"Mercury Falling" cslatton17@yahoo.com
Part 7 of 27: No Left Turn

Wednesday, May 11, 1988. 8:22 AM.

Mulder was dressed-- slacks, dress shirt, wingtips-- when he noticed Kay watching him from the pillow. He held her eyes in the mirror, his fingers knotting his tie on reflex. The smile in her eyes traveled to her lips when he gave the silk a final tug and winked at her.

She didn't rise, though, when he sat beside her and he had to lean over to kiss her. She pulled him closer, deepening the caress, hands moving up under his jacket to massage his back and shoulders. She was too damned warm, her skin too soft and the taste of her was almonds and honeydew in summer. He heard himself thinking such things and it terrified him, embarrassed him as if she might be capable of discerning his thoughts through the simple intimacy of a kiss. Her hands bespoke such knowledge, though; they moved across his body with the ease of one born knowing him.

The truth of it made him giddy. The familiar burn of desire ravaging his gut and mixed with too many more things he couldn't afford to dwell on just now. He broke the kiss and pulled away; her response was a soft, startled "oh" that made her blush and his chest pound. She recovered quickly enough, however, and laced her fingers through his belt loops, capturing him before he could rise. Despite her desperation, she was careful to avoid the weapon on his hip; Mulder noted the fact and relented, retreating no further.

"Hi, ya, Fox."

"Hi yourself." His smile broadened with hers, and against his better judgment, he leaned to kiss her again. She received and gave with equal passion, her kiss overwhelming the fear in his heart, shattering his resolve. He slid his mouth down across her throat and buried his face in the billow of hair on the pillow, reluctant to release her, content to simply be here.

"Say," she whispered against his neck, "isn't this how this got started last night? You dressed to the nines and me naked on the bed?"

He laughed, swallowing her giggles with another kiss. Kay moved against him playfully; magical and omniscient, she knew he could not say no to her now-- and that he needed to. She laid her hands on his chest and pushed gently even as she welcomed his kiss, his fingers' brush against her right nipple. Mulder conceded reluctantly, resting his forehead against her shoulder, breathing the fragrance of her skin for later reference. His hands found hers, motionless against his chest, and wrapped them up, small and wise within his grip.

"I've *got* to go to work," he whispered, a confession, a grief. She moaned and he realized his tone had been a bit more seductive than consciously intended, his breath doubtless too warm against her breast. She read his regret clearly enough, though, and smiled her forgiveness, squeezing the hands that held hers.

He couldn't let her go so lightly, yet he was completely unable to locate the words that seemed necessary. He sat instead, fascinated by the play of morning sun against her skin as she breathed, his thumbs unconsciously swirling provocative patterns within her palms.

Her face was still-- who could not regard such a creature as utterly perfect, beautified by gods-- her eyes spoke languages he feared to translate. She had to feel his heart pounding beneath her fingertips--

Ever merciful, she whispered her assurance. "You know where to find me, Fox. I'm not going anywhere."

He shuddered in relief; she pretended not to notice and he rendered his thanks in one long soft kiss. She didn't struggle to hold him when he rose and crossed to the door.

"Fox?"

"Yeah?" He turned, stopped. She'd slipped the covers back, smiling again; she might be letting him go but she didn't intend to make it easy.

"See you tonight?" she invited.

Her smile faded uncertainly. He knew his appreciative leer had subsided too abruptly but he was struggling to recover his breath; it didn't help that his difficulties suddenly had nothing to do with desire. He covered with a feeble wink, his pupils still too dull and distant.

"It's a date," he forced his own smile, lost it as he closed the door between them. His hand shuddered on the doorknob and just standing was a conscious effort.

For one brief moment, he'd caught a glimpse of matted hair. And blood....

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chris' Cafe. 8:31 AM

Purdue grimaced at his cup of coffee-flavored water and poured in another tablespoon of cream. If the stuff got any lighter, he could have ordered them to hold the coffee and just bring him a glass of milk. Still, it was about the only way he could handle decaf. He hated the stuff, only drank it when he remembered he'd promised his wife he'd take care of himself-- which wasn't often enough, he admitted.

Sauceda sat across from him, straining his neck with twisting to look out over the parking lot for some sign of Mulder. Sauceda turned back around again and announced adamantly, "He'll be here any minute now, you'll see." The pathologist filled his mouth with fried egg and chatted around it. "Probably just late coming back from his run."

The ASAC grunted noncommittally. He'd caught a glimpse of a young couple walking hand in hand from a certain diner last night and had little question about what kind of exercise had delayed the agent's breakfast hour. Purdue didn't offer the information to Sauceda, though; hell, it wasn't anybody's business but Mulder's and-- what was her name? Kay? Still he couldn't help but smile ruefully into his cup of creamer, recalling the image out his window.

Purdue was no fool. He knew the rumors and the cover-ups that went on with the agents in his department, male and female: the all-night binges, the hangovers, the hooker parties, the "flight-delay" excuses... It was a tough job and the occasional radial release valve was expected. And the fact that Mulder was so rarely the subject of such rumors was a topic of uneasy speculation among the powers that be. Mulder was probably one of the more intensely investigated agents the Bureau had and they still hadn't found any dirt worth mentioning. Sure, there was that brawl in Baytown and another in Newport; Mulder had gained a reputation for being quick with his fists his first two weeks in the Academy. Aside from that, however, the man was notoriously decent: his few affairs had been short and discreet enough to escape notice, he rarely drank, had to be threatened to take even prescription drugs-- and he *never* allowed anything to interfere with the job.

Point of fact, Mulder seemed to have no life at all outside his work. And it was just that fact that worried Purdue. It had worried Patterson, too. Because the sad but simple truth was, men didn't hold up to the kind of stress Mulder shouldered without some kind of occasional high-end release. It was especially true of young men: the blood was too impulsive, they were too ambitious; too much was on the line.

So Purdue could appreciate the fact that he'd enjoyed a quiet night's rest rather than having to haul out in the wee hours to peel his agent, sodden drunk, off the floor of a whore house. If Mulder's only "vice" was an occasional fling with a diner waitress, well, the man was old enough to know to take precautions. And he was just too damned good to be true--

"... Just don't let him freak you out."

"Excuse me?" Purdue frowned. Sauceda was a regular Chatty Cathy this morning; the ASAC should have ordered *him* the decaf.

"I said, I know this is going to be a little unusual but just don't get freaked out. Marty knows what he's doing. Hell, we find half our bodies this way."

"He just dreams them up and off you go to fetch them?"

Sauceda grinned. "Just like Seattle. And Shreveport." The grin disappeared abruptly and Sauceda's eyes got hollow, remembering. "That first body in Shreveport-- that was a tough one. By the time we got called in they had seven bodies and Marty knew that they were too well staged to have been the first, that there had to more 'earlier works.' So, we hadn't been there a day, and we're driving down this road with the local sheriff, and Marty starts with his 'turn here, turn there' thing. The sheriff's just looking at him, you know, like he's thinking maybe this kid's just out cruising for massage parlors or something. Anyway. We get to this abandoned house and Marty has him drive to the back. The body'd been laid out in an old storm cellar. You can't even see it from the road. Hell, I couldn't even see it until Marty's standing on top of it, kicking the lock out to get at her. And there she was, just like he'd said. Blew that sheriff's mind clean away. Everything from then on out was Agent Mulder this and Special Agent Mulder that. Which, of course, really hacks Marty off--"

Purdue frowned. Stuff like this had set the foundation of the "Spooky" legend surrounding Fox Mulder. And it was this kind of story that only rarely got written up in officer reports. The very things that might give the most insight into Mulder's work were often the things no one wanted to admit to, afraid of getting themselves labeled as crackpots. Instead, Mulder's bewildering talents were heralded by gossipmongers at water coolers, whispered in "off the record" conversations in deserted halls. And God only knew at what point the truth ended and rampant imaginations began. But this was insight from a man who should know-- Mulder's own partner for the past nine months.

Unfortunately, Sauceda, the little bastard, was the worst gossip of all, a sensationalist from the cradle. The ASAC kept his tone skeptical, scarcely feigning interest. "So, that body was the first victim?"

"Nope," Sauceda grinned sagely. "That's the thing, see? We really wanted to find the first victim. That would have been the killer's sloppiest work, 'til he got his technique down, you know? And he'd have left more clues with the earliest ones. But this was his seventh victim, and he was well practiced by then. Marty was damned near apologizing about hauling us to her first but he swore that he found her straight off because when he went looking," Sauceda tapped his forehead, "she stepped up first. Loudest. 'Cause she didn't like being alone, he said. He said she was afraid of the dark."

Purdue hesitated, "Lenny, most kids are afraid of-"

"No, no. Not like this. We ID'd her and I went with the sheriff to go see the parents. I asked them. They showed me her room. The kid slept with two lights on so in case one of the bulbs burned out, the other would still be on for her, so she wouldn't start screaming. They'd taken the door off the hinges, so she wouldn't feel closed in or alone either. Kid had a pile of stuffed animals on the bed, barely room for her. She slept with all of them. And the dog. Couldn't stand to be by herself. Or in the dark. And Marty knew that."

"Sauceda--"

"On the drive out to find the body, Marty told us what she'd be wearing. What had been done to her. In what order. Knew where she'd be found. What position she'd be lying in. The placement of her hands. Everything. He told us that on the rest of the bodies, too. Nineteen more."

Sauceda swallowed hard, wincing at the effort, the memory apparently over-running his exhibitionist's tongue. Purdue had the Shreveport file damned near memorized and he could sympathize with the pathologist. All those autopsy reports. All those sweet little lives thrown away like so much garbage. Worse.

Sauceda's voice was distant when he spoke again, his mind, no doubt, still somewhere south, in the swampy waters of Caddo Lake.

"Marty told us the killer'd given the girl a candy bar when he picked her up. Mars Bar. But that her favorite was Baby Ruth. I asked her mom about that, too. Wild for Baby Ruth." Sauceda's glare was an accusation. "He coulda told you the same kind of things about that kid in Seattle. Only he's gotten so he doesn't like to tell that kinda stuff anymore. It scares people."

Purdue shook his head. "So you're saying-- what? Mulder's telepathic or something?" There was a caustic taste in his mouth as he formed the words.

"Empathic. Maybe. How the hell should I know? I'm just trying to tell you what I've seen, dammit. Look, you watch him day in and day out, watch those eyes get dull and dilated and listen to him whisper poetry to himself like most people pray, trying to comfort himself, trying to make sense of the senseless, insane shit of the world. Then you sit there with that look on your face and tell me how the hell else he does it. 'Cause I wanna know. Sir."

Sauceda shoved his egg-streaked plate away and spent a few minutes apparently trying to wash out his mouth with coffee. "Shit," he declared to no one in particular, waving the waitress down for a refill.

Purdue stared past the waitress' arm, watching a figure in dark blue striding across the parking lot, jacket swinging loose and easy. "So," he brooded, "you're saying when Mulder walks in here he'll look like he's just seen a ghost or--"

"Hell no," Sauceda took another gulp, wincing as he choked the hot liquid down, "that's just it, Reg. He'll walk in like he's got the world by the tail: mirror shades and son-of-a-bitch mode full on. And *that's* how you know--"

He was silenced by the expression on Purdue's face and the tinkling of the bell on the cafe door. He took a quick glance back and grimaced at the ASAC. "Told ya," he mourned.

Mulder entered the diner just like he entered most rooms, with the confidence of the terminally unconcerned. Diner, motel, crime scene, morgue: Purdue had known him to grace each with the same indifferent stride. Only the constant motion of Mulder's head betrayed him now, his roving focus impatient, preoccupied, shades incapable of settling on any one thing for long. The profiler was immaculate as ever, suit too impossibly unwrinkled to have been shoved in a suitcase, cologne only subtly pervasive.

He gave Purdue a cursory nod and plopped himself next to his partner. And instantly began drumming to the jukebox. Purdue listened to the tune a minute: Cheap Trick. Good band.

Sauceda was frowning, though. "Say, Marty, didn't we discuss this hyperactivity of yours yesterday?"

Mulder glanced over the shades at him briefly and completed his percussion solo as the waitress, a blonde with too much blue eye shadow, stopped to take his order. Coffee.

Sauceda was obviously displeased. "You're not going to start this not-eating routine of yours again, are you, kid? 'Cause it's a little early in the case for--"

"When my mother decides to vacate her position, I'll let you know, Len. Drop it."

Sauceda gave Purdue a knowing look. The ASAC smiled. If this was the pathologist's idea of son-of-a-bitch mode, Purdue needed to introduce him to Walter Skinner when the auditors were in.

Mulder poured about five tablespoons of sugar in his coffee and didn't bother to stir before downing it. "So, what's first on the agenda?" he asked pleasantly.

Purdue pointedly maintained eye contact with the shades. "I thought we'd go for a drive. See the city."

"Okay." Mulder's face was expressionless. "I'll drive."

Sauceda's eyes got big. "You drive like a bat outta hell, Marty, especially if you've got someplace to be." He turned to the ASAC, pleading. "I swear. I ain't getting in the car with him behind the wheel."

"There's nothing wrong with my driving--" Mulder protested solemnly.

"Not usually, but if you take a notion to--" Sauceda paused. Even Purdue could feel the glare behind the gold glass.

"If I take a notion to what?" Mulder demanded. Sauceda, damage done, clamed up to await the passing storm in silence. The profiler swore and swung to Purdue. "Look, if I'm going to be continually discussed behind my back like some freaking lab rat, maybe you should ship me back to BSU." He grimaced and looked down. "Sir."

"Fair enough, agent," Purdue answered evenly. He ignored the hiss in Mulder's voice, noting the trembling in his fingers as Mulder clenched the coffee cup. Instinct assured him it was not anger. The ASAC shrugged, seeking to lighten the mood. "Your partner here seems to be under the impression that you have something to show us. Is that right?"

Mulder regarded him a moment; the shades couldn't hide the convulsive bob of his Adam's apple.

"Same routine as Seattle," Mulder shouldered a levity he obviously didn't feel. "I've got a body. Somewhere to the northwest. Take the highway. I'll know when we get close." He looked away quickly, swallowing again as he shrugged. "So how're we going to explain this to Harris?"

"You let me worry about Harris," Purdue ordered. He glanced at Sauceda. "And the driving."

Mulder shrugged again and remained silent, watching as the blonde, unbidden, refilled his coffee cup.

Sauceda had been watching his partner closely. Now he raised his eyebrows at Purdue and his voice went quiet. "So, Marty, what's this one look like?" he asked soberly.

Mulder's jaw twitched, threatening. "You'll see her when we get there," he growled. "I'm not your goddam performing seal."

Without another word, Mulder rose and slammed out of the diner. Sauceda favored the ASAC with an apologetic shrug and followed. Mulder strode back across the parking lot, Sauceda skittering after. Purdue watched the performance languidly; he was the ASAC, after all. He was perfectly free to finish his coffee in peace while his agents cooled their heels at the car. He was the one calling the shots here. He was the one in control. He looked down into the tasteless cup with it halfway to his lips.

Oh, hell, might as well get this comedy on the road...

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder sat in front with Purdue, which didn't keep Sauceda from at least having his face shoved in the front seat. The pathologist choked as the wind from the open window periodically blew Mulder's cigarette smoke back into the car.

"Marty. You need to give those things up, kid. They'll kill you."

"Promise?"

"Marty--"

"If I toss it, will you stop your incessant babbling? Christ, you act like you're on meth or something."

Eliciting the vow, Mulder let the cigarette sail out the window. Purdue enjoyed a minute of silence before the profiler flipped the radio on. Rolling Stones. Mulder nodded approvingly, drumming on his thigh with one hand. He cradled the other against the door and absently chewed his thumb.

Sauceda promptly slapped at him from the backseat. "Stop that."

"What?"

"Chewing your thumb. Jeez, whatsamatta, you're momma wean you too early or something?"

"Hey, you're the breast man, as I recall--"

"You little bastard. That gets back to Imelda and I'll--"

"Yeah, right. Like she's little Miss Faithful while you're out here--"

Purdue felt his seat jerk as Sauceda exploded. "Goddamn you, you take that back, you son of a bitch. That's my wife-- and I never touched that girl in Dallas--"

"Hey!" Mulder turned in the seat and Purdue wondered if he was about to have a fistfight on his hands. Mulder's voice was sincere enough, though. "I'm sorry, Len. That was out of line. I didn't mean it. Hey, you listening?"

"Yeah, well--" Sauceda shrank back in his seat, apparently uncertain of just what to do with the anger just then. Or with Mulder's mercurial mood.

Purdue watched the man in the rearview mirror. Sauceda was hurt, his expression confused when he glanced up, down and up again at his partner. He was managing to choke his rage down for Marty Mulder, though. Purdue would have to remember that.

Len sputtered quietly for a minute. "Well, you know," Sauceda managed to cover at last, "a guy gets lonely on the road. Thinks about things. You know? That he shouldn't sometimes. That's all. That's all that was, Marty. Honest."

Mulder slumped back down in his seat, staring forward, his face an undecipherable mask. "Yeah," he said.

After a minute, there was a chuckle from the backseat. "You know, Imelda says that considering the number of bodies I've seen molested and whatever, if my libido hasn't gone south by now, my body chemistry must be pretty much immune to anything. What's Freud or Jung say about that, Marty?"

Mulder closed his eyes-- Purdue could tell because he had him in profile. "Psychology 101, Len. The drive for life is strong in everyone. No matter how twisted the individual."

"Yeah, I guess so-- Hey! Who're you calling twisted?"

Mulder sighed wearily, turned to Purdue. "Take a left at the light. And put some speed on it, wil you? He's giving me a headache."

Sauceda's face was back in the front seat. "You wanna talk about twisted--"

"No," Mulder answered and was promptly ignored.

"--How about that gal you cuffed in Baytown?"

"Oh, so, I was supposed to know she *liked* being handcuffed?"

"Well, you know the earring in her tongue would have given *me* some indication--"

Mulder sat up suddenly, pointing, gripping Purdue's arm insistently. "Here. Turn here."

Purdue obeyed, tires squealing dully. A street of walkup tenements. Lower middle-class. Identical buildings lining both sides of the road. Purdue shifted his vision from the light traffic to the agent, electric beside him.

Mulder scanned the rows of windows as Purdue slowed the Chevy to a crawl. The ASAC shook his head at the rearview mirror and Sauceda gave him that wicked little grin he'd used in Harris' car. Mulder was chewing his lip.

Halfway down the block. Three quarters and Purdue sighed. Almost to the second light--

"Stop," Mulder barked.

Purdue pulled to the curb and hadn't gotten fully parked when Mulder hopped out and paced back up the street to the stoop they'd just passed. Sauceda waited until the car was still and ran to catch up.

By the time Purdue had reached the building, Mulder had found the landlord's door and was fidgeting as a myopic man stared at his badge.

"In my building?" the man looked from Mulder to Sauceda, his eyes growing wider as he caught site of Purdue. Purdue maintained an authoritative presence but kept his distance. No sense making the super feel like he was being surrounded. Might come in handy later, though.

Mulder repeated himself. "Would you get your keys and accompany us? Please."

The man scratched his T-shirt a moment, and closed the door in Mulder's face without further comment. The three men were regarding one another blankly when the door re-opened and the burly gentleman re-emerged, slippers flopping, keys jangling.

"Which apartment?" he demanded.

"Upstairs." Mulder preceded them up, runner's legs taking two steps at a time.

The super was huffing not even half the way up. "Who called this in? Huh? Nobody told *me* nothin'--"

They made the second floor and followed Mulder as he made a sweep of the doors, examining each as though he expected someone to just open up and invite him in. Purdue grabbed Sauceda's arm; the little pathologist just grinned and tried to keep pace.

The only way the super was keeping pace was verbally. "Hey, I run a legit place here. Inspectors were out, what, two weeks ago? Gave me a clean bill a health. Well, 'cept for that little incident in 12. But hey, I got that taken care straight off. Booted 'em right out. Legally, though-- Hey, I know tenants got rights--"

The landlord was beginning to remind Purdue of Sauceda on a nervous streak: non-stop yap. The ASAC had him fairly well tuned out halfway round the second floor, just nodding and uh-huhing occasionally. It was clear Mulder had tuned him out as soon as he'd heard the keys rattle. Right now, Mulder was making for the stairs again, on his way up to the third floor.

The super blanched, following dutifully. "Say, this ain't about that letter that bunch in 302 sent to the Federal Housing Commission, is it? 'Cause I can explain all that--"

Mulder began his step-and-pause dance on this floor as well. Two doors. Three doors. Four. Five. He stopped abruptly, the hulking super almost slamming into him. Mulder turned and pushed past him, past Purdue and the grinning Sauceda, back to apartment 304. He laid one hand on the door and interrupted the super's babbling.

"Who lives here?"

"Uh." Again, the myopic stare. "Three-oh-four? That's Mary Kelly. No. Michele Kelly. Something like that. It's on the rent agreement--"

"Open it," Mulder demanded.

"You ain't even knocked," the super protested.

Mulder didn't take his eyes off the little man, rapping the side of his fist against the wood like he was out to wake the dead.

"She's not answering," he explained even as he pounded. "Open it."

The super squinted at Purdue and the ASAC nodded. He fumbled for his keys, paused and fumbled again, gaping as Mulder donning latex gloves. "Say," he mused slowly, "don't you need a warrant or something?"

Purdue sighed. "Sir, do you own these premises?"

The man looked up from working the doorknob. "Sure."

"Are you opening this door under threat of force?"

The super swung his head uncertainly between the three men, pausing to scrutinize the man in the shades a little more closely. "No..." His answer sounded doubtful.

"Then we have the something," Purdue advised. "Unless, of course, you'd prefer that we file for a warrant--"

The verb 'file' apparently held unpleasant associations and the super shook his head vehemently. "No. No, sir. No problem." He pushed the door open almost triumphantly, glancing in; his face blanched, white as cigarette ash. Mulder pushed him back and took one step inside.

"Hello, Ms. Kelly," Purdue heard him whisper.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Return to Mercury Falling Index

Return to my main page