xfc: NEW: Lacrimae Mundi - Chapter 20 of 21
Brandon Ray
by Brandon D. Ray (pub...@avalon.net)
The rest of the yadda is included in a file entitled "Lacrimae Mundi -
Headers and Notes", or can be found at my web page, at the url listed
under "Missing parts?"
Missing parts? Try looking here:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/LM/LacrimaeMundi.html
===========
Chapter Twenty
===========
Northbound on the Bruckner Expressway
Approaching New Rochelle, NY
Friday, March 10, 2000
8:50 p.m.
"Dammit!"
Scully slammed on the brakes as a light blue VW Rabbit suddenly
swerved into her lane without signaling. The blare of horns coming
from behind testified to the annoyance she had in turn caused other
drivers, but she was only marginally aware of it. All of her
attention was focused on the highway in front of them, and a few
seconds later they were in the clear once more.
"Try it again," she said to Burks, sitting in the passenger seat next
to her. She knew it was too soon; it couldn't possibly have been as
long as five minutes since the last time. But she couldn't keep
herself from making the demand.
She saw the man shrug out of the corner of his eye, then he hit the
speed dial on her cell phone, for at least the fifth time since they'd
left the hotel. He held it to his ear for a moment or two, then
lowered it and pushed the DISCONNECT button.
"He's still not answering," the detective said quietly. "But at least
we're not getting the out of service message anymore."
"Right." Scully nodded in agreement, but she was having trouble
taking much comfort from the knowledge. If Mulder had turned his cell
phone back on, why hadn't he called her? At the very least, why
hadn't he answered when *she* called? Something was wrong; she could
feel it in her bones, now, and she found she was unwilling even to
*try* to dispel it with an appeal to rationalism.
Something was wrong.
At that instant, her cell phone shrilled, and Scully felt her pulse
increase. Mulder. It had to be Mulder. She glanced at Burks, and
saw that he was hesitating, unsure whether he should answer it
himself, or pass the phone to her. She nodded sharply, and he opened
the phone and punched CONNECT.
"Paul Burks answering for Dana Scully." He listened for a moment,
then went on, "We're in traffic right now, and Agent Scully's
driving. Can I take a message?" Another pause, shorter than the
first. Then: "Okay. Just a minute." He handed the phone to her,
saying, "Man's voice. Won't talk to anyone but you, and he says it's
important."
Scully sighed and tried to suppress her disappointment, even as she
was bringing the phone to her ear. "Scully."
"Agent Scully, this is Byers, and I've got some information for you on
Shara Wyche." She could almost see the dapper little man's goatee
bobbing slightly as he spoke.
"Talk to me," she replied briefly.
Byers wasted no time. "We began by verifying the demographics that
Bureau researcher found for you," he said briskly. "And we have
nothing to add in that area. Ms. Wyche appears to be a solid citizen,
unremarkable in any way." He stopped speaking, and seemed to be
waiting for a response.
"I think I detect a 'but' in there somewhere, Byers," Scully said
tensely, after a moment.
Again, she could almost hear the nod. "As it happens," he said,
"Langly's been working on a tapeworm program that's designed to
infiltrate hospital computer systems and download lists of patient
names and problem lists." Scully opened her mouth to ask why, but
thought better of it. She didn't really want to know. Byers
continued, "And as it also happens, he did a test run on New York City
area hospitals a few weeks ago, and he still has the data on disk."
"And Shara Wyche is in that database," Scully guessed.
"Correct," the man confirmed. "And it's not good news, Agent Scully.
If Mulder's with that woman, he could be in a lot of trouble."
Automatically, Scully felt her iron control clamping down. She was a
professional, she reminded herself, and she and Mulder had gotten out
of some very tough situations. They'd get out of this one, too.
"What did you find?" she asked, amazed at how calm her voice sounded.
"Shara Wyche has been in and out of psychiatric hospitals for the past
ten years," Byers replied. "Early on, the records are a little
confusing -- sometimes she carries a diagnosis of paranoid
schizophrenia, other times it's major depressive disorder. But fairly
recently, about six months ago, she spent nearly a month in a private
facility over in Jersey, and *they* tagged her with with dissociative
identity disorder. What used to be called MPD."
"Multiple personalities," Scully whispered. "So she and Lacrimae
Mundi really *are* the same person. Literally."
"That's right," Byers answered. "And the reason we're concerned is
that the psychiatrist on her case also confirmed those two other
diagnoses, and identified each of them with a different personality.
Shara Wyche is the depressive, but the other personality -- which
didn't have a name at the time -- is paranoid. Full-blown paranoid,
complete with homicidal rages, delusions of persecution, the whole
nine yards."
"Jesus." Scully shook her head, trying to make sense of everything
the man had just dumped in her lap. "But Byers, they let her go,
right? They discharged her. So they must have thought she'd be
okay."
"One would assume so," Byers replied. "However ...." He didn't
complete the sentence. He didn't have to. A sign flashed up out of
the darkness, serving notice that the first New Rochelle exit was just
ahead. Scully pressed down on the accelerator a little harder.
# # #
He stands perfectly still in the middle of the living room, trying to
pierce the gloom with his gaze. Some instinct is telling him not to
turn on the light.
At least, he thinks it's an instinct. But with the fog still swirling
and coruscating in his mind, and the lust pervading his consciousness,
it's impossible to be sure. They clog his senses and befuddle his
thoughts, deadening his perceptions both of the world and of himself.
And after a few more seconds, he doesn't even remember that it
happened.
The shadowy figure he saw in the doorway a moment before seems to have
vanished. But he knows where that person -- whoever it was -- has to
have gone. And without really thinking about it, because he can't
really think about anything, now, he finds himself walking slowly down
the hall. Following the sound of the music.
Four closed doors, two on each side of the hall. Four closed doors,
and he doesn't hesitate as he passes them by. Even without the music,
he would know. Even without the music, the open door at the end of
the hall, dark and foreboding and unbearably enticing, would be enough
of a clue. It signals to him, it calls to him, drawing him forward
like an impatient lover.
He reaches the open doorway, and for just an instant, he stops. It's
dark here, darker even than the rest of the house. The music is
louder, pounding and throbbing and blending with the fog as it wraps
itself around him and over him and through him. He moves a hesitant
foot forward, feeling his way, and discovers that he must step down.
Then another another step down, and another, each step taken with
slightly more confidence, as he descends slowly but steadily into the
darkness.
Leaving the world behind.
# # #
Residence of Shara Wyche
New Rochelle, NY
9:09 p.m.
The front door was locked, of course. Scully hesitated for a moment,
trying to decide what to do. There was another car parked in front of
the house, one with plates that Burks identified as being part of a
series reserved for rented vehicles in New York. Presumably it was
Mulder's, and that meant he was here. The place was completely dark,
but the faint sound of music coming from the house told her that
someone was inside.
She reached into her pocket and drew out the lockpick she now
routinely carried. She was briefly aware of the look of mild surprise
on the detective's face, but he didn't say anything, and a few seconds
later she had the door open and they were both drawing their weapons
and moving forward into the darkened living room.
Automatically, Scully felt along the wall until she found the light
switch, but when she flicked it, nothing happened. She swore softly,
and fumbled in her pocket again, this time for her penlight. She
found it and turned it on; a few seconds later, Burks apparently found
his own pocket flash, and a second beam illuminated the room.
The room looked pretty much as it had when she and Mulder visited the
day before. They had only passed through the room on their way to and
from the kitchen, but as far as she could tell, nothing had changed.
Sofa on one side, unremarkable paintings on the walls -- and Scully
suddenly wondered if they were examples of Wyche's own work, as
opposed to that of her Lacrimae Mundi persona. Carstens had said she
was unimaginative, and these certainly fit the bill --
She shook her head and put the question to one side. Later; she could
deal with that later. Right now, she had to find Mulder.
She turned her light so that it illuminated Burks' face, without
shining it in his eyes. The man had apparently just completed his own
canvas of the room, and now turned his gaze on hers.
"Well?" he asked, softly.
Scully shrugged, and flicked her light in the direction she remembered
the hallway being. "Through there, I guess," she said. The man
nodded, and Scully stepped past him, leading the way into the gloom,
the music growing louder with each step she took.
# # #
He stands still as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. The music has
now completely enveloped him, claiming him as its own, merging with
the fog and intensifying its assault on his mind. He no longer
thinks; he no longer reasons. He simply feels ....
The painting is here, too; the painting that has been singing to him,
calling to him, seducing him, ever since he first saw it. The
painting owns him now, it commands him, and he can no more resist its
siren song than he can stop his own heart from beating. He cannot see
it, but he does not need to see it. It's here, and he can feel it,
and that's all that matters ....
His feelings of lust and arousal abruptly double and redouble as he
realizes that in addition to the painting, someone else is in the
room. There is no sound or motion, nothing to give the other's
presence away, but somehow, he knows. Here is his chance, here is his
opportunity. Here is where he can relieve the pressure that's been
building within him, forcing its way through him until there's room
for nothing else. No thought, no memory, no identity -- only raw,
animal need ....
And then he suddenly feels himself being lifted up and away, until he
no longer completely inhabits his own body. Looking down, he sees
himself, still standing at the foot of the stairs looking poised and
hungry and very, very primitive ....
"Over here."
The words are low and guttural, just loud enough to be audible over
the throbbing music, and barely discernible as having come from a
human throat -- and somehow, that excites him even more. There is no
need for subtly here; no need for gentleness. He can take and take
and take, and not ever have to give. His body, no longer under his
control, turns slowly in the direction of the voice ....
"She wouldn't let you finish," the voice goes on, anger burning
underneath. His body begins to walk slowly forward, and the words
continue to come. "She wouldn't let you finish, because she's weak.
A sniveling, mewling, pathetic creature, unable to stand up for
herself, unable to face the ugliness. She's weak, and useless, and
afraid. But I'm not." And with each syllable he hears, with each
step his body takes, with each beat of the music, his arousal builds
and builds and builds ....
He gasps in shock and pleasure as his body encounters warm flesh. A
woman's flesh, he realizes. Hot and ready and covered with sweat. He
hears her growl, and realizes that she is only echoing the sounds his
throat is making, and that just makes his need even greater ....
He cannot wait; not any longer. The pressure is too strong, his
arousal too intense. He has to have release; he *must* have release,
and he must have it now. He's barely, remotely aware of a flash of
light in the darkness, and the sound of a woman's voice, hauntingly
familiar, but he pushes it away. Not now; not when he's so very close
....
And his body places his hands on the shoulders of the woman in front
of him, and forces her brutally to her knees ....
# # #
For an instant, Scully stood frozen in place at the head of the
basement stairs, shocked at the tableau revealed by her flashlight.
Mulder stood at the far side of the room, perhaps thirty feet away.
His body was stiff and angular, reminding her somehow of a puppet on a
string. And standing directly in front of him, pressed up against him
as if in a lover's embrace, was the nude body of Shara Wyche.
Abruptly, Scully was clattering down the steps, calling her partner's
name as she went. Burks was close on her heels, but she was barely
aware of the detective's presence. All she could see was Mulder and
the woman -- the woman who he was even now forcing to kneel before
him; the woman who was reaching eagerly for his zipper --
And something snapped inside of Dana Scully. She had never dealt well
with her jealousy; she had always been possessive of the men in her
life. Now she saw her lover -- she could not in that instant even
remember the word "partner" -- intimately engaged with another woman,
and nothing else seemed to matter. Nothing else in the world existed,
except for the scene unfolding before her.
# # #
Suddenly, he feels resistance. An instant before, the woman kneeling
before him had been willing and cooperative, as desperate to fulfill
his desire as he was to be satiated. Her hand is still in his pants,
her fingers lightly wrapped around his urgently throbbing cock, but
even before she pulls back, he knows that something has changed ....
"No ...."
The word echoes in his head as the woman tries to draw away. In a
tiny corner of his mind he knows this is a signal, a warning, and
perhaps the only one he will receive. He should stop and let her go,
and for a moment his body's grip on her shoulders slackens ....
But that's not what she wants, and somehow he knows that, too. This
is the weak one, the useless one, the one who pushed him away before,
and she must not be allowed to decide. He's too tight, too pent up,
and so is the other, the one who was here a few seconds ago. They
both need release, and they can only find it in each other ....
He feels his lips stretching into a smile, and again his body tightens
its hold on her shoulders, so hard that he knows it must hurt, but she
does not cry out. And he knows, then, that the other is back again,
and that soon their consummation will be complete ....
# # #
Time seemed to slow almost to a halt. Scully felt powerless,
completely out of control, as she watched the drama unfolding before
her. She wanted to make it stop, she wanted to pull Mulder away from
the brink, but something was holding her back and preventing her from
acting. She saw the couple before her hesitate, and for an instant
she thought perhaps the spell was broken -- but then the moment was
gone, and events began to move forward once again, still in horrible,
agonizing slow motion, as Wyche's hand began to move in harsh, steady
motions within Mulder's pants.
And suddenly Scully was free, and she found herself stepping sharply
forward. She was distantly conscious of Burks moving behind her,
positioning himself to back her up. She heard a low rumbling, and
identified it as her own voice, once more calling to Mulder. She saw
Mulder move slightly, his head turning, his eyes widening as his gaze
came to rest on hers. There was awareness in his eyes, there was
something flickering to life, as he seemed to recognize who she was,
and Scully felt relief flooding through her system --
And Shara Wyche was scrambling to her feet, her features distorted
with rage, and a low, guttural sound emanating from her throat.
Scully felt her own eyes widening as the other woman's hand struck
like a snake at Mulder's belt, grappling for his SIG. Scully raised
her own weapon by reflex, leveling it at Wyche, guiding the sight by
long habit until it rested on the center of mass. Wyche had Mulder's
gun now, and she was turning to face Scully, and Scully's finger
lightly caressed the trigger of her own weapon, once, twice, three
times --
And the woman stumbled back, splotches of red blossoming like tiny
flowers on her chest, until finally she collapsed on the floor, like a
puppet whose strings had been cut. Wyche twitched once, convulsively,
and then she lay still.
Scully imagined that she could hear the woman's heart as it slowed to
a stop, even over the incessant beat of the music. And in her mind --
it must have been in her mind, for Wyche was surely already dead --
she heard a woman's voice, whispering, "Thank you."
==========END CHAPTER TWENTY==========
--
Most of my first dates end with a restraining order -- Oscar, "Night
Court"
==========================
I promise -- there are no restraining orders keeping you away from my
fanfic:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyStories.html
And if you want a really *fun* first date, check out my page of recs:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyRecs.html
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