Summary: What happened from the time of Scully's phone call on Friday to the
time Mulder wakes up on Sunday and beyond.
Spoilers: Demons (yes another one), mention of Our Town
Rating: PG-13
Category: V, A, UST
Surgeon General Warning: I'm ignoring the cancer arc. It's a fabrication, so I'm
not 'believing the lie'
Disclaimer: I won't infringe. Now, go and write an entire
SEASON just like Demons, and I'll be happy :)
Dedication: This one is for Summer, the best Mulder voice I know. You taught me
a lot--thanks :)
Archive as you please, but Mulder Torture gets first crack at it

Comments: vmoseley@fgi.netvmoseley@fgi.net

Letting the Demons Go (1/5)
By Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net

"So, where are you calling from, Mulder?" Scully asks in that
'Sister Mary Dana' voice she has. The one that tells me to eat less red meat,
stop using salt, and cut down on the porn before I really screw up my eyesight.
I usually ignore her when her voice gets that tone, but tonight, it rubs the
wrong way.
"I'm at home, MOM," I emphasize the 'mom' part. Sometimes,
she really does think she's my mother. Or my keeper. I don't
know which is worse.
"Then why are you calling about the Houston file?" she fires back
at me with that speed of light interrogation method I've come to
know and love. Love--when it's used on anyone but me.
"Because I figured I'd look it over. I mean, the game comes on
later, and I had a little time. . ." I'm fidgeting and I can tell she knows it.
She had threatened me within an inch of my life ("I can still shoot you in the
OTHER shoulder, Mulder") if I didn't lay off this weekend. She should lay off.
And not just this weekend. She needs some time--a vacation. Some time when she
isn't worried about me.
"Mulder, even if I could answer your question, I wouldn't. You
need to spend the next 48 hours forgetting about our jobs,
forgetting the office, forgetting about the X files." Oh, God, now the 'doctor
is in' voice is taking over. It never ceases to amaze me how Scully can deny the
existence of channeling spirits when she's such a perfect example, all to
herself.
"But there is nothing on TV." I hate this. She gets to play 'doctor' to my
'whinny nine year old'. I don't need this shit. Not really.
"Rent a video. Call a 900 number. Blow up an inflatable woman
and give yourself a headache. Just forget about the office. And that's an
order," she says--and for a second I think she almost believes that I'll do as
I'm told. Sheez, what a chump she can be.
"You're boring me, Scully. I'm going to bed," I finally figure out a way to dig
myself out of this hole of a conversation I've dug for myself.
"Sweet dreams, Mulder. See you Monday morning."
Ah, yes. Now I remember why I put up with the snide comments about my sexual
urges, the way she bosses me around, the way she deflates my ego. God,
sometimes, the woman's voice is pure silk when she speaks.
"G'night, Scully. Sweet dreams."
I really did want to go over the Houston file, but that idea is now thrown to
the winds. I can't stand sitting in this apartment when there is nothing to keep
my mind occupied. In desperation, I pick
up my mail that has been piling up since Nixon left office and try
and convince myself that I'm not the pack rat my parents turned out
to be.
Bills. Several bills. Some bills in white envelopes with angry little red
borders peeking through the cloudy windows. Shit, how long
has it been since I paid the VISA account? Too long, obviously. I really should
consider retaining an accountant. Or a bill payer. Or maybe moan about it in
front of Scully when I'm coming off a bad
case and see if she'll volunteer to take them off my hands. Yeah,
much cheaper.
More bills. Publisher's Clearinghouse. Geez, I need to do this
more than once a year. A letter that fell off the top of the pile and landed in
my lap first now peers at me from under the mess I've
made. A hand addressed letter.
The return is Providence and for a second I wonder who the hell in Rhodes Island
would be writing me when almost everyone I know
either calls or e-mails. I rip open the letter and pull out the two sheets.
The letter is on 'writing paper' as my mother used to call it. The fancy stuff
with a border and watermarked. Nice. The handwriting
is feminine, almost artistic. The loops aren't closed and I know that means
something, but I'm too engrossed in the words on the page
to allow my mind to work on the analysis.
Her name is Amy Cassandra. She's been married for 39 years, next
July. Her husband David is a wonderful man, but he just doesn't understand. I'm
getting a sick feeling in my stomach and I try to remember if any of the
'ladies' I've had late night 'talks' with have been named Amy. Then the letter
settles down into familiar territory.
"I was abducted first when I was a little girl. I remember now that
it was the summer I was 9 years old." UFO abduction. No wonder
she wrote me. The boys down at the Magic Bullet have been
writing my address on the men's room walls again. Damn, Frohike.
Ever since I convinced Scully to change to an unlisted phone
number, he's been vowing his revenge. This was probably his idea.
But the more I read the letter, the more interesting it gets. Amy has never had
clear memories of her abduction. This has changed
recently. Just a year ago, she underwent a new 'treatment' for her repressed
memories. A bit unconventional, but it's making
tremendous breakthroughs. Now, she has to deal with the things
she is remembering.
She got my name from a 'friend' and decided it would be safest to
write to me and let me contact her. She included her phone number
at the bottom of the letter.
I finish the letter and stare at my phone. It's early. Only 7:30. Even a woman
who has been married for 39 years is likely to be
awake at this hour. As long as her husband isn't the jealous type--
The phone rings twice and is connected. I introduce myself to the female voice
on the other end. It's Amy, and she is delighted I called. She had almost given
up hope--she wrote me over three
weeks ago. I apologize, make up an excuse that sounds plausible,
ask what I can do to help her. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm promising to
meet her in Providence in the morning.
It's warm as I leave my apartment in the early hours. I didn't waste too much
energy on sleep. It's highly overrated, anyway. I was
doing my morning four miles while the trucks were still delivering
the morning Post to the paperboys. I wolfed down an English
muffin with some of Mrs. Scully's strawberry jam (at least one of
the Scully women loves me) and threw some clothes in an overnight
bag. Who knows, I might stop over in Greenwich and fix that
kitchen drawer Mom asked me to look at. When was that?
Christmas? It's now April. That must be a new world's record for
me.
The ride to Providence is not as boring as I remembered. Here I
am, taking a busman's holiday. I drive 1000 miles some weeks, and that's good
weeks. Most of the cases we manage to pick up are in remote locations. Dudley,
Arkansas is not the site of an
international airport, alert the media. So we fly to the cheapest hub (ever
thoughtful of those precious tax dollars) and then rent the
same blue Taurus to drive to the locale of choice. So here I am, on
my day off, driving my blue Taurus up I-95 toward Providence, RI.
I should have taken Scully's advice and called the 900 number.
Except phone sex can get so tiring since you have to do all the
work yourself.
Scully. She's gonna kill me when she finds out where I'm going.
I've decided--and rightly so--not to bother her with this. There are several
reasons. One, she wants me to 'relax' this weekend. Yeah, right. The amount of
drugs required would put a strain on the
black market. Two, this is an abduction case. She hates
those--again, rightly so. Three, Amy asked for me specifically
when I called. No mention of a partner.
I know that last one is lame. I'm sure if I'd told Amy that I was bringing my
partner, she wouldn't have objected. But damn it, I
really don't want to screw up Scully's weekend, just because I was bored.
Besides, what she doesn't know can't hurt her. If I just
keep telling myself that, I might someday come to believe it.
It's not hard to find the Cassandra house. Mr. David Cassandra
opens the door. He's about my height, bearded, graying, and
looking like he'd do anything 'for the little woman' but he'd just as soon not
be doing this. I introduce myself and suddenly, I'm in the living room having
tea.
Amy reminds me of one of my aunts--Aunt Rose. Timid at first,
but she quickly warms to the room. She's not a looker--probably
never was, but David thinks otherwise, I'm sure. She's got a quiet strength that
I can see in the way she stands, holds a tea cup,
answers a question. No, she remembers nothing of the actual abductions. They all
took place at the same location--the house
were she grew up.
I'm asking about the 'treatment'. "Dr. Goldstein--he's been a
Godsend! Why, without his treatments, I don't think I could have remembered any
of this." Oh, boy, I'm thinking, I can't _wait_ to
meet the good Dr. Goldstein. And what are all those experimental
drugs doing in your medicine cabinet, Dr. Goldstein? Last time I looked at MY
degree in psychology, I wasn't allowed to prescribe anything. Not even aspirin.
Now, my curiosity is starting to take over everything. I've got to know more
about this treatment. I ask Amy, or Mrs. Cassandra as
I've been calling her in deference to her age and her husband who is watching me
like a hawk, if she could arrange for me to meet Dr. Goldstein. She is delighted
and trots off to phone him immediately.
David sits there for a moment, still quiet. Finally, he gets an expression on
his face that I've come to recognize as someone who
has had just about enough of something and he speaks. "I'm not
too sure I 'like' Dr. Goldstein, Agent Mulder."
I bet.
I ask him to elaborate. He sighs, then looks at the doorway his wife went
through, making sure she isn't about to walk in on our little
side discussion. "Amy was in a bad way, no doubt about it, when
she decided to see a psychologist. He was recommended by a
friend of Amy's. I was glad she was seeing a professional. But
these . . . these 'states' she goes into, these trances--I'm afraid for her.
They're so erratic. And the pain she in--it's so intense. I've never seen her in
so much pain in my life. It frightens me. I called Goldstein immediately, I was
going to take her to the emergency
room. But before I could get through to him, she came out of it.
And she felt fine, or so she told me. Amy's not one for pain, but
she told me she couldn't remember any pain. Just the memories.
She begged me to let her continue and so I did. But I don't have to like it. No
sir, I don't have to like it."
I want to ask more about the 'trances' but Amy has returned and
informs me that the 'doctor is in' and we could go see him right
away. David starts to get up, but Amy stops him. "I'll take Agent Mulder, dear.
I know you wanted to work in the garden. We'll be
back soon and I'll fix us a nice late lunch, just the three of us." David's face
shows he's not really happy about this turn of events,
but he forces a smile, kisses his wife on the cheek and leaves for the back of
the house.
Amy and I walk out to the front yard and I open my passenger side
door to allow her to get in the car. I feel a little like 'Driving Miss Daisy',
but I figure Scully won't be as worried if she knew I was escorting senior
citizens on doctor visits. Real Boy Scout stuff.
Do my Mom proud.
The doctor's office is just up the road, in a suburb (Rhodes Island is big
enough for suburbs?), set in a little medical strip mall. Amy is talking the
whole time, how she never knew why she had such a
fear of small places, how she never realized until recently why she
has to have a nightlight on all the time. How now she understands
why she and David were never able to conceive a child.
The pain this woman has lived with is driving stakes in my heart. It hurts to
listen to her calmly catalog all the horrors of her existence and how she now
knows why those horrors are present. It's too
much like clinical--and I always dreaded clinical as a student. Give
me a psychopath any old day instead of digging around in the mind
of a perfectly normal everyday person just trying to cope with the
pain. It's too damn much like looking in the mirror.
Gratefully, we are at the office now, and Amy is too busy making
sure I park in the right spot to continue with her story.
The office looks like a thousand of these places. It could be a psychologist, a
neurosurgeon, a chiropractor. Dr. Charles
Goldstein. It doesn't look like he's doing bad. Then again, it
doesn't look like he's making money hand over fist, either. His receptionist
smiles at Amy and then buzzes the doctor on the
intercom. She gets up to usher us to the door, but Amy waves her
back, saying she knows the way.
Dr. Goldstein is a little man. Only 5' 8", 5' 10" tops. Not NBA material, that's
for sure. And old. This guy's diplomas look hand printed. One from William and
Mary. Well, if you have to go domestic-- Still, I'm impressed.
He shakes my hand. Amy has neglected to mention my occupation. She's calling me
a 'friend' who is interested in his therapy. He seems overjoyed at the prospects
of another patient. I decide it might be useful to play along.
He takes us both into a 'treatment room'. To tell the truth, this place looks
more like a dentist's office and I get that queasy feeling in my stomach that I
always associate with a trip to my dentist. My thoughts on my stomach are
interrupted by Dr. Goldstein talking to me.
"Is there something you feel you need to remember, Mr. Mulder? Something in your
past that you can't explain? I can help you. I
can help you access those memories. Just as I've helped Amy and
many others like her." He's smiling and he reminds me of a helpful gnome, eager
to grant my every wish.
Scully is really gonna kill me now. But then, curiosity killed the cat. I
consider my options for a full two seconds and tell the little gnome, yes, I
there are some things I want to remember.
He smiles. He's so happy to be of service. I'm not looking
forward to his bill. He reaches into the glass enclosed cabinet and pulls out a
small bottle of some liquid and a syringe. I balk. "I don't take drugs." My
voice is low and full of warning.
"Tut, tut, my boy. This is harmless. You will be experiencing stimulation of the
optic nerve through a strobe light attached to a blindfold. This is merely a
sedative. Very mild. Used primarily on small animals. Your dosage is the same as
would be given to a house cat." Again, the cat analogy. I swallow, but the curiosity is taking
control again. Damn, I really have to curb that thing someday.
I can feel the needle prick the skin on my hip and can't help but think back to
all the times I've gotten stuck in the last couple of years. Antibiotics for
abrasions, sedatives, pain killers, not to mention those damned anti-virals I
was on forever.
This stuff is STRONG. I feel my knees start to buckle almost
before Dr. Goldstein has removed the needle from my backside.
My heart is pounding as he helps me sit in the dentist chair.
Pounding? I thought this stuff was a sedative. It doesn't feel like a sedative.
Oh my god, Scully. What the hell have I done?
Flashes of light. Bright. Orange to yellow to white. Hot colored lights searing
into my eyes, leaving traces on my retinas. I slam my eyes shut against them,
but they cut through my eyelids like fire through ice. My eyes are tearing--or
am I crying against the pain?
I don't know. I've lost all awareness of anything around me. I
have no sound, no feeling. Only sight. Only the lights.
I see only the lights for a long time and then there is intense pain, right at
my forehead. IT HURTS! It fucking hurts so bad--I'm
going to pass out, I'm going to-- Samantha?
She's laying in the bed in the loft of the summer house.
"Fox. I'm scared."
I can hear them. My parents. They're fighting. They always wait
until they think we're asleep to fight. They hold in their anger until at times
I think one or the other will explode into a ball of fire right before my eyes.
But they never do. Still, when they think I'm
asleep, I listen. I listen now.
"What are they saying?" Sam asks, in that scared 8 year old voice.
I can't hear, so I shrug an answer. I creep forward to the edge of
the loft and look over.
I wake up in the back of a car. I don't recognize it, it's not my car. I try to
move, but my head hurts too much and I just lie back and
listen to the voices in the front seat. It's David at the wheel, Amy
in the passenger seat.
"We should be taking him to a hospital," David is saying, and I can
hear the tension and anger in his voice.
"He'll be fine," Amy assures him, but her voice doesn't sound as confident as
her words.
"What if he isn't?" David asks in return. At least someone is
concerned for my welfare.
"We'll deal with that if it happens. Just get to the house. He'll be safe
there. We'll be safe there."
Oh God, Scully, I've screwed up again.
The flashes subside a little as the car rolls to a stop, but I'm too weak to do
much more than lean on poor old David as he half
carries, half drags me into this really dilapidated farm house. He
gets me as far as the parlor. There is no furniture here, he leans me against
the wall as gently as he can. Amy is ignoring both of us.
She's staring at something on the wall, or maybe it's something in
her mind that she's seeing. She's smiles, then her face becomes
ravaged with pain. Tears are streaming down her face.
FLASH. The lights are back. Amber, beige, bright yellow, gold. Not so bright
this time, not as many. Sam, in her nightgown, coming toward me.
"What are they saying, Fox?"
"I can't hear," I answer this time. I'm still looking over the edge. My mother
gets up off the couch and storms into the bedroom. I
watch my father chase after her. This is my chance. I can get down and get
closer. They'll close the door, but I'll still be able to hear more than I can
now. Carefully, I climb down the ladder, making
sure I don't stumble, don't make a noise. Sam is looking down
from the edge now, her face showing me how frightened she is even
if she didn't keep telling me so. I smile at her--I'd like to reassure her. But
to tell the truth, I'm scared, too.
BANG!
I open my eyes as my breath catches in my chest. Wide-eyed, I
stare around the room, seeing just a glimpse of movement. I turn
my head, and see David fall to the floor just under the window.
Blood. Blood everywhere. His back was turned, he didn't see it coming. Oh my
God, where did the shot come from?
BANG!
I twist around and see Amy fall. When she hits the ground, a gun
falls from her grasp. Blood spurts from a hole in her chest. I scramble forward,
but my legs won't carry me very far. By the time
I get to her, she's dead. I pick up the gun, checking my own
holster at the same time. No need. It's my gun. Amy must have
taken it from me while the lights were flashing in my mind.
I put the gun in my holster, rock back on my heels. I crawl over
and check David--I was right, he's dead, too. Why would this
sweet old lady kill her husband? Why would she kill herself? My
mind is reeling, I can't think. I want to call Scully. I need to call Scully.
I fumble around my pockets, searching for my phone. It must have fallen out when
David was getting me out of the car. I have to get
to a phone. I have to call the police, report the murder, the suicide. I have to
call Scully. I have to--
I get up on my feet and stumble to the door. By chance, Amy has
left her keys in the lock in her haste to get me in the house. I grab them and
head for their car. The flashes come again.
I'm standing in the living room, trying to hear through the bedroom door. Mom is
screaming. I hear her say 'not my baby, not my
baby' over and over. Dad is screaming back, calling her names.
I've never heard my father talk like this before. "Whore, you
fucking whore, what am I supposed to do about this?" I jump
back, startled at the words he's using. I bump into the coffee table and I'm
afraid they'll hear me and come out.
The car stops because I've stomped on the brakes and I realize I have no idea
where I am. I'm shaking. I can't believe I've been behind the wheel--I should be
crashed into a ditch by now. The thought makes me sick. I wrench open the door
and run to the shoulder, falling to my knees in time to toss my breakfast on the
gravel at the side of the road. Even when the English muffin with strawberry jam
and the three cups of coffee are now a temporary modern art work on the
pavement, my stomach won't stop. Dry heaves. Nothing to come up. The noon day
sun is hot and beating down on my head and back and I'm waiting for the blood. I
know I've ripped my guts open by now.
Finally, it stops. Blessing upon blessings. I just sit back, unable to move for
a long time. I shouldn't be driving. I need to rest, lie down. I need to call
Scully.
I look up and notice a sign for a motel not a block down the road.
Close enough. I figure I can make it that far.
The flashes give it a rest long enough for me to check in. The desk clerk stares
at me--I look down at my shirt and see the blood.
"Nose bleed," I lie. He shrugs and throws me the room key.
As I walk past the car to the room, I notice that either David or
Amy has put my overnight bag in the backseat. I grab it and open
the door to the room, just before another wave of sickness hits me.
I make it into the bathroom for another round of dry heaves.
When I'm too weak to walk, I crawl into the room, not even
making it into the bed and darkness becomes my blanket.
end of part one
*****
Vickie
Stand up for what is right,
Even if you stand alone.
quote from a poster
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Letting The Demons Go (2/5) By Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net
"Fox."
I open my eyes and I'm laying in my bed in the summer house. The loft is dark,
it's night outside. Samantha is in her nightgown.
"Fox, I'm scared." She's leaning over me, motions me up to look
over the edge, down to the living room below us.
I start to get up and I see--myself? I'm watching myself, but I'm not me, not my
own age. I'm a kid. I recognize the shirt I'm wearing--I wore it to bed because
it was getting too small. But that was back in the summer of '73.
I walk over to the edge to look over--
And wake up on the floor. I'm soaked with a cold sweat. It's dark and it's not
my floor I'm waking up on. I'm laying next to a bed, and I use it to get up, but
a blinding headache drops me to the edge
of the bed. My shirt feels stiff, I look down and in the sliver of light from
between the heavy curtains, I see a dark stain on my shirt.
Black on white. It smells like blood.
There is something in my pocket. I pull it out and see that it's a room key. I'm
in a motel in Providence, Rhodes Island.
What the hell am I doing here?
And where is Scully?
The light from the window is getting a little stronger, and the pounding in my
head won't tolerate electric light, so I fumble for the phone in the half
darkness. My fingers dial Scully's number on auto-pilot. I could dial her number
in my sleep. Come to think of it, I have dialed it in my sleep before.
Two rings.
Four rings.
God, please, Scully, pick up. Pick up the damned phone. "Hello."
Her voice is so scratchy. She was sound asleep. Ordinarily, I'd expect a couple
of good jibes for waking her up, but not this time.
"Scully." It's the most my mouth will form right now. Oh God,
my hands won't stop shaking.
"Mulder? Is that you? Do you know what time it is?"
Scully, I don't even know where the hell I am, I sure as hell don't know what
time it is! But I'm more politic than that. Honestly, I couldn't say all those
words right now if I tried. "No, what time is it?"
"Almost five o'clock. Where are you?"
OK, I can sort of handle that question. I look at the room key again. "I'm at a
motel in Providence."
"Rhodes Island?!" Geez, for a masters in physics you'd think she'd be quicker on
the uptake. But then, it is five in the morning.
"Yeah. And Scully, there's blood all over me." Just want to toss that one in,
since it's what's causing my hand to shake like I've got a bad case of palsy.
"Mulder, are you hurt?" Is that Dr. Scully, or Scully who sat by me in Alaska?
It sounds like a combination of both.
"No. At least I don't think so. Scully--I don't think it's my blood." It's only
now, speaking the words, that their full impact hit me.
What the hell is happening to me?
"OK. Mulder, listen to me very carefully." It's that voice she uses when she's
sure that either a straight jacket or a trip to the ER are very close on my
horizon. "Tell me the name of the motel. I'm
leaving right now, I'll be there as soon as I can. And
Mulder--STAY PUT!"
Not a problem, Scully. I couldn't go anywhere if I wanted.
I hang up the phone and lay back down on the bed for a minute,
just to see if the shakes will stop. They aren't stopping. And now, I"m getting
cold. Really, really cold. I can't stop shaking and now my damned teeth are
chattering, too. This is not good. I feel sick
to my stomach, and realize that my stomach is pretty sore anyway.
I have that awful taste in my mouth and my throat burns like it does when I've
had the flu. How long will it take Scully to get here?
I fell asleep, I guess. I wake up and I'm no warmer for being under all the
blankets on the bed. I lay there, in the quiet and hear a shower start somewhere
in one of the adjoining rooms. A shower.
All hot water. Steam. It sounds like a little piece of heaven. But it means
getting out of bed.
I lay there, getting ready to do the hard part. With a quick flip of
my wrist, the covers are off me and I jerk up to sit on the edge.
The whole room swims in front of my eyes. Shit. I'm so dizzy.
How long have I been sick? I realize that there is at least 10 feet between me
and the shower stall. Might as well be ten miles at this moment. I sit very
still and make the room come into focus. Then, slowly, I get up and walk into
the bathroom.
I sit on the toilet and pull off my shoes. Next my shirt, which I handle like
it's got the plague. Who knows, maybe it does. My undershirt, then pants, boxers
and socks go next. It's so damned
cold without any clothes on. It hurts, it's so cold. I reach over and turn on
the hot water. It takes a few seconds to warm up, and I can only shiver while I
wait. Finally, I feel the steam coming off the stream of water, and I get in.
Damn it, it's hot! But after the initial scalding period, it's feels good. In a
few minutes, though, the good wears off and I'm back
to feeling cold. And dizzy. Damnation, I hate being dizzy. I can't stand any
longer--my knees are giving out and Scully will shoot my
ass if she walks in and I've busted my head open in the damned
bathroom. So I do the only intelligent thing I've done all morning (besides call
my partner)--I lower myself to a crouch, conserving as much body heat as
possible and making a smaller target for the
stream of water coming from the shower head. Now, there is very
little of me not being hit by the water. I just pray there's an artesian well of
hot springs under this motel, or this idea is limited at best.
I think I'm going to write the owners, because the water is still hot
and I hear Scully calling out my name. Their hot water heater must
be the size of the state. Scully comes in and finds me. I tell her I can't get
warm. She informs me immediately that I'm in shock.
OK, I'll buy that. Now what? She turns off the water and gives me
a towel--my mind flashes on the number of times my partner has
seen me in my all together and the very limited number of times the tables have
been reversed--and orders me out of the tub. She goes
to gather up all the blankets.
As I walk out of the bathroom, Scully meets me with a blanket. She wraps me up
like a mummy and makes me sit on the end of the bed. Here it comes. Dr. Scully,
Medicine Woman. I never had to put up with this shit when I was partnered with
Jerry or Reggie. But then, neither one of them could tell the symptoms of rigor
mortis, much less a concussion. Trade offs. Life is so full of trade offs.
It never ceases to amaze me how the woman can be such a walking contradiction.
Here she's just wrapped me in the blanket, only to
open the damn thing up, letting in all the cold air and letting out all the
warm. But I've learned my lesson long ago. I suffer in silence.
It's her usual Mulder's-done-something-lethal-to-himself exam.
My neuro responses make her pause for a moment. Her own little
version of the popular 'uh-huh' that most doctors use when they
don't want to tell you what they're thinking. She spends a long
time examining my head--don't knock on it, Scully--I'd rather not discover that
it's hollow. All the time she's asking me if I hurt myself. Am I sure? Yeah, as
much as I'm sure of anything right
now, I'm sure I didn't hurt myself.
Now come the Double Jeopardy questions.
What day is it? Not a clue. She tells me it's Sunday. OK, which Sunday, I
wonder, but I don't express that in words. Last thing I remember is talking to
her Friday night.
Did I take anything?--I know she means those sleeping pills the
damned doctor at NWGMC keeps pawning off on me. Damned if I
know. I don't think so.
Was I alone? Shit, it sure looks like it. The bed hadn't been slept in when I
woke up on the floor. Most 'women of the evening'
prefer to use the bed--even when they get kinky. And the room
doesn't have any 'amorous' odors. I think I'm safe there. Next question.
Where's my weapon?
Shit.
Where IS my weapon?
She finds it, in the overnight bag--I packed for this trip? She checks the
ordinance. Two rounds fired.
Two rounds fired?
Two rounds unaccounted for because I sure as hell don't remember firing my
weapon.
Blood on my shirt. Two rounds fired. I'm so fucked up I can't remember anything
past 48 hours ago.
I'm feel sick.
Scully is talking. Something about going to a hospital. Something about
encephalitis. I'm not listening.
I have to find out what I've done.
I tell her we have to find out if I've committed a crime. Or if my weapon was
used in the commission of a crime. She's going on
about aneurysms and 'dropping me in a second'. So what? Might save the state of
Rhodes Island the price of lengthy death penalty appeals.
God, I want to throw up.
I finally override her immediate need to call in the medical community cavalry.
I find a set of keys with the nameplate 'Amy' on them. They aren't her keys.
Sure as hell aren't mine. Amy
might just know something. If we can find her. She tells me to get
dressed--guess my neuro responses weren't THAT bad, and she
goes to find out what she can from the motel office.
I walk past the shirt, laying on the dresser. I stare at it, hoping it will jog
something in my memory. I've got a goddamn fucking photographic memory and it's
not doing me a damned bit of good
right now. How could I forget something like this?
Easy. I've done it before. At least this time, I'm not catatonic. Three weeks.
Three fucking weeks in the hospital. Dad came
every day, Mom told me. He came every day--right until the day I
woke up. After that, he called me twice, just to see how I was
doing. He wouldn't come see me. Mom said he was busy with the
police, the investigation. Yeah, right, sure. I bet.
I don't even realize that I'm biting my lip until I taste the blood on my
tongue. I gotta stop that. Scully is worried enough without me dragging my past
into this. Neither one of us needs that land mine
to stroll through now.
I dress in jeans and a tee shirt and go out to find Scully.
My car isn't in the parking lot. How the hell did I get here?
Scully is coming down the walk from the office. I checked in
yesterday--yesterday? About noon. OK, how did I get here? By
car, apparently. Damn good thing Scully went to the FBI
Academy, because right now, no one would ever guess that I had.
The desk clerk in the office remembers me from my check-in. I
forgot to fill that in, so he went out later and got the number. He has the
number of the plates on the car I was driving.
Scully is looking around the lot and I'm telling her that I don't see my car
when she spots the one matching the registration.
I hand her the keys, they open the car door. Big surprise. She reaches in the
glove box for the registration. David and Amy Cassandra. Address here in
Providence. I've never heard of David
or Amy Cassandra before in my life. As far as I can remember.
It's not a far drive to the Cassandra residence. All the way over, Scully
decides to 'educate' me on the horrors of encephalitis. Viral brain infection.
Transmitted by mosquitoes in warm summer
months--it's only April, Scully, for God's sakes. She's quick to remind me
that's not the only way it's transmitted. Headaches,
chills, vomiting--my stomach is not setting well and mentioning that word is no
help. Seizures. Suddenly, she has my attention. Personality changes. OK, now she
has my FULL attention. But
later. I'll go the nearest hospital and let them take their pound of flesh and
four quarts of blood and then I'll either go home or stay there till Scully
let's me out.
Or go to jail.
God, if I could just remember SOMETHING!
It's a nice house. I probably should remember it. I don't. Nothing is coming
back to me. We walk up to the door, and for a moment I
kid myself into believing that this is just another case--just another X file.
Too bad _I'm_ the X this time. Unexplained.
I knock. I usually do. Something about Scully's knock--she 'raps'.
I pound. I want someone to open the fucking door and right this fucking minute.
But no one comes and I start to put the key in the lock--and the
door opens before us.
A young woman is standing in jeans and a denim shirt, with a
feather duster in her hand. She eyes me suspiciously--she's seen the keys and
figured out what I was doing. Scully speaks.
"Are you Amy?"
Turns out, she's not Amy. She's the housekeeper. Amy and David
aren't at home. Then the housekeeper asks who we are. What, it's somehow
suspicious for two casually dressed people to show up on
a doorstep at 8:30 on a Sunday morning and almost break and
enter? Geez, this girl is paranoid. Scully flips ID and she let's us in.
We ask about David and Amy. Apparently they are out. She can't
reach them.
There's a painting on the mantle. A farmhouse. I recognize it, and that alone is
unusual for this morning. But I can't place it--it just looks familiar.
According to the housekeeper, Amy Cassandra is a painter. And
her only subject is that house. She opens a parlor door and there
are dozens of paintings--all of that house. A house here in Rhodes Island. Just
a few miles away from my parents summer house.
Scully is not happy that we're not going to an emergency room, but
I have to see that house. I don't have any feelings about it one way or another,
but it's the only familiar thing I've come across in the last 4 hours and I want
to know if it contains some answers.
As we drive to the house, Scully asks me how I'm feeling. I decide
not to be a bastard about it, I don't tell her 'I'm fine'. I don't know how I'm
feeling. I'm sore. A little tired. Confused. But other
than that, I'm not feeling bad. I just don't know.
The house looks just like Amy's paintings--give or take a few
decades. The place is in ruins, no one has lived here for a long
time. Scully stops the car and we get out.
The sun is bright, the house is whitewashed and glares against the
blue sky. We walk toward it--
FLASH!
Pain! Incredible pain is tearing through my head and I'm falling and then
They're fighting again. My parents. Don't they know how much
that frightens Samantha? Am I the only one who considers how she
feels? I climb down the stairs because they've taken the fight into
the bedroom. I'm just beginning to understand that fighting is not
what a parent's bedroom is supposed to be for. My father sees me.
I stop dead in my tracks. I wait for the belt that I know will be coming, but he
gives me a look, almost an apology with his eyes
and he slams the door. I turn to go back to Sam and see a man.
Standing in the hallway. He's smoking and the smoke encircles
him, like a shroud. He speaks to me. He calls me a little spy.
"Mulder?" I feel Scully's hands on my shoulders. My eyes are
shut, I open them and the bright sunlight is tempered by Scully's
shadow over my face. I'm lying on the ground, on my back. I have
no idea how I got here.
"Mulder, are you all right?" I'm struggling to get up, and finally Scully
realizes that she's holding me down. She helps me sit up.
"What happened?" At least this time I have an eye witness.
"You grabbed your head like you were in intense pain. Then you collapsed. I
think you lost consciousness. You were completely unresponsive." Nice, clinical.
Thank god Scully isn't one to fall apart in an emergency. Come to think of it, I
take that for granted
a little too much.
"What was it?" Hey, the woman graduated third in her class in med school. This
should be a piece of cake.
"I think it was a seizure of some sort. A physiological disturbance
in the brain."
This is not what I was hoping to hear.
"Do you remember what happened?"
"I remember what I saw. I had a vivid flashback to my childhood."
"How are you feeling?" A nickel for all the times either of us have uttered
those words. OK, a penny. I'd still be rich beyond my
wildest dreams.
"Good. Really. I feel good." I'm not bullshitting her. I feel absolutely great.
No headache, the soreness in my stomach is like a fading dream. I feel on top of
the world. And now I'm curious as
hell about this house.
Enter Scully the Destroyer. What is the difference between a pitbull and my
partner?--One's a red head. "Mulder. You are NOT 'Good'. This is very serious.
You need to be checked out."
I wonder if seeing me unlock the door and walk into the house has clued Scully
to the fact that I'm ignoring her. Yep, she's following. She probably figures
we'll do a walk through and then she'll take
me to the nearest hospital and let the nurses line up to stick needles in my
ass. Big, thick, dull needles. Scully is not happy with me right now.
I do a look see upstairs. Typical old farm house. Two bedrooms.
A dormer once converted to a bathroom with a big claw footed tub.
No furnishings. Nothing I can recognize, nothing I remember. I
hear Scully calling my name and I head down the stairs.
Scully is crouching over something. As I come closer, I realize it's a body.
Dead. "She's been shot in the heart." It doesn't take a rocket scientist to
figure out that we've probably found Amy Cassandra. And over by the window, also
shot through the heart, is David, her husband.
I should be losing it, right? I should be blubbering on my hands and knees,
begging Scully and the universe to forgive me of this hideous crime. Two people
are dead. It all points to me. I should take my gun and put a bullet in my head
right here, in front of Scully, before she can stop me.
But I don't feel remorse. I don't feel guilt. I know exactly how guilt feels and
there's none of that old familiar pain. I'm numb.
I'm empty of all emotion save one--total confusion.
The 'good' feeling is pretty much gone now. Scully has called the locals out,
notified them of the crime scene. The ME has been alerted, too. Naturally, the
detective calls enroute, makes sure that we are planning on being there when he
arrives. Scully agrees, reluctantly. She's more convinced than ever that I need
to be
checked out, if only because of my reaction.
I have no reaction. I'm not scared, at least I don't think so. I'm not
horrified, though I probably should be. Hell, I don't think I've ever been to a
crime scene that has affected me less. Curious, yes. I'm curious. But I don't
have anywhere to start, don't have any
piece of the puzzle that I can fit together. If I'd been handed a piece of paper
and a pen, there is no way I could have sketched out
a profile on this one. I'm waiting. Hoping someone, Scully,
anyone, will give me a clue.
end of part two
*****
Vickie
Stand up for what is right,
Even if you stand alone.
quote from a poster
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Letting the Demons Go (3/5)
By Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
Scully practically straps me in the front seat of the car while the team starts
the investigation. Then I watch her as she saunters off to 'oversee'. Is she
always like this? I've never noticed. By now, I'm usually up to my eyeballs,
literally, in the details of the scene that I never notice what is going on
around me.
They remind me of ants--the forensics team. I used to lay on my stomach for
hours in our back yard at home and watch the ants burrowing into the sand. Four
of the ants carry empty gurney's
into the old house. Several minutes later, they return with black bags on them
and load them into the waiting ME wagons. Two
dead bodies. Just like the ants used to do.
Scully comes over and her voice is really starting to annoy me. It's her
'bedside manner' voice. She usually reserves it for times when I'm too out of it
to yell at her. Times when I'm coming out of a
coma or something. I hate that voice, it doesn't sound like her.
She tells me that the Detective in charge wants to talk to me.
Wow, that's a big surprise. These guys are a step above most of
the other locals we end up dealing with. Scully tells me, again in that voice,
that I don't have to talk to him--that she's already told him about my 'episode'
and that should cover me for now. I shake
my head no. I want to talk to the guy. I don't want to cover up anything. Even
my own lack of knowledge.
I tell her I need to talk to the guy. That as it looks now, two bodies dead, two
rounds from my gun missing, blood on my shirt--OJ
Simpson deja vu.
What a stark contrast they make. Scully, worried, concerned that even talking to
this guy might be too much for me. I'm sure she's decided I'm in shock again,
just from my lack of response to the scene. I'm not. I'm OK, physically. The
detective, his name is Curtiss, is looking at me like I've got Clyde Barkers
submachine
gun pointed at him. He's not ready to believe a word I say. To tell the truth, I
don't really blame the guy. But I also know that so far the evidence is
circumstantial. I need to know more.
Detective Curtiss wants to take me down to the station for
questioning. Scully wants to take me to the hospital for tests. Decisions,
decisions. Personally, I think the jail is my choice at this moment. A strip
search sounds better than blood drawn and poking
and prodding. But Scully wins. Curtiss is fuming silently. Funny, looks like I'm
not the only one that happens to. Still, the detective has the last laugh. I
have to ride in the squad car with him and after the hospital, we're going to
the jail. I hope Scully doesn't notice
the relief on my face as he escorts me over to the car.
It's not that I don't appreciate her worry. I do. I mean, there is no one else
in my life who gives a damn if I live or die. Mom would
mourn for a while, but I think she's pretty much resigned herself to
the fact that one of these days she'll get a knock at the door and
later the flag that covers my coffin. She probably doesn't think on
it much, but it wouldn't be a surprise to her. I know she doesn't
worry about it.
Scully, on the other hand, worries about it. And I guess I worry about it with
her, too. But with Scully, well, I don't know how close they came to planning
out my memorial service when I was considered dead in New Mexico, but from the
sounds of it, it was
all set. That has to shake you up a little. So I give her this. I let her worry.
It's just that sometimes, I'm grateful for things like unconsciousness or big
bully police detectives like Curtiss here
getting between us so I don't have to worry about her worrying
about me.
The trip to the hospital is quiet. This detective isn't an idiot. To interrogate
me, he'd have to read me my rights. And before we
know what's wrong--if I'm having seizures or not--any information
he'd get could be tossed out of court by any two-bit public
defender. So he's biding his time. He probably figures 'why rush
it'? He has the prime suspect under close scrutiny. It's not like
he's on a manhunt or anything.
I'm thankful for the silence. It beats the hell out of Scully asking
me how I am every five seconds. I know, I know, I do it to her.
We do it to each other. It's almost down to an involuntary muscle reflex. Blink.
Breath. Ask 'how are you'. Blink. On and on.
How am I? Actually, it's a pretty good question. I feel . . . well, normal sure
isn't the right word. I'm not in pain, not now at least. I'm not tired. I'm not
hungry. Not sad. Not angry. I'm just . . . not. Not anything. I wish I was
something. Anything. This void is almost worst than being sick. Because I don't
know what it means.
We pull up to the same hospital that Mom was at. Oh, good. Such
happy memories. Crying at her bedside. Knowing that I had
Samantha, or at least a missing link, in my hands and I let it slip away. Saying
'goodbye' even though Scully told me over and over
not to lose hope.
Oh, there were some bright moments, too. Sticking my gun in the Black Lunged
Bastard's gut comes to mind. Yeah, that one helped me get to sleep a number of
nights since then.
I wasn't there when Mom woke up. She called me and talked to me, but I wasn't
there. Story of my life. I miss all the Kodak moments.
Scully ushers me into the ER, leaving the detectives to cool their heels in the
waiting room. Bet they love that. But this is her turf now. And she is my 'next
of kin', so she even has legal standing. Next of kin, sometimes attending
physician, partner and confidante all rolled up in one five foot package. And
she packs a gun. Who needs a wife? From what I hear, married people don't have
sex, either.
Scully is talking to the ER doctor, flipping credentials (she's learned to keep
them with her now) and tells him what she
suspects. He mentions doing an Immunoblot and she smiles like he just offered
her a trip to Bermuda, all expenses paid. A nurse, a cute nurse, comes into the
cubicle with one of those little lab baskets that contain mostly needles and
empty tubes. By the time she's done, my blood is in most of the vials.
The doctor comes in, followed by Scully. He does a cursory exam--let's me keep
most of my clothes on, and pretty much
decides that I'm OK for now. So basically, I don't get a hospital
bed, I get to go over to the jail. How sick is it that I'm relieved by this turn
of events?
That doesn't satisfy my partner, however. Scully wants a CT scan,
and EEG and a bunch of other tests I've had before when really
whacked on the head. Well, there's a problem. This fine institution of medical
science is 'remodeling' their x-ray department and they
are down to one CT scan. And it's booked until Wednesday unless
it's an emergency. I'm sitting here, looking pretty much normal--I don't
qualify. Now, if I was writhing on the floor and foaming at
the mouth, they might be able to squeeze me in. I can see on her
face how much Scully would love it if I put on a little performance right then,
but I just can't in all honesty do it. I'm not a 'perform on demand' kind of
guy.
Detective Curtiss is relieved that I'm not getting admitted, Scully is pissed
that they won't fit me in for a scan and I just want to go somewhere and sit
where they're not likely to stick needles in me. Before we leave, Scully calls
down to the morgue and discovers
that they're just about ready to autopsy Amy.
Now, she's in a quandary. I know she wants to go down to that
autopsy. I also know that she doesn't want me to go to the jail
alone. I give her a grin, or what I hope passes for one and tell her I'll handle
the paperwork this time. It's as close as I can come to letting her know that
I'll be OK.
The ride to the jail is short. I'm just here for questioning, not an arrest. For
now. A uniformed officer escorts me to an
interrogation room and here I sit.
I try some old tricks that Weber taught me. I relax my breathing,
try for a trance. Maybe I can access some of the time I'm missing. Before I get
very far, the Detective Curtiss is back.
I have to admit, I like the guy's style. Not too much like mine, I tend to go
for the psych approach, but effective, none the less.
He's got a paper grocery bag in his hands. OK. I figure we're not
on a snipe hunt, so it's got to be evidence.
He asks me if I want to change my story. What story? I've said I don't remember.
He seems to want to believe that I'm not really
some homicidal maniac but just a normal FBI agent in the clutches
of some life threatening brain tumor or total nervous breakdown.
That I murdered those two people in a moment of complete insanity
and I won't get the death penalty--just a lobotomy.
I stick to the story. The truth as I know it. I don't remember.
My prints were in the house. More circumstantial evidence, but it
now begs a question. Even if I didn't kill them, why didn't I stop them from
being killed.
I know this line of thought isn't going to get me anywhere, so I ask what's in
the bag. My shirt. Of course. Bet that search warrant
took no time to get. They already have my weapon. Ballistics is checking it now
against the rounds found in the Cassandras.
I think he expected me to be surprised. Or maybe try to hide my
guilt. I disappoint him, I'm sure of it. He's not telling me anything I don't
already know--he's got nothing new. But it's enough to call
an arraignment. It's circumstantial, but it's enough to indict.
It's funny when you hear the Miranda card being recited and this
time it's being recited to you. So funny, I could just barely keep from crying.
Strip searches are not what they are cracked up to be. Thankfully, they allowed
me to forego the full body cavity search. Guess being
an officer of the law has some advantages, they aren't expecting me
to have drugs or a file stuck up where the sun don't shine.
Orange jumpsuits are NOT my color.
And I just want to go to my cell and go to sleep. Maybe if I sleep something
will come to me. More of that dream of whatever I had
at the farm house. Something that will tell me what happened
Saturday.
Scully is all righteous indignation when she sees me. I know she's just trying
to protect me, but I don't need it or want it this time. Not that I could do
anything to stop her.
But at least she has some good news. Or some news, whether
good or bad is a matter of opinion. Amy Cassandra had been
injected with the drug Ketamine. I've heard of it, it's making the rounds. It's
primarily a vet's drug, an anesthetic. But, as far too many of our young adults
are discovering, if injected into a human,
it produces strong hallucinations. It's like LSD only in most states it's still
legal and not that hard to get. I'm more than a little shocked to discover that
there are traces of it in MY bloodstream.
Scully is convinced that it was injected into me, too. But there is more. Amy
Cassandra had a small puncture wound, right at the top
of her forehead. It went all the way down to the derma mass of her brain.
Somebody has been drilling a hole in her head. Now that is dangerous.
Scully wants me released, but the detective isn't convinced, just yet. I don't
know that I'm convinced of anything, either, but I'm getting closer. And more
than anything, I know that if it can be found, the evidence to prove either my
guilt or my innocence, Scully will find
it. That thought alone gives me hope. She doesn't look happy, but
she accepts that for tonight, I'm probably safest as a jailbird.
I'm just getting settled in my cell when I hear a gunshot. The
guards assure us that everything is under control, but one of the inmates is
saying that a uniformed cop just shot himself in the head.
I don't know if it's true, but I hope so. It's means it wasn't Scully that was
involved.
I feel so helpless. I'm stuck here, no way out. I know Scully is doing her
damnedest to get me out as soon as possible, but I can't
help but think that this has all the markings of a very well executed set up.
Executed. That's a good word.
It's not escaped my notice that the dark forces always seem to leave
me alive. Even in New Mexico, there was plenty of time for me to
crawl into the rocks, to get away from the fire in the boxcar. So, if they
haven't killed me, maybe they are coming up with new and
more elaborate forms of getting me out of the way.
Involuntary commitment to a mental institution for the criminally insane sure
fits the bill. No martyr. No hero. Just a pathetic man who couldn't endure all
the pain in his life. Someone who was
always chasing shadows, and finally became a shadow himself.
Just like Bill Patterson.
Oh god.
I need to sleep. It's probably the most productive use of my time right now.
Scully is good, but she needs time to work. I can't help myself by sitting here
wallowing in self pity. And this cot is only slightly less comfortable than the
bed at the motel this morning.
Who knows when I really slept last.
This time the flashes come in my dreams. The fighting. I'm getting more of the
words they are saying now. Mom is crying, saying,
'she's my baby' over and over again. Dad is not just angry. He's angry
and--terrified. I can see that look. I remember that look.
When Sam fell and broke her collarbone, he had that same look all
the way to the ER. What would make my father that afraid?
I'm not sure at what point it comes to me, but suddenly, I know
that I didn't kill those two people. I had nothing to do with their deaths.
I have to tell Scully.
Only I don't have a tin cup.
One of the guards comes in and tells me politely to 'shut the fuck
up'. Several other inmates echo his request.
Why won't they just get Scully?
Another guard informs me that it's 'four in the fucking morning'
and they'll call her when it's daylight outside.
I don't think I can wait that long.
I need her here and I don't care if she takes me to the hospital and has a
hundred stupid tests run as long as I can leave at some point. The cinderblock
walls are cold and the blanket is too scratchy and
all I can think of are people I've known that have disappeared in
these places. People like Brad Wilczek, who's only crime was that
he didn't want to hand over a monster to society. It's so easy to disappear in
places like this.
My throat gives out long before I want it to. I end up sitting up the rest of
the night, waiting. I can see the shadows from a window at
the end of the hall and I can pretty much tell when it's sunrise. If Scully
doesn't show up soon, I'll have my voice back and I'll start
up again if I have to.
No way am I gonna disappear here.
end of part three
******
Vickie
Stand up for what is right,
Even if you stand alone.
quote from a poster
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Letting the Demons Go (4/5)
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
I'm sitting calmly on my cot, willing my vocal chords to quit
hurting from all the yelling I've done.
I can hear her heels on the cement. Hear her stride as she walks
down the hallway. She's got something to tell me. She's in a
hurry, but doesn't want to show it to Curtiss.
I know an 'excited Scully' walk anywhere.
She asks to see me alone. Bet that one will start a few rumors.
Like there aren't enough already. Curtiss nods. He knows
something now, too.
It wouldn't be Scully if she didn't bust my chops about not
sleeping. I don't bite, why should I. It's doesn't matter. I know I'm innocent
and now I have to prove it.
The great part is, when we agree, there is nothing that can stop us. And Scully
is three steps ahead of me. The forensics report is finished. The blood splatter
pattern on my shirt did not occur from being at close range when the gun went
off but the wounds were definitely close range. I probably went over and checked
them,
tried to see if they were alive, and got blood on my hands.
It's a bad habit, wiping my hands on my shirt. Mom used to want to kill me for
it when I was a kid. Now, I'm damned glad I have stupid habits like that.
The police are ready to release a statement that the Cassandras were victims of
a murder/suicide. Also, the cop that committed suicide and Amy have the same
drill holes in their foreheads.
Somewhere there is a connection. I still don't know all the details, can't
remember them and maybe never will--but for the first time in days, something
rings true to me.
My arraignment is in an hour. Just enough time to look like I'm really an
innocent FBI agent and not a fugitive from justice. A shower sounds nice.
Especially one that doesn't come with it's
own de-lousing. And food. I'm actually hungry. Something
greasy that Scully will glare at me for all the time I'm eating. But her eyes
always smile. What is it about women and watching men
chew? I'll never know.
The judge is a woman who listens patiently while the Detective explains the
evidence so far uncovered. It takes her less than two seconds to gavel me a free
man. I give Scully a quick hug for all the good work and even find it in my
heart to shake Det. Curtiss hand. He suggests I follow my partner's advice and
get the CT
scan done--preferably at home, in DC. The 90's equivalent of 'this town ain't
big enough for the both of us' I guess. At least he's polite about it.
But I still have some questions that need to be answered.
Not to mention, a car to find.
Scully has discovered that Amy Cassandra and the cop who shot
himself were both seeing the same psychologist. We decide to start there, at Dr.
Charles Goldstein's office. The doctor agrees to see us, the Cassandra deaths
are already headline news. He's a little man, impressed with himself. Reminds me
of a few of my psych
profs at school. And he knows more than he's telling.
He seems upset when Scully tells him that another patient of his,
the uniformed cop, committed suicide last night.
I ask him if he had any indication that his patients might be suicidal.
The good doctor contends that the treatment he does is
'non-invasive'. Yeah, right. This probably is the bastard that has been drilling
holes in people's heads. Bullets are non-invasive, if that's the case. He waxes
poetic on how Amy Cassandra's
Waxman-Geshwin Syndrome actually led her to a period of great
creativity and insight. I've heard the same said of heroin addiction. I've seen
enough for now.
I leave first, Scully has to get her licks in. When she joins me in the hallway,
I tell her that I know I was here. She goes a step further
and says she's sure that Goldstein has been treating Amy
Cassandra, the cop who committed suicide, and even did a number
on me. I think she expects me to balk at that suggestion, but it occurred to me
while in the office.
Scully's just a little taken back when I agree with her one hundred percent. But
she's quick on her feet and in a split second, she's hammering me for doing
something that stupid. I would never
admit it, but that bothers me, too.
Why on earth would I let someone give me a drug that I know full well is
dangerous? I'm not the experimenting type--aside for one 'youth indiscretion' at
Oxford and one graduation party in high school, I'm so clean I could run for
President. I saw too many drugs going into my Mom in my adolescence to think of
them as anything other than a prison for the mind--a way to leave you
incapable of dealing with even the most mundane tasks of life. For
her, they were a doctor prescribed escape. For me, no thank you.
We hit the sunlight outside and at first I think that's the cause of the
blinding headache that attacks me. But then, the flashing lights are back.
Who the hell is this man and why is he holding my mother?! I've seen him before,
he called me a spy. He works with Dad. He has no right--no right at all to grab
her arms and hold her that way. Where is Dad?
Mom is afraid, I can see that. I should call for Dad or find the phone and call
the police, but I can't move. And then, after a
second, I look in her eyes. To a twelve year old boy, her eyes show fear. To a
thirty-six year old man, her eyes show betrayal. A lover's betrayal. And it's
directed at this man holding her arms--not my father.
This time at least I'm not lying on the ground when I come back to
the present. Doesn't make Scully any happier, though. I try the
'I'm fine' bit again, but she's not buying it. She pulls out all the stops. I
need to be monitored. I'm a danger to myself.
I'm a danger to her.
That tears it. She's right, I shouldn't be working. OK, enough
about the Cassandras. If I'm going to figure out these visions I'm having, they
are the wrong direction for the investigation anyway. There is only one other
person still available who can tell me what I'm missing here.
I need to talk to my mother.
I try to get the keys from Scully, but she's not going to let me have them come
hell or high water. Really, right now I think she'd let
me drown. But she is willing to drive me to Greenwich. It's about
an hour's drive and I make her happy by pretending to sleep the
whole time. For some unknown reason, Scully is convinced that
sleep will solve all my ills. At least until she can strap me down to an x-ray
table and stick my head in a CT scan.
It's just as well that my eyes are closed. I'm half sick to my stomach at the
implications of this latest piece of the puzzle. My mother--I've always, always
put her on a pedestal. She's the one
who was there when I woke up in the hospital. She's the one who
held me while I cried for my baby sister. She's the one who fought the doctors
when they didn't want to let me come home, who
wanted to put me someplace where they would 'help' me 'cope'
with the trauma I'd experienced. Coping to them meant a nice
array of drugs that would keep me in the corner, drooling on
myself. Not allow me my nightmares, my only means of expression
for so very long.
All my life, my father has played the heavy. He was the master of
the house, his word was law. He ruled our home with a iron fist.
Or a leather belt. Whichever was handy. I wasn't more abused
than any boy growing up in the seventies, but the rod was never
spared in raising me, that was for certain. And when it came, my father's arm
was swinging that rod in my direction.
Mom was the one who would step in, tell him I'd had enough.
Stop it before it strayed from discipline into battery. I was always grateful
for Mom making him stop. The once or twice before we
moved out that she was too sedated to stand up for me were bad.
But then, I always knew that was the reason we left, too. Mom
wasn't willing to risk losing _both_ of her children.
So why was my mother looking at that man (who was not my
father) the way I looked at Phoebe after her last great fling? The one where my
darling Phoebs slept with my best friend, in my bed, while I was taking finals.
Where they were asleep when I came in
to find them, naked, together. I recognized that look in Mom's
eyes because I've had it in my eyes, too. It's a look you never forget.
I don't want to believe the things I'm thinking about my mother. It would skew
my whole world. I had a hint, last year when X
showed me those pictures of my mother and that bastard, but I
didn't want to believe it then, either. And after she got better--I was too busy
thanking whatever had intervened on her behalf to
give it a second thought.
But now, I have to know. Something happened that night at the summer house at
Quonochontaug and my mother is going to tell me whether she likes it or not.
As we pull up to the house, my hands are sweaty and my heart is racing. I'm
almost ready to believe that it's another 'episode'--as Scully keeps calling
them. My training tells me I should know better. It's an anxiety attack, plain
and simple. I have never been good at confronting my family, not my father on
those damned non-custodial visits nor my mother--ever. Even when I went to her
while I was chasing those missing little girls who John Roche had murdered, I
found myself backing off before I got the answers I
was hoping to find. I'm not relentless with my mother. I always let her off too
easy. Not today. Not anymore.
I don't bother to knock, even though I don't have a key to this house. For all
intents and purposes, I've never spent more than a couple of dinners here. But
it's my mother's house, damn it. And I know where she hides the key for the
times she forgets and locks herself out.
I can't look at her. I'm so upset at what I'm thinking, so frightened that what
I suspect is true, that I duck my head and avoid her eyes. She knows something
is wrong and looks to Scully for the answer. Typical for my mother--she'd never
bother to ask _me_ what was
wrong. Or if she did, she wouldn't expect a real answer.
Scully mumbles something about a treatment and remembering and
I've had just about all I can take. I want to talk to my mother in private. It's
not that I don't want Scully to hear, but I'm about to ask the woman who gave
birth to me about her sex life and I have managed to retain enough propriety to
feel that conversation should
be confidential. Besides, I'll end up spilling my guts to Scully soon enough if
my suspicions prove correct. I won't be able to help myself.
We go into the parlor and she closes the French doors. She's all innocence, and
I think she's even a little concerned. I don't show
up unannounced very often. The last time was pretty much of a disaster, since if
was only a day and a half later that I was suspended for a month. John Roche is
dead and won't hurt
anymore little blonde haired girls ever again so a month without pay was worth
it. One bastard down, so many left to go.
I want to know just how closely related I am to one of the ones that are left.
I confront her with it. I ask her directly. She evades the question, feigns
ignorance.
I can't take this anymore, damn it, I just can't. All the lies, all the deceit.
Never telling me anything, always keeping me in the dark.
She didn't even tell me she was divorcing Dad until I came home
from school to discover the station wagon packed with our things.
It was as if telling me was an afterthought. Make sure the mailing address on
the Redbook subscription is changed, and oh, yes, don't forget to tell Fox.
I give her one last chance. I ask her who my father was. Her
answer surprises me. She asks me if I want to kill him again.
I ignore her snide comment and ask her again about the man my
father worked with--did she have an affair with him, how long did it
go on. This time, she reacts just like my father would have. She
slaps me. She tells me that she is my mother and she will not
tolerate any more of my questions. Then she notices that I'm
bleeding from my forehead, and uses that as an excuse to flee the
room.
Fine.
Great.
I'll find out what happened on my own. It's time to put some
questions to rest.
Dr. Goldstein looks to be making a hasty exit from his office. He's putting
files in his trunk at 9:30 at night on a Monday. A quick getaway before the cops
arrive, no doubt. But I'm here to detain
him. Not for the local law enforcement, though it's probably a
good idea. No, I'm here to demand he finish the job he started with
me. I know that he didn't complete the treatment with me. Only
once probably isn't enough. I don't know for certain that twice will
do the trick, but I'm willing to take that risk.
He doesn't look real happy, but the good doctor must be
considering his Hypocratic Oath. He agrees to take me inside, to
do another treatment. I follow him inside the office.
This really pissy little voice in the back of my head is telling me to think
this through or at the very least, call Scully so she doesn't worry. I ignore
it. Scully's smart, she'll figure it out.
Now that we're up in the office, all I can think about is getting back in one of
those 'episodes'. Maybe, if I concentrate going in, I can direct them, like
focusing a dream. I see these things as tools now. That's not to say that there
haven't been a lot of severed fingers
from the misuse of chainsaws, but I'm fairly certain I can handle
this. I'm getting used to the feeling now. I welcome it.
Dr. Goldstein has a whole little lab set up. A nice dentist style chair, even
paper on the head rest. I wonder just how many people
have had holes added to their heads in the name of remembering.
He fills the syringe and I realize that I'm due for another puncture wound to my
backside. Look hard, doc, there must be someplace
back there that isn't scar tissue. For a Ph. D. he's not bad with a needle.
I can see the attraction of this particular drug. Fast. Real fast. I'm sagging
as he helps me over to the chair. The most I can do is
mutter. I want to remember.
I want to remember . . . the lights come and take me back.
My mother. Frightened, betrayed. Angry but powerless. And that bastard, holding
her. Hurting her. He's too rough with her. My
father was always gentle when it came to Mom at least around me.
Hit me any time, but he never raised a hand to my mother.
Samantha. Calling to me. Just like every nightmare I've had about
her since the first regression session. But this is different. She's floating
out the window, but now
She's falling. Falling and calling my name as she falls. I try to reach out and
catch her, but she's out of my grasp.
Pieces of a game. Stratego. Hostages taken to be exchanged. We were hostages,
both of us. Her more than I. They left me behind and took her. I'm a hostage to
my past. Sam's a hostage to war.
She's calling me, she's waiting for me to help her. And the glass shatters, the
mirror breaks and I face him. The man that is her father.
It's not my birth that was the betrayal. It was Samantha's.
end of part four.
*****
Vickie
Stand up for what is right,
Even if you stand alone.
quote from a poster
@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@
Letting the Demons Go (5/5)
by Vickie Moseley
vmoseley@fgi.net
The contrast is stark. I feel so lucid and then so fuzzy, so confused. The
flashes come and go and yet, I'm somehow connected in the
here and now. I ask the old man to remove the straps he's placed
on my hands. I have to get out of here, I have to follow through
with this now that I've begun.
Now that I've met the demons, it's time to exorcise them.
He doesn't want me to go. He thinks I'm not in any condition to
drive. But he does nothing to stop me as I stumble for the door.
By the time I'm in the parking lot, I'm walking better. My vision is clear--most
of the time. The flashes are leaving me alone for a
while. It won't take long to get to the house. They can wait.
I feel almost like I have control of the situation now. That I can make the
flashes come and go on command. But that is foolishness
talking. This is a respite, nothing more. I hope that I can get all the way to
the house before the lights come and drag me back there. I
really don't want to wreck Scully's car. Not on top of everything
else.
My skin is tingling, I'm sweating. My heart is racing, I can hear it
in my ears. A high ringing that I know is not good, but there is no time,
nothing I can do about it now. Scully was concerned about
my heart back at Amy's farmhouse. Right now, that's the least of
my worries, but it's one more possible barrier to stop me--a heart
attack right now would definitely put the brakes on this operation.
The breeze is stronger off the water. I can smell the salt in the
spray. It reminds me of all the time I spent, running along the
beach, watching the waves. Playing with Samantha. My sister.
My half sister.
It makes no difference to me whether she's my whole sister or my
half sister. She's my sister. But if I'm right, it would explain so much. So
many of the clues are so close to fitting now. So much
of the puzzle is falling into place. I know why they would keep me alive. Why he
keeps me alive. A last request from a lover you've betrayed. Don't hurt my son.
He could manage that, I bet. It
would make the game a little more challenging. Beat me, but never
kill me. Drive me insane, discredit me, take everyone I love and
care for away from me. But never kill me. Keep me alive.
I don't remember entering the house, but I'm here. Kneeling on the stones in
front of the fireplace. My gun is in my hand. I'm not sure why I need it, it
just feels comfortable in my grasp. A security blanket.
The flashes are so bright now, and I can feel the humid stillness of
the night air. I can smell the cigarette smoke as it floats toward me.
I can hear my father's voice, arguing with my mother. Again and
again she is begging him to stop this. 'Not my baby. Not my
baby.' It's become a mantra and her voice is raspy from having
said it so many times. 'What do you expect me to do?' he shouts at
her. 'Let them kill them both?'
My mother is in tears and my father is kneeling before her. The
look in his eyes--that same look of betrayal. How long has he
known? Did he know before this? The daughter he has loved since
her birth--to find out she's another's child. Not his. But for all of that, his
anger is not directed at my mother. It's directed at the
other man in the room.
'What the hell do you want from us?' my father is demanding of the
man with the smoke ring halo.
"Mulder?" Scully's voice is coming through and it's louder than
the vision. I want her to shut up, to go away. I'm so close now, so close to
discovering why my sister was taken. I have to make her
leave me alone so I can hear what's being said.
I shout it out. I tell her to go away. But I know Scully and that
won't dissuade her. Not Scully. Not this particular red haired pit bull.
I'm so hot. The sweat is pouring off my face now and the gun feels
so cold next to my skin. It feels good. My head feels like splitting
it open is the only way to release the pain. Maybe a bullet would accomplish the
same, but that's not my design. I'm not holding my
gun to use it, only for the feeling of control it gives me.
Scully is talking again. If she'd just shut up and go away, I could
hear what that bastard is saying to my father. Something about the project.
About loyalty to his country. About the threat that we
must all defend against. I can't understand most of it, Scully's
voice is so loud in my ears. Samantha. I heard him mention her
name. And Fox. He's talking about me.
Goddamn it to hell, Scully, shut the fuck up!! Be quiet, just let me hear this!
The pieces are starting to fall into place.
She won't be quiet, goddamn it! I stare at her through the flashes
of light. After a moment, the fear in her eyes registers in my mind
and I realize that I'm holding my gun on her. If it will make her go away--
But no, not Scully. Now, she's more determined than ever. God,
Scully, don't you understand? I have to hear what they're saying. I have to
understand what they were doing. I have to know.
"Does it mean that much to you, Mulder?" she asks. Fuck yes, it
means that much. Wouldn't it mean that much to you? Didn't you
at least get some small measure of revenge when Luis Cardinal was
found hanging in his cell? I want that, Scully. God help me, I want that. And if
you'd just leave me alone, I'd have it.
"Let it go, Mulder. Let it go." Her words are so soft. Almost a caress. I've
heard that voice before, too. It's the one that talked to me through the fog
that Robert Modell shrouded me in when he
wanted me to kill her. It talked me off the ledge. Please, Scully.
Not right now. Just a little longer. Oh please. Just a few seconds longer--
Another bright flash and I see him again. He's got my sister and
he's holding her close. No, that can't be. It's almost tender, the
way he holds her. God damn him, he took her, he destroyed my
family, my life. How dare he hold my sister that way!
I pull the trigger and watch as he falls.
I'm not back there any more. My head is splitting, the ringing in
my ears is so loud that it muffles all other sound. The gun is still smoldering
in my hand. I've shot out a window.
It's too heavy. The gun is too heavy. Too heavy--
I can feel her arms around me as I drop to the floor. They are a
sweet blanket. I'm so cold. So terribly cold. I know the floor is hard, I can
feel it under me, but I can't seem to move to get on to
the couch. I'll just lie here a little while. Just a little while longer.
Little bits of the waking world come to me. I remember snatches of the night
Samantha disappeared. I feel the web belting cinched tight across my chest so
that I won't slide off the gurney. I can smell the antiseptic in the ambulance.
The cold shock of sterile
water as it hits my veins, but I can't feel the needle. Oxygen mask over my
face. I wish I could open my eyes.
The flashes are still coming. Even with my eyes closed, I can see my mother,
bending over me. She's talking in Scully's voice. She's brushing the hair off my
forehead, and then touching my neck. She turns to my father and tells him that
he should monitor my heartrate. She's telling him to do a 24-hour Holter to
record
the palpitations. He's asking if there's a problem and she says yes, that I have
a mitral valve prolapse, but it's not serious. He tells her that the ETA to base
is less than 20 minutes, and they'll start me on antibiotics. Dad's voice sounds
funny.
The flashes are so strong and my chest is hurting. The belts are too tight. I
don't want to go to the hospital! I want to find Sam!
*****
I've been in that twilight place, as Tinker Bell called it in _Hook_. The place
between sleeping and wake. The place of lucid dreams
and flights of fancy. I've been there a long time.
I've always heard conversations going on around me. When they brought me home
from the hospital, after Sam was gone, I heard them in my sleep. I was so tired.
The doctors had sent me home with a truckload of pills, but the minute Dad got
me in the house,
he went into the bathroom and flushed them all away. After that, I slept for
days. Mom let me sleep on the couch downstairs, since sleeping in my room meant
going past Sam's room and I couldn't
do that. So as I was lying there on the couch, in the twilight place, I would
hear them talking. It was the only time they would talk
about the investigation, the search, in front of me. Only when they thought I
was asleep and couldn't hear.
I hear their voices now. Scully and my Mom. Scully must have
called her, and after our last 'talk', I'm a little surprised she came. Waiting
for that flag draped coffin again, no doubt. Maybe I'm
being too harsh. I think, on whatever level, she loves me. She just doesn't know
how to deal with me.
She's been full of questions, and as a result, I have a fairly good idea of what
has been going on. The Ketamine was not a good
drug for me. It aggravated my mitral valve prolapse. Usually, I
have this 'nothing' condition that means the a valve in my heart sometimes
'flops' the wrong way. When your heart starts pumping
too fast, the MVP doesn't 'flop' properly at all and blood leaks in
the wrong places. Or at least, that's the psych major's version of
the forensics' specialist's answer. They've got me on digitalis to slow my heart
during the seizures.
Add to that the hole in my head. That, apparently was a BIG
problem. Dr. Goldstein needs to get better with his aim. Or at
least the depth of the drill. He nicked one of the tiny blood vessels just under
my skull. That resulted in blood loss, which resulted in intercranial pressure,
which resulted in some pretty hairy seizures from what Scully was saying. They
did some surgery to stop the bleeding and relieve the pressure. But they had to
pump me full of antibiotics first, because any bacteria in my bloodstream could
really screw up my heart.
All in all, it's been a lousy couple of days.
Guess I was lucky to be out of it. Wish I could say the same for my partner.
From the sounds of it, and admittedly, I was off the planet quite a
lot of the time, she's been here for the past 48 hours. Eisenhower Field, all
over again. And who says there's no such thing as deja
vu?
There was a time, I'm not sure if it was last night or this morning, I heard her
typing at her computer. Amazing, how loud that sounds
when there are no other sounds to compete with the clicking of the keys. She was
probably doing a report on the Cassandras deaths.
I know Scully's worried about me. I know she feels that I'm on the wrong
path--that I've strayed from the right road. Of course,
Scully is always looking for the scientific approach to problems,
and digging into the past, into my own memories is in direct conflict to that
approach.
I wish I could reassure her. But my actions, and the fact that I'm once again
suffering the stupidity of my actions, is not even that reassuring to me. Even I
can admit that my course this time was reckless. If there had been any other
way, I would have taken it.
All I know for certain is that I can't do this by myself. I may have thought I
wanted Scully to leave me alone with this, but I realize
that was a mistake. I need her beside me, to ground me. To drag
me back from the edge.
I wish I knew how to tell her that.
Maybe, I should try.
"Scully?"
My eyes are just barely open and my voice sounds too soft to my ears, but she
lifts her head from the book she's reading and smiles at me.
"I should pound you to a bloody pulp, Mulder." It's not a casual threat, but her
eyes tell me that she'd probably stop before she got too far.
"Nah, shooting me is faster," I return. Not my best, but I'm never up to my
usual after this much medical intervention. "I'm sorry." Someday, those words
aren't going to have enough punch packed
in them to make a difference. I hope that day isn't today.
She looks at me for a minute, trying to gauge my intentions, if I'm really
sorry, or just trying to get back on her good side. After making me sweat it
out, a twinkle forms in her eyes--she knows
that I know--and she smiles again.
"I know, Mulder. I know." She fiddles with the IV line for a while to give
that a little time to sink in. "Your Mom should be back up in a couple of
hours. I called her, since it was bound to be in the papers, anyway. I
didn't want her to read about you over her grapefruit at breakfast."
"Thank you." I mean it. Usually, I don't want her to call Mom. Especially since
the stroke. But she's right this time. A berserk FBI agent that ends up in the
hospital is bound to make the front page--even more so since he's an 'almost'
hometown boy.
The twilight place is calling to me again. Scully's hair turns this really
pretty shade of burnished copper as my eyes slide closed. I have to pop them
open to keep looking at her.
"Get some sleep, Mulder. If you're good, you can get out of here
in two or three days."
That thought gives me little comfort. I wasn't ready for the
demons that were loosed from the Pandora's box of my mind. But
now that they are out there, I have no choice but to hunt them
down and destroy them. I can only hope that Scully will be there to help me.
I have a lot of work to do.
the end.
Vickie
Stand up for what is right, Even if you stand alone.
quote from a poster