to be. Amazement had warred with anger. He had wanted to be the one to lead Mulder here to Leesburg, to the hospital, for just the right moment, and was disappointed that Mulder had found him on his own. Yet at the same time, Elliot knew he was no match for Mulder's keen intelligence and investigative skills, which he had witnessed first hand during the case against Elizabeth. His hands tightened on the steering wheel as he thought about that right moment. All his time for so long had gone into planning this last act of revenge against Fox Mulder. Although he himself had not been there when Elizabeth had died, he wanted Mulder to be there, to see it happen. The only drawback was that he would not be able to be there to watch Mulder see Dana die just as Elizabeth had. His eyes flicked to the dashboard clock. Less than twenty-four hours. Elliot slowed the car as it neared the long driveway leading up to the hospital. Even though there were very little lights out this far from town to illuminate the way, he knew it was there, just after the huge oak tree at the bottom of the hill. He bumped slowly along the drive until he had pulled the car around the back and parked it close to the building. He locked it carefully, pocketing the keys, and made his way inside the dark wing. He had turned the generator off after taking Dana to use the washroom, and letting her eat the sandwich he had picked up for her. She had been subdued, and rather quiet. Her submissiveness had been a bit of a surprise, but it had also made him feel powerful. Gleefully he had remarked that pining for Mulder would not bring him to her. Her eyes had spit fire at him as she awkwardly fed herself with her bound hands, and he had laughed to see her feisty spirit re-emerge. He had also felt a brief surge of arousal. Unfortunately he had had things to do, so after checking her bindings were secure, he had injected her with a half dose. He had not been watching his supply, and was down to his last dose. He still needed one for the big event, but half would be sufficient. She had flinched as the needle had poked into her arm and he had smiled before bending and nuzzling at her neck as her eyes slowly closed, inhaling the scent of roses. Her weak moan of protest had made him laugh. Thoughts of Dana, lying one floor above him totally at his mercy, had his pulse speeding up. It was time to check on his little captive. Elliot bent and grabbed the large industrial flashlight he kept just inside the door. Flicking it on, he swept it around the room, and the beam caught the red cans he had brought inside earlier in the day. He smiled at the sight of them, and stood there, closing his eyes to let his fantasy image form in his head. It would be so beautiful. If only he could be there to watch. He sighed harshly, his shoulders slumping, and opened his eyes. He knew he would have to be content with the knowledge of what would happen. He shook his head, there was no sense dwelling on what could or could not be. It was enough that Mulder would pay. The fact that Dana had had no part of the investigation into Elizabeth was of little concern. Sometimes the innocent were hurt. That was just the way the world worked. Moments later he was standing at her door, one hand quietly opening the lock. He stepped inside the room, eyes seeing easily in the moonlight that illuminated the figure curled on the cot. He admired how it caressed her cheeks, and lit her hair like flame, and tiptoed until he was standing before her. He knelt beside the cot and stared. He had always loved to do that when he and Elizabeth were young, to watch her sleep. They had shared a bedroom for the longest time living with their aunt, until she had walked in on them one night, and found him sleeping curled around her on her bed. The very next day he had come home from high school to find all his stuff had been moved to the attic, where she had partitioned off a room for him. If he squinted his eyes, he could pretend she was Elizabeth. He leaned in close and inhaled deeply, the rose scent stronger with their closeness. "Elizabeth," he crooned and buried his face in her neck. Elizabeth made a sound of alarm, and then her hands were hitting him in the chest. "Elizabeth!" he cried. "Stop, it's me, Elliot!" He grabbed her flailing hands, feeling the coarseness of rope, and looked into the wide, blue eyes of the woman beneath him. It wasn't Elizabeth. He shook his head, blinking his eyes furiously, unaware his grip on her hands had loosened. There was movement and then a starburst of pain in his face. He fell back on his ass with a howl, hands automatically going up to soothe the ache. The cot creaked as she moved again and before he could react, she had driven her knee between his legs. Throbbing agony. Gut-wrenching, teeth-grinding, breath-stealing pain. He curled into a ball, hands grabbing his privates, and fought for air. *** 9:40 pm The soft clicking sound at the door alerted Scully. She shut her eyes and took slow, even breaths, feigning sleep. Her heartbeat was amazingly loud in her ears, and her body was tight with tension. She prayed silently that Elliot would not notice she was awake, and that the rope at her feet was actually only around one ankle. She thought she had been awake for about an hour, although it was difficult to judge time. Days blurred into nights, minutes passed by like hours, even when her mind was not fogged with drugs. She was fairly certain it was Saturday, the day after their 'one-week anniversary', the day after he had tried to rape her. She remembered him slamming into her room in the morning and the injection after using the washroom, and that it had still been day when she awoke again. He had drugged her again later, but she got the feeling it hadn't been a full dose, for she had not fallen asleep immediately. This time when she woke, she was not as groggy, and had decided that she was going to try and escape. Somehow she had found a part of the cot frame that stuck out a little and worked it between her bound ankles, rubbing the rope back and forth. Back and forth. Over and over again. Scissoring her legs, twisting and kicking until her legs ached. She had almost given up, but pushed herself on with thoughts of Mulder. Seeing him again, touching him, telling him she loved him. It had surprised her when the rope had loosened, and it had strengthened her determination, renewed her energy. She had barely been able to contain her shout of victory when she had been able to pull one foot free. She had lain there, sweaty and exhausted, mind whirling with plans of attack. Scully knew Elliot was there, watching from the doorway, could feel him, could hear him breathing, and had to struggle not to squirm. Then the oh-so quiet sounds of his footsteps as he crossed the floor. The rustling of his pants seemed loud as he knelt beside the cot. She could smell him now, the scent of his piney aftershave, and knew he was leaning over her. He inhaled deeply, and then crooned, "Elizabeth." His nose buried itself in her neck, and with a startled gasp, she made her move. She raised her bound hands and hit him as hard as she could in the chest. She didn't get quite the reaction she had hoped for. He did not fall back, but merely cried, "Elizabeth! Stop, it's me Elliot!" His hands grabbed hers, and she railed in her mind, cursing her lack of strength. He stared at her eyes, seeming stunned, and she felt his grasp loosen around her hands. She ripped her hands completely free and aimed for his face, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone. He yelled out, falling backwards with his hands covering his face and his legs splayed wide. She ignored the pain in her knuckles and lunged forward, driving her knee right for his vulnerable groin. She watched as he curled up on the floor, feeling a vicious thrill of pleasure at seeing his hands cupping his privates and hearing his attempts to breathe. her mind screamed, and she scrambled awkwardly to her feet, nearly falling over when she was assailed by a wave of dizziness. She looked around frantically for something to hit him over the head with, and spied a dark shape on the floor by the door. She staggered over to it and bent, feeling hard plastic beneath her fingertips. She recognized it as a flashlight, and lifted it with some difficulty. It was so hard to maneuver with her hands tied together. She moved back to him and slid down to her knees, surprised but glad he had not moved. She raised the flashlight and just as she brought it down towards his head, grunting with the effort, he did move, rolling over onto his back. She saw his eyes open wide as he caught sight of the flashlight coming at him, and his hands came up to push it away with a roar of anger. It did not hit as she had intended, merely glancing a blow off his forehead. He cried out again and grabbed at his head. Her momentum caused the flashlight to fall to the floor with a loud clatter, and carried her forward after it, her bound hands not able to halt her fall. Pain sang in her wrists and along her arms, but she did not stop, scrabbling at the floor to get to her feet. She actually made it, swaying slightly, and started forward. Behind her she could hear Elliot moaning, and rustling sounds that meant he was trying to get to his own feet. She kept going, bouncing off the doorjamb and out into the hallway. She was gulping in air; her heart beating a mile a minute, while in her mind was a frantic jumble of thoughts. She could hear him stumbling after her. She ran on, blindly, eyes darting, searching frantically for an exit. "Oh, Jesus, he's coming, he's coming, got to get out of here, oh, Jesus, Mulder, help me!" She said the words softly, like a litany, frightened beyond belief. There was a loud roar behind her, and then thudding footsteps, getting closer and closer. She sped up, her steps zigzagging without her arms out for balance, almost falling, but she kept going, harsh pants escaping her mouth. A hand descended, heavy, so heavy, and it hurt, and she was falling, hitting the ground with a painful thud, crying out. His weight landing on top of her, hard and forceful, pressing her further into the floor. Screaming, "No! Get off, let me go, you bastard!" Squirming and wriggling, trying to get away. "Bitch!" the word was hissed in her ear, and then his hand was in her hair, yanking her head back, her back arching so terribly her upper body was lifted off the floor. She moaned, but could not move. "I should kill you now," he continued to speak gutturally, his breath hot on her exposed neck and ear. "But I have so much planned for Mulder, that I can't let you ruin it!" His voice rose at the end as with one violent motion he pulled her to her feet, one hand in her hair, the other around her upper arm. Scully's legs could not keep up with him, and he dragged her along, back to her room. He was making low grunts, so she knew she had hurt him. If only she had been able to knock him out. Tears formed, and she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to let them fall. The door loomed in front of them and he thrust her forward, causing her fall to the floor. She cried out again, and then he was stomping towards her. His foot connected with her thigh and she mewled in pain, trying to curl her body away from him. "Goddamn bitch!" Kick. "You tried to ruin it!" Kick. "Mulder has to pay! He will suffer." He did not kick her this time, and she risked a glance at him, to see him bent slightly at the waist, gasping for breath. She could see something dark at his temple, running down the side of his face. Blood. He seemed to sense her eyes on him, and looked up, his eyes narrowed with hate. "He will suffer, knowing you suffered. Just like Elizabeth did." He took a deep breath and straightened slowly, one hand swiping at the blood on his face. He looked at the darkness staining his fingertips and then clenched his fists. He muttered, "Think of the flames. The beautiful flames." He wiped his hands on the leg of his pants and stepped forward. She cringed, but he only lifted her off the floor to throw her on the cot. He planted one knee in her stomach and with angry motions, re-tied her ankles. Only this time, he kept one end of it and tied it to the leg of the cot. One final push into her stomach, and he was off the cot. She watched as he made his way to the door, scooping the flashlight up off the floor. He paused at the doorway and said, "Sleep well, Dana. Dream of Mulder, for it will be your last." The door slammed, the lock clicked into place, and she was alone. Alone with her new fear of tomorrow. A lone tear trickled down her face. Mulder. I love you. *** Holiday Inn Leesburg, VA Sunday 6:30 am A knock at the connecting door distracted Mulder from the pile of papers spread all over the bed. He heaved himself up and shuffled over to open it, one hand going up to scrub through his spiked hair. Skinner stood on the other side, blinking heavy-lidded eyes behind glasses that were not quite straight. "Mulder? You okay? I saw the light under the door," the AD said. He was still in his sleep attire, a rumpled white tee shirt and cotton pajama pants, and there were deep lines of weariness on his face. "Going through the files again. I can't sleep." Mulder answered, his voice low and monotone. "I know the answer is in there, and II'm just not seeing it." The words were similar to his statement earlier at the police station. Mulder lifted one hand, which was fisted tightly, and slammed it none too gently on the wall beside the doorjamb. His only outward reaction to what had to have been painful was a slight grimace. "Mulder, why don't you get showered and dressed, we'll go get some breakfast and head to the police station. Powell has the agents assemble every morning at 8 am," Skinner said. He waited until Mulder nodded his assent, and then the AD turned away from the door. Mulder shut the door gently and headed to the bathroom. He stripped, letting the clothes fall in a heap on the floor, turned the taps and stepped into the shower, sighing as the hot water hit his skin like needles. Steam rapidly filled the tiny stall, and he stood there, eyes closed, breathing deeply. It helped to clear the fog in his brain. Yet again he had been unable to sleep, his mind replaying the outcome of their visit to the address Frohike had found for Elliot Andercott. The owner of the brownstone, a Mrs. Mary Lipton, had been flustered at the sight of their FBI badges, and quite upset when they had presented the warrant to search the premises. After what an impatient Mulder considered wasted moments whereby Skinner explained and soothed the older woman, she took them up to the room Elliot had rented for the past two years. Skinner must have charmed her, for she became quite talkative. She told them Elliot had not been there for almost a week, and that when he had been around, he spent most of his time in his room, rarely joining the other tenants for meals. He was prompt with his rent, very quiet and had never had guests. Skinner had shown her the printout of the white van, and she had confirmed that it was the vehicle Elliot drove and parked in the rear of the brownstone. He had also shown her a picture of Scully, but she had not seen her. The room had revealed nothing, except for an old shoebox with some pictures of what had to be a younger Elizabeth and Elliot. Empty hangers in the closet, and empty dresser drawers. No papers or maps to hint at his possible location, or photographs of Scully. Mulder had insisted on checking both the attic and the basement, both of which held only some old trunks and furniture belonging to Mrs. Lipton. They had glanced quickly in the four other tenant's rooms, one of which had been occupied. The man inside had not minded answering questions, but had had little to offer that had not already been learned from Mrs. Lipton. Mulder shook his head rapidly, and swiped the water from his eyes before opening them. He quickly washed his hair and body and stepped out of the shower. He needed to get reading those files again, there was something in them, and he just had to find it. He toweled off roughly and dressed in jeans and a tee shirt. He had skipped shaving, not caring in the least about his jaw stubble, and made quick work of brushing his teeth and hair. Socks and shoes were next, and he walked over to the connecting door and gave it a brisk knock. Skinner opened it seconds later, already dressed in khaki pants and button-down shirt, and putting on his holster. The two grabbed their jackets, locked their respective doors and headed downstairs. Mulder made to turn towards the door leading to the parking lot when they exited the elevator, eager to get going, but Skinner shook his head and pointed at the restaurant to the right. Fortunately they were seated immediately, and the waitress was not the chatty type. They placed their orders, Mulder ordering only dry toast and ignoring Skinner's concerned frown, and sipped at the coffees she had poured. The food was served quickly and they made short work of it. In moments they were on their way to the police station. The conference room was empty when they entered, and Skinner glanced at his watch. "Running behind?" he commented. There was an in-basket on a small table by the door, and he went to check to see if anything had come in during the night. Mulder headed to his spot from yesterday and sat down, opening the file on Elizabeth Andercott. She was the key. She had to be. A thought formed, and he flipped through the printout the tech at the FBI had printed out days ago. Elliot's only other connection to Leesburg was the mental hospital where Elizabeth had been committed. It was closed, had been for a few years, but could he be hiding out there? He wasn't sure where it was located. He looked at his own watch; Powell and his agents should be arriving soon. As if thinking the man's name was a summons, Powell walked in, carrying a box of donuts. He seemed surprised to see them here, but recovered quickly, nodding a greeting. He held up the box in silent inquiry, and at their negative shakes, put it down on the large table. "Agent Powell, has anyone been by the Leesburg Mental Hospital?" Mulder asked without preliminary. "Excuse me?" Powell said. "The what?" Mulder frowned. Was he speaking in tongues? "The mental hospital here in Leesburg," he explained slowly, fighting the urge to yell. "Elliot Andercott's sister was a patient there. It must be why he's come back here." "I wasn't aware of any mental hospital here in town," Powell answered. "And I thought the suspect's sister was dead?" "She is," Mulder said, gritting his teeth. He clenched his hands into fists, wanting to go over and shake the stupidity out of the man. "We believe her death is the motive for Agent Scully's kidnapping." As he spoke the words, he again had that feeling that he was close to something important. He paused, but nothing jumped out at him. "I have not sent any of my men out there, no, Agent Mulder," Powell replied, his voice tight. He had stressed Mulder's title, as if questioning it. He had obviously sensed Mulder's frustration, and was offended. "As I said, we were unaware of the hospital." His lip twitched a little as he pursed them and then he said quickly, "I'll go speak to the sergeant on duty." Mulder watched with narrowed eyes as Powell left the room. Skinner had moved to stand beside him and said, "What's this about the hospital?" "Other than his aunt's house, which was sold upon her death, and the room he rented, there is nothing holding Elliot here. Why would he stay?" He stopped, thinking furiously, then said slowly, as he thought it out, "Could Elizabeth have been buried here in town?" He moved back to his table, flipping through the papers there. "There's nothing here about her death, other than the date, or where she's buried." That feeling again, something important was there, but what was it? He shifted uneasily, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. His head had begun to pound, slowly and steadily. "I'm going to call the guys, see if they can dig up more on Elizabeth Andercott." He moved over to the corner of the room where there were several phones for their use. He dialed the Lone Gunmen's number and listened to the rings before Frohike's sleep-filled voice answered. "Frohike, it's me," he said quickly, interrupting the man's greeting. "I need you to dig like crazy on Elizabeth Andercott. The file here is pretty slim. And see what you can find out about the Leesburg Mental Hospital, okay? I need this stuff like yesterday. Call my cell." He barely heard Frohike's mumbled agreement before hanging the phone up. Powell had re-entered the room, followed by a uniformed officer. They came over to stand in front of him, and Powell introduced Sergeant Baker. "Baker here says the afternoon and midnight shifts do a patrol by the hospital, which is actually not in Leesburg, but is about 20 miles from here, every day." The sergeant cleared his throat and took over. "It's been closed a couple years, and there really isn't much left of it. Was supposed to have been torn down, but it just never happened. There were a couple incidents of teenagers partying out there back in the summer, but nothing since then. We swing by on a pretty routine basis. I haven't heard of them seeing anything, but I'll get someone working on finding out who's been doing them this last week, see if they noted anything unusual." Mulder nodded his thanks, and turned away, hearing the heavy tread as Sergeant Baker left the room. He was also aware of Powell leaving the room as well. He sank back into his chair, staring down at the papers covering the small surface of the table. He wondered how long it would take Frohike to call back. It seemed like forever before his cellular phone rang, but was actually only about 30 minutes. He pulled his phone free, experiencing a brief moment of panic when he thought he had forgotten the other phone, but it was there, in the inner pocket of his leather jacket. "Mulder," he said after pressing send. Frohike's voice filled his ear. "Mulder, I'm looking at her now. Whadya want to know?" "Does it say where she's buried?" he asked. Frohike hummed, Mulder guessed as he was scanning the information, and then grunted, "Huh." He then said, "There's a stone at the Leesburg Cemetery." He rattled off the address, which Mulder jotted down on one of the printout sheets. "Looks like the aunt is buried there." Mulder could hear the keyboard clacking, and then Frohike started to speak, "That's funny..." His voice drifted off. "What's funny?" Mulder demanded. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, the fingers of his free hand tapping a nervous tattoo on the tabletop. "I don't think her body's there, I think it's just a memorial stone," Frohike replied. There was more typing, and the busy sounds Frohike always emitted when deep in thought. "Where the hell is her body?" "That's what I'm trying to find out, man," Frohike mumbled. The image of Kathy O'Neill hanging in the warehouse flashed in Mulder's head. Had Elizabeth hung herself? Was that Elliot's next step? To lure him somewhere, and this time he would really find Scully's body hanging from a rope? His body went cold, and a shudder moved through him. "How did she die, Frohike? Did she hang herself?" His voice had risen in volume as his body had risen from his chair. He saw Skinner start toward him, with that concerned look back in place on his features. Mulder held up a hand in a gesture to imply everything was fine. Skinner quirked an eyebrow, as if to say, "You sure?" and at Mulder's impatient nod, resumed his conversation with Powell, who had obviously returned to the room. "Hang on a sec. Got her file from Leesburg coming up right now." Frohike whistled then. "How did you guess that?" He did not wait for Mulder's reply, but continued, "She did try and hang herself not long after she was admitted there, but she didn't succeed. An orderly walked in on her and called for help." He made a noise. "Picture here. Nasty scar." Mumbles as he obviously continued to read what was on the screen before him. "Shit hit the fan on that one. No one knew how she got hold of the rope." While listening to Frohike, Mulder had been thinking. That explained why Scully had not been the one to hang in the warehouse, because Elizabeth had not died that way. Obviously Kathy O'Neill had been chosen just to torment him. A tumbler clicked into place in his brain and he barked out, "Frohike, when did she die?" "Huh?" came Frohike's voice. "Uh, when...just a sec." Typing. He said the date, and everything within Mulder froze. Four years ago today. Jesus. He was going to kill Scully today. "Frohike, I need that shit now!" He covered the phone with his hand and yelled to Skinner, "It's today! He's going to kill her today!" Skinner paled and came over faster than Mulder had ever seen him move. "What? How do you know?" His voice was tight, that jaw muscle twitching uncontrollably. "Elizabeth died four years ago today," Mulder said, suddenly hoarse. Waves of cold and heat were alternating through his body, and his heart was trying to leave his chest cavity. "I don't know how or where yet, but it's going to be today." He removed his hand and gritted out, "Talk to me, Frohike!" His pocket muffled the ringing of the other cellular phone, but Mulder heard it anyway. "Frohike, it's him." He disconnected with Frohike, tossing the phone of the table, and plucked the other one out of his pocket. He pressed send, and said, "Mulder," into it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Skinner staring at the phone in his hands. "Hello, Agent Mulder." *** Leesburg Mental Hospital Leesburg, VA Sunday 8:45 am Scully had lain sleepless and extremely uncomfortable since dawn. Due to the rope tied around her ankles and then to the leg of the cot, as well as her tightly bound hands, changing positions had been very difficult, and somewhat painful. The night had been filled with images of Elliot's evil, grinning face, telling her that her dreams of Mulder would be her last. It had seemed to take hours for her heart to stop racing after Elliot had left her alone. Shaking and hurt in the dark, afraid he would come back and kill her. Finally she had calmed down, and began to try and process what had happened. Her escape attempt had probably been doomed to failure from the start, but she had felt she had to try, instead of lying there waiting for him to do more to her. She had been so close, and the urge to weep had been nearly overwhelming. She felt that urge again now. She bit her lip, and only a small moan escaped. She knew Elliot would be on his guard, watching her every move when he came back. If only her aim had been true with that damn flashlight. Her eyes slipped closed and she saw herself kneeling beside him, raising the flashlight high over her head, bringing it down with all her strength. Hearing the impact. Feeling the jolt through her arms. Seeing the blood flow from the wound. Rising from the floor, her hands miraculously free, walking out the door. To freedom. To Mulder. There was a thunk outside the door that had her eyes popping open, and she was unable to stop her body from tensing. It was an effort to school her features into a mask of indifference. He would not see her cower. The lock clicked and then the door was opening. Elliot stepped in and stood there in the doorway staring at her. His cheek was purplish-red, and swollen, and there was a small, bruised cut high on his forehead. The sight sent a spurt of sadistic pleasure through her. She had hurt him. "It's almost time," he said, and the tone was off. It was high, and almost a singsong. "Time for what?" the words were out before she could stop them. "For my revenge," he answered, advancing slowly towards her. She saw that he was hunching slightly as he walked, and remembered her knee connecting with his groin. He came to a stop beside the cot, his body where her head was, and slowly knelt. His hand came out and traced over her cheek. She flinched from the contact, and her nose flared at the strong odor that came from his hand.. It smelled like gasoline. "So soft," he whispered. "Just like Elizabeth." "Do I remind you of Elizabeth, Elliot?" she asked, watching his eyes carefully. He did not seem angry, but his moods had turned in a flash before. At his almost dreamy nod, she continued, keeping her voice soft. "You wouldn't want Elizabeth hurt, would you, Elliot?" He said nothing for long seconds, sliding his hand into her hair. "She's dead," he whispered. "And soon, you will be too." His fingers receded from her hair, caressed her cheek and then moved away. He slowly rose to his feet, and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a syringe. "She burned to death. Here in this hospital. In a room just like this one. In fact, this room is located in the same place as her room in the other wing. Fitting, isn't it?" He smiled at her. "She was restrained just like you, unable to get out." He readied her arm, and plunged the needle into her flesh, watching as the liquid was emptied into her. After discarding the needle, he turned back to her. "The fire started on the first floor, but it spread quickly. They told me she would have died of smoke inhalation before the flames ever touched her, but there was nothing left of her. Not even her ashes." Chills ran through her body at his words. Fire. Oh, God, he was going to set the building on fire. She was going to burn to death. The needle stung as it pierced her skin, and she felt the familiar numbness starting to spread through her limbs. "Please don't do this, Elliot," she begged. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she blinked rapidly as her vision blurred. "Please." "It's too late for tears, Dana," he said. "You will die. And Mulder will watch it happen." Mulder? Her mind was getting fuzzy. Was Mulder here? Oh, no. Mulder was afraid of fire. Her tears flowed freely now. She never got the chance to tell him she loved him. "Mulder," she whispered. "That's right, Dana. Mulder. He's not very far away. Once I'm ready, I'll call him, and tell him how you're going to die. He won't make it here in time to help you, of course, but when he does get here, he'll witness the beauty and the glory of the flames." His hand came down and stroked her cheek in a gesture that spoke of finality. "Farewell, Dana. You will be anointed in the flames." Her last sight of him was his back going through the door. She heard a grunt, and then sloshing sounds, and knew he was pouring gasoline outside in the hallway. Splatters landed inside the room, but she had squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to watch. She was panting harshly, inhaling the odor of the gasoline, close to hyperventilating. She sucked in a deep breath to try and calm herself down. She filled her mind with an image of Mulder. She wanted her last thoughts to be of him. Her lips began to move in a semblance of prayer. MulderI'mscaredI'msorryIloveyouMulderohGodI'msorry. *** 8:45 am Elliot carefully lugged one of the cans up the stairs and along the hallway to Dana's room. He knew he had to get moving, for the time was drawing near. The fire that had destroyed the wing in which Elizabeth resided, that had killed her, had happened at 9:30 in the morning. He wanted, he needed, Dana to die then too. His movements were slow, his manhood still tender from the assault on it, and he had had a headache since being struck with the flashlight. His hand tightened convulsively on the handle of the can as he remembered the incident from the night before. He had not expected her to attempt an escape at all, and had been completely taken by surprise. His anger had almost controlled his reaction when he had caught her in the hallway; he had wanted to choke the life out of her. He set the can on the floor outside Dana's room with a small thud, and slowly unlocked and opened the door. He stood in the doorway and saw that her eyes were open, and that she was watching him, her body tensed. "It's almost time," he said to her softly. He liked the panic that flared in her eyes, the tremor in her voice as she asked, "Time for what?" He walked over to the cot, saying, "For my revenge." He stopped by her head, and knelt down. He let his fingers trace over her cheek, knowing his touch disturbed her, and got lost in the feel of her soft skin against his rough fingertips. It reminded him of lying with Elizabeth, letting his hands gently trace and map her face and body. "So soft. Just like Elizabeth." His mind was filled with memories, and it took him a moment to realize she had spoken. Asking if she reminded him of Elizabeth? He nodded absent-mindedly. Her next question registered slowly as well. No, he wouldn't have wanted Elizabeth hurt, but it didn't matter. His fingers moved into Dana's hair. "She's dead. And soon, you will be too." He knew that time was slipping away, and that he must move on. With a caress of her cheek, he stood and reached in his pocket for the needle. The last of drugs, and it was only half-strength. But it would be enough to keep her quiet and unable to struggle much. As he gave her the needle, he told her how Elizabeth had died, medicated and restrained in her room while the fire raged through the wing. She pleaded with him, her eyes filling with tears, and he smiled. He told her it was too late for tears, and that she would die. That Mulder was going to see it happen. She whispered Mulder's name, and he shivered with pleasure at the despair in that one word. He continued to tell her about what would happen, about the glory and the beauty of the flames. He wanted to touch her one last time, and his hand drifted down to briefly stroke her cheek. "Farewell, Dana. You will be anointed in the flames." With those last words, he walked out of the room. He picked up the can, unscrewed the cap and splashed it on the floor and walls outside her room. He allowed some of it to splash inside her room and then backed slowly down the hall, letting the gasoline trickle out onto the floor. He swung the can back and forth occasionally, hitting the walls on either side of him. By the time he hit the stairs, it was empty. He moved down them as quickly as he could, and tossed the can aside at the bottom. There were more cans to empty, and he began immediately, splashing the gasoline all around. He had gathered bits and pieces of wood and lumber that had been used to board the place up after the fire to help feed the flames, and he made sure they were thoroughly soaked. The smell of the gasoline was very strong, and he tried breathing through his mouth. It worked to a certain extent, but he found himself getting light-headed anyway. He had to step outside for a minute, and breathe deep of the fresh air, before heading back to finish. Finally, it was ready. He looked at his watch. It was 9:20. He exited the door, propping it open with a piece of brick, and picked up the rag-stuffed bottle of alcohol that he would use to ignite the fire. He backed further away from the door, not wanting to be too close, for he knew there was gasoline on his clothes and skin, and reached in his pocket for his lighter. Flicking it on, he held the small flame to the soaked rag and when the flames started to lick down towards the neck of the bottle he threw it in an under-handed toss through the open door. Even before it had landed, he was on the run with his head ducked down, towards the stolen car that he had moved about thirty feet away from the building earlier in the morning. Behind him he heard the whoosh as whatever the bottle had hit inside caught fire. Judging himself to be at a safe distance, he stopped and turned to watch his work. He could see the flames through the doorway. They were beautiful. He pulled his eyes away to travel along the building, up one floor, to the windows of Dana's room. He wondered if she could smell the smoke yet, or feel the heat. Did she know she was going to die very soon? Elliot wanted someone to share his excitement with. Who better than the man who would suffer the most from it? Eyes once again trained on the flames visible through the doorway, he found the cell phone and pulled it out. He dialed the number quickly, tense with anticipation, and almost giggled when he heard Mulder's weary voice. "Hello, Agent Mulder," he said. He marveled at how steady, how calm his voice sounded in his own ears. The excitement was crawling through his body; he would have thought Mulder would be able to hear it even through the terrible reception of the cellular phones. "Elliot," he heard Mulder say, "We need to talk. I know today is important for you, but don't do anything rash. We can work something out. Why don't we meet, and we'll talk about Elizabeth?" "Oh, but it's too late, Mulder. I've already done something... rash." This time he did giggle, at the use of the word 'rash'. His actions were not rash. They had been planned out and fantasized over for a very long time. They were vengeance. They were retribution. They were an eye for an eye. The smile on his face widened as he watched the flames intensify. He closed his eyes, and pictured them crawling up the walls, and along the floor, getting closer and closer to Dana. Closer to his revenge. "What do you mean, Elliot?" Mulder asked, sounding as if he were spitting out the words. "Dana is being anointed in the flames, Mulder." *** end Part 9 of 29