Piano man
Chapter 1
Scully slumped along the smooth porcelain edge, into the liquid warmth, feeling the water lap at the back of her neck. White foam bubbles flaked up across her vision, twirling purple and pink, stirred by her slow sinking. It all smelled of lavender.
Scully lowered her eyelids.
She was tired. The bath was for her muscles, but it was her mind that had taken strain. Nightmares—for the past five nights, each one identical: the painting of Ophelia, reenacted in the vivid colors only the imagination could conjure. The significance? Scully couldn't figure one; she only worried that maybe it was some symptom of neurological malfunction—mental exhaustion—her own body torturing her. Ophelia…. sinking into the water, like Scully herself was doing just then.
Scully closed her eyes.
She's dead.
Scully lurched up, gasping. She had forgotten herself and fallen asleep, swallowing bathwater in the process. She lunged over the porcelain edge and spat, coughing. Errand foam bits flew up and scattered about her.
Morning. Dawn at six AM—morning enough.
Scully closed and locked her door, moving toward the stairwell of her apartment building. It was her day off: a good time to go for a jog first thing. She walked out of the glass front entryway and picked up speed along the sidewalk. When the green of the park loomed into her view, Scully sprinted, muscles pumping—routine.
The rising sun cut through the branches of trees along her path, blinding her, painting everything in gold. No one was around. The chirrup of birds blared, high-pitched, congealing, squealing like a siren. Scully narrowed her eyes and ran forward with measured rhythm.
On her right, a lake opened up—a small park lake, glistening silver under the morning rays. She glanced at it sideways as she ran. It sparkled, offering nothing but more silence under the blare of the birds. The water was quiet… like the painting of Ophelia.
Scully turned away and faced ahead, sprinting, her muscles working, pumping through the exercise.
She walked back up the stairwell of her apartment building, rubbing sweat off the back of her neck, tossing her damp short hair. The lights of the hallway flickered as she walked up to her door. Scully drew out her key from the pocket of her running sweats, but when she thrust the metal thing into the slot, the knob lurched forward. It had already been opened.
Scully stepped in, tensing. A noise sounded in the nether of her apartment—a rustle of paper.
She dipped her hand back and un-clipped her gun out of its holster.
"It's me," Mulder's voice sounded from the living room, out of sight.
Scully relaxed and set the weapon on the kitchen counter.
"Just once," she said, as she opened the refrigerator door, "I wish you'd let me know you were stopping by."
"I called your phone," Mulder's voice rang, absent in its tone, the papers still rustling. "I didn't know you'd be out."
Scully withdrew a carton of orange juice. She pried the flap open and poured the vitamin-rich liquid into a glass.
"Why, what's up?" she asked, pressing the glass to her lips as she rounded the corner into the living room where Mulder had made himself quite comfortable—spread papers all over her coffee table and everything.
"It's this case—" He looked up and hesitated at the sight of her. "You're all sweaty."
Scully pulled the glass away, licking her lips, and studied the display on the coffee table. "I'm sorry," she said. "Was I supposed to get all dolled-up for your visit?"
It was a joke, and Mulder's shoulders relaxed with a laugh, until they both caught themselves remembering their last harrowing adventure.
He cleared his throat. "This case," he pointed at the papers on the tabletop. "Tell me what you think."
Scully neared him and frowned. "Mulder, these are… photocopies… of confidential files. Are we on this case?" It was her day off. The documents faced her—cheap replicas, the labor of a fax machine.
He shifted. "Not exactly. It's the new big-shot serial killer case in the Bureau."
"Mulder—"
"Skinner did ask me to look into it," Mulder defended himself. "He just meant me to profile the killer… But, look, Scully—it's got X-file written all over it."
She lowered onto the couch beside him and studied the photographs. They were almost indecipherable in copy form.
"Who'd you bribe to get these?" she asked, leafing through the stack.
"No one—Kenneth, the intern. And I didn't bribe him. I just asked him to demonstrate his skills as a secretary… Nice kid. Apparently, he's interning at the Bureau to plump up his application. He really wants a job as a TSA agent." Mulder bit his lip, waiting for her reaction to the file.
Scully sifted through the copied photographs, dust-bunnies plucking at the edges of the paper through the window dripping in sunlight. She squeezed the glass of orange juice between her thighs.
The photographs were of places, things, and then—
"Oh," she cried, and the juice spilled all over her sweats, staining her thighs in dark circles.
The glass tumbled to the floor.
"Shit," she cursed.
Mulder bent down to pluck up the glass, frowning. "What's up?"
Scully stared at the photograph—the copied photograph. It was of a young woman drowned, floating in a creek, exactly in the same fashion as… Ophelia in the painting—Ophelia in her nightmares.
