<![CDATA[
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *REPOST* "Three Little Words" (1/2)
Date: Sat, 28 Oct 95 16:49:46 -0500
*REPOST*
Three Little Words (1/2)
By Karen Rasch
I'm reposting this because I've heard from several people that
this never showed up on their servers. I originally sent this
one to the group about four weeks ago. I apologize for the
excessive use of bandwidth, but not even Vincent got this
story for the archive.
Disclaimer: Same as everybody else: Scully and Mulder are the
property of Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen, and Fox Television and are
used entirely without permission. No disrespect or copyright
infringement is intended. I appreciate feedback, and would
especially like to hear from people this time around as I'm now
paranoid that no one is seeing this. Please send all comments
and constructive criticism to krasch@delphi.com. Thanks to
all who took the time to write regarding "Coming Back." You
don't know how delighted I was to hear your impressions.
This is a very supportive group of folks. I guess this story
should be rated PG-13 for mature theme, some profanity
(although I believe that one of the words used would earn
me an "R" in the movie world), and a degree of violence.
No sex. A wee bit of romance. Since I started this story
before the third season began, no events from that
story arc are included here. Thanks, as always, to Helen,
Captain of the UST Brigade without whose feedback and
encouragement this story would not have been written. I
am proud to serve as one of your many lieutenants.
Enjoy.
BRE Incorporated Central Warehouse
Chicago
12:48 a.m.
Bennett Riggs stared down the sleek metallic barrel
of the Sig Sauer P229. The gun's owner stared back, his hazel
eyes clear and unflinching despite the fear mirrored in their
depths. The other man's distress pleased Riggs. A slow
cruel smile stretched his narrow lips.
"Let's end this now Riggs, before anyone else gets
hurt," said the man with the gun, his voice low and calm, his
eyes never leaving Riggs' face. "Just throw down the knife."
Riggs slowly shook his head, his longish black hair
grazing his collar. He really had to admire his opponent's cool.
If he hadn't been inside the man's head, felt for himself the
turmoil, the pain, the complex and often contradictory manner
in which the man's mind worked, he might have believed him
totally in control. But Riggs knew better. For one brief,
shimmering instant he had seen the soul of his adversary.
Then, like any general planning a campaign, he had identified
his opponent's greatest vunerability.
And struck.
He shifted his grasp on the petite young woman before
him. He was a tall man, perhaps only a inch shorter than the
man he faced. The woman's bright copper covered head barely
reached his shoulder. And yet her small frame did its job. Her
partner would not fire as long as she stood between him and
the bullet's target.
Riggs held her tightly, his arm locked across her chest,
his knife a whisper from her exposed throat. Her bound hands
pressed uncomfortably between their two bodies. He chanced
a glance down. He could see by the dull brownish smudge on
his chest that he had broken the skin when he had hit her.
Finding the chunk of Italian marble the warehouse foreman
apparently used as a paperweight had been a convenient
stroke of luck. The blow had stunned her, making her easy
prey. He hadn't even needed to wrestle her gun away from her.
She had dropped it when the marble came down upon her head.
It lay there still on the warehouse office's floor perhaps
100 feet behind them. He wouldn't need it. He detested guns.
They were so clumsy; not elegant weapons at all. So impersonal.
"I knew you'd follow me tonight, Agent Mulder," he
called jovially to the tall slender man opposite him. "And I
didn't even need to touch you."
For some reason, the reference to their momentary linkage
unnerved the young F.B.I. agent. His jaw tightened, and he
suddenly blinked rapidly as if trying to clear his vision. "Then
why, Riggs?" he ventured, his hands holding tightly to his
weapon, his arms outstretched before him. "Why come after
us when you knew we had no proof?"
Riggs smiled sadly, the malicious amusement in his coal
gray eyes belying his melancholy.
"My dear Agent Mulder, haven't you ever been just
plain bored?"
* * * * * * * *
Bennett Riggs had been. Almost since birth. He couldn't
remember a time when life had been anything other than easy.
Simple. Predictable. Routine. Tedious.
Boring.
Part of his ever-present ennui had sprung no doubt from
the manifestation of his talent, that strange little quirk of genetics
that had proven so often as much curse as gift. But an equal share
of blame had to be ascribed to the circumstances of his birth. After
all, being the only child of one of the country's wealthiest
industrialists had certainly not resulted in a difficult childhood.
On the contrary, his every whim had been catered to. No demand
had been considered too outlandish, no desire too expensive.
If a concerned few might have pointed out that his ambitious
father and socialite mother had substituted presents and
privileges for love, Bennett would merely have shrugged. A
strange, self-sufficient child, he would have told the amateur
social workers that he had welcomed his parents' actions. He
had no need of love, that cloying, sentimental emotion. Things
brought power. Power, pleasure. He had relished being left to
the care of a succession of highly professional, yet emotionally
inaccessible nannies. Like Garbo, he had wanted to be alone.
It was that same quality he had recognized in Agent
Mulder. That same need for separation. It mattered little that the
F.B.I. man's need came from a different place than his own, a
place ripe with pain and emotions that were not missing, merely
held in check. Unlike himself, Riggs realized that Mulder kept
aloof in the mistaken belief that such a course of action would
protect him. And those he secretly cared for.
Riggs looked down again at the woman before him,
her eyes focused ahead, her back ramrod straight. Dana Scully.
Dr. Dana Scully. Fox Mulder's partner. His best friend. His . . .
"What do you want, Riggs?" Mulder asked, his eyes
blazing, his gun never wavering. "You and I both know a knife
is no match for a gun. You're not going anywhere. Just give
it up."
"Oh, I beg to differ, Agent Mulder," Riggs said calmly,
the smile he used both to disarm and taunt his victims once again
settling upon his lips. "I have always found a knife to be a most
effective weapon. I believe, if you were able to question any of
my recent . . . acquaintances, you would find they would agree
with me."
He shifted the gleaming blade in his leather gloved hand
so that the flat of it lay against Scully's face. Then softly, like a
lover's caress, he ran it from her temple, down her cheek to her chin.
To her credit, the woman made not a sound, but stood absolutely
still, her rapid breathing the only sign of her agitation. Riggs
glanced at Mulder, his eyebrow raised in a challenge. Scully's
partner was not having the same success as she in schooling his
emotions. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. Pale, eyes wide
with barely restrained horror, Mulder nervously licked his lips.
Riggs noted with satisfaction that his opponent looked as if he
might be physically ill.
"I see you get my . . . point, Agent Mulder," said the man
with the knife, allowing himself a tiny smirk at his quip. "Used
properly, a knife can hold its own against a gun. The trick is to
hold its blade against something the gun's owner values."
He saw Mulder's eyes flit to his partner's. Sorrow,
regret and reassurance all shone in the young man's eyes as he
sought to send a silent message to the woman before him. Not
for the first time, Riggs wondered at the connection between the
two agents. That a man with Mulder's need for solitude, his
obsession with his own private demons and crusade would
allow one person to get as close to him, to matter as much as
Scully did. Did either of them realize the depth of their feelings
for each other? Riggs thought not. And yet they had been
apparent to him, a casual on-looker, even before he had laid a
hand on Mulder.
* * * * * * * *
He had known the first time he had set eyes on them, the
night they had brought him to that dirty, rundown Chicago Police
precinct house to question him. The two agents had told him
soon after appearing at his doorstep that they come had to town
to assist in the investigation of a series of homicides, murders
which had dominated the city's newspaper headlines for the
past six months. Crimes with which Riggs was intimately familiar.
Not that Scully and Mulder knew that. Not yet. Seven total.
The victims had appeared to have been selected randomly with
no consistency in age, sex, or race, and no discernible motive.
The weapon of choice was a knife with a small, non-serrated
blade. No clues were left at any of the crime scenes, which
were as varied as the victims. Chicago's finest were stumped.
Then, they had gotten their break. A woman, Linda
Ferguson, age 32, a secretary at a law office in the Loop was
found in the alley behind her Diversey Harbor apartment building.
Blood loss had been substantial, but she was discovered alive.
Barely. She told the police a curious tale, a story strange enough
to compel one of the detectives assigned to the case to contact
two federal agents he had heard specialized in that sort of thing.
When they had arrived in the Windy City, the agents
had found they hadn't much to go on. Just a few mumbled phrases
from the victim. Riggs had imagined what she must have sounded
like, her voice cracking under the strain, the words blurry as if
their edges had been sanded off. <Didn't see him . . . didn't even
know he was there. . . . Got out of my car . . . already there . . .
How'd he know? . . . . Didn't give him my address, my phone
. . . . Didn't know him. . . . but I did . . . . Already there, waiting . . . .
the man . . . .the one from the club . . . the one with the touch . . .
he knew . . . . he knew just by touching me . . . like he was inside
. . . . inside me . . . .Inside my mind . . . .I felt him . . . .Couldn't
stop him . . . .Oh, god . . .I couldn't stop him . . . . > At first,
they must have thought her mad, he had mused, or at the very
least confused by the pain and the drugs the doctors had
pumped into her to alleviate it. But then, because they had nothing
else to go on, the authorities must have decided to try and
investigate her claims.
Still, he hadn't been worried. He had been able to put
the pieces together quickly enough. Somehow, these agents must
have tracked Linda Ferguson's activity on the night she had been
killed. Any of a dozen people could have told them that he had
bought the unfortunate woman a drink at the club on Armitage.
However, those same eagle-eyed 12 would also have undoubtedly
remarked that he had left the place hours before she did. Other
than that brief encounter, they would be unable to prove any
other connection between Ms. Ferguson and himself. As always,
he had worn gloves, and had been careful, so very careful that
nothing linking him to the crime had been left behind. Besides,
under any circumstances, he was an unlikely murder suspect.
Riggs was a pillar of the community. His corporate empire had
offices in five countries, he owned a graystone on the Gold Coast,
served on the boards of six of the city's most prominent charities,
and had never even had so much as a parking ticket charged
against him. What possible reason would one of Chicago's
wealthiest, most eligible bachelors have for taking a knife to a
total stranger? They certainly couldn't ask the victim, hoping
that she might be able to provide a motive, or better still, I.D.
her assailant.
She had lapsed into a coma before sunrise, and had
died less than twenty-four hours later.
So, Riggs had been breathing easy that night. No real
fear or apprehension. Feeling no threat to himself or his unusual
pastime, he had done what he usually did when in a crowd of
strangers.
He had watched. Apart. Alone. Zeroing in on individual
people. The shopworn prostitutes with their garish outfits and
bored, tired eyes. The gang members sporting Bulls jackets, $200
Nikes, and the fiercest attitudes they could cop. He had listened
to the cacophony of sounds reverberating within the aged building
as they layered one on top of another like an old Phil Spector
forty-five. He had taken in all the nuances of behavior displayed
by the station house's denizens as they went about their respective
businesses of crime and punishment.
But nothing had piqued his interest quite as sharply as
the pair of agents who had brought him to that godforsaken place
to begin with.
They had shown up at his home right after dinner and
had requested that he accompany them for questioning. The man
was tall, taller than him and lean; lanky, yet graceful. Square-jawed,
with a full, mobile mouth, and old eyes that changed color
depending upon under what light Riggs viewed them. His thick,
medium brown hair had been worn swept back from his forehead,
except for one stubborn shock that hung determinedly over his
brow. He was dressed well if conservatively, his steel grey suit
and light blue shirt appearing strictly government issued. The
illusion, however, was shattered by the tie, an eye-catching riot
of blues and blacks and grays with a smattering of red. Not to
Riggs' taste, but he had to admit the man carried it off. From the
first, he had suspected a rebel dwelt within the soul of that
particular G-man.
His partner was another matter. Nearly a foot shorter
than the man standing beside her, she had nevertheless appeared
his equal, if not in stature, than certainly in intelligence. It had
taken Riggs no more than an instant to discern the keen mind at
work behind the woman's penetrating blue eyes. Her red-gold
hair had framed her face, yet didn't quite reach her shoulders,
and he was almost certain he had spied a dusting of freckles
across her small Roman nose. She too had obviously read the
section in the Bureau's handbook covering Dress Code. Her
tailored suit and matching pumps had been so neutral in color
as to almost not register at all. Unlike the other agent, she had
made no attempt to personalize her wardrobe. The only jewelry
he had been able to detect was a small golden cross on a chain
around her neck.
He had gone along quietly, stopping only to pull his
coat from the hall closet as protection from the chilling November
wind off the lake. All the way to the station he had sat in the
back seat of their rented sedan and watched. And listened.
The ride hadn't taken very long, and in truth, not much had
been said between the two agents. Yet, there had been enough
for someone with his powers of observation to pick up the subtle
clues as to who these people were, both individually and in relation
to each other.
He had noted immediately that they were truly a team.
Neither took the lead, neither acquiesced to the other's authority.
They hadn't spoken much, being the sort who were comfortable
with their shared silences. But, they had caught and held each
other's gaze. Often. Sometimes, the look that flowed between
them was filled with an unspoken question or comment regarding
something they had either said or seen. Other times, it had appeared
they simply liked looking at each other.
When they had arrived at their destination, Riggs had
still more opportunity to study the two agents. Enough time to
witness the closeness with which they stood, Mulder's much taller
frame bent to listen intently to his partner's voice, to consider
carefully her opinion. To notice once again the eye contact
between them, unwavering, unguarded, and lingering. To view
the small incidental ways in which Mulder had managed to
establish a physical connection with Scully: a gentle touch
on her arm to get her attention, his hand on the small of her
back to guide her down a hall, through a door. And the smiles.
Small, intimate, volumes spoken without a word being said.
Riggs had heard of the special bond that supposedly
existed between law enforcement officers and their partners. Yet,
what he had seen between Mulder and Scully was more than
professional, while being somehow less than sexual. This
unspoken something had intrigued him. Few things in life did.
He had made up his mind without even giving the matter
conscious thought.
He wanted to learn more.
He had his opportunity. Just after the agents had finally
brought him into an empty interrogation room, a young Chicago
cop had stuck his head in the door.
"Agent Scully. I've got a call for you from Washington.
It's an Assistant Director Skinner."
The redhead had glanced at her partner in consternation.
He had merely smiled, saying, "Be sure to give him my regards."
With a wry half-smile, she had excused herself and left the room.
The two men had waited, each of a similar age, looking
enough alike to be related. They had stared at each other across
the table at which they sat, each at ease with himself and the
situation. The row of fluorescent lights overhead illuminating
the silent stand-off.
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to go ahead and get
started?" Mulder had finally asked, a small, polite smile in place.
"I know Scully wouldn't mind, and if we wrap this up quickly
enough I just might be able to get back to my hotel in time to
catch that old Vincent Price movie on the late show."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Agent Mulder," Riggs had
replied as if he were declining an invitation for lunch at the country
club. "But I'd just as soon wait for my lawyer. He'll be so annoyed
if I pulled him away from his aerobics class for nothing."
Mulder had inclined his head, graciously accepting that
his ploy hadn't succeeded. "Well, since this may take awhile,
can I get you anything? Coffee? A glass of water?"
Riggs had shaken his head. "Actually, Agent Mulder,
I'd prefer for you to simply answer a question for me."
Riggs had then reached across the tabletop, placed his
hand on Mulder's forearm, and concentrated.
As he knew they would, images had flooded his brain.
Most dark, many painful, they had flown by him like a movie run
at double-speed, snippets of dialogue coming at him like bullets.
<I'm looking forward to working with youReally I was
under the impression that you were sent to spy on meI'm not part
of any agendaYou've got to trust meHow can I disprove lies that
are stamped with an official sealScully it's meMulder you may not
be who you areI'm trying to decide which lie to believeI should
know by now to trust your instinctsDo you think I'm spookyThey're
shutting us down ScullyWill she liveMulder there's nothing you
can doI owe her more than just sitting around doing nothingMulder
I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you>
Not only did Riggs see snapshots from Mulder's life but
he understood their significance, sensed the emotions that
accompanied them.
<A dark haired girl suspended in mid air, drifting slowly,
irrevocably towards a brightly glowing window.>
<Men in huge tanks of water, breathing like fish.>
<Falling from a great height onto a solid sheet of snow
and ice, eyes burning, body weakening, half a pair of handcuffs
dangling from his wrist.>
<A woman with bright red hair and sea blue eyes. Arguing
with him, challenging him, calling him on his mistakes, his errors in
judgment. But always with respect. At times with affection.>
<That same woman. A gun in her hand. Ready to stand
beside him. To back him up. To die to protect him.>
<The woman once again. Only this time, her expressive
eyes were closed. She lay on a hospital bed, attached to a respirator.
She didn't have long to live. It was his fault.>
Riggs had smiled, his eyes closed, absorbed in the rush.
The man's memories had reminded him of a particularly vivid fever
dream. It had been tempting to forget what he was looking for,
to investigate instead any one of the other intriguing images he
had seen fly by him. But, he had resisted the urge. He had known
he was close. So close to the answer he sought. He had kept his
hand on Mulder's arm. He only ever allowed himself one touch.
Otherwise, the hunt wouldn't be sporting. So, he had to make
it a good one. For his part, the F.B.I. agent had sat stunned, his
mouth agape, his eyes staring, yet unfocused. When it was
over he wouldn't understand what had happened. People never
did. But he would realize that something had occurred.
Only by then it would be too late.
Riggs had searched Mulder's psyche much the way he
would flip through his rolodex, looking for the one insight that
would tell him what he wanted to know. At last, he had stumbled
across it.
<Another red-haired woman, similar to the first, yet
different. "Why is it so much easier for you to run around trying
to get even than just expressing to her how you feel? I expect
more from you. Dana expects more. Even if it doesn't bring her
back, at least she'll know. And so will you.">
Riggs had almost reeled with the emotions connected to
that memory. They had rolled off of Mulder in waves, stronger
than anything he had run across previously.
He had his answer.
"Thank you, Agent Mulder," Riggs had said sweetly,
releasing the other man from his thrall. "You've been a great help."
* * * * * * * *
"I wonder, do you value your partner, Agent Mulder?"
Riggs asked conversationally, delicately lifting strands of the
woman in question's hair with his knife.
Mulder's mouth tightened. "I'm not playing that game
with you, Riggs."
The raven haired man shrugged without rancor, his eyes
sly. "All right. I can see how you might find that question rather
personal. It can wait until we get to know each other better. Why
don't we play another game I believe you =will= enjoy."
Mulder shifted warily, his gun still before him. "Oh, and
what game is that?"
"Twenty Questions," Riggs answered evenly, relaxing
against the wall of packing crates at his back. "Surely, there must
be some things about me you're just . . . dying to know."
Mulder thought it over, then said with studied
nonchalance, "Why don't you let Scully go. Then we can talk.
As soon as I know she's all right, we'll play any sort of game
you like."
Quick as a snake, Riggs stepped away from the cartons
and changed his grip on Scully. The hand that had clasped her to
his chest reached up and pressed sharply beneath her chin, his
thumb and forefinger digging into the soft flesh there surrounding
her windpipe. Just as swiftly, she began to gag, sputtering for air.
With his other hand, he pointed his knife at the hollow at the base
of her throat. "=Don't= insult my intelligence, Agent Mulder. Do
me that courtesy at least. And do not =ever= forget how quickly
I can paint the floor with your partner's blood."
Stricken, Mulder's voice tumbled out of his mouth like a
rock slide, "All right, all right. That's enough, Riggs. Let her go.
You son of a bitch. You heard me. I SAID LET HER GO!"
Satisfied he had made his point, Riggs released his hold
on his hostage's throat. She tried to bend over from the waist to
catch her breath. His arm across her collarbone restricted any
such motion. So, the young redhead could only bow her head,
coughing and gasping for air.
"Scully? Scully! You okay? Can you breathe?" Mulder's
worried eyes bored holes into the crown of his partner's head as he
anxiously waited for her to raise her eyes.
It took a moment, but she managed it, her voice rough and
raw. "Yeah. It's okay. I'm okay."
Mulder nodded in acknowledgment, then raised his eyes
to meet Riggs'. The gentle concern that had been there only an
instant before vanished before a flood of hatred.
Riggs merely smiled. "Do you understand the rules now,
Agent Mulder?" he asked softly.
Mulder nodded again. "More than you know."
"Then ask your questions."
His eyes never leaving Riggs and the woman he held
pressed against him, Mulder paced in a tiny square, all the fury
and frustration he had thus far ruthlessly squelched fueling his
movement. Finally, rubbing his hand over his mouth as if wiping
away the taste of something foul, he spoke, "Fine, Riggs. We'll
play it your way. For now. You want questions--Here's number
one: Did you kill Linda Ferguson?"
Riggs dipped his head. "Yes."
"And the others?"
"Of course."
Mulder's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Why not," Riggs replied with a mischievous grin,
leaning in to speak the words in a stage whisper into Scully's
ear. His breath made her hair flutter against the side of her face.
Mulder shifted uncomfortably, all too well aware of the
physical proximity shared by a psychopath with a knife and his
defenseless partner. "I thought you were going to give me
answers, Riggs," he challenged loudly, trying to draw the man's
attention back to him. "Isn't that how you play Twenty
Questions? One person asks the questions, the other answers.
Well, I'm doing my part. But you--you're just feeding me bullshit."
"My apologies," Riggs said smoothly, his eyes measuring.
Mulder died just a little bit every time he physically encroached
upon Scully. In that respect, the agent was just like Pavlov's dog.
You push a button, you get the expected response. Riggs lived
for that now familiar feeling of power. The control. The ability
to manipulate others, to bend them to his will. The psychological
and emotional high he got from playing god with someone else's
life was why he hunted in the first place. How far could he push
it with Agent Mulder? What would it take to make the man break?
Riggs smiled a secret smile, and decided to try an
experiment. He let his hand drift down from its safe, neutral
position on Scully's shoulder to rest lightly just on the slope of
her left breast. He wouldn't have thought it possible, but the
woman made herself even more rigid. The only proof he had
that there was a living, breathing woman before him and not
a statue carved in stone was the steady if rapid beat of her
heart against his fingertips. A muscle in the corner of Mulder's
jaw jumped, then tightened with what looked like painful force.
"Save your apologies for my partner," Mulder murmured,
his voice low and intent. "Under normal circumstances I don't
believe she let's a guy go that far on the first date."
Riggs quirked an eyebrow. Hmm, although it was costing
him to remain calm, Mulder was handling this particular maneuver
better than Riggs had thought he would. He had expected the
F.B.I. agent to turn into a latter-day Lancelot defending a certain
fair maiden's honor. Instead, the agent had recognized the
gesture for what it was--a test. While it pained him to see his
partner compromised, he controlled himself. Riggs' respect for
Mulder raised a notch. He understood then that he would have
to go farther to get the reaction he desired.
"Quite right," Riggs said at last, raising the offending
hand to gently flick at Scully's cheek in a perversely playful,
affectionate gesture before resting it once again on her shoulder.
She merely turned her face away in disgust. "I was rude. I'm
afraid I couldn't help myself. Agent Scully is a very attractive
woman. I got carried away. Has that ever happened to you,
Agent Mulder?"
"I thought I was the one who got to ask the questions,"
Mulder protested, adjusting his grip on the Sig.
"Ah, yes, the game. "
Mulder nodded. "The game. You were the one who
wanted to play. So I ask you again--why?"
Riggs sighed as if put out by the question, and resumed
his slouch against the wall of packing crates. "Because I can,
Agent Mulder. Because I can."
"How?"
"Oh, come now," Riggs said, nearly purring his response,
his eyes flint hard, unforgiving. "You, better than anyone, know the
answer to that."
Mulder fidgeted, his eyes darting to Scully, then back again
to rest on Riggs' face.
"Have you forgotten already, Agent Mulder?" Riggs said
in a concerned, friendly tone. He clucked sympathetically, and
addressed his next comments to Scully. "I would have thought the
experience had made a greater impression upon him. Perhaps I
should refresh his memory by getting to know you better."
"No!" Mulder took a step forward.
Riggs stopped him by smiling darkly. "Ah. I see you do
recall after all."
===========================================================================
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *REPOST* "Three Little Words" (2/2)
Date: Sat, 28 Oct 95 16:51:59 -0500
*REPOST*
Three Little Words (2/2)
By Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com
For Disclaimer and other info, please check Part I. As I said in
that first section, I'm reposting this puppy because it apparently
got lost in cyber-space the first time around (at least for many
of you!)Hope you like it. Comments are appreciated (even if it's
only to say, yeah I saw it this time <g>). Thanks. Enjoy.
Mulder froze, his weight on the balls of his feet, torn
between his desire to take out his frustrations on the man
opposite him and his knowledge that to do so would result in
disaster for his partner. Breathing heavily, he looked at Riggs
with all the contempt he could muster. "Sure I do. You read
minds."
"Christ, Mulder! You make me sound like a fortune
teller at a fair," Riggs retorted with equal disdain. "You and I
both know that what I do is far more sophisticated, more
selective than merely pulling a person's birth date out of mid-air."
"Really?" Mulder said with scorn, aware that he had
pricked his adversary's pride. Perhaps by attacking his ego he
could lead Riggs into making a mistake. "How do I know that?
It seems to me that all you did was contact those poor people
and pull out of them whatever you needed to kill them. An
address, a phone number, a clue to where they'd be and who
they'd be with at a given time. I don't know--sure sounds like
fortune telling to me."
"Then that shows how very little you know," Riggs
sneered, his arm wrapping itself around Scully's throat, the knife
poised at the corner of her jaw. "Perhaps your partner has more
appreciation for what I do. You're a doctor, Agent Scully. Surely,
you can imagine the intricacies involved in my own particular
brand of psychic surgery."
The woman spoke in a hushed, tightly controlled voice,
taking care to move no more than necessary what with the knife
point tickling her jawline. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Riggs relaxed slightly, and glanced mockingly at Mulder.
"Do you mean to say that Agent Mulder didn't tell you?"
"Don't flatter yourself, Riggs," Mulder said blandly. "I
only bother her with the important stuff."
"I'm hurt," Riggs replied, although his smile said he was
anything but. "I would have thought our little 'meeting of the
minds' would be worth sharing. . . . Seeing as you two are so
close."
"Why don't you tell me more about how you were able
to get to Linda Ferguson without anyone seeing you," Mulder
suggested quickly, his attempt to change the subject so
transparent Riggs had to chuckle.
"But, Agent Mulder," Riggs protested mildly. "That's
just what I'm doing."
He shifted Scully again within the circle of his arms,
bringing his face beside hers. Her body rested against his, her
bound hands jostling against his thigh.
"You see, I have a certain talent, Agent Scully. A gift,"
Riggs said conversationally, as if he and the female agent were
old pals. His eyes remained pinned on Mulder. "I can touch
people. Really =touch= them. And when I do, I know everything.
Or I could if I were to keep the contact between us alive."
Scully licked her lips, then queried, "Is that how you
knew where Linda Ferguson lived?"
Riggs' eyebrows raised sardonically. He patted her
cheek. "You, my dear, get a gold star. Yes, it was simple really.
One touch on her arm and I knew she where she lived, her cat's
name, what she had had for dinner that night. And yes, Agent
Mulder, her birth date. August 14, 1963."
"Why her?" Mulder demanded, his eyes bleak.
Riggs shrugged, then shook his head. "It wasn't anything
personal. I had never even met the woman before that night.
That's one of the rules of the game."
Mulder looked at him with poorly veiled astonishment.
"And what game would =this= be?"
"Oh. My favorite game. The one that gives me the most
problems. And the most pleasure. The Hunt."
Mulder's eyes narrowed as he mulled over Riggs' words,
not quite making sense of it all. "The Hunt--You hunt people as
part of some game?"
"Not just any game, Agent Mulder," Riggs said, stepping
away once again from the boxes, his eyes fever bright with
enthusiasm. "=The= game. The one where I play the great white
hunter and the rest of the world tries to elude me in the brush."
"What are you talking about?" Mulder asked warily, as
if he really didn't want to hear the answer.
"I'm talking about my life, my dear FBI man," Riggs said
softly as he rubbed his face in Scully's hair, like a cat marking
something as its own. "I'm talking about knowing. Knowing
anything about anyone. Can you imagine what that's like?"
"Not really."
Riggs continued as if he hadn't heard Mulder's mumbled
reply. "At first, it was incredible. I mean, you can imagine school,
can't you? Being able to figure out what was going to be on a test.
Any test. Knowing your classmates' minds almost before they did
themselves. Touching a girl's hand and discovering exactly what
it would take to get into her pants."
Mulder shrugged, determined not to show his wonder at
what he was hearing, and said lightly, "Sounds like an episode of
Weird Science."
Riggs glared at him. "It gets weirder. I inherited my
father's business empire. Corporate take-overs. Mergers. Stock
transactions. Job bids. All I have to do is be there. Mingle with
the powers-that-be, the movers and shakers, and that information
is mine for the taking. The only problem is, that like all things,
it got old."
Mulder shook his head. "That still doesn't explain why
you turned from corporate raiding to murder."
Riggs grabbed Scully's hair and jerked hard, bending her
back until the top of her head rested against his shoulder. A
small sound of surprise and pain escaped her lips. "It would,
if you were only listening."
Mulder took one hand from his Sig, and reached out
towards the couple before him beseechingly. "I am. I am. I'm
listening. I want to know. Riggs--Riggs! Why did you kill
these people? What did you believe they had done to deserve it?"
Riggs giggled. "Nothing. =Nothing.= Don't you see?
They were merely my prey."
Mulder blinked, his expression pained. "In the Hunt?"
Riggs nodded too, his expression pleased. "Yes. You see.
You were listening, after all. In the Hunt. I choose them. At
random. I can't really say how I make my selection. It's . . .
it's instinctive, you know?"
"Of course, " Mulder murmured.
"Then, it's one touch. One touch only. For as long as I
can hold it," Riggs said rapidly, his excitement evident. "I gather
what I can and then I release them."
"Until it's time to hunt," Mulder said, prodding.
"Exactly."
Understanding dawning, Mulder considered what the
man before him had said, then dropped his gaze for an instant,
before once again engaging Riggs', purpose shining in his hazel
eyes. "Then let Scully go. It's me you touched. I'm the one
you chose."
"Mulder, no!" Scully cried, twisting in Riggs' embrace,
the knife in his hand momentarily forgotten.
"It's all right, Scully," Mulder said soothingly, venturing
a step forward. "I'm right, aren't I, Riggs? That's what happened
in the station house. You touched me."
This was going all too well, Riggs thought with pleasure.
The FBI agent was playing into his hands so beautifully. "That's
right, Agent Mulder. I touched you."
"Then it's me you want," Mulder said softly in the same
voice he'd use to talk a jumper off a roof. "Let her go."
"Mulder--," Scully said warningly. Her partner's eyes
flickered to hers for a moment. He smiled gently with reassurance.
"Right again, Agent Mulder," Riggs said in a honeyed
tone. Then, he slid the knife under Scully's chin to stop his
adversary's progress forward. "But it's not just your life I want."
"What are you talking about?"
"It's your soul."
Mulder stopped, bewildered. He had thought he was
going to be able to get Scully away from that madman. He had
believed that he would finally be able to resolve their stand-off.
Instead, he was left nearly grinding his teeth in frustration.
"I don't understand."
"I know you, Agent Mulder," Riggs said smugly,
taunting like a schoolboy. "I know all about you. Why, I'd
wager I know you better than the lovely Agent Scully here."
"Terrific. I'm sure we'd do really well on The Newlywed
Game," Mulder gritted out, his gun arm beginning to feel the strain.
"Just let her go."
"No, no. I don't want to exclude Agent Scully from our
little circle," Riggs said with mock reproof, his eyes wild, his face
flushed. "I think you should share with her what you shared
with me."
Mulder grimaced, his brow furrowed. "I didn't =share=
anything with you, Riggs. You took it. Just like you took all those
people's lives. But, I'm willing to play along. What do you want
me to say?"
Riggs smiled. Icy, hard, victorious. "You're a bright boy.
You figure it out."
He then took his knife and turned it with his leather-
covered fingertips, the blade catching the light from the bulb
directly over the threesome's heads. Then, before Mulder could
even register what was happening, Riggs took his weapon and
flicked against Dana Scully's neck. Its blade opened a wound
about three quarters of an inch long. Red welled up in the
shallow cut, beaded, then fell. A small sound of alarm vibrated in
the back of Scully's throat.
"NO!" The words were wrenched out of Mulder as if a
team of horses dragged them from him.
"Think of this as an incentive, Agent Mulder," Riggs
purred. "After all, it's getting late. And we have been at this for
quite awhile. We need to move along. Just tell Agent Scully
what you told me, and it will all be over."
"I don't know what you're talking about--"
Riggs could see the FBI agent fumbling, both physically
and mentally as he tried to come up with the information that would
satisfy the man before him with the knife. The black-haired man
chuckled, wanting to shout his pleasure to the world.
"Oh, come on! Where's your sporting sensibility?"
Riggs said with mock encouragement, his hand still locked in Scully's
hair. "Think of it as a puzzle. It can't be all that difficult. That's
what you do for a living, isn't it? Solve puzzles. Mysteries. Well,
this is the same thing. Only this time, something important is on
the line."
"Riggs, this has gone far enough," Mulder said, trying
reason, though his face hinted that he was fast losing his own hold
on it. "This isn't your game. I didn't think you were into puzzles--"
"That's your problem, Agent Mulder," Riggs said, his
voice diamond hard. "You don't think."
The knife did its dance against Scully's skin again. This
time, it drew blood from the flesh exposed by the vee of her suit's
blouse. This gash, like the other, was small, yet the thick scarlet fluid
rose quickly to the surface and trickled down to disappear inside the
frightened agent's clothes. She sucked in a stunned gasp.
Mulder shifted his weight and his weapon, desperately
looking for a lane in which to shoot. "Riggs, so help me god --"
"I wouldn't if I were you, Agent Mulder," Riggs cautioned,
as he too began to move ever so slightly. "What if you chose to
fire, and I did this--"
He dipped both Scully and himself sharply to the left,
then righted them.
"Sure, you *might* hit me," Riggs continued, the
amusement in his eyes goading Mulder unmercifully. "But, look
who stands in front of me. What would you do if you hit Agent
Scully?"
As he supposed Riggs had intended, Mulder's eyes
strayed to his partner's terrified gaze. Tiny red rivulets marred the
ivory smoothness of her neck and chest. But she didn't weep.
She didn't beg. Mulder stood there, his grey trench coat
enveloping him like a fog, his eyes frightened, haunted,
his shoulders bowed. Not even knowing he was doing so, he
slowly shook his head. Riggs pressed his advantage.
"What would you do if you killed her, Mulder? If she
died right in front of you from a bullet fired by your hand? How
would you feel?"
Something in the way Riggs asked the last question drew
Mulder's eyes back to the man standing before him. The bastard.
He was smiling a cocky, sure grin. Then he nodded as if offering
some particularly twisted encouragement. Mulder replayed the
man's last words over in his head.
<How would you feel?>
And suddenly Mulder knew. He knew what Riggs
wanted.
But it was hard. So very hard to say the words. "Riggs,
. . . you know . . . I care for her--"
"Not good enough!" The knife flashed like lightning.
Another shallow wound, this one slightly longer than the other
two, spilled blood again on Scully's throat. This time she couldn't
stop the moan that slipped from her lips.
Mulder tore at his hair with the hand not holding his now
shaking Sig, and paced back and forth like the proverbial tiger in a
cage, his voice carrying through that simile with its roar. "That's
enough! THAT'S ENOUGH, YOU FUCKER! I love her! Is that
what you wanted to hear? =I love her.="
Riggs merely smiled.
Mulder stared at his partner, swaying on his feet. Riggs
wished he could see Scully's face. She was trembling now, her
hands vibrating against his camel's hair coat, brushing against his
hip. But not from fear. That, he was certain. Something in her
expression must have asked a silent question. Mulder answered
it. This time softly, the sorrow and longing in his eyes fathomless.
"I love her."
Riggs waited, savoring the moment.
Then, whispered, "Very good, Agent Mulder. I knew
you could do it. Now, let's wrap up this little tea party, shall we?
Throw down your gun."
Riggs felt Scully start in his arms. "Mulder!" She
protested.
Riggs pulled her against him more tightly, his arm back
to its original position across her collarbone, smearing the blood
on her chest as it settled. "Do it, Mulder. Or my knife carves
Agent Scully a new smile right across her very pretty neck."
"Mulder, shoot!" his partner urged, her voice tight with
unshed tears.
Mulder didn't even consider the consequences. Ghostly
pale in the warehouse's stark light, he bent down to place his gun
on the floor.
Riggs wanted to do a little victory dance. He liked this
new game. He had thought tonight would be different. Had hoped
it might be, in fact. He had realized when he had noticed the agents
watching his home that he could lure them to this building and
have his way with them. But unlike his other crimes, he hadn't
planned his course of action, hadn't mapped each and every step.
Instead, he had relied on his own sharp intelligence and
improvisational skills. He found the sensation of flying by the seat
of his pants invigorating. And despite his words to Mulder, he
didn't want it to end just yet. No. Tonight, he wasn't only going
to take lives--but secrets, dignity, and dreams. He had lied to the
agents. This evening wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot. He
figured he had hours of enjoyment left while he decided which
of the two star-crossed lovers would watch the other die.
Riggs watched Mulder lower his weapon to the floor,
feeling as if he was viewing the action in slow motion, much the
way a sports fan watches that one impossible catch or basket
on the instant replay. He relished the agent's surrender. As
soon as the Sig left Mulder's hand this round of the contest
would be over, and Riggs would be declared the winner.
But before that could happen, Agent Scully entered
the game. His attention so focused on Mulder, Riggs had
nearly forgotten about the petite redhead in his arms. She
used his distraction to her advantage. Her small hands,
which had been brushing tantalizingly close to his groin
all night, grew bolder, finally finding their target. And when
she located what she was looking for, she squeezed.
And squeezed hard.
Riggs shrieked, high and long like a wounded animal.
His body contorted, his arm flinging up and away from Scully's
shoulder in surprise. She took her opening, and releasing the
two sacs of skin and nerves she had crushed so tightly,
dropped down, preparing to roll away from the man behind her.
Riggs' reflexes were as sharp as his blade, however, and
before she could get away cleanly, his knife arm plunged. A
scream ripped from her throat the same moment the blade ripped
through her upper arm. But, before Riggs could raise his weapon
for another swipe, a shot rang out. Riggs flew backwards,
crashing into the wooden crates that had served as his backdrop,
and slipped to the floor with a heavy thud.
Mulder sprang from his knees, his gun arm shaking, his
feet getting tangled in the folds of his coat. Scully lay on her side,
her hands still bound tightly behind her. Crimson was rising
through her clothes to stain her arm. He ran to her, his mouth
thinning in anger when he realized that Riggs had used the belt
from her trench coat to bind her. As gently as he could so as not
to jar her injured arm, he wrestled the knot free
"Scully! Scully, are you okay?" His hands skimmed
lightly over her as if that alone would be enough to discern
her condition.
She nodded, struggling to sit, swaying from a
combination of adrenaline and blood loss.
"Riggs--" she mumbled as she simultaneously tried
to rub her sore wrists and shrug out of her coat.
Mulder scuttled over to the man, and turned him over
on the cement floor. Blood blossomed on his chest like some
exotic variety of orchid. The agent put his fingertips to the
man's throat. Nothing.
"He's dead."
Scully nodded, and wearily tried to stand, her legs not
quite cooperating. Mulder hurried back to her.
"Are you out of your mind, Scully?" he asked in a
hushed, angry tone as he caught her in his arms, and gently
smoothed away a fall of hair from her cheek. Then, as if he
thought she might shatter from impact, he carefully lowered
her back to the floor. "Just sit here, okay? I'll call for back-up."
His hand still shaking, he whipped out his cell phone
and did just that. Then, while they waited, he settled Scully
as comfortably as he was able, resting her against a wall a
discreet distance from Riggs' body, and draping his coat over
her lap to help ward off shock. That taken care of, he wanted
to get a look at the wound.
"What you did, Scully--that was stupid," he muttered
as he eased her suit coat away from her shoulders.
Really stupid, deadly stupid. Very nearly unforgivably
stupid.
"You're welcome," she rejoined lightly, her brow creased
with pain and annoyance.
Mulder shook his head, his concentration centered on
tending to her. Blood had soaked through her blouse, saturating
the silky fabric. Although she was being stoically brave, he knew
it must be painful. Physically and emotionally exhausted, Scully
just sat with her head against the wall, her eyes closed, her face
devoid of color.
"What I mean is--you could have been killed. If Riggs
had swung his knife from left to right rather than straight down---"
Mulder shuddered. The thought didn't even bear consideration.
"Don't make me out to be Joan of Arc, Mulder," Scully
scolded quietly, her eyes still closed. "If you had given him your
gun, chances are he would have killed us both anyway. Even
though he preferred a knife, I'm sure he wouldn't have had any
trouble figuring out how to use your Sig. I just didn't want to die
in this place. For either of us to."
His head bowed, Mulder considered her words, then
nodded. She was right. Her move had saved both their lives.
Yet that knowledge proved an ineffective balm to his abraded
emotions. He felt certain that the image of her falling before
Riggs' knife would be making regular appearances in his
nightmares for years to come. Sighing, and wondering if his
partner was aware just how badly his hands continued to shake,
he leaned down, and with his teeth, tore away her blouse's
soaked sleeve. Now, he could get a better look at the cut. It was
difficult to tell, but it didn't look as if the knife had gone deeply
enough to damage muscle. Still, there was an awful lot of blood.
Grabbing the discarded belt which had so recently bound Scully's
hands, he cinched it around her arm above the wound to staunch
the flow.
"Ow!"
Her eyes flew open, their usual brilliance dulled by pain.
And yet, she looked at him without any real rancor.
"Sorry," he mumbled, suddenly shy with her in a way
he had never been before.
"S'okay," she murmured, studying him intently, catching
everything.
Mulder tried to conceal his discomfiture by fussing.
Not meeting her seeking gaze, he took her suit coat and folded it
into a makeshift pillow, then slipped it behind her back. Next,
taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket he dabbed at the
small cuts on her throat and upper torso. Thankfully, the
wounds appeared superficial. Throughout his ministrations,
his eyes never strayed above the delicate line of her jaw.
"Talk to me, Mulder."
The husky request jerked him to attention. He raised his
eyes and found them locked on hers. His face had somehow
wandered dangerously close to his partner's.
When he spoke, he almost didn't recognize his voice. It
sounded raw, unformed to his ears. "I think I've said enough for
one night, don't you?"
Scully watched him, her eyes wary but warm, considering
his words. Then, slowly she shook her head. "No. There's still a
lot to be said. By both of us."
Mulder swallowed hard, wishing he could erase the panic
and embarrassment from his features. Why at moments like this did
he always have the sensation that those laser blue eyes of her
penetrated far deeper inside him than he would have liked? "Not
tonight."
After a moment, she nodded, touching his forearm lightly
with her hand. "Not tonight. But soon."
He nodded in return, ridiculously thankful for the reprieve.
"Soon."
Their eyes held, unspoken questions in each pair. Finally,
Mulder broke the contact. But not before he brought his hand to
her cheek. After holding it there a moment, he turned away with a
regretful twist of his lips.
Ever so faintly in the distance, he could make out the
sharp metallic whine of sirens. He thought he had never heard as
lovely a sound in his entire life.
THE END
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