Title: Canticle
Author: CeilidhO
Summary: Four years after the capture of serial killer George Hoffman, Mulder and Scully's new life together is shattered when an unexpected visitor sweeps them into a new case, more terrifying and deadly than either could have imagined. (Sequel to "Disciple")
Disclaimer: Chris Carter and 1013 own the rights to Mulder, Scully, and all characters and concepts from the series. I, however, am the proud owner of all characters and situations I invented myself. All mine…
- - - -
Morris Residence
Salt Lake City
12:02 pm
October 27
Her hands shaking, Scully stared at the letter. Slowly, deliberately she transferred her grip to the outside edges of the paper. With her right hand, she reached into the inside pocket of her suit jacket, drew out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on with a slap of plastic against her soft skin.
She did the same to the other hand, and with a pounding heart, dry mouth, and her breath hitched in her throat, Scully opened the envelope, unfolded the paper within, and read.
My dearest Judas,
For years now I have longed to send you this letter, ever since I learned of your existence in this world. That very existence is a miracle to me. You can answer all the questions that burn at my mind; you can provide the explanations no other source can. You are of the very flesh that drives my being.
No doubt, Judas, you are at this moment very confused as to the author of the epistle you now hold in your hand. For now, before I have a chance to explain myself and my own deeds, I will say only this- I know that Matthew's dying breath was spent calling for you. Please, do not throw this letter aside at my revelation. It is imperative that you read on and attend my words.
For years now I have burned. It is sufficient to let you know that the actions of the Choirmaster robbed my family and reduced them to the ashes that they are now; he robbed my mother of her mind, my father of his faith, and my brother of his life. However, he did not rob me! He endowed my life with the great pain and curiosity that now gives it meaning and purpose.
I have long sought to understand the mind and man that accomplished the great deeds that the Choirmaster did. Anyone how can inflict pain and destruction, who can reduce order to chaos, who can slash and create with the power and precision that George Nathaniel Hoffman could is indeed a great man. He was- and is- somebody. He took living flesh and made it dead; he took tender skin and made it art- for never let anyone tell you otherwise, Judas. George Nathaniel Hoffman created art in his destruction. And what masterful destruction!
I too have taken living flesh and made it dead. Dead, dead, all dead! But I am not a master, and whatever actions I did, I did from curiosity. How did it feel to cut and choke and have such ultimate dominion? Was anyone capable? Was no one capable? Did some demon take you over and order you do grind out the final spark? I know demons, Judas; I know my demon, my Beast, who shreds and claws and slits my flesh into pulp and blood and laughs when I cry for her to stop and put out the burning that she scorches as I try to stay away from my bridge and my bodies.
I know my Beast, Judas, but still my questions are unanswered.
Did I know the solutions in my darkest, softest metal moments and the pit of my fury swallowed them up again? Is that why I am ablaze with wonder yet and cannot escape the teeth of my body long enough to remember and awake from dark?
My pen barely skims the page, Judas, as I approach my conclusion, and I can no longer order what I write in the way that I would want you to read it, in the way that is right to justify my education, but that doesn't matter any more does it? Does it?
So imagine- given my state- my excitement upon learning of your whereabouts! I know you Judas, more about you than you can imagine, and the idea that has filled my thoughts in the last few blood-soaked days is that you can end my torment! Of course, it's now so simple- if the answers are anywhere, they are in you. The Lord himself says that the sins of the father are upon the son, and so he, your own great father, must have imparted to you the answers that I seek so horribly and desperately.
So now we reach the heart of it, and the fate of many rests on you, Judas. (How ironic! The fate of many on a Judas…) I have an idea, an order: come to me, come to me and my bridge and my bodies and my Beast, and you can answer my questions for me; I know you can. When I know the answers, Judas, when I know the why and the how of slashing and killing and greatness, the Beast will be satisfied, I know she will. If you come to me, Judas, come alone, the answers will be told to me, and the Beast will stop her flaying of me and others. Do you get it? Do you? If you come to me (alone- all alone- and if THEY're with you I'll know, I will), if you come and answer me it will all stop, Judas. Do you get it? The Beast will leave, and there will be no more bodies! This body that I have now, this boy Thomas, will go free, and I will be safe and quiet and cured!
It's all on you, Judas. Don't tell anyone; just come. It's all on you.
Your faithful servant,
John Francis Holtz
Scully's heart was throbbing and straining at her chest. Her breath came in burning gasps. Her hands were shaking and sweating inside the latex gloves. Fear filled her completely, leaving room for no other emotion. It was fear for Thomas, fear for herself, but mostly fear for Jude. How long had she been sitting here? How much time had already been lost?
Without thinking, every motion sudden and jerky, the world blurring at the edge of her vision, Scully threw herself down the stairs, out the front door and into her car, pulling off the plastic gloves as she went. There was no time to think, no time to consider, only action and reaction in a cyclone of instinctual movement. The car was started, the accelerator jumped, the vehicle catapulting into the streets- no time to consider or remember the activities between, only stop-motion passage of time and space.
Scully wove in and out of traffic and reached the interstate in a lurch of time lost between the suburbs and the highway- no time to remember how she got between the two. Brown hills outside the window, thin pellets of rain like ferocious fevered drumbeat on the windshield- where had the city gone? No time to recall. In her memory there was only the erratic, frantic beat of her heart and the constant refrain in her head: there's no time, there's no time.
What was happening now, wherever they were? Was blood spilling and were knives slashing even this moment as she sat in her car, practically meandering down the highway as the rain came thicker and faster, knocked aside by the terrifyingly slow slice of the windshield wipers? She pressed the accelerator again, and the car jumped forward, hurling itself against the rain and the rain hurling itself against the car, and the noise rising to deafening proportions.
Around her the sepia colored hills began to rise into sharper points, and the slamming of her heart began slowly to calm. Reason began to assert itself again. The rain had begun to fall in earnest now, and the sky above was a thick black and purple broiling mass like a bruise. The wind buffeted the car as the altitude increased, making it quiver slightly beneath her hands on the steering wheel. The wheels hummed as they fought for traction on the wet pavement.
Scully could not see any buildings around her, only the darkening brown and red landscape. Glancing over, she saw with surprise that it was almost three in the afternoon. The fuel gauge on the car was low, and Scully realised with a start that no one knew where she was. Not Mulder, not Dan, not anyone. She immediately reached down for her cell phone, fumbling in its usual place behind the emergency brake, but there was nothing there. Next she patted along the dashboard, then rustled through the glove compartment, one eye on the road and one on the jumble of odds and ends that her fingers were picking through. There was nothing.
Trying not to panic, she gently guided the car over to the side of the road, fighting against the wind and rain-slick surface. Reaching up, she flicked on the overhead light, and the car was bathed in a warm glow. Slowly, methodically, she searched the entire car: under the seats, between cushions, in the door pockets, in the glove compartment at least three times. Finally she was forced to conclude, with a small chill in the pit of her stomach, that she did not have her cell phone. She was cut off. The rain beat in regular and riotous sound against the car.
She climbed back into the driver's seat and started the vehicle in a rush of noise, temporarily drowning out the rain. She set off down the highway, the pavement rising and rising against the swell of the Wasatch Plateau, her eyes scanning against the falling water for lights. She crept along the road, beginning to be worried by the amount of rain falling, remembering how hard the ground had been for the last few weeks. This area, because of its many river canyons, was prone to flash floods, and with baked earth like there had been, the slightest shower could create a deluge of water into all of the nearby waterways. She remembered her casual warning to Mulder, days and days ago:
"I thought this was the desert, Scully. What's with all the rain?" he had asked, a flippant grin on his face.
"It's October," she had flung back absently. "Nearly November. This is when we start to get rain... It's actually very unsafe; the ground is still too hard and can't absorb the water yet. There are flash floods around this time of year."
Her stomach twisted. That was the last thing she needed- on top of being cut off, to be trapped by a flood. Time wore on, and Scully began to notice water streaming from the hillside at the edge of the highway. The day was as dark as night, and it appeared closer to ten than four o'clock.
She knew that there was only one village between Provo- near Salt Lake- and Price, but she was desperately hoping for a gas station or even a remote house, where she could use the phone. She had been gone too long for Mulder to not know that something was wrong, and she felt her heart thump as she imagined his worry. She just had to find a way to call him. Her eyes watched for lights by the roadside again. There was a distant clap of thunder.
All of a sudden, Scully put on the brakes, and the car slid along the road. On her left, she had seen the murky outlines of a gas station, but there were no lights on. Gently, carefully, she pulled the car into the lot, and stopped in front of one of the pumps. Thankful for the roof, she jumped out of the car and pushed the nozzle into the tank, pressing the lever on the handle. Nothing happened.
Anxiety gnawed at her, but she saw a man come out of the store portion of the station, bent against the blowing rain. When he got closer, she saw that he had a craggy, weather-beaten face, and that the hat he had jammed onto his head was crumpled and stained. He was carrying an orange gasoline jug.
"You're better going back," he called to her as he drew closer. "Power's out all over the area. The pumps don't work, but I can fill you up from this." Scully nodded, and he raised the jug and carefully funnelled the fuel into the car. "You come up from the city?" he asked as he did.
"Yes," she replied. "I need to get to Price."
"It'll be tough going," he said. "Roads are swamped, power's out, and you've still got a good ways to go."
"It's very important that I make it there today." Making a decision, she pulled her badge from the inside pocket of her suit jacket. "I'm a federal agent on a case, and I need to use your phone."
He pushed his cap back. "I'm afraid not. Phone's are out too, all down the county. The radio said so, before it conked out about a half hour ago."
Frustration and fear mounting, Scully paid for the gas and struck back out onto the road, on into the storm.
- - - -
He was worried by the water, by the rate at which it was rising. His visitor had arrived late, and now the rising river threatened to ruin all his plans. It was no good to get his answers and then to be drowned like a rat inside the hollowed out pilings of the bridge.
He glanced at the visitor where he cowered, staring senselessly at the plaything nearby, at the blood that had begun to mix with the river water on the rock-hard red floor of the den. It was becoming hard to see, but still the Visitor's raven black hair glinted in the dark light. Unable to help it, he reached a hand forward to touch. It was so like that of the father…
"So," he said, as the Visitor recoiled from his touch. "You owe me some answers."
- - - -
College of Eastern Utah
Price, Carbon County
5: 03 pm
Scully made her way through the dark corridors of the college residence, finding her way with the aid of a large flashlight, its yellow beam cluttered and swimming with floating dust motes and kicked-up dirt. She scanned the faded numbers on the plywood doors, squinting against the dust and the dark, and after several minutes of wandering, she found room 341, John Holtz's.
Palms sweating slightly, she flicked open the holster of her gun and drew it out, pulling back the hammer with her thumb in readiness, listening to the quiet mechanical noises as the insides drew taught. Reaching out, she put her hand on the doorknob, twisted, and pushed. The unlocked door swung open with a slight squeal, and the tiny room inside was empty and dark.
Senses alert, Scully stepped inside and looked around. There was only a narrow bed and shoddy desk with no computer apparent. The floor was scattered with boxes of clothing and canned food, and the closet seemed unused from where she stood. Careful not to disturb anything, she crept across the dingy carpet to the closet, whose door was hanging slightly ajar. Her flashlight beam jumped around the room with her movement, lighting objects at odd moments and angles, making distorted shadows leap and fade and flare across the scuffed walls.
When she was close enough, Scully put out a hand and pushed the closet door open with an avalanche of dust. Inside was a collection to rival the Holtz home in Montana. Every square inch was covered in newspaper clippings. Scully didn't even have to look to see their subject matter. On the floor were several shoeboxes full of other clippings, some of which Scully could tell had been printed off microfiche machines. She hadn't seen one of those in years.
Latex gloves back on her questing hands, Scully dug through the boxes of clippings, and was rewarded when her skin collided with something solid, something metallic. Her fingers closed around it and pulled it to the surface, her flashlight pointed and ready. When she saw what she held in her hands she started, sweat breaking out on her brow, expansive and cool in the stuffy room. It was a kitchen knife, crusted and corroded with old blood, and it stank of rot and tasted of the copper tang of blood and the black sweetness of decay when she breathed through her mouth, over her tongue.
Carefully she placed the knife back in the bed of yellowed newsprint, and stood up again, her back and knees protesting. Turning, she began to head for the door, satisfied that there was enough evidence here to put him away even without the letter, but her zigzagging flashlight caught something else. Above her head, a water marked ceiling tile was out of place, deeper darkness exposed in the crack the displacement created.
Pulling over the stained desk chair, Scully climbed up and pressed against the tile. It slid further back, and Scully gagged at the smell that billowed forth from inside. It smelled like old meat and metal, like the knife and like rot, and yet very like a smell Scully knew intimately, which she usually encountered disguised by disinfectant and sterile sheets. It smelled like human flesh, flesh too long dead.
Fighting nausea, Scully swept her hand up and into the ceiling space, seeking until her grip closed around something tensile and plastic. She pulled it forward, into the beam of her flashlight, and the horrific smell increased tenfold. She held in her hand a small rectangular tupperware container, the sealing lid curving open at one corner, presumably from the same hurried carelessness that had left the ceiling tile disturbed and the doors ajar and unlocked. The yellow beam struck the inside of the container, and illuminated a thick red liquid, swirling stickily with motion. Floating in the liquid was a chunk of something pale and disintegrating, green and black encroaching on the natural tones of the human skin.
Fear flooding her in earnest now, Scully made a quick decision and put the container down on the bed, and then moved as quickly as she could to the door and away down the hallway, the flashlight glancing off the walls. If John was not in his room, then he and Judas must be wherever he kills them, she reasoned quickly as she dashed down the stairs to the parking lot. Where would that be?
A passage from the letter, whose contents were now seared on her brain, strafed across her mind: …put out the burning that she scorches as I try to stay away from my bridge and my bodies… And then another: … come to me, come to me and my bridge and my bodies and my Beast… The bridge…
Scully dashed through the deluge of rain to her car, the freezing water streaming down her head and neck and through her hair. She threw herself into the car and scrabbled in the glove compartment, finally pulling out the area map of Price that had been in her car since before she had gone to Dan's that morning. Was it only that morning? She flicked on the overhead light and unfolded the map, scanning and searching, and finally her eyes lighted on the solution.
About eight miles west of Price, on a the Price River, there was a ruined bridge.
Scully slammed the gearshift into drive, and tore out of the parking lot as fast as traction would allow. She was out of the town proper in minutes, out in the Green River Desert and the canyons and peaks of the San Rafael Swell. The wheels whined and spun in the inches of water on the road, they complained against the eroding gravel of the road beneath and the climb and fall of the track. After a ten minutes, Scully judged her position in the dark and swung off the road into the wilderness, murmuring a vehement prayer. On her right she could just make out the steadily rising river as it advanced toward her tires, an inch of the water's progression looking like feet out of fear.
Finally the car's progress was stopped by a sudden swell of the land, and it began to slide back down with the flood water than ran down the hills. In desperation, Scully yanked the emergency brake, grinding it into obedience, and then she leapt out of the car into the inches of frigid water on the red ground, feeling simultaneously the bite and sting of the cold and the gritty remains of a road beneath her feet. Following the road, she bit her lip and followed the spine of the ridge, her head bent against the onslaught of the wind and water and height. The flashlight in her hand did little more than glow dimly against her leg.
At last the ground began to descend beneath her, and Scully saw, jammed between the sides of two hills, the crumbling span of the massive bridge. Her gun out, cocked, and in her other hand, she ran down the hill into the dark and the roar of the water, and when she reached the bottom the flashlight caught the gaping opening of a hollow piling. Rounding the corner, her gun and flashlight crossed over before her, she illuminated the inside of the bridge, and took in the tableau in a moment.
Against the back wall there was a chained and manacled young boy, streaming blood and screaming so hard that it made her throat burn to hear. In front of him stood Jude and someone else, a young man. The young man was naked and dripping with blood, something glinting and metal clenched in his fist. Tension blazed from every inch of their bodies. Jude's face was contorted in a cry she could not hear.
Scully gathered herself and yelled above the howl of the wind:
"Freeze! FBI!"
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A/N: Only one chapter and the epilogue left! Thanks for all the reviews from last time, and keep on sending them in.
Oh, and reviewer 083186:I wanted to include M&S's sexual relationship, but I wanted to do it without being smutty. It's too late for this story, but maybe in a future one or if I re-write sections of this one later. But thanks so much for leaving a review and the suggestion!
-Ceilidh