Chapter 3:

Ex Post Facto

The rain had stopped, and a fine mist shrouded the damp air.

Mulder stopped at the door. It wasn't locked. Strange to leave the drawbridge open on a castle like this. He looked back over his shoulder to Scully and the kid, who were walking up the walkway to the door.

"Hey, do you usually leave the door open?"

Jack didn't think he needed to lock the door; it wasn't likely anybody in the neighborhood would rob the place. They were too busy raiding peoples' pension funds to commit petty larceny. But the funny thing was, Jack had locked the door.

"No, I thought I'd locked it."

Mulder exchanged a glance with Scully. There was that connection again. Was it danger? Surprise? A glance like that between friends could speak volumes. It made Jack damn envious.

"Wait here," Mulder said.

He pushed back his trench coat and pulled his pistol out of its holster. No matter how many times Jack saw Mulder pull his gun, it always seemed a bit awkward. Jack smirked. But then the seriousness of the situation set in. It wasn't just a show, it was here, in reality. And in reality, you can end up dead.

Scully pulled out her pistol, too. She stayed back to protect Jack. She brushed aside a stray strand of hair. Jack was again entranced. Here was this beauty in front of him, with gun drawn, seeming so strong on the outside, and yet Jack knew how vulnerable she could be on the inside. He didn't mind that he was the one being protected. After all, we all need to be protected sometimes.

Mulder silently pushed open the front door. It was dark inside. Not pitch dark, but with the sun setting, shadows and light danced flirtingly about the room. No matter how many times Mulder walked into a dark and forbidding building, he was never sure what to expect. His steps creaked plaintively on the light oak floor. He had no idea where a light switch was, and he thought that even if he did turn on a light, it could scare off whomever was there. If it was the killer, and he got away and killed again, Mulder wouldn't be able to sleep for a long time. Sometimes it got real personal with Mulder, and this was no exception. Mulder heard the wood boards moan, and he stepped towards the noise and into the darkness.

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Scully stared carefully into the inside of the house. Jack stared longingly at Scully. They both waited for Mulder.

But enough waiting was enough.

"Listen, Jack, I want you to wait here. I'm going to go in."

"I'm going in too."

"No, I want you to stay out here."

Insistent. Tough. *Damn she was beautiful*. She wouldn't give in easily. But neither would Jack. On TV they never died, but this was the 'real' world, and in the real world, you could end up dead. And Jack was worried about what he might do if something ever happened to Scully.

"I'm going in no matter what."

She gazed into his eyes. Jack felt his knees buckle, but he held out his stare.

"Fine. Stay behind me."

Her small frame moved up before the door. She paused a moment at the edge, the shadows enveloping all but her red hair. Then she disappeared inside, her heels clacking on the floor. Jack silently followed his siren into the shadows.

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They found Mulder staring at an empty frame in the living room.

"He's not here?" asked Scully.

"Neither is the sketch."

Mulder paused.

"He was here Scully. I swear I could feel somebody else in here. I just missed him."

"We'll get him Mulder."

Jack felt like he had to get a word in, to remind her he was still there.

"It was just the sketch, wasn't it?"

Mulder answered. "He didn't need anything else."

Jack felt like Mulder needed to be alone with his thoughts for a moment.

"Well, I'll check the rest of the place."

Mulder wasn't listening. Scully had moved in towards him; they were close and talking in hushed tones. Alone again, Jack thought.

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He wandered aimlessly through his house. He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't really give a damn. He flipped light switches on and off as he walked through rooms.

Damn, damn, damn!

Jack's chest ached. He felt painfully hollow inside. He continued to wander until he found himself in the kitchen. Some booze would fill up the ache inside. Yeah, some booze would do it. Jack passed by the square island of slate in the center of his kitchen to the large, ornate cabinet where his dad kept the liquor. He saw a bottle of Johnny Walker out already. That would do nicely. Jack took a couple of hard swigs. It burned on the way down, but it helped numb the ache.

Jack finally put down the bottle. He could hold his liquor, so he wasn't actually drunk. In fact, he almost felt calmer. But a dull ache still lingered inside him. He opened up the cabinet. His dad had been dumb enough to leave it open. Then Jack remembered that his dad had lost the key weeks ago. He looked closer at the lock. It was an old style skeleton key lock. There were scratches near the keyhole. The bastard had not only taken the sketch. He had even been drinking Jack's Johnny Walker.

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Scully was looking for Jack. She had talked with Mulder and soothed his doubts, and now he was off calling in the reinforcements. Now she was looking for Jack.

"Jack?"

In a mansion like this, it was easy to get lost. Scully walked down a dimly lit hallway. She was just rounding the corner, when she tripped over a step she hadn't seen and started falling.

Jack caught her. So close to her, Jack completely forgot about the ache inside him. She was a lot shorter than Jack, so her head was under his chin. He caught a whiff of her hair; there was a hint of some fruit shampoo, perhaps strawberry. Scully tilted her head back. Her face was inches from Jack's. For an instant Jack thought he had some connection as he was completely swept away in those two open gems. Then she stepped back, and straightened out her blouse and dress.

She cleared her throat.

"Thanks."

"No problem. It's gotta be hell running around in heels all the time."

In the dim light, Jack couldn't tell if she was blushing or not.

"Yeah, it is."

The connection had just been in Jack's mind then. Hadn't it?

"Well, I, uh, I've got something to show you."

Scully followed Jack down another dim hallway toward the kitchen.

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The Man felt tired. The cleansing rain from the dark gray sky above had ceased. Now all the crap of the world would be returning to the streets, especially now as darkness falls. The Man sighed inside his car. He put a jazz CD in the stereo. It was a cheap substitute for the rain, but he felt a little better. The Man had only the future promise of more sketching to look forward to. More answers.

The Man was sitting in his Jaguar in the driveway opposite Jack's house. The car blended in perfectly among the mansions.

The Man had booked out of the house (with Mazzola's work) as soon as he'd seen the tall cop with the gun. It would've been easy enough to off an unarmed guy, and he could've even taken a cop, but it wasn't his situation, it wasn't on his terms. Most men draw lines, lines they will not cross no matter what the price. The Man had crossed his Rubicon long ago, and there was no looking back.

And now he'd found the other model. The redhead would fit nicely. He would take her and the kid. Then he would have all the answers.

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Mazzola is a real Renaissance artist. He's got a sketch up for auction at Christies in London for 60 - 80 thousand pounds. Don't worry about a Scully/Jack romance. I think the story'll end up (relatively) realistic in the end. Hope to add on soon, Your pal, the author