xfc: NEW: Lacrimae Mundi - Chapter 17 of 21 - NC-17
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 Seventeen
===========
Residence of Shara Wyche
New Rochelle, NY
Friday, March 10, 2000
3:03 p.m.
"So you're back."
Mulder nodded affably, doing his best to project open friendliness to
Shara Wyche. It had taken him longer to get here than he'd wished, in
large part because Scully had taken their car. That had been fine
when all he'd intended to do was stay in the room and make some phone
calls, and eventually take a cab over to Bellevue so they could have
lunch together. But with his change in plans that was no longer
adequate, and he'd been forced to rent another car. God knew how the
bureaucrats in accounting were going to respond to that, but what was
done was done.
"I'm glad I caught you at home," Mulder replied. "I just have a few
more questions I'd like to ask, if you don't mind."
The woman hesitated, and her gaze flicked past Mulder's shoulder, and
then back to him. "I guess so," she said, with apparent unconcern.
Then, more pointedly: "Where's your partner today?"
Mulder shook his head. "She couldn't be here," he explained. "She
has other duties."
Shara Wyche nodded. "Okay. Come on in."
She turned and led the way into the house, but this time she didn't
take Mulder to the kitchen; she took him through the living room and
down a hallway to a room that appeared to be a spare bedroom that had
been converted into an office.
An antique roll-top desk sat in one corner, a computer monitor
incongruously perched on it. A short filing cabinet with an oak panel
veneer stood next to the desk, and a couple of unremarkable paintings
hung on one wall: one was a portrait of an undistinguished older man
and a plain-looking woman; the other was of a child's swingset with a
flower garden in the background.
Mulder turned from looking at the paintings, to find that Wyche had
sat down in the swivel chair behind the desk, and was looking at him
coolly -- and once again, he was struck by how much she resembled
Scully. Not just her build and her hair color, but the air of reserve
she carried about her as a cloak, as well.
Of course, in Scully's case, he was able to look past the surface, and
see the warm, compassionate woman who lurked beneath the cool
exterior. With Wyche he couldn't. Presumably, that was because he'd
worked with Scully for so long, but as he thought back, he could no
longer really remember what it had been like in the beginning.
And even with Scully, he reminded himself, there had been times when
she'd closed herself off so thoroughly that nothing was visible but
the shell. When she'd been sick with cancer, the woman Dana Scully
had been almost completely subsumed by Special Agent Scully, at least
insofar as her interactions with *him* were concerned --
He shook his head slightly, driving the thoughts away. This wasn't
the time for such things, and it was all in the past, anyway. He
turned his attention back to the woman in front of him, and saw that
she was looking at him quizzically. Time to get started.
"One of your clients paint those?" Mulder asked, gesturing at the
paintings on the wall, hoping to break the ice a bit.
"No," she said. "I sell my clients' work; I don't display it. Those
are just ... paintings that I liked. Now what questions did you want
to ask? I'm a busy woman."
Mulder nodded. Glancing briefly about the small room once again, he
realized that there was no place for him to sit. Apparently Wyche
intended for this to be a short interview.
"Ms. Wyche," he began, "I'd like to know a little more about Mr.
Mundi." She nodded, but didn't say anything. Mulder went on, "I
believe you said yesterday that you've known him for several months?"
"That's right. I also told you that I don't remember exactly where or
when I met him. That hasn't changed."
"Okay," Mulder said. "But you *have* met him, right?"
"Of course. I do business with him. But he doesn't go out much; he's
a recluse. I don't see him very often." If anything, Wyche's voice
was even cooler than before.
"So you don't consider him a friend?"
The woman paused for a long moment, and her face took on a very odd
expression, that Mulder found himself unable to interpret. Finally,
she shook her head. "No," she said firmly. "Mr. Mundi is not my
friend."
"What do you mean when you say he's a recluse?"
She paused again, and cocked her head. "I mean ... what I mean," she
said. "He's ... he's reclusive. He doesn't go out much, because he
doesn't need to. He gets along fine without other people." Another
hesitation, briefer than the others. "Perhaps 'self-sufficient' would
be a better word."
"I thought you said you don't know him very well," Mulder commented
curiously. He was growing more confused by the minute; the woman was
being much more cooperative than she had been the day before, but her
answers weren't quite adding up. It occurred to him that she must be
hiding something -- but he had no idea what that something might be,
or whether it was even important.
"I never said I don't know him," Wyche said, in low tones. "I said
he's not a friend. There's a difference."
"Okay." Mulder thought about that a minute, trying to decide what to
say next. "So you know him, but he's not your friend. How *would*
you characterize your relationship with Mr. Mundi?"
"Business associate," she said promptly. "I told you that already."
"That's true, you did."
"Agent Mulder, is there some point to all this?" Shara Wyche shifted
uncomfortably in her chair, and waved one hand vaguely at the
desktop. "I do have things I need to be doing."
"I understand," Mulder replied. "And there is a point to this."
"You just can't tell me what it is." Was that sarcasm in her voice?
Mulder couldn't quite decide. Then the woman went on, her voice once
more calm and cool. "But you expect *me* to tell you *everything*."
"You say Mr. Mundi is a recluse --"
"'Self-sufficient'," she interjected. "I believe I settled on
'self-sufficient'."
"'Self-sufficient'," Mulder acknowledged. "Do you think that Mr.
Mundi's self-sufficiency would allow him to meet with me?"
Wyche frowned, and she bit her lip. "I ... don't know," she said at
last. "He really doesn't go out very often." She gave a
nervous-sounding laugh. "I don't think he likes people very much, to
be perfectly honest." She shrugged. "I suppose I could ask him."
Mulder nodded. Progress. Maybe. "Do you think you could call him
now?" he asked.
The woman's eyes widened, then narrowed, and she shook her head
sharply. "No," she said. "I don't call him. He gets in touch with
me, when he feels like it." Another uneasy laugh. "I don't even know
*how* to contact him."
Mulder raised his eyebrows. "How do you stay in touch, then? How do
you notify him that you've made a sale?"
Wyche cocked her head again, as she seemed to think about his
question. After a moment, she answered, "I told you. He contacts
me. When he feels like it."
"That seems like a very odd way to do business."
She shrugged. "It's the way he wants it."
"How do you get his money to him?"
Wyche looked puzzled. "His money? We have an ... arrangement."
Mulder couldn't keep himself from lifting his eyebrow. "What sort of
an arrangement?"
"A business arrangement," she said, settling back into her cool,
distant mode, obviously intending to say no more on that subject.
Mulder gritted his teeth in frustration. Shara Wyche was not, in
fact, telling him very much -- and every time he actually *did* seem
to be getting somewhere, he found a door suddenly being slammed in his
face.
Of course, it would help if he actually had some idea of what he was
trying to find out. All he really had to go on was his own subjective
experience with Mundi's paintings. That, coupled with the coincidence
that all four of the killers owned paintings they had recently
purchased from the artist, had led him to the conviction that the
artwork was in some way the missing element that linked these murders.
But holding that conviction and *proving* it were two entirely
different things.
"When was the last time you saw Mr. Mundi?" Mulder asked suddenly.
Again, something flickered across Shara Wyche's face, but was quickly
gone. "Yesterday," she said calmly. "I saw him yesterday. He said
he had a new painting for me to sell."
"Did he bring it with him?"
"Oh course. I couldn't very well sell it otherwise, now could I?"
She hesitated, and once again she cocked her head at him as she gave
him an appraising stare. "Would you like to see it?"
"Why, uh, yes," Mulder replied. The invitation startled him, but he
wasn't about to turn it down. Perhaps if he saw another of Mundi's
paintings, he'd at least be able to evaluate his strange response to
them a little better. Of course, he reminded himself, it was always
possible that he would have no reaction to this one. It was always
possible that Scully was right, about this being all stress-related,
and they'd just be back to square one again.
But somehow, he didn't think that would be the case.
Wyche rose from her chair and led him back out into the hallway and
towards the front of the house once more. They reached the living
room, and the woman motioned for Mulder to wait, while she crossed to
the far side of the room. Reaching back behind the sofa, she withdrew
a large portfolio, and then with one fluid motion she extracted the
painting that was inside it.
For a moment she stood there with her back to him, apparently studying
the work. Mulder couldn't really see much of it from where he was
standing -- just a brief impression of whirls of bright red against a
background of deep, deep blue. Even so, he felt a slight tremor of
*something* ... the same undefinable twinge he'd first felt in Devon
McSparran's living room his first day in New York. Then Shara Wyche
turned to face him, and displayed the painting --
Mulder felt as if he'd been hit in the face by a hammer. He gasped,
as a powerful rush of emotion washed over him: fear and anger and
rage, and most especially pain. Yes, pain -- the pain of humiliation
and degradation. The withering, crippling sense of emptiness and
self-loathing that he thought he'd left behind when he'd finally found
his way first to Scully, and then to the conclusion of his quest. It
was palpable; it surrounded him; it was everywhere. It was a living,
breathing thing ....
He's lost in the fog. Lost, lost, lost in the fog. No matter where
he turns, there's nothing but dull, featureless gray. No light. No
sound. No form or shape of any kind. Just stultifying gray mist,
neither warm nor cool, but simply there. A distant, rational corner
of his mind recognizes this fog, recognizes it as being related to the
things he felt in McSparran's home, and then more strongly still in
Bradley Hamilton's. But that knowledge is so tiny and far away that
it is useless to him ....
Gradually, he begins to make out ... things. Nothing coherent or
understandable; just vague, shadowy forms slowly coalescing out of the
mist. Misshapen, deformed things; horrifying caricatures of living
creatures, swarming and growing before his eyes. And overlaying it
all, the overwhelming flood of hurt and anger and shame -- and arousal
....
God, the arousal is everywhere, intense and throbbing and brutal. He
feels as if he's burning, as if he's on fire, and only one thing can
quench the flames. Only one thing can bring him relief. His hands
clench, reflexively, over and over, and now his need is all he knows.
It fills him to overflowing, the pressure building within him so very,
very fast ....
And suddenly the fog clears, and he feels the bottom drop out of his
stomach as he seems to abruptly lift upwards and backwards. He looks
down and he sees ....
Himself, walking with slow determination towards the woman. He can no
longer remember who she is; he cannot remember her name. He can only
see *her*, backing slowly away until she bumps up against the wall.
His own need, his own overpowering lust seems to fill the room, so
thick and pungent that he can actually see it, and he watches as his
hands reach out to grab her shoulders, to force her to her knees --
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Mulder's eyes flickered open; he hadn't realized that he'd closed
them, but apparently he had. For a few seconds he was confused and
disoriented, and all he could see was bright blue eyes framed by
coppery hair. Scully? But how could it be Scully? She was downtown,
doing an autopsy. Wasn't she?
"Agent Mulder!"
He blinked and shook his head, and found himself standing only a few
inches from Shara Wyche. She was backed against the far wall of the
living room, and was holding the painting between them as if it were a
shield. The expression on her face was a study in affronted anger,
and she was breathing in short, sharp puffs, her chest rising and
falling rapidly as she obviously struggled to retain her composure.
Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed as he backed carefully away.
Opening his eyes again, he saw her still standing where he'd left her,
tightly clutching the painting to her chest. "I ... I'm sorry," he
said. "I don't know what came over me. The painting --"
"I think you'd better leave," she said sharply, tossing her head at
the door. "Now."
Mulder swallowed again and nodded.
"And don't come back."
==========END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN==========
To be concluded ... tomorrow ....
--
"Now, tenure at MIT is not an altogether bad thing." -- a friend,
commenting on a job offer.
===================================
I like to think that my fanfic isn't an altogether bad thing:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyStories.html
And I *know* that my recs are not altogether bad things:
http://www.avalon.net/~publius/MyRecs.html
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