file:///C:/Muldertorture/newstories_12_18/2Nibbler2.txtTitle: Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 06/11 Author: Daydreamer Author E-mail: Daydream59@aol.com Rating: NC-17 for language, graphic violence, and disturbing imagery Category: SAR - character exploration Spoilers: none Keywords: MSR; M/Sc/Sk friendship Archive: Yes, please. Feedback: Yes! Please! Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner are owned by Chris Carter, 1013 Productions, Fox Television Network, etc. They are wonderfully brought to life by David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Mitch Pileggi. I will make no profit from this, and neither will Fox if they sue me, for I am poor and have nothing material they can profit from. Comments: Check out my web page, Daydreamer's Den, brought to you by the talented Shirley Smiley, WebMistress Extraordinaire! http://www.geocities.com/daydreamersden/ Summary: Seriously injured and with Scully in danger, Mulder is forced to walk alone through the dark corridors of a killer's mind to find his hidden secrets. Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 06/11 October 19, 1998 10:15 a.m. Mulder took his glasses off and set them on the table by the bed. "I need a break," he admitted, stifling a yawn. Scully and Skinner both looked up in surprise at this unexpected declaration. "Don't look at me like that," he admonished. "Haven't you two considered I may be getting sensible in my dotage?" Skinner snorted and Scully said, "Not hardly. Neither dotage nor sensibility becomes you, Mulder." The man in the bed sighed, then scanned the room. His boards were still in place, still festooned with pictures of the Nibbler's work. Technicolor photographs stared back at him from every angle, seeming to almost bathe the room in a soft red glow. He closed his eyes to the vision. "I'm going to rest for an hour or so. You two were supposed to check on Gresham and the other child. Why don't you do that? Maybe we'll have something new to go on when you get back." "Are you sure, Mulder?" Scully squeezed his hand in concern, then smiled as he tightened his grip in response. "I'm sure." His eyes were locked on hers, falling into fathomless blue, and he found himself wondering, not for the first time, if he had to keep getting lost in other people's heads, why more of them couldn't be as strong and brave and determined and beautiful and *good* as this particular one. He shook himself, ending a pleasant but fruitless train of thought. "I'm sure," he repeated. "Tell Gresham 'thanks' for me, if he's awake." She nodded once, patted his shoulder, then allowed Skinner to take her hand and tug her to her feet. The ankle was still tightly wrapped and she could almost walk without a limp now, but getting up and down was not quite as easy. And the stress she'd put on it already, from the crime scene of -- God, was it just last night? -- to the aborted autopsy, to following Nathan's commands in the hope it would keep her alive, was more than any doctor would have permitted had she been doing as advised. She glanced back at the bed, still not willing to believe Mulder was actually resting without medication, but his eyes were closed, and his chest rose in the steady up and down motion she knew signified sleep for him. Not the deep, restorative sleep of oblivion he could only attain with her next to him, but the lighter, still restful sleep he reached when he was exhausted and had no choice but to rest. "Will he really rest?" Skinner whispered as they exited the room. She shrugged. She'd learned long ago, with Mulder, nothing was ever certain. And there was no point in worrying over it, though she still did. She took a deep breath, then deliberately changed the subject. "How is Gresham?" "Alive," Skinner said shortly as they got into the elevator. He pushed a button, then leaned against the wall. "He's not in great shape; won't ever do field work again. But they didn't expect him to survive at first." He shook his head in admiration as the doors chimed, then opened. "The kid's a fighter." A guard still stood outside the door to the young agent's room, and he looked up at Skinner and Scully's approach. "Assistant Director, Sir." He hastily dropped the paper he had been reading. "I didn't expect you, Sir." He inclined his head toward Scully. "Agent Scully. Nice to see you up and around." "Relax, Ligotti," Skinner said. "I'm not here to take names, though you might want to be a bit more vigilant. Gresham and Scully *were* abducted from the main law enforcement building in town." He studied the man for a moment, watching as he flushed uncomfortably, then nodded in agreement. "Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. It won't happen again." Skinner believed him. "How's Gresham?" The man looked at the door, then smiled. "Alive, awake, and alert." He cast a triumphant look back at the AD and Scully. "Not what the Nibbler had planned, is it?" Skinner laughed. "No, I don't expect it was. Nice to win one, isn't it?" "Yes, Sir!" Ligotti said enthusiastically. He pointed at the closed door. "His parents are in there now. They just got here about an hour ago." Skinner's face fell. This was the most unpleasant part of his job -- having to explain to parents why their perfectly healthy child was no longer in that state. He pulled himself erect, then looked down at his clothes. Sweats. Not exactly the image he would choose to portray when he had this talk with distressed parents. A small hand on his arm broke him from his reverie. "It's not going to matter, Walter," Scully said, ignoring the look Ligotti gave them at her use of his given name. "His parents are going to be so glad he's alive, the rest won't matter." She pulled herself up, smoothing her hair and straightening her own casual clothing. "I'm glad they're here. I want them to know how brave their son is." She pushed through the door and he had no choice but to follow. The man in the bed was pale. Paler than any living person should be. He was swathed in bandages from the neck up, covering what Skinner knew to be a viciously ripped throat and a missing ear. An IV pole stood on each side of the bed, and several bags hung from each. Blood, and fluid, and antibiotics, and who knew what else mystical medicine had prescribed. But the important thing was, this one was alive. Score one for the good guys. "Mr. Gresham? Mrs. Gresham?" He extended his hand to the man seated on the left of the bed, watching as he stood before accepting it. His hand was cool, but the grip was firm, and the man was smiling as he shook. "I'm Walter Skinner, Sir, Ma'am." He paused, suddenly at a loss as to what to say. "Mr. Skinner is an Assistant Director for the FBI, Mr. Gresham," Scully broke in smoothly. "Howard was on special assignment, working for the AD when this happened. She extended her own hand. "I'm Dana Scully. Howard was protecting me." The figure on the bed stirred, and all eyes turned to focus on the subject of their discussion. ************************************** Oh, God. This couldn't be happening. Why couldn't the Nibbler have just killed him? Wasn't it enough that he would never speak? Wasn't it enough that his hearing was compromised? Wasn't it enough that he'd never be a field agent again? Did they have to come and relate his cowardice, his fear, his weaknesses to his parents? Did they have to make him relive it all again? "... incredible bravery," Scully was saying, and he shifted his gaze to stare at her. "He told me he had a weak stomach. I'm a pathologist, and I had an autopsy to do," she explained, and he groaned inwardly. So she was going to share with them his aversion to blood and death. He closed his eyes in shame. " ... refused to leave me. Even when I disobeyed orders and told him he could wait outside." His eyes popped open again. What was she saying? He looked at Skinner quickly, and he could see that the AD was hearing this for the first time, a frown on his face as he stared at Scully. "... nothing Howard could do. He was already there, in the morgue, just waiting for me. Howard did exactly what he should have, and I know that's the only reason I am still alive." His eyes flew to Scully and he saw her smiling down at him. She was standing next to his mom, and she was smiling, too. Something warm and soft and comforting touched him, and he realized Scully was holding his hand. "Howard never faltered, never wavered. He was totally focused on what was needed to keep us both alive. When Nathan forced him to call the AD, I was stunned at how self-possessed, how in control he sounded." Gresham shifted his gaze to the men on his other side. His father was nodding and smiling in pride, and the AD was nodding, too, as if everything Agent Scully was saying was really true. He couldn't bear it. He'd been terrified, sick to his stomach, barely able to function. He didn't deserve the praise and admiration of these people. He shook his head as vigorously as he could, then turned away in self-disgust. But the warmth on his hand was still constant, and now there was a sound, right by his head. A voice, speaking to him, and only to him, it seemed. "You know, Howard," she said in a conversational tone, "I've really only worked with one other person besides my partner in years. And I ended up getting shot." Gresham grimaced. He'd heard that story. And the follow-up. How Mulder had nearly killed the guy who'd shot her, only letting the luckless agent live because Scully had survived. What was Mulder going to do to him? "There really isn't anyone I trust except Mulder." She looked up and smiled at his parents. "My partner," she explained, "is incredibly smart, brilliant really, and he usually works on special projects. He has an ability to find killers like this Nathan, but it exacts a tremendous toll on him." She looked back at the man in the bed. "That's why he's not here now, to thank you himself." Gresham couldn't believe it. How could she keep saying things like this? How could she keep going on about his bravery and loyalty, and her thanks? Even implying *Mulder* would be grateful to him? Why didn't they all just leave him alone? He risked another look at her, but she was still talking to his folks. "Mulder is a psychologist, and a damned good one, too. He once told me," she looked at Gresham, catching his gaze and holding it, "that the hardest thing one can do as an agent is to see how you function in a life or death situation. We're so caught inside our own heads, we can't see that while we may be quaking on the inside, we're doing everything right on the outside." She smiled and he felt her hand tighten around his own. Waves of auburn softness slipped from behind her ear, falling forward to make a curtain that seemed to shield them from the others in the room. "I don't know what you were thinking, or even feeling inside that day, Howard, but I do know one thing: I would not be alive if you hadn't been there. There aren't enough words to say thank you." She leaned over and placed a soft, sweet kiss on his lips, and in that moment, at that exact second in time, he knew that it was all true. It didn't matter that he'd been sick to his stomach over the dead bodies, or that his voice had cracked and his throat gone dry. It didn't matter that he'd trembled in his shoes and his hands had shook and his knees gone weak. It didn't even matter that he'd wet himself, there at the end. What was important was that when it mattered, when he had to act, he'd done so. And he was alive because of that. He looked up into a pair of beautiful blue eyes, cursing Mulder for his luck, cursing himself for being ten years too young. He smiled back at the woman who still hovered over his bed. She was alive because of him. That was what mattered. ****************************************** October 20, 1998 10:10 a.m. "Child molestation." Mulder looked at the fax from the Army again and shook his head in disgust. "They suspected Nathan had molested two little girls, but couldn't prove it, so they used it as an excuse to discharge him. With no warning to anyone." "If there wasn't a case, there was no justification for warnings, Mulder," Skinner said. "You know that." "I know." Mulder studied the paper, then tucked it in the file. "But still ..." "It's not fair, I know, Mulder. Doesn't seem right that someone like Nathan should have rights, too, does it?" "Aw, shit! This is pointless." Mulder dragged a hand across his face. "I'm not getting anywhere. I *need* something else!" He tossed the file across the room, watching as papers and photos created a small snowdrift where they landed. "It's not pointless. Every day there is no action from Nathan, is one more day for you to heal." Skinner was picking up the papers as he spoke. "You're not functioning at your peak. You can't expect yourself to work miracles." He slid the last picture in the manila folder and closed it, then rose and placed it on the table. "You're stronger. You're able to stay awake longer. You're tolerating semi-solids. You're belly is healing. This is progress, Mulder." "It's not enough. He's out there, God only knows where, and I can't *see* him. It's like I've lost the ability to -- to -- *feel.*" He looked up helplessly. "I hate it. I hate what I can do. But I still feel like someone amputated a limb right now. I feel like something's missing!" "What's missing?" Scully swept through the room, a slip of paper held high. "What did I miss?" She glanced around, noted the tension in the two men, then sighed. "Whatever. Look, I got permission for you to talk to the other child, Mulder. She's still here, and the next of kin have agreed." Skinner nodded his head in relief. At last. New information that wasn't going to come in the form of a dead body. Maybe they could get somewhere from this. "When?" Mulder demanded, sitting up in the bed. "When?" "Shhh," Scully soothed. "This afternoon. *If* you rest." He snorted. "That's all I've *been* doing -- resting. I'm certainly not finding a killer." "Ease up on yourself, Mulder," Skinner said softly. "I'm not going to watch you tear yourself apart over this." He walked to the window and stared out. "You're not responsible for this maniac." He blew out, a soft, hissing sound that almost covered his next words. "And neither am I." ******************************************** October 20, 1998 1:15 p.m. "She's five years old, Agent Mulder. Apparently very bright and outgoing before ..." The woman waved her hands helplessly. "... all this. She hasn't spoken since she got here." Mulder stared into the playroom through the observation window. It had been set up as he requested: paper and crayons, paints, a large doll house and a family of dolls, as well as building blocks, a tape recorder and some children's tapes, and a rocking chair. He didn't know what would have been familiar to this child he didn't know, but somehow, he needed to make a safe place for her, so she would begin to talk. He needed to know what had happened. Somehow, he was convinced there was a clue in what had happened at the deputy's house. Something he was missing. He turned to face the young woman next to him. She was slightly built, with dark hair and dark eyes and would have been striking if not for the large birth mark that marred on side of her face. "Did you tell her I was coming?" She nodded. "Of course. But she didn't react." "And there isn't *anyone* here she's made a connection with?" "No." The woman shook her head sadly. "It's like there's no one home." Mulder nodded, then looked at Scully and Skinner, squeezed into the observation room with them. "You're ready?" Skinner spoke. "The cameras are set up. We'll record from three different angles and I've got an audio feed, too." He ran a hand up and picked at the edge of the bandage that covered his head. It itched. "Is this really necessary?" Mulder shrugged. "I may be so focused on the child -- she may need me -- I may not be able to catch everything she says or does." He reached out and took Scully's hand, then pulled her down until her face was even with his in the wheelchair. He kissed her quickly. "You'll stay?" "Of course," she whispered. "You watch the child. I'll be watching you." "My guardian angel ..." He let her go, then indicated he was ready. When he wheeled into the room, the child looked up once, took him in, and the wheelchair, then dropped her gaze. This had been a gamble -- letting her know he was injured. It could go either way. It could make her feel more comfortable, knowing others were hurt. Or it could scare her, reaffirming that adults in her world, the people who should keep her safe, were just as vulnerable as she was. "Hannah," he said softly, and she twitched slightly. A good sign. She was hearing him, even if she didn't respond. "Dr. Sterben told you I was coming, didn't she?" No response. "I'm a doctor, too," he went on. "A different kind of doctor. I talk to people about how they feel." No response, or was there? She might have turned her head slightly at his last remark. "My name is Fox." That had her attention. She looked up again, staring in open disbelief, then quickly dropped her gaze when she realized what she'd done. He smiled. The name always got them. "It really is, Hannah." He smiled. "My name is Fox." He held out the stuffed toy he'd asked for. "Like this. See? He's a fox and I'm a Fox." She was small for her age, with blonde hair that fell in loose waves to her shoulders. Someone, probably a nurse with children of her own, had provided a bright blue scrunchie and pulled the soft hair up in a pony-tail, keeping it from the child's face. Tendrils had escaped and framed the round face with wisps of silken gold. Right now, she was staring at the stuffed animal from beneath her eyelids, blue eyes just visible. "Go ahead. You can have it. I brought it for you." He pushed the toy closer. "I thought you might like him." She watched him closely, head still down, eyes mere slits, and his arm began to tire from holding the animal extended. At last, when he was ready to withdraw it, she reached out and took it. She was responding. "He's soft, isn't he, Hannah?" Mulder kept his voice quiet, barely above a whisper. He'd hated working with children when he was in school. They were so vulnerable, so easily manipulated, but he'd always been good at it. "Red," the child whispered, and Mulder froze. She was speaking. He didn't know what she was referring to, but he took the safe path. "Yes, he is red, isn't he? Most foxes are red." She looked up at him. "You're not red." Her words were still whispered and there was a trace of a baby lisp, a softening of the 'r's in her speech. He wondered if it had always been there, or if this was a sign of regression. Not that regression would be unusual in a situation like this. "No," he agreed. "I'm not red." He studied her carefully. She was stroking the stuffed fox, her attention seemingly on the toy, but he could see she was returning his scrutiny. "Do you know who I am?" It was a guess, but worth a try. She nodded. "How do you know me?" "P'lice," she whispered, and he knew then she remembered it all. "That's right, Hannah. I'm a policeman. I came to get you. Do you remember?" She nodded once. "You. And the big man." She nodded again. "Like Daddy." "Like your daddy, yes." He was quiet, waiting to see if she would speak again. When she didn't, he did. "Hannah, I'd like to talk to you about what happened." End part 06/11 Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 07/11 "Can you tell me what happened when the bad man came, Hannah?" The child's eyes grew wide with fear and she dropped her head. Both arms wrapped about herself, the fox pressed tight to her belly, and she began to rock. "No, no, no, no, no ..." she chanted softly. Mulder reached out a hand, stopping himself before he touched her. Everything else in her life had been ripped away; he wasn't going to invade her personal space without permission. "It's OK, Hannah, shhhhh. We don't have to talk about it right now." He glanced around the room quickly, then said, "How 'bout if we color for a while? Do you like to color?" The rocking stopped, but the child didn't react. "I'd like to color, even if you aren't in the mood," Mulder said. "But there's one problem." He made his voice sad and disappointed, then waited for the quick look the child shot him. "The table is all the way over there," he waved across the room as he spoke, "and I'm over here. I could use a big strong person to help me get over there." Hannah studied the wheelchair, then the table. "I'm strong," she whispered. "I know you are. You were very strong when the bad man came. And you're brave, too," Mulder responded. "Do you think you could help me get to the table?" Hannah nodded and rose, looking carefully around the room before she moved behind the wheelchair. Grasping the handles in both hands, she pushed and the chair began to roll forward. Behind the glass of the observation mirror, Dr. Sterben was watching in stunned amazement. "I can't believe it! She hasn't spoken or interacted in any way since she got here. This is incredible!" Scully smiled softly. "I told you he could do it. He's got a way with kids." They watched as the chair rolled to the table and stopped. "Thanks," Mulder said. "Can you give me the crayons?" He pointed at the box on the other side of the table as he placed a large piece of newsprint before them. Hannah moved around the table, grabbed the crayons and handed them to him, then took her place at his side, watching as he began to draw. He started with a figure and as he worked, the image of a small girl began to appear. "This is my sister," Mulder said. "Her name is Sam." "Sam's a boy's name." Hannah was watching as he colored long brown hair on the figure. "It's short for Samantha." Mulder finished the drawing then handed the crayon to Hannah. "Can you draw your sister?" Hannah nodded seriously, then took the crayon and drew. She topped her sister's head with blonde hair drawn like corkscrews. "Is her hair curly?" Hannah nodded. "What's her name?" "Livvie." She paused, then looked up at Mulder. "That's short for Olivia." "Ah ..." Mulder took another crayon from the box, a black one, and he began to color over the picture he had drawn. "When Sam was eight, she disappeared. She just went away." The legs on the figure were covered in black, and he continued working his way up to the torso. "We were home alone -- I was babysitting -- and Sam just -- went away." He was careful to keep his eyes on the paper as he worked, not looking at Hannah. He tried to keep his voice quiet, matter of fact. The drawing on the paper was a black box now, with only a head still visible. "What happened?" Hannah asked in a breathless voice. Mulder shrugged. "I don't know." He increased the speed of the crayon, pressing down hard and making large slashing lines across the drawing's face. "But I was really mad at Samantha. I was really, really mad." Hannah nodded as if this made perfect sense, then took a red crayon from the box. She followed Mulder's lead and began to obliterate the drawing of Olivia. Large, angry red marks appeared, one over the other. The child worked faster and faster and the paper moved and then tore. "Wow," Mulder said. "You must really be angry at Olivia." "She's all red!" Hannah said in the first loud voice he'd heard from her. "Red, red, red!" "Why is she red?" he asked, knowing he was getting into dangerous territory, and hoping he wouldn't do or say anything that would further damage this child. "The witch man made her red!" Hannah picked up the paper and began to rip it, tearing it into large pieces, and then smaller and smaller ones. "And now she's gone! Gone, gone, gone!" Tears had begun to stream down the child's face, and she threw the papers as hard as she could. "They're all gone!" "Your mom and dad? They're gone, too?" Mulder was testing the water, trying to see what the child had processed. "The witch man killeded them. He made them all red." The child was sobbing now, her face wet and her nose running. Mulder held out his arms. "Hannah, can I hold you?" he asked softly, then winced when the small body slammed into him as she crawled into his lap and buried her head in his shoulder. He held her tightly, rubbing her back and stroking her hair and murmuring soft nonsense into her ears as she cried herself out. "How does he know how to make her talk? I've tried everything he just did, and I got nowhere!" The young doctor was watching in admiration and frustration as Mulder continued to soothe the child. "Did you lose a sister?" Skinner asked quietly. When the doctor shook her head, he went on. "Mulder gave her something she could relate to, and he let her be angry." "I was expecting her to be sad," Dr. Sterben said. "Angry at the man that did this, yes, but not angry at her family." She looked up at the AD. "Is the story about his sister real?" "Yeah," Skinner said sadly. "All too real." He looked at the window again, watching as the child sighed and snuggled into Mulder's lap. "I think I'm s'posed to tell you," she whispered into his shoulder. "Tell me? Tell me what, sweetie?" Mulder asked. " 'bout the stories." "Stories?" "The fairy stories. The witch man said." "Fairy tales?" Hannah nodded. "Little Red Ri-ing Hood. The wolf ate the grandma. And he tried to eat her, too." She sighed softly. "All red." "Were there any other stories?" Mulder was searching his mind for connections between Nathan and fairy tales. "Hansel and Gretel. Where the witch ate the kids." She shifted in his lap and looked up at him with big, round eyes. "I think he was a witch -- a man witch." "I think you're right." "He said he was going to eat me, just like Hansel and Gretel." Her eyes filled again. "He -- he -- he -- *did* Olivia. He bit her. He bit her and bit her and bit her. And then she was all red and she --" The child spread her arms in bewilderment. "She came apart." Tears fell again and she snuffled. "You're not supposed to bite." "No," Mulder said softly as he hugged the child. "No, you're not supposed to bite." "When I was little, I bit Livvie and I got punished." She was silent for a while. "I was just little and didn't know better. But I know you're not supposed to bite." Mulder nodded, his cheek against the child's soft hair. He cuddled the little girl a bit longer, then asked, "Did the witch man tell you anything else?" "Just to tell the fox the stories. He said you would know the stories." She sniffed again, wiping her nose against his shirt. "I didn't know he meant a *person* named Fox." She gave a little giggle. "Is that really, really your name?" "Yep," Mulder said, smiling down at the little girl. His heart was racing. He needed time to think. There was something here, something in what the child said that was nagging at the back of his mind. He needed to get back to his room, to review the files. He *had* to find something that would lead him to Nathan. He looked down at the child in his arms. He needed to do a lot of things. But right now, this little girl needed *him.* ************************************** October 20, 1998 2:05 p.m. "How long are we supposed to let him sit there?" the psychologist asked. It was cramped in the observation room, and hot. "As long as he needs," Skinner said shortly. "But he can't possibly be getting anything from Hannah. She's asleep!" The doctor peered through the window again. "Hell, I think he may be asleep, too." "He's not asleep," Scully said. "He's working." "Working?" The doctor stared again. The man in the wheelchair was unmoving. Had been unmoving for some time now. After her initial outburst, after the storm of tears and the confession of anger at her sister and the story that Nathan had planted in her mind, after all of this, Hannah had simply curled up in Mulder's lap, tucked into his shoulder, and fallen asleep. And he had closed his eyes as well, one arm wrapped around the little girl, the other dangling by his side. And he had not moved. "How can you tell he's working? And on what?" The doctor was nothing if not persistent. "It's how he works. He takes all the pieces and moves them around in his head. That's what he's doing now." Scully glanced at her watch. "But he *has* been in there for a while." All eyes turned toward the window. As if he knew they were watching, Mulder lifted his head and turned to stare at the window. His eyes were unfocused and his lips moved silently. One hand still stroked the child's hair, but the other twitched almost uncontrollably, dangling as if it were a separate entity at the end of his arm. Scully and Skinner exchanged a look. "Time to get him out of there," the AD said, and Scully nodded grimly. "I hadn't realized he'd slipped so far away." "What? What?" The psychologist was looking from the big man to the small woman, trying to follow this strange conversation. "Slipped away where?" She pointed. "He's right there." Scully ignored the woman. She had the door open and was moving through it, Skinner following in her wake. She opened the door to the playroom, and walked across the floor to the wheelchair. "Mulder?" she whispered. "Can you hear me?" There was no response and she glanced up at Skinner quickly before repeating in a slightly louder tone, "Mulder?" The child stirred, then moved on Mulder's lap, first snuggling in, then sitting back in puzzlement when the arm holding her slipped away. "C'mon, Hannah," Scully said quietly. "It's time for you to go." "He's sick," the child said, pointing at Mulder. "No," Scully said as reassuringly as she could. "He's not sick, he's thinking." "The witch man hurt him." "How do you know that?" Skinner asked sharply, receiving an admonishing look from Scully and Dr. Sterben. The child looked up. "I 'member you. You throwed the bed." She stared up at the AD with wide eyes, then yawned sleepily. Scully chuckled. "Sorry I missed that," she said, smiling at Skinner. "Don't be. It was right before the house exploded. There wasn't a lot of time for subtlety." He studied Mulder. "Dr. Sterben, can you ...?" He nodded toward Hannah. "What? Oh, yes, of course." She reached out and lifted the child. "C'mon, Hannah, let's get you back to your room." "Am I gonna see Fox again?" The child was staring back at them from over the young woman's shoulder. "I'll tell him you want to see him." Scully smiled at the retreating figures, then turned back to her partner. "Mulder!" she called more forcefully now that the child was out of the room. "Red," he mumbled. "Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf." "What's he talking about?" Skinner had joined Scully, squatting before the wheelchair. She shrugged. "He's working things out." She reached out and stroked his arm, fingers tracing up and down, playing with the fine hairs and stopping now and then to squeeze gently. "Mulder? Can you talk to me?" She grasped his hand in both of hers, twining her fingers through his longer ones. "C'mon, Mulder, I need you to talk to me." He turned his head slowly, eyes focusing on her face, and a small smile graced his lips. "Scully," he whimpered and his voice was hoarse and cracked in the middle. "Oh, Mulder." She vaguely heard Skinner rise and move away, but her attention was focused on the man in the chair before her. He was leaning forward slightly, his head drooping downward, and she lifted her own up until their foreheads met. "You OK?" "Mmmm ... I think so." He lifted his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Did we get it on tape?" "Yeah. You got Hannah to talk. Dr. Sterben was impressed." "Not so hard. I think I caught everything, but I want to review the session." He sat back in the chair and snorted, then winced. "Time for bed for you, partner," Scully said softly, looking up to catch Skinner's attention. "The fairy tales are the key, Scully," Mulder said as the AD pulled Scully to her feet and then grabbed the handles of the chair and pushed. "I was going over the names in my head. Can you get me a list of characters in fairy tales?" The elevator chimed and Skinner pushed the chair in, lifting the front wheels slightly to avoid jostling his injured agent. "I'll get someone to run an internet search, Mulder," the AD said. "See what comes up." "The background stuff, Sir, uh, Walter?" Mulder cocked his head back and looked up, an unsure smile on his face. "Where are we on that?" "The files are here. I just haven't given them to you yet." Skinner smiled back. "You've had enough on your plate." "I need to look at them now. Please. Time is running out." The elevator chimed again, and Skinner repeated the process of lifting the front of the chair over the ledge, then wheeling Mulder down the hall. "I'll get the tapes," he said as he helped Mulder up and into the bed. The agent sighed with relief as he settled back into his bed of pillows. "My glasses?" He held out his hand, then slipped the lenses on his nose when Scully placed them in his hand. "And the files?" The hand was out again, waiting as Skinner went to his briefcase and dug out a manila folder, then carried it to the bed. "How do you feel, Mulder?" Scully asked. "How's the pain?" "Still bearable." He was already reading, his eyes scanning the pages with an uncanny speed. She placed her hand over the next page, blocking his view, then waited until he looked up. "How. Do. You. Feel. Mulder?" she repeated slowly. He stared at the hand for a moment, then twitched with impatience. As he started to answer, she warned him, "Don't blow me off. Think carefully about what you say." Mulder drew a deep breath, lifted a hand and removed the glasses, then scrubbed his face. "I'm tired, Scully, and my insides hurt. I'm angry and frustrated, and I'm a little bit scared." He looked up at her, then took her hand and placed it over his chest. "My heart hurts. I think of Hannah, what she's lost. Of Olivia, how it must have been for her. I think of the deputy and his wife and Gresham, and I ache inside." She could feel the steady pulse beneath her palm, feeling it increase in speed and intensity as he spoke. "And I think of you. God, Scully, what he could have done to you. What he *will* do if he finds you before I find him." His voice broke and he turned his head away, but he held her hand pressed tight to his chest. "I couldn't go on if he -- hurt -- you." A ragged sob escaped his lips. "I -- I -- just couldn't." "Shhhh, Mulder. No one's going to do anything to me." She leaned over and with one hand turned his cheek back to face her. Tears hovered at the corners of her eyes but she forced herself to smile. "I'll stay here, with you, from here on out, OK?" She looked up at Skinner for affirmation. "Absolutely. No more field trips for either of you." Skinner stood by the door, arms folded over his chest and a determined cast to his face. "Hear that, Mulder? You're stuck with me." She cupped his cheek, her fingers tracing the bristly stubble that marred his normally smooth skin. She reached out and brushed his lips with her own, watching as he closed his eyes and savored her touch. It was one of the many things she adored about this man. They'd been lovers for months now, and he still acted as if each look, each touch, each kiss, was a gift beyond any expectation. His eyes opened and she could see he was amazed at her constancy, her patience, her steadfast belief in him and her desire to keep him safe at any cost. Agreeing to stay here, with him, was little enough price to pay to ease his mind in some small way. Her fingers stroked his cheek again, then brushed the hair back from his head. "Yep," she said softly. "You're stuck with me." End part 07/11 Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 08/11 October 22, 1998 9:15 a.m. "You're still not listening to me!" Mulder exploded. "I need to get out and see some of these places. He lived here when he was a small child. Something happened to him here -- *here* -- and I need to see the town, the area, to find out what it was. I need to talk to people, visit places, see things -- then, maybe, I can begin to see what draws him here -- what keeps him here." Skinner was a brick wall in front of the door. "And I said 'no!' No more outings for you or Scully. You both stay here where I can see you, where I know you're safe. I'm not going to see you injured more, or again, and I'm not going to risk Scully around this nutcase." Skinner growled, a dangerous sound made low in his throat. "He's marked her, Mulder." He cast a quick glance at the bathroom door, knowing she could hear their every word even though Mulder had waited for her to excuse herself before starting this argument again. "You know what that means. You're the one who figured out he was marking them before he took them." "I know!" Mulder slammed a folder onto the table knocking the water pitcher over. There was a muted crash as the plastic container hit the floor, then the steady sound of water dripping onto cold tiles. Skinner growled again and crossed the room. "I'm getting a little tired of your temper tantrums, Mulder." He bent and picked up the pitcher, then retrieved a towel and threw it over the expanding puddle. A handful of tissues was used to wipe the table and he spread the now-wet papers across the bottom of Mulder's bed to dry. Mulder flushed uncomfortably and raised a hand to swipe at his face. "Look, Walter," he began, raising a hand to silence Scully as she came out of the small bathroom, thunderclouds on her face. "I'm sorry. I'm frustrated and I'm being an ass. I know that. But I need to *do* something. I'm getting nowhere just laying here." Skinner tossed the wet tissues into the wastebasket. "We've been over this. Every day nothing happens is one more day for you to heal." He swished the towel around with his foot, holding onto the rail of Mulder's bed for balance. "Let's just be thankful nothing ..." He paused and they all looked at the source of the chirping sound that had interrupted the AD. His cell phone was ringing. He crossed to the chair his jacket hung from and dug it out of the pocket. "Skinner." The two agents were totally focused on Skinner as he listened in silence to the unknown speaker. So focused on Skinner was Scully, she didn't realize she had been moving toward Mulder until she bumped the bed. The AD's phone had been silent for two days now, and all of them knew it would not ring for good news. "All right. We'll be there. I want extra protection at the scene for my agents. This -- this -- *thing* has already targeted them once; I won't let it happen again." He closed the phone and closed his eyes for a moment, letting his head drop slightly. When he looked up, Mulder was already sitting on the side of the bed, and Scully was helping him dress. "Where?" he asked. "Day care center." Mulder drew a sharp breath and winced. "No kids. Owner. Happened early this morning, when the man was opening up, waiting for staff to arrive. That was who found him, one of the workers." "Oh." Mulder was dressed now, and standing on shaky legs. "You want a chair?" Skinner asked. "Say yes, Mulder. Save your strength." Scully had one arm wrapped around her partner's waist, and he held onto the bed rail. Mulder shrugged, as close to an affirmative as they were likely to get, and Skinner dragged the chair out from behind the door, unfolding it and positioning it for his agent to sit in. "No checkout with the hospital?" he asked quietly as they rode down in the elevator. "Admin knows what's going on. I explained you would have to leave again if something happened." Scully studied her partner. "You're a lot better anyway. I was almost ready to spring you to a hotel room, but I knew I had a better chance of making you rest if you stayed in the hospital." "Ah, Scully, you're picking up my deceitful ways." "As long as I've been around you, Mulder, something was bound to rub off." She let one hand drift out and touched his hair fondly. "Hee, hee, hee," Mulder teased in a raspy voice. "She said 'rub.'" Skinner rolled his eyes, then gave up to laughter, joining Scully's chortles. When the elevator opened, all three were still chuckling, and the agent waiting to escort them stared wide-eyed at them before speaking. "Gilroy, Sir," he said as they pulled themselves together. "I'm to take you to the scene." One last guffaw escaped Skinner, then he cleared his throat and straightened. He was back in his normal attire, and one hand rose self-consciously to tug at his tie, even as he was pushing Mulder's chair out of the elevator. Scully was trying to quiet her giggles, and Mulder had to swallow hard to wipe the grin from his face. It was good to let loose with friends, but now it was time to work. *************************************** October 22, 1998 10:15 a.m. "Leave it," Mulder said shortly, when Gilroy popped the trunk to remove the wheelchair. "I'll be on my feet from here on in." He did take the hand Skinner offered and let the bigger man help pull him to his feet. He stood a moment, gathering strength and courage, and a not insignificant portion of inner fortitude, then walked slowly up the narrow concrete walk to the front of the Mother Goose Day Care Center. "Little Red Riding Hood. Hansel and Gretel." He stared up at the sign of the matronly woman holding a white goose. "Mother Goose." A frown pulled the corners of his mouth down, and he muttered, "I would have seen this if I'd been out." "You weren't ready to be out," Skinner said, using his best 'drop it if you know what's good for you, Mulder,' voice. Despite the warning in his tone, and the force behind his comment, the AD was still surprised when his most troublesome agent actually did drop it. "Scully?" Mulder said softly when he reached the front door. "Yes?" He cleared his throat uncomfortably, then swayed slightly. "Uh, would you mind ..." One hand rose and shoved his hair back almost angrily. "Can you check it out first, Scully?" "Are you all right?" She was at his side immediately, concern etched in her face. "Yeah." He reached out and put one hand on a brick column for support. "I just feel a little ..." He turned, leaning against the bricks, and stared out at the street. "God! I hate this!" he swore under his breath. "Look," he turned his head to look at his partner, "I just need a few minutes. And," he hung his head as if embarrassed, "I'd kinda like to know what I'm facing." One hand hovered over his abdomen. "I don't relish the thought of being sick with stitches in my belly." "Mulder." Scully ran one hand along his arm. "You don't have to explain, and you certainly don't have to feel guilty." She looked up, meeting Skinner's eyes briefly and saw him nod. "You stay here with Walter for a few minutes, and I'll go see what we're getting into." "Be --" She lifted a hand. "I know. Be careful. I will. And we won't touch or move anything." She pointed to a cement bench off to the side of the building. "Go sit for a bit. I'll be back shortly." As she moved into the building, Skinner touched Mulder's arm lightly. "C'mon. Let's sit." He led the other man across the grass and watched as he lowered himself to sit. Mulder's eyes were dark and he could almost see the man pulling away, going somewhere deep inside himself. Somewhere cold and black and unfathomable to the rest of the world, but somewhere where that brilliant mind would catch a killer. "It's more than just the fairy tale connection," he mumbled. "Something happened here." He looked up. "Nathan is what? Thirty now?" Skinner could see Mulder calculating in his head. "How long has this place been here?" Skinner shrugged, but pulled his phone and made a call. When he was finished, he nodded. "He could have gone here, yes. It was opened in '71. And, yes, same owner." Mulder's eyes were closed now, and he was nodding as if this only affirmed something he had already known, and for all Skinner knew, perhaps he had. Mulder's leaps of intuition were more than the older man could follow, or understand. When his agent didn't speak again, he followed suit and waited patiently. It was Scully who broke the silence. "OK," she said as she approached, "it's bloody, but you can still identify the body. The wounds were --" she paused a moment as she sat and touched Mulder's shoulder. When he looked at her, she finished. "Lower." "Genitals?" "Yeah." "He was molested." "The owner? I don't think so ..." Her voice trailed off as Mulder shook his head and rose to his feet. "Not the owner, Scully. The Nibbler. He went here as a child, and he was molested by this man. Probably as a sick form of punishment." He took a few steps toward the building, then paused, looking up at the sign. "For biting." "How ..." Now it was her turn to shake her head as she followed her partner across the lawn. Never mind how he knew. She was willing to bet they'd turn up someone who could corroborate the scenario Mulder had just laid out. The day care center was a converted house and Mulder entered into what had once been a living room. It was now a playroom, filled with small tables, and shelves covered with toys and books. A banner over the door read "Fun Fours." A TV and VCR sat on a rolling cart in one corner, and one wall was adorned with metal hooks and small wooden cubbies to hold the children's things. All were bare today. He moved through the playroom to a small hallway. A dogleg to his left would take him into the kitchen. From where he stood, he could see the commercial refrigerator, and the shining aluminum island added in a renovation years ago. Directly ahead was another hallway that led to an addition. Down the narrow hallway toward the back, he passed two bathrooms, each with plumbing fixtures low to the ground for the children's use. The addition was another large playroom, bigger than the one up front. One side of this room was taken up with cots that would be brought out and spread through all the classrooms for nap time. A door to his left led out to a play yard, and walking through the room to the right led into another, smaller, classroom. A sign on the doors said, "Tiny Twos." Mulder scanned this room quickly, then made another right and entered a room with three tables and a wall of toys. A bulletin board held crayon drawings and proudly proclaimed, "Busy Bee Threes." It was only a few steps through this room to be back in the original hall. A glance to his right and he could see the doorway back to the "Fun Fours" room. To his left was yet another classroom. This one had no clever label; the sign on the door simply read "Kindergarten." There was a piano in this room, and instead of tables, there were fifteen small desks, in three neat rows. Mulder stood, breathing hard. It was coming next. The body. The blood. The chance to outsmart a killer. He turned right and strode down the hall to the small office on the left of the hallway, just before the four year olds' room. Where the other rooms had been a vivid explosion of primary and secondary colors, bright blues and greens and yellows, this room was monochromatic red. Blood streaked the walls and covered the floor and was even spattered on the low-hung ceiling. A naked man lay on the floor, his body deformed by the chunks of flesh that had been pulled from his bones. Mulder glanced at the groin area, then shuddered. "There's another room here, somewhere," he whispered. "Where this man takes the children who've been bad." "But he's just the owner, Mulder." Scully looked at a piece of paper she had gotten from the local police. "The employees said he doesn't work with the children directly. Never has." "Doesn't matter. It's here." Mulder sighed, then took gloves from his pocket and donned them. "He only comes in a few days a week to do paperwork; pay bills, write out paychecks, collect tuition." Scully was shaking her head. "He doesn't have access to the children." "Yes, he does." Mulder reached out and touched the dead man's hand, then shivered as if shocked. "Just have them look for the room, Scully. This house has been added on to at least twice; there's bound to be a couple of places with space unaccounted for." He moved into the tiny room, backing himself into a corner, then lowering himself to squat against the wall. "I want pictures of it all." One hand waved at the room in general, then a long finger began to point. "Body, clothing, the major wound site, walls, ceiling, everything." He dropped his hand and stared at the desk the man lay in front of. "Cause of death?" "What you're expecting, I'm sure." Scully looked up from the man she was instructing to look for a hidden room. "Blood loss." "The penis is missing?" "Yeah. And the testicles." Mulder nodded. He remained where he was while more pictures were taken, then rose stiffly and went to the desk. "Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf ate the grandmother." He looked up at Scully. "Why do we tell children that story?" "To, uh, remind them, uh ..." She stopped, unsure. "I don't know, Mulder. To warn about strangers? To teach them to be careful?" "To make them think someone will always show up at the last minute and rescue them?" Mulder's voice was bitter, and Scully wondered how many, many hours Mulder had spent as a boy waiting for someone to rescue his sister. "Hansel and Gretel?" Mulder was back at the body now, stroking the bits of skin that had not been ruined by the Nibbler's fierce attack. His voice was soft and almost dreamy as he asked, "What's the moral of that one?" Scully shrugged. This was so bizarre. Mulder was kneeling in blood, practically caressing a dead body, and he wanted to know what the meaning of a fairy tale was. She would never get used to this man. "Don't run away from home? Don't take candy from strangers?" "But they didn't really run away, did they? The woodsman led his children into the forest because he couldn't care for them anymore." "Wasn't there a mean step-mother in that one?" "Nathan's mother died when he was three. The dad remarried almost immediately." Scully cocked an eyebrow. "Wicked step-mom?" "Maybe." "Day care as a form of abandonment?" Mulder shrugged. "To a three year old, sure. Why not?" "So why didn't Nathan put the body in the oven? Isn't that what Hansel did to the witch?" Mulder shrugged again. "The man's insane. Who can understand what motivates him?" He rose carefully, then turned in a slow circle, cataloging the room. "Fairy tales, Scully. What other fairy tales do you know?" He was still turning, a slow spin that made her dizzy to watch. "Just the usual. Sleeping Beauty. Cinderella. Snow White." "Interesting." "What?" She reached out and stopped his spin. "Your choices." Mulder moved forward until he was in the doorway, then leaned against the jamb. "All young women who are callously taken advantage of and yet, still emerge triumphant." He smiled at her. "Want my professional eval on what that says about you?" She smiled wryly. "Not really. I suppose I could have said something about Pinocchio and his *nose,* but I was feeling charitable." Mulder snorted. "What else is there?" "We've about run through my Disney video collection. I suppose Aladdin and Robin Hood might be considered fairy tales. Or the Arthur legends." "Robin Hood. The classic good triumphs over evil story. But you left out Beauty and the Beast." She smiled and leaned over to kiss him gently. "I'm living that one." Mulder leaned down and nuzzled her hair. "My beauty," he whispered, then straightening, he went on more seriously. "What about fables? What can you remember?" "The boy who cried wolf." She placed a hand on her hip and pursed her lips. "Sour grapes." He looked up. "Sour grapes?" "Yeah, you know. The fox wants ..." "Fox? A fox?" Mulder was alert now. She could see the hairs on his arms rise as every nerve ending stood on edge. "Mulder, I know you've heard this. The fox wants some grapes and he tries and tries to get them but is never successful. At last he gives up and says he didn't want the grapes anyway; they were probably sour." "I made a point never to listen to stories about foxes. I'm probably the only person in my generation who never saw The Fox and the Hound and never read Fox in Socks." He sighed. "What else, Scully?" "Uh, let me see. Stone soup and Chicken Little." He shook his head. "No. What else with foxes?" "Oh. Well, there's the fox in the henhouse." Mulder froze. "Oh God." "What? Mulder, what?" "Mulder! Scully!" Skinner's voice was loud, booming from the back of the house. "You were right, Mulder." The AD appeared down the hallway by the small bathrooms. "You ready to look?" "Yeah." Mulder went first, following the AD, and Scully trailed them both. The room was small, tucked away behind a false wall in a storage closet. It had a single bare light in the ceiling fixture with a dim bulb. There was a large, over-stuffed chair on one wall, and a cot on the other. Not the child-size cots in the playroom of the center, but a full, adult-size camp cot, with a single cotton sheet thrown over it. But it was the walls that captured and held the attention. Covered almost floor to ceiling, children's faces stared at them from the photo montage that papered the room. Children of different ages, different sexes, different races with one thing in common. Sad, empty, hollow eyes that stared at the camera with hopelessness and a complete lack of childhood innocence. The fruits of this man's sins stared down at them. All except for one place. Where a picture had been, now there was only a tiny patch of drywall visible. Mulder went and studied the empty space. "Nathan." He lifted his hand to touch the wall, then stopped, staring in something akin to shock at his hands. "Scully," he whispered. "I'm all bloody." "Shhhh, Mulder, no." She rushed to his side. "They're gloves, Mulder, gloves." She peeled the latex from his fingers, then passed the dirty gloves to Skinner. "You're fine." He was staring at his now-clean hands. "I thought --" His voice trailed away as he turned again to study the walls, this time staring at the pictures surrounding the hole. "What did you think?" Scully kept one hand on Mulder's arm, supporting him, grounding him, keeping him sane. "I thought I was the fox in the henhouse. I thought I had turned on the chickens." He looked down at her, his eyes dark and sad, then he reached out and pulled another picture from the wall. A small, dark-haired girl, her face marred with a vivid birthmark. "But it's not me." He thrust the picture at her, then turned to look at Skinner. "Do you know what 'Sterben' means?" "Sterben? Dr. Sterben? The psychologist?" Skinner's confusion showed on his face. "Why should it mean anything?" Scully turned the picture over and read the back. "Renee Lafley." She flipped the photo again. "She looks like she's about four." Mulder was nodding. "That's about right." "Mulder, you'll have to enlighten us." Skinner spoke softly, trying to hide his frustration. "Sterben is German, Sir. It's a form of the word 'nibble.'" He swallowed hard, then looked away. "It can also mean 'to die.'" "You're saying Dr. Sterben is part of this? She's involved?" Mulder was nodding as he studied the other pictures. He reached out again, pulling down another photo. "Olivia Holsteen." "Oh, God!" Scully was shaking her head, backing out of the room. "Hannah Holsteen is with her." End part 08/11 Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 09/11 October 22, 1998 11:30 a.m. "Dr. Sterben took Hannah out of the hospital." Skinner put the cell phone back in his pocket. "The nurse on duty didn't think anything of it, and they don't know where she's gone." "She's gone somewhere safe." Mulder said. "Somewhere *she* feels safe. Probably her home." "Would she do that? Just go home?" Scully opened the car door, waiting till Mulder was in, then trotted around to the other side and joined him in the back. "Why not?" Mulder leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was quiet for a moment, and Skinner and Scully waited. When he opened his eyes, he said, "She doesn't realize we know who she is, or what she's doing. Yeah, she would still feel safe at home." "What *is* she doing, Mulder?" Skinner nodded at the agent driving and the car pulled away from the curb. Through the rear window, he could see another sedan pull out and follow. Their protection. As if anything or anyone could protect them from the man they sought. "She's trying to redeem herself." Mulder lifted both hands and scrubbed at his face. "She's trying to understand." He dropped his head, then leaned against the window, eyes closed. Exhaustion etched his features, and weariness caused his shoulders to slump. "But it won't work. God knows, I've tried." "Mulder?" Scully spoke softly and her hand slipped across the seat to seize and then cradle his larger one. "What have you tried?" He sighed heavily then turned his head to look at her. "Why do you think I became a psychologist?" "I -- I always assumed it was something that fit your particular talents, something that interested you. I mean, I know you joined the FBI to search for Samantha, but ..." "Not really true, Scully. I didn't start looking for Sam until I'd been in VCS for a while. After I had that case with Edward Skur and Arthur Dales, after I realized there was more to the FBI than just criminal profiling, after I went to Werber and underwent hypnosis, *then* I started to see how I could work for the FBI and look for Samantha. But back then, back when I was just leaving home, it was the furthest thing from my mind. "Oxford doesn't really have a psych department, per se, just the Department of Applied Social Studies and Social Research." He squeezed her hand slightly. "It was the social research part that interested me. What caused some families to grow stronger in the face of a crisis, while others collapsed?" "Oh, Mulder ..." Scully's voice was soft, and in her mind she could see the sad, young boy, just sixteen, heading off to college two years early and an ocean away, trying to make sense of what had happened to all that was familiar and comforting. Her heart was breaking. "The Department included a lot of different disciplines, from prison and probation, to social policy, to sociology and psychology. The BA was an Honors Degree in Human Sciences, then an MSc." "MSc?" "Master's, Science. It's actually in Applied Social Studies if you read the whole sheepskin thing." He pulled his hand from hers and scratched at his nose. "I went on and did the doctoral studies in social policy and social work, with an emphasis on social deprivation and disadvantage which sorta led into law enforcement." "Why deprivation and disadvantage if your initial interest was family structures?" "My focus changed. I realized that despite the chasm in my own life, the terrible upheaval Sam's disappearance caused, it was nothing compared to what some people went through." He was nodding now, as if reaffirming some long ago decision. "Deprivation and disadvantage tends to lead to anti-social behavior, which generally means law enforcement gets involved. I was interning in a program working with convicts' children, trying to prevent second generation recidivism, when I got involved in an active investigation." He frowned at the memory, and took her hand again. "I found I had an ability to see things other people missed." He chuckled dryly, and without humor. "And I found I had a weak stomach. I contaminated three different scenes before I managed to learn how to control it somewhat." "And from that you got into the FBI?" Skinner's question was quiet, and Mulder looked up in surprise. He had almost forgotten he and Scully weren't alone. "Not really. I'd been in England for years, and I had friends." A flush darkened his cheeks and he cast a furtive glance at his partner. "I even had a girlfriend -- a first for me. I was going to stay." Scully suppressed a smile. Mulder found the oddest things to be embarrassed about. "So what changed your mind?" "Guilt," Mulder said shortly. "My dad convinced me my mom wouldn't survive any longer with me so far away. And I bowed to parental pressure and came back to the US. When I got here, I found I had been *recruited* by the Bureau." He shrugged. "I have no idea what strings he pulled or what favors he collected on, but it was an incredible feat, and I didn't have the energy to fight him. Besides, the whole Propps case was happening, and it caught my interest. So I went to work, and I stayed." "The Bureau's good fortune," Skinner said. Mulder lifted an eyebrow. "Really? Can I quote you on that next time you have me on the carpet for a lost phone or wrecked car?" "I said the *Bureau's* good fortune, not necessarily mine," Skinner said gruffly. But there was a twinkle in his eye and the slightest hint of a smile on his lips, and Mulder nodded, satisfied. "Anyway," he went on, "I digress. I was just pointing out that psychology isn't going to necessarily let you cure what ails you. It just doesn't work that way. Renee Lafley, or Dr. Sterben, whatever she wants to call herself, isn't going to calm her demons by trying to help others. She needs to deal with her own issues first." "And you think that's what she's doing?" Skinner was still twisted in the seat, the seat belt taut across his chest as he tried to meet Mulder's eyes. "I think she's damaged. She was one of the victims years ago. I suspect she's trying to protect, or help other victims." "So why didn't she just turn him in?" The anger in Scully's voice was almost overwhelming. "Why not just go for the root cause, cut it out, then clean up the mess?" Mulder shrugged. "She's still locked in the circle of victim. Remember Karin Matthews? She was doing the same thing in a way. She was creating victims where they didn't exist. Sterben is trying to help victims without ending the victimization -- avoiding her own problems in the process, a self-defeating task at best." "All right, Mulder," Skinner said. "As interesting as the whys are, the main thing is -- where is she? Where is the child? And where is Nathan?" "She's at home. Hannah is with her, and Nathan is wherever she's been hiding him." "She's hiding him?" Scully voice rose an octave in disbelief. "Why on earth is she hiding him?" "She thinks she can save him. She probably knew him as a child. They may have even been abused at the same time, which is why she relates to him." "But -- what he's doing. Surely she can't want that to go on?" "No. But she doesn't want Nathan punished either. She feels he's already been punished enough." Mulder sighed again, and shifted in the seat. "She wants to make him see the error of his ways." "Excuse me, Sir?" Their driver spoke up as he pulled the car to the curb. "This is it." **************************************** October 22, 1998 12:20 p.m. "What are you going to do? Hold me at gunpoint?" Mulder snorted and looked at the house where Dr. Anna Sterben, formerly Renee Lafley lived. Men and women in dark jackets emblazoned with FBI, State Police, and the local county crest surrounded the building, glimpses of an arm, a head, or a leg just visible through the bushes and around the trees that concealed them. Mulder shook his head again at the Kevlar vest Skinner was holding out. "She's not going to shoot me. She's against violence." "And you are *not* going in there without a vest! End of discussion. And I won't have to hold you at gunpoint, you ass, I'll just handcuff you and throw you in jail." Skinner's patience was at an end. He held the vest out a moment longer, then slammed it into the trunk. "Fine! Get in the damn car!" Skinner looked up, searching for a familiar face. "Gilroy! Take this idiot back to the hospital and ..." "Walter." Scully's voice was soft, and her touch on his arm gentle. He stopped speaking, took a deep breath and looked down into her concerned eyes. "Did you ask Mulder *why* he doesn't want to wear the vest?" "Scully ..." "Shut up, Mulder." She continued to look up into the AD's face. "You two are a lot alike, you know?" Skinner was shaking his head. "It doesn't matter why he doesn't want to wear it. It's policy, and it's common sense." Skinner tore his eyes away from Scully to glare at Mulder. "And he's *not* going in there without it!" Mulder snorted in disgust and turned his back on Skinner. "Forget it, Scully. He's not being reasonable." "And neither are you, Mulder!" Scully snapped. "Now ..." She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, then looked up, watching a jet move by overhead as she counted to ten. "Tell Walter why you won't wear the vest." "No." "Mul - der-r-r ..." "No." "Jesus!" Scully looked down, then muttered to herself. "My nephews are easier to deal with." She looked up at Skinner. "He doesn't want to wear the vest because he's injured, not at his strongest, and it's heavy." "Scul - lee!" "What? Heavy?" Skinner was mentally kicking himself. He should have realized. It was just that, with Mulder, it was so easy to forget when the man was hurting, because he himself ignored it so well. And besides, he hadn't protested wearing the vest back at the deputy's house. Skinner said as much. Mulder remained silent. "I suspect," Scully said, with a wry look at her disgruntled partner and her confused boss, that my being in the house had something to do with what Mulder was willing to go through." Skinner thought about it. It made sense. The man would have walked barefoot on tacks to get into that house and to find Scully. And he had been barely able to stand, relying on Skinner to support him as they'd moved through the house to the beat of the metronome. There was no such motivation here, and Mulder wasn't going to allow anyone to support him if he didn't absolutely have to. Stubborn bastard. "Shit, Mulder, I'm sorry." Skinner was staring at the ground. "She's not violent," Mulder said. "She won't hurt me. I know it." "I'm sure you think you do," Skinner said, his voice low and understanding. "But I can't take that risk." He nodded, dismissing Gilroy, then opened the car door again. "Sit, Mulder. Wait here. I'll go in and we'll bring her out." "She'll talk better on her own territory." His eyes were downcast, but he let Scully ease him into the car. "Then we'll secure the place and *then* you can come in." He checked the clasps on his own vest, then straightened. "Agent Scully," he said, and there was no mistaking that it was the Assistant Director speaking and not their friend, "you will remain here with Agent Mulder, is that clear?" "Yes, Sir," she answered, the words tumbling out of her mouth almost against her volition. How the hell did Skinner manage to evoke that Pavlovian response? "Do I need to assign Agent Gilroy to wait with you?" "No, Sir." She looked at Mulder, slumped in the seat. "We'll be fine." She raised her eyes to meet the AD's. "And we'll stay here." "Fine. And you'll understand that the agents who will remain with you are here for your protection, not restraint?" When she nodded, Skinner turned and headed for the house. It was over quickly, and within minutes a man emerged from the small house, carrying Hannah. Gilroy came out next, and approached the car. "The AD says you can come in now." The agent was slightly breathless, and a sheen of sweat covered his forehead. "What happened?" Mulder asked. "Nothing, really. You were right, Mulder. She was harmless. But after Skinner told her who we were, she opened a desk drawer and one of the deputies panicked. It got tense for a few minutes, but I think she was more afraid than we were." "She would be." Mulder was moving slowly up the stairs to the front door of the house. "She's confused. Doesn't know what set of rules she wants to play by." He entered the door, looked to his right to see Skinner seated at a table, their suspect sitting beside him as they chatted companionably. "What was in the desk, anyway?" he asked. "Yearbooks. Sorta like a paperback version of school yearbooks. One for every year the day care has been open. Some of the pictures were circled." "Victims," Mulder said shortly, then he moved across the room and joined Skinner and the woman at the table. "Hello, Anna," he began, "or do you want to be called Renee?" "It's not his fault!" The woman looked up and Mulder could see the tear tracks on her cheeks. "You've got to understand -- it's not his fault." "He was a victim, right, Anna?" The woman nodded. "Just like you." "No!" Her voice was strong and adamant. "Not me. I'm not a victim!" Mulder cocked his head a moment, studying the woman. "George was a victim," he began again, waiting for her nod. "A victim like Renee?" Another nod, and Mulder cast a quick glance at Skinner. The woman was more damaged than he'd thought. "And you want to help the victims, right?" "I can help them! I know I can!" The woman drew a deep, shuddery breath. "All my life, I knew that was what I would do. I would help the victims understand it wasn't their fault. I would make them see they did nothing wrong. For years I waited, holding on so that one day I could get away." "And you did? You got away?" Mulder's eyes were furrowed, a crease between his brows as he listened. She nodded. "I went to school. I studied. I learned it wasn't my fault. I decided I would make sure the others learned it wasn't their fault either." "Why didn't you just turn the bastard in?" Scully had joined them, standing slightly to the side and behind Skinner. "I don't understand why you didn't just turn him in." "Turn him in?" The young psychologist lifted horrified eyes to stare at Scully. "Turn him in?" She shook her head vigorously. "Oh, no. I couldn't turn him in." "Why not?" Skinner's voice was mildly curious, his tone soft and even. "Why not?" The woman turned to look at Skinner, then back at Mulder. "Why not?" she repeated. "I couldn't turn him in. Not my own father." ***************************************** October 22, 1998 2:00 p.m. "Let me talk to her alone for a while." Mulder looked back at the table from the kitchen where he stood with Skinner and Scully. Anna was sitting quietly, sipping a cup of tea as she waited for them to return. "We're not getting anywhere this way." Skinner was silent a moment, then nodded. "You see if she'll tell you where Nathan is while Scully and I check on whether or not the man at the day care really was her father." "He was." Mulder had obviously put that detail aside as settled. "But you'll have to do the legwork on it anyway; now's as good a time as any." He seemed tense, preoccupied somehow, and Scully and Skinner had both noticed. They exchanged a glance and the the AD excused himself, walking rapidly out the front to start the inquiries into Renee Lafley and Anna Sterben. "Mulder," Scully asked, laying a hand on his arm, "are you OK with this?" He shook his head. "Not really. You know, I really started out as a bleeding heart liberal, trying to save the world. But working with people who had no conscience, had no soul, I rapidly switched my tune. There are some people, like Anna out there," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "who are confused, terribly damaged, but salvageable. It'll be hard, and take a lot of work with someone very good, but I think she can be saved. But ..." Mulder shuddered slightly as he spoke, "someone like Nathan is beyond repair. Something broke in him at an early age, or maybe it was never even there, and the only way the rest of the world will ever be safe from him is if he is locked away forever." He placed his hand over Scully's and drew a deep breath. "I think I was very close to that breaking point, back in my teens. I don't know what happened, what made me move in the direction I did, but it could have gone either way for me. For a long time, I just didn't care what happened to anyone." "I know what happened," Scully said softly. "What happened is you have the most generous heart of anyone I have ever known, and there was no way you were going to ever be or do things that would cause others the kind of pain you experienced." She moved into his arms, embracing him. "The kind of pain you still carry." He tipped his head down and brushed the top of her head with his lips. "Not so much anymore, Agent Scully. I've got someone to lean on now. Someone who helps me keep my perspective." His chin rested on her head, and her hands stroked his back. "Just you remember that, Mister," she said lightly. "And don't do anything foolish." "I'm only foolish for you, Scully," he whispered, leaning down to capture her with a kiss. When she could breathe again, she answered. "That's what I'm afraid of, Mulder." *********************************** October 22, 1998 3:10 p.m. "All right. Thank you." Skinner closed the phone as he watched Mulder walk through the living room and out the door. He moved toward the agent that now sat with Anna and nodded a question. "He just talked with her for a long time, then got up and said he needed some air." The agent was on his feet, suddenly worried he'd done something wrong. There was a standing order that Agent Mulder was not to be left unaccompanied, but there were agents outside, and he had radioed to tell them the man was coming out. "Did he seem OK?" Skinner was watching as Mulder opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat, settling back as if to rest. One of the agents standing guard in the drive walked over and spoke to him, and Mulder smiled, said something, then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The agent stood there a moment, then walked the few yards back to the driveway. "I suppose." The man Skinner was talking to was from the local office, and hadn't worked with Mulder before. "I don't really know him, you know. He seemed really tired, but satisfied, if that makes any sense." "Like he'd gotten what he wanted, and was ready to rest?" Skinner's senses were on alert. Mulder never wanted to rest when he'd gotten an answer he'd been seeking. He glanced around for Scully, but she wasn't back from the late lunch run yet. He looked back out the window, opening his phone to call her, even as he began moving toward the door to go and talk to Mulder himself. But it was too late. He watched in horror as Mulder calmly closed the door, slid across the seat, and drove away, leaving a half dozen of America's finest staring with their jaws dropped open. Skinner broke into a trot, hit the grass outside with a leap from the porch and was bellowing, "Follow him! Follow him!" even as a voice came through the forgotten phone in his hand. "Walter! Walter!" The desperation in Scully's voice was clear, even before he lifted the phone to his ear. Cars were peeling out of the driveway and away from the curb, tires squealing, agents cursing. One sedan plowed into the mailbox in its haste to get onto the street, and Skinner saw the passenger cuff the driver's head, before the vehicle found its way to the street and took off after the others. "Get back, Scully," he growled into the phone. "Forget lunch, forget food, forget it all." He paused a moment, gathering the frayed threads of his temper. "What the hell happened back there, Walter?" Scully's voice was a mix of frustration and fear and he answered in kind. "Your idiot partner just ditched us." End part 09/11 Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 10/11 October 22, 1998 3:30 p.m. No sign of pursuit. He'd lost them. Mulder smiled grimly as he made a left onto the road that led to the lake. It wasn't really a triumph because both Scully and Skinner were going to have his ass -- if he lived through this. But there was no way he was going to risk Scully around Nathan -- not now. Skinner was right. He'd marked her. And while he had been able to talk to Anna Sterben, even reason with her, Nathan was another thing entirely. He was quick, and clever, and whatever injuries he'd suffered in the fight and the fall from the cliff seemed to be bothering him very little. He was mobile, and had a safe place to retreat to, and he was completely without morals or a conscience. There would be no reasoning with this man. And even if they outnumbered him, outflanked him, outthought him, the Nibbler was perfectly capable of plucking Scully from their midst and killing her, with no thought that he would die in the process. In the mind of George Nathan, he had already been dead for a long, long time. No, Mulder shook his head again, it was too dangerous for Scully to be in the same state with this man, let alone involved in a manhunt. He could only hope that Anna would keep her word and give Skinner the message at the right time. He glanced at his watch. About fifteen more minutes to the lake house Nathan was staying at. He drove with one hand, the other checked the gun that lay on the seat next to him. After the mad dash out of the quiet residential neighborhood, he'd slipped into a car wash, and waited patiently while the agents pursuing him cruised past. He'd used the wait time to his advantage, checking the car for anything he could use in the upcoming confrontation. He was fortunate that whoever's vehicle this was, it was an agent who believed in being prepared. There'd been a handgun and spare ammo in the trunk, as well as a rifle and a shotgun. He might be injured, but he wasn't going in unarmed. ************************************ October 22, 1998 3:30 p.m. Skinner stood eerily still, his face suffused with rage. He closed the phone with studied deliberation and laid it on the table with exaggerated care. Around her, Scully could see the other agents moving backwards, some unconscious self-preservation warning kicking in, and she forced herself not to follow. Even these people, people who had never worked with the AD before, even they could see an explosion was imminent. Skinner clenched his fists, then turned slowly till his back was facing the room. The muscles in his arms corded, drawing the linen of his shirt taut across his biceps, and in the silence of the room, Scully heard the tiny 'rip' that signaled a seam's surrender. Her only thought was the seam had taken the right path; surrender was the only option in the face of the elemental storm that was about to be unleashed. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and goosebumps erupted on her arms. She was suddenly aware of a low sound, something deep and primal and seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere all at the same time. It took her a minute to track, and when she did, she realized Skinner was growling. Not the normal gruff tone he used to hide his emotions, but an animalistic sound from deep in his throat that resonated through the room. One of the younger agents swallowed audibly, then bolted out the front door. Scully risked a glance at the others. Each person in the room seemed frozen, immobilized by the spectacle of the normally taciturn Assistant Director as he struggled for control. Skinner drew a deep breath, his shoulders rising upward as he pulled air in, his chest expanding, growing ever larger, until Scully began to fear for the shirt's survival. More stitches gave and she caught a glimpse of T-shirt visible through the tear on the left side. But her observation of the shirt's demise was interrupted by a roar of rage, a deep, wordless howl of anger that poured out of the AD's throat like a cataract off the edge of a cliff. One arm lifted and a huge fist slammed into the plaster wall and Scully was sure she heard bones breaking. She launched herself at the other arm that was rising, wrapping her arms around his bicep and feeling her feet come off the floor. "Walter! No!" she screamed into the ear that was now at the level of her lips. Looking back over her shoulder, she cried, "Help me!" "No!" Skinner bellowed, and the agents who had finally broken the spell of immobility froze again. The massive arm went down, and Scully felt solid ground beneath her feet once more. "Get them out of here, Scully," Skinner said in a barely audible voice. "Yes, Sir." She turned and spoke to the ranking official, who in turn spoke to his people. In short order, the room was clear. "All right," she said, her equilibrium restored by the knowledge that Skinner hadn't gone completely over the edge, "can you get it out of the wall yourself?" Skinner grunted and pulled, and his left hand emerged in a bloody ball from the wall. "Is it broken?" she asked, knowing there was no point in scolding. "I think so." Skinner's voice was back to normal, the rage replaced with sheepishness and a tinge of pain. "Hmmphf," she snorted. "I don't suppose you'll go to the hospital and let someone trained to deal with these things look at it?" A single shake of the head was her answer. "No, I knew that was too much to hope for." She sighed, then took his arm and tugged, leading him to a chair. "Sit. I'll go get my bag. Don't destroy anything else while I'm gone." Skinner nodded, then rested his head in the hand that was uninjured. When she returned, she quickly cleaned the wounds, then taped the hand. Once finished she sat back and looked at her work critically. "When we find him, you'll have to go to the hospital, too, and get this X-rayed and set properly." "I know." Skinner wiggled his fingers experimentally and winced. "Stupid, stupid, stupid." "Well, you've got that much right." Scully closed the bag with a 'snick' of the latch, then rose. "What the hell brought that on?" "They lost him. Three fucking cars full of highly trained agents, and they fucking *lost* him!" Skinner's face was coloring again, and Scully reached out to touch his arm. "No more walls," she warned. "And what did you expect? This is Fox Mulder we're talking about. You thought he'd just let them tag along?" She shook her head. "He's the one that needs to be punched out." Skinner grunted. "Don't think I haven't considered it. What the hell does he think he's doing?" Scully sighed again. "What he always does. Trying to protect the people he loves." She smiled fondly, even as she spoke with irritation. "The idiot." ******************************************** October 22, 1998 4:10 p.m. Mulder drove past for the third time in fifteen minutes. If he made too many more sweeps, he would surely catch Nathan's attention. He studied the small lake house as carefully as he could while driving slowly past, then continued on for half a mile and pulled the car over. He climbed cautiously out of the vehicle, then began to set himself up for the trek back to the house. The unknown agent's extra Sig went into his belt, beneath the jacket he wore. The speedloader and extra ammo filled the jacket's left pocket. He studied the rifle and shotgun for a moment, before choosing the shotgun. He filled the other pocket with shells, then cracked the gun open and loaded it. He closed it with a theatrical, one-handed shake, smiling wryly at his own warped sense of humor. Here he was, far from recovered from his last run-in with this man, and yet, he was amusing himself with bad takeoffs on every Stallone and Schwarznegger film ever made. Life was, indeed, strange. The late autumn afternoon was darkening. Clouds obscured the sun and a cool breeze blew up off the water. The area was deserted. The last of the summer people were long gone, and the staid year-rounders were at work and about their business, or tucked up safe in their snug homes, content without the knowledge that a killer lurked in their midst. Mulder stared up at the road back to the house. He smiled again, nothing wry or amusing this time, his teeth bared in a feral display that would have made even the fiercest animal reconsider its attack plans. He checked the gun at his waist once more, hefted the shotgun into a position he could carry and shoot from, and readied himself to confront his quarry. A sound echoed softly in the stillness and he turned to stare out over the uneasy water. Bits of sunlight, escaping through the gray clouds, struck the lake and sparkles skittered across its surface. Tiny ripples moved with ease and grace, erupting in the wake of fish and flowing outward in never-ending circles till they reached the shores. A speck of darkness in the sky caught his eye and he watched as a winged killer dove at a ripple, disappeared beneath the water and then emerged, its prey held tight in its beak. The natural order of things. Survival of the fittest. Predator or prey. Kill or be killed. Mulder pulled back on the shotgun's pump, heard the satisfying 'click' that signaled a round had entered the chamber, and turned back to the road. It was time to go find Nathan. **************************************** October 22, 1998 4:30 p.m. "Excuse me?" Anna Sterben's voice was soft and hesitant and she had to speak again to attract attention. "Agent Parks?" The woman who was currently on watch turned and stared down at the psychologist. Her face was a mask but her eyes betrayed her disgust with the young woman's actions. "Yes?" she replied in a correctly civil tone. "I need to speak with the Assistant Director, please." Anna kept her eyes down and avoided eye contact. In the hour since Agent Mulder had made good his 'escape,' she'd been subjected to many looks from most of the law enforcement officials who had taken over her house, and none of them had been the least bit understanding. But the worst of the lot were the Bureau people. Which, she knew, only stood to reason, since Mulder was one of theirs, and they were all concerned for his welfare. Now she waited quietly for Agent Parks to bring the Assistant Director so that she could pass on Mulder's message. "The Assistant Director is busy, Dr. Sterben," Parks stated in the perfect politically correct voice. "But I need to see him." Anna risked a look upward, then dropped her head again at the anger and disgust that blazed from the other woman's eyes. "It's important," she added quietly. Parks snorted lightly and turned her back on the woman who had concealed a killer. She gazed out at the street where Skinner paced back and forth, a phone plastered to his ear. "I'm sure you think so, Doctor, but the Assistant Director has more important things to do than soothe your conscience." She took a step away from the table, physically distancing herself from the woman seated there, and pointedly turned up the volume on her radio, her attention focused on the search activities that were being orchestrated from Anna Sterben's yard. "Please ..." Anna said, in a low, tense voice. "This is my chance to make amends. Please ..." Her pleas went unacknowledged. **************************************** October 22, 1998 4:30 p.m. Mulder looked through the window again and noted that Nathan had not moved from his seat before the TV. Pictures flickered across the screen and the sound poured out as an indistinguishable drone, barely audible through the window. As he watched, Nathan tossed a beer can at the trash can, missed, gave a thoughtless shrug, and hooked another can from the half-decimated six-pack at his feet. Mulder crouched in the bushes outside the small frame house and checked his watch. If Dr. Sterben could be trusted, she should be talking to Skinner -- alone -- right now, and he would be organizing backup. Knowing Skinner, he would be in a car and on his way immediately. The man was probably ready to kill him as it was. That alone should fuel his desire to reach the lake house quickly. And Scully. Scully would be furious. First that he had ditched her -- again. And secondly, that he had successfully enlisted Skinner into a ditch of his own. She was going to kill them both. But Scully tended to have an insufficient sense of self-preservation in his opinion, especially when it came to anything that threatened him. It was one of the things they fought about. She insisted it was her responsibility, her obligation, her *job,* to always be there for him. And she berated herself heartlessly if anything happened to him. As his partner, she took every bump and bruise he acquired as a personal affront to her ability to protect him. And sometimes it made her blind to the need to protect herself. Mulder shook his head. Of course, logical Scully always argued that he did the same thing ... But, damn it! It wasn't the same! This wasn't some run-of-the-mill pervert or killer they were after. This was a specific man, with a specific grudge, against a specific agent. And Nathan's desire to hurt Mulder meant he was going to go after Scully again, if he had the chance. At this point, unless Nathan was so far detached from reality, and Mulder didn't think he was, the man would have to know he wasn't going to survive this last confrontation. Sure knowledge of one's death tended to make one do things without thinking. Take chances they normally wouldn't take. Attack and kill beautiful, smart, and sexy redheads with no regard to the fact they were signing their own death warrant. Mulder shuddered. It was a vision too horrible to contemplate. He'd been alone his whole life. Alone and lonely and not even really aware of the lack in his life. Focused. He'd stayed focused. Focused on school Focused on the job. Focused on the hunt. It had kept him afloat, been his lifeline, but it hadn't kept him sane. He'd been sliding more and more into madness when he worked in VCS. It had been easier and easier to crawl into a killer's skull, and harder and harder to crawl out. Then that weird case with Arthur Dales had come along, and he'd found his way to Dr. Werber. Between the two, it had changed the focus of his life. Changed his focus. But nothing had gotten between him and his obsessions. Not even Diana. Nothing, that is, until a certain young doctor knocked on his basement door all those years ago. She'd forced him to explain himself. Made him find the reason in the obscurities he pursued. Insisted he back up belief with fact, and in doing so, had restored his credibility and his reputation in an organization that had been one step away from removing him permanently. And when the Bureau pulled him out of his pet projects, and insisted he use his profiling skills, she kept him from sliding into the sewers so far that he drowned in the putrid reek of a killer's soulless mind. She gave him balance. She kept him sane. She made him whole. She was *not* going to be the Nibbler's venue for retribution against the man that locked him away all those years ago. Mulder rose slightly from his crouch and peered through the window, then drew himself up completely. The TV droned on happily, but the chair was empty. "Fuck!" he breathed, and he whirled around, right into the barrel of a .38. "Language, language," the Nibbler laughed, and then the world went black. ***************************************** October 22, 1998 4:40 p.m "If the AD wants to talk to you, he'll be the one to ask." Parks turned and looked down at the woman, her eyes as cold as if she were dissecting a bug. "Please, you don't understand," Anna said. "It isn't about me." "No, it's not!" Parks snapped. "It's about all those children your father molested, and that monster out there that bites people to death. It's about good men like Gresham, who'll never be an agent again, and Deputy Holsteen who died while you did who knows what with that bastard." She drew a breath angrily. "And now, *now,* it's about Agent Mulder, who's gone off to find that animal alone." She bent down close, her face almost touching the other woman's. "Went alone because of something you did. Something you said. Maybe even something you *are.*" She drew back and Anna thought she was going to spit on her. "You think about that while you sit here. And you *wait* for the AD to come to you!" ***************************************** October 22, 1998 4:45 p.m. Mulder woke. One eye was swollen shut, and he could feel dried blood on the side of his face and pooled in his ear. His left shoulder ached, the pain spreading down from the shoulder socket through the bicep and down his forearm. It was pulled back at an awkward angle and he wondered if it was dislocated. He drew a breath, shuddering as his chest moved and the rib cage rose. His whole abdomen was beyond consideration. He'd been stripped to his shorts and was tied to a chair. The rope securing him cut into his skin deeply at ankles, knees, elbows, and across his chest. He had some movement of his hands, the rope being tightest around his chest and elbows. His hands were under one loop of cord, and by twisting his body and pulling hard, and through the bloody sacrifice of a layer of skin, he was able to free them and even bring them together in his lap. But he couldn't reach any of the knots and he had nothing with which to cut the rope. He pulled at the bonds, testing them, and was not surprised when the rope didn't move. Blood dotted his body, his arms, chest, right thigh. Through the blood on his leg, he could see the human teeth marks and his stomach heaved. He scanned the room carefully. It was a bedroom. The only furniture was a bed and chest of drawers and the straight-backed kitchen chair he was tied to. A single window looked out over the wooded yard, and he could see the path that led to the dock. The bird he had watched earlier, or another just like it, drifted across the lake in lazy circles, riding the thermals as it watched the water. He shifted again, feeling the chair rock, and he caught his breath as it threatened to tip over. A quick glance at the closed door showed he was still alone, and he breathed in relief. There was no telling where Nathan was, or what he was doing. Mulder shifted again, and the chair inched forward, an almost imperceptible movement that brought him fractions closer to the chest and caused an explosion of pain across his belly. He bit down hard, teeth grinding against each other, and moved again, making slow but steady progress toward the chest of drawers, and the wonders that could be concealed therein. **************************************** October 22, 1998 5:00 p.m. "I have to go to the bathroom." Agent Parks frowned, but nodded, and then rose, indicating Anna could stand as well. She placed one hand on the doctor's arm and led her through the living room and toward the hall where the bathroom was. As they passed in front of the door, Anna gave a mighty yank, ripped her arm free, and bounded outside. She headed straight for Skinner, screaming, "Please! I need to talk to you!" One of the deputies in the yard tackled her, and she went down heavily. The air was knocked from her lungs and she lay there, struggling to breathe. The man that had taken her down was big, at least eight inches taller than her and twice her weight, and he made no move to rise. She shoved at him ineffectually, and he only grabbed her wrists and pinned her more securely. The commotion had attracted Skinner's attention, and he was striding across the yard now, Scully following close behind. "Please," she wheezed, still gasping for air. "Please!" She looked up at the big man who nodded at the deputy. There was a movement and the mass of brown uniform that had covered her rose and was gone. "I need to speak with you." Agent Parks was there now, and looking daggers at her, but Anna cast her from her thoughts. All that mattered was getting this man to listen to her. Away from the redhead. That was what Agent Mulder had said. Talk to Skinner away from Scully. "I'm sorry, Sir," Thelma Parks was saying. "She said she had to go to the bathroom and she bolted when we passed the door." The woman dropped her head. "I should have been more alert." Anna looked up from where she lay, spread-eagled in the grass, and tried again. "Mr. Skinner. I need to talk to you!" He looked at Parks who shrugged. "She's been going on like this for about half an hour. Every five minutes." "And you didn't call me?" Skinner's voice was granite, cold and hard and rough. Parks swallowed hard and for the first time, began to wonder if she'd made a serious error in judgment. "No, Sir," she replied. "You were occupied with the search for Agent Mulder and the killer. She," Parks glared at Sterben, "wouldn't tell me what it was about." "It's important," Anna spoke, aware she was finally being listened to. "I need to speak to you. Alone." "I'll talk to you later, Agent Parks." Skinner's eyes were stone as he dismissed the woman and watched her walk away. "All right," he said to Anna, "talk." Anna cast a look at Scully. "I can't. I'm supposed to talk to you alone. He said." "Who said?" Scully was suddenly even more alert. "Mulder?" Anna nodded miserably. Not only had she failed at relaying the man's message, when she'd finally gotten to Skinner, Scully was there, too. "I was supposed to speak to you," she nodded at Skinner, "alone. At four thirty." Skinner looked at his watch. "Fuck!" Scully reached out and gripped the woman's arms, shaking her. "What did he say?" Skinner moved and she skewered him with a look. "Don't even think of it," she warned as she shook Anna again. "Where is he?" Anna looked at Skinner who shrugged. "Dr. Sterben, I'm not going to cross this woman now, and I suggest you don't either. What did Agent Mulder tell you?" "He went out to my lake house to talk to George, and he would like you to please come out, with 'backup,' he said." "When?" "As soon as you got my message." Scully released the woman and started for a car. This time it was Skinner who followed, phone to ear even as he bellowed instructions to the agents and deputies in the yard. He yanked open the passenger door and climbed in, one leg still on the ground as Scully pulled away. One hand gripped the steering wheel as she drew her weapon and checked the chamber. "I'm going to kill him myself." End part 10/11 Profiles in Caring: The Nibbler Case II 11/11 October 22, 1998 5:20 p.m. It was awkward. He could stand, in a sort of half-crouch, with the chair tied to his back, but walking was out of the question. Every move he made, every noise he heard, and his heart raced. Shifting the chair had taken forever, but he was here, standing before the dresser now, and he'd managed to inch the top drawer open. With his hands severely restricted, he could barely reach into the drawer and rummage. It was mostly junk, old batteries, a plastic flashlight, a hairbrush, socks and underwear. Nothing he could use to cut the ropes that held him. Nothing he could use as a weapon. The drawer gave a mighty squeak as he closed it, echoing in the stillness of the room, and magnifying itself to a roar in his ears. He froze, still bent over, and huddled there, waiting for Nathan to charge through the door. But the silence continued. He edged the second drawer open. This was more hopeful. He found a hammer and screwdriver here, and a plastic box of picture hanging nails. He rifled through the hardware, still searching, praying for a knife or razor. His prayers went unanswered, but he did find a lighter. It was silver, with a fraternity crest embossed on the front, and his hands shook as he lifted it. He passed it to his right hand, almost dropping it in the process, then managed to flip the top open and flick the striker. Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. He could feel sweat bead on his brow as he tried for the third time. The lighter caught, sputtered, and went out. He swore softly, under his breath, said yet another prayer, and tried once more. Yellow flame flickered up, caught, and held. He sighed in relief, then winced as he thought of what he would have to do. He brought the fire up to the rope, feeling the warmth against his chest. Soon the warmth turned to hot, and then to burning, as the rope caught and began to flame. His skin scorched, and he could smell hair burning, and then charred flesh, but the rope was loosening, falling away, and at last, his arms and torso were free. He beat frantically at his chest, bile rising up in his mouth at the odor, then forced himself to bend and work on the ropes at his knees and ankles. He was able to direct the flame more cautiously with his hands free, but his hands themselves were badly burned, and his coordination left a lot to be desired. The last rope fell away and he rose unsteadily, stumbling to the bed and collapsing. He could hear the TV through the closed door and could only assume Nathan was still involved in whatever he was watching. Though that thought was what had gotten him caught in the first place. He looked around for a way out. The door was out, and the window was nailed shut. He could use the chair to break the window, but contrary to popular belief, he really wasn't completely foolish, and he knew he would never be able to outrun or outfight the man in front of the television. Once he broke the window, Nathan would certainly come, and it would be the end. A wave of pain crashed over him and he swallowed the cry that tried to escape. Where the hell was Skinner? Had Anna Sterben forgotten her promise, or simply decided not to honor it? There was the sound of someone moving in the front room, audible even over the TV, and Mulder froze. Nathan was coming. He would have to try to run. He went back to the bureau, grabbed the hammer and screwdriver, and then grabbed the chair. Behind him, the door creaked as it began to open. Outside, he heard cars squealing to a stop, and he took hope for the first time in what seemed a very long time. It took all his energy to lift the chair and heave it into the window. Glass shattered and wood splintered, and behind him he heard a roar of rage. There was no time to look at Nathan, no time for care with the glass shards. He threw himself through the window, feeling something slice his left arm, and then he was rolling, rolling, rolling. The world grayed for a moment and he thought he would pass out, but then it was back in focus, and he scrambled to his feet, turning to get his bearings. Nathan was between him and the road, and behind him he could see Skinner and Scully -- Scully!! -- pouring out of a car with other agents and deputies following suit. Nothing mattered but that Nathan *not* see Scully. He turned toward the lake and began to run, an abbreviated hop-skip movement that jarred his belly, sent ripples of pain up his legs and arms, and caused a major explosion in his head. The bottoms of his bare feet were quickly bruised and bloody as he moved through glass and then onto the sticks and stones that littered the path to the dock. He ignored it all, with only one thought on his mind. He had to keep Nathan focused on him, and away from Scully. Shots rang out and he threw himself to the ground, rolling painfully down the hill toward the lake. Someone had started shooting at Nathan! He thought he heard Skinner screaming for the shooting to stop, and mentally gave the man a thank you. Though death by friendly fire might be preferable to whatever Nathan would find to do to him. He forced himself up again, and continued his steady progress toward the dock. If he could get Nathan out over the water, perhaps he could take him over the edge and hold him there until it was too late for them both. It was all he could think of. The only way to keep the man from coming back for Scully sometime in the future. The only way to make sure that Scully lived. The hammer dropped from his hand, forgotten, and he forced himself to keep moving. Nathan was slowed because he didn't know, as Mulder did, that the agents wouldn't start firing again. It was buying him precious time to make it to the dock. He shuffled a few more yards, then stumbled as his foot caught on the wood of the dock. He rolled forward, then rose again and shambled out, out to the end of the dock. Out to the end of his life. Overhead, the hawk screamed, and Mulder looked up again, watching as it folded its wings and dove at the water. "Here, Nathan," he rasped hoarsely, "here I am." The man was at the edge of the dock now, the hammer Mulder had dropped gripped in one hand. It gave Mulder a very bad feeling. "Come and get me." Scully was scrambling down the path to the dock, her weapon raised. He saw her line up on Nathan, then trip on an exposed root, and fall. Skinner scooped her up as he passed, setting her on her feet, then raced forward. Too late. They were too late. "Scully!" The name was wrenched from his lips, torn from his heart, ripped from his soul. Nathan was on him, the hammer coming down once, twice, a third time! There was screaming in his ears, the sound of someone dying, and it took him a moment to realize it was him. The arm he'd lifted to protect himself, the already damaged left arm, now lay useless beside him, broken in at least two places. The hammer came down again, and he felt a rib break, and the air raced out of his lungs with a sharp pain. "Closer, you bastard," he whispered, gathering what remained of his strength. "Closer ..." If he had to be a fish, he'd be damned if Nathan was going to soar free as the hawk. The hammer went up, and the hawk screamed again, this time right in his ear. There was a loud crack, and Nathan fell onto him, blood pouring from a hole in his stomach. A shadow loomed over them both, the hawk come to get them, and then it resolved itself into Skinner. The AD was tugging at Nathan, but Mulder had his arms wrapped around the man, holding him tight. Skinner didn't understand how dangerous Nathan was, how hard it was to kill a man like this. And killing him was the only way to be sure Scully was safe. He pulled and rolled, and went off the edge of the dock, taking the Nibbler with him to rest in the cool, still water. Down, down, down. To sleep with the fishes. *************************************** October 22, 1998 5:35 p.m. "Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Skinner was shedding clothes as fast as he could; suit coat, then shirt and tie. Shoes flew off his feet. He paused a moment to reach out and snag Scully as she made to fly off the end of the dock. "NO!" He held her a moment then unbuckled his holster and dropped it and the gun at her feet. "You. Wait. Here." He looked up to see Gilroy on the dock now, almost to them. "Gil -- she stays out of the water, got it?" Scully's weapon was up now, trained on Skinner, and he stared her down. "What are you going to do, Dana? Shoot me? Or let me fish him out?" Her arm trembled, but she lowered the weapon, dropping her head. "Get him, Walter. Get him." Skinner nodded, then dove, a long, shallow dive that took him out, away from the dock, but saved him from the possibility of hidden dangers in the water. The water was cold, a shock to his system, and it knocked the air from his lungs. He surfaced and gulped, shivering in the wind, then turned and swam back to the dock. A look up to get his bearings, then he went down. The first body he found was Nathan's, hanging suspended in the water by one of the pilings, the pants caught on a protruding nail. He shoved the body aside and went deeper, peering through the murky waters until his lungs were ready to burst. He rose to the surface, drew three deep breaths, and went down again. Small fish had already gathered by the corpse, and he ignored them as he went down, searching for the body that still lived. He had to live. Skinner was convinced that, as Mulder could not live without Scully, she would not survive long if his foolhardiness cost him his life this time. He was at the bottom, the water dark with silt billowing around him. He plunged his hands down blindly, groping in the muck and the mud, silently beseeching the heavens to help him find this man. His lungs were straining, aching with the need for air, but he forced himself to inch forward, searching, searching ... It was too much. The need for oxygen overcame him and he blew out without thinking. He immediately righted himself, pushed off from the bottom, and shot upward, gasping when he broke the surface. Scully was crouched on the edge of the dock, hanging over it with one hand on the wood, the other in the water. Gilroy had both hands around her waist, physically anchoring her to the dock, and even from the water, he could see the tears streaming down her cheeks. "Walter ..." He was still gasping, sucking in air for his starved lungs, but he nodded wordlessly. Another ten seconds to breathe, and then he went down again. Some unknown instinct drew him to where she was, where her fingers reached out, pale and white in the darkness of the water, and he dove, following her path, down, and down, and down. And when he reached the mud, when the silt began to billow, he reached out roughly, angrily, screaming in his mind, 'Where the fuck are you, Mulder?' As if in answer to his plea, he touched a leg. The leg led first to a foot, then, when he reversed his path, up to a waist, a chest, and finally a face. Mulder! He wrapped his arms around the unmoving man, then pushed off for the surface. It was harder going up with Mulder's dead weight -- no! not dead! -- but he pushed on, rising, rising, rising, until, at last, he could see the surface, and sun, and then he was breathing again, and strong arms were pulling Mulder from his grasp, then he, himself, was being hauled out of the water. A blanket appeared from somewhere, and wrapped itself around him. He was oblivious. All his attention was focused on the man and the woman on the dock before him. Mulder lay on his back. The left arm was broken -- the bone protruded through a gash in the forearm. There was another gash up higher on the arm, an almost clean slice that cut deeply into the muscle. Blood was already beginning to cover it. Burns were visible on his ankles and legs, and around both elbows. There was a larger burn on his abdomen, and he grimaced as he looked at it. Scully knelt by Mulder's side and leaned her head over, resting one ear above the man's heart. "Nothing," she said. Two fingers shot out and felt along his neck, searching out a beat. "No pulse." Skinner moved and knelt by Mulder's head, looking at her for guidance. A quick nod, and he lowered his head, covering Mulder's mouth with his own, and breathed. Two times he blew in, watching the man's chest rise as the life-giving oxygen was forced downward. After the second breath, he sat up, and Scully placed both hands over Mulder's heart, and pressed. "Live, Mulder!" He watched as Scully's hands came up and she rose on her haunches, then pressed again. "Live, damn you!" Skinner stared, looking for any sign that Mulder's heart was beating, that he was breathing on his own, but there was nothing. Again, Scully worked. The rise, the shift, the pressure, the curse. "Live, you son of a bitch!" Nothing. Tears streamed from her cheeks, landing on Mulder's bare chest and rolling off to mingle with the lake water on the dock. Scully lifted her hands again. "Live, live, live!" Shift, rise, lift, press. "God Damn You! Live!" Her head dropped to his chest, then she lifted it, shaking her head as she looked at him. He bent again and breathed deep, then blew hard into the lungs of the man on the dock. 'Breath of life, Mulder.' When he pulled back, Scully's hands were over Mulder's heart again, and she was starting the next set of compressions. "One!" 'Don't die on her, Mulder.' "Two!" 'She won't make it without you, you bastard!' "Three!" 'She depends on you to keep her strong.' "Four!" 'Come on, you lazy son of a bitch! Breathe!' "Five!" He watched as Scully looked, then listened. Another shake of the head. He bent and breathed again, amazed at how quickly he was becoming exhausted. Mulder's chest rose, and then fell, and then remained still. Scully's hands went back into position. He looked around. Gilroy held back a phalanx of men and women, keeping them on the shore. The dock was empty but for the three of them. The sun was setting now, autumn's early nights, and a cool wind chilled him through the blanket that was still over his shoulders. Something dark shot past his eyes, a bird, skimming the water, low and close. "Live, Mulder!" Scully was screaming now, throwing her weight down onto Mulder's already damaged chest. "Live!" "Live!" "Live!" "Live!" Bend, breathe, blow, sit up. He was feeling slightly faint with the effort. Scully rose up, her bottom completely away from the dock, then threw herself down onto her hands, her whole body focused on the single pressure point over his heart. "Now, damn it! Now!" Before he could make a move, say a word, she threw herself down once more. "Mulder ..." It was a howl, ripped from the deepest corner of her soul, and Skinner felt something inside himself break. If this cry, this call to life, didn't bring Mulder back, nothing would. Behind him, the hawk screamed, the sound mingling with Scully's cry. He watched her throw herself down again, and this time, the man on his back coughed. He coughed, then sputtered, then turned his head as vile lake water came up and poured from his mouth. He coughed again, choking, and Scully turned his head even more, holding him till the water stopped and his breathing evened. Then, she lifted her hands once more and brought them crashing down onto his already ravaged chest. Skinner froze, shocked, then reached out and grabbed her as she started to hit him again. "You son of a bitch," she cried. "I should have let you die!" She was crying now, pulling away from Skinner and lifting Mulder, gently this time, cradling him in her lap as she blessed him with her tears. He looked up at her, struggling to focus, then lifted a hand. The left arm was useless; blood ran from the gash on his forearm, and bone glistened white. But the right arm, that arm functioned, and he forced his hand up and cupped her cheek for a moment. "I love you, too, Scully. I love you, too." ************************************* October 24, 1998 10:00 a.m. Mulder opened his eyes and looked up. A curtain of soft red hair hovered just above his face. A soft hand lay gently on his shoulder, and blue eyes stared down at him. "He's awake," Scully declared, and then she was gone. "Scully?" Mulder turned his head in time to see her disappearing out the door. "You're in it up to your neck this time, Mulder." Skinner laughed softly and reached out to touch his arm. "Wha --?" His voice didn't want to work, and his mouth was dry. A straw appeared in front of his lips and he sipped, remembering Doctor Scully's rule to go slow. He swallowed, then cleared his throat. "What?" "I don't think our Scully is very happy with your decision to ditch her." Skinner put the cup down, then narrowed his eyes at the man in the bed. "Neither am I, I might add." "I didn't ... Not you ... I mean, she doesn't understand how dangerous ..." Skinner was shaking his head, not accepting any of the reasons being offered. "Doesn't matter. Don't you know that by now?" He turned and began to pace. "Mulder, you think you couldn't go on without her?" Mulder nodded, watching the AD's movements. "You think the world would stop if she went away?" He nodded. "Your whole life, your very existence is bound up in that woman?" He nodded again. Skinner was right; there really wasn't anything to say. "Well," the AD whirled and strode to the bed, "did it ever occur to you that *she* feels that way about you?" "Me?" Mulder's voice was a squeak of disbelief. "Not me," he said, shaking his head. "Yes, you. You didn't see her, Mulder. She was frantic. She almost ran me over trying to get out to the lake house. She pulled a *gun* on me, for Chrissakes, when I tried to stop her from jumping in the lake after you!" "She what?" Skinner was nodding now. "Yeah, she did. Thought she was gonna blow my brains out." Skinner drew a deep breath. "You owe that woman one serious apology, and a promise not to ever do that again better accompany it." Mulder was silent, staring at the ceiling as he tried to process Skinner's words. Could it be true? He knew Scully loved him. Knew she was devoted to him. But could she really feel life was not worth living without him? She had a life. She had others who loved her, and whom she loved. Her mother, her brothers, her nephews. She had friends. Hell, she even had Skinner. He snuck a look up at the big man. If something happened to him, Scully would always be able to turn to Walter for support. But how could he have let her risk herself with a man like Nathan? He frowned and Skinner immediately spoke. "Don't go there, Mulder. Wherever it is, whatever you're thinking, just stop it right now. You and Scully are partners, in more ways than one. Partners depend on one another; they back each other up. Mostly, they let each other help and they don't make decisions for one another." Skinner blew out, frustrated. "You had no right to make that decision without her. Or without me," he added. Mulder closed his eyes and went over it again. Had there been another way? Could they have still taken out the Nibbler if he hadn't launched his lone wolf attack? He turned it over in his mind. Yeah, they probably could. He shook his head in self-disgust. He'd been so blinded by fear, he hadn't thought it through straight. He opened his eyes and sought Skinner's. "Is she speaking to me?" "I don't know." The AD shrugged. "I do know she hasn't left this room, this chair," he slammed the back of the chair with a fist, "in the two days you've been unconscious. She hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, hasn't left your side. Until now." "Please." Mulder looked up, eyes filled with pleading. "I need to see her. I need to talk to her." Skinner nodded. "I'll try," he said, and then he slipped out of the room. *************************************** October 24, 1998 11:25 a.m. "You awake?" Her voice was soft and he could tell without looking that her eyes would be red from crying. "I'm sorry, Scully," he whispered. "I know, Mulder, I know." She lowered the rail and sat gingerly on the edge of his bed. One hand reached out and stroked the stubble on his face. "But it's not enough, my love. It's just not enough." "What do you want me to do?" He was desperate and it showed in his voice. "Don't send me away ... Please ..." I couldn't live if you sent me away. She leaned down and kissed him, her lips lingering hungrily against his own. "I could never leave you, you foolish, foolish man. But, Mulder," she paused and brushed his hair back, letting her hand rest cool and soft against his forehead. "I can't do this. I just can't." "What do you want me to do?" Please don't leave me, Scully. "I want you to remember something." "Remember? What?" Anything, Scully. Anything. Her hand was soft and gentle, moving over his head, his face, her fingers tangling in his hair. "After the Emerson case. Do you remember what you said to me? Do you remember your words?" He let his mind drift back to the case that had brought them together, the case that had forced them to admit their feelings. His memory searched for the exact words, and then they were there, engraved in his mind. "Once is not enough." Scully was crying now, nodding as she kissed him again. "Once is not enough." She smiled through her tears, then leaned forward and nuzzled him. "I'm selfish, Mulder. I want this every day. Every day for a hundred years. And then I want to renegotiate for a new contract ..." Her voice broke on the last word and she sobbed softly. "I can't renegotiate if you're dead. I can't lose you, my love. I just can't." "Shhhh, Scully, shhhhh." He pulled her down, making space in the bed for her, ignoring the flash of pain as her head came to rest in the hollow of his shoulder. "You won't lose me. I won't do this again, I promise. Scully, I didn't understand. I knew how it was for me; I didn't -- I couldn't -- believe you could feel the same." He stroked her back, thanking the powers above that his right arm, at least, still functioned. This time it was his fingers that played with her hair. Tears still fell on his chest, soaking the thin cotton gown he wore. "Shhhh," he murmured. "Ski -- Walter made me understand. I won't -- I can't -- do this again. I promise." Her voice was small and quavered as she spoke into his chest. "We're partners, Mulder, for better or worse. Entwined in each other's lives, anchored in each other's souls." He nodded and kissed the top of her head. "Partners, Scully. Forever." The End