Scully's eyes snapped open again, she felt herself moving and let out a muffled groan as she attempted to sit up and struck her forehead…"The trunk," she thought, "Duane Barry." There was music...loud music, sirens, and a gunshot as she dared kick at the trunk. Her head was bleeding, her wrist twisted and likely broken. Her eyes began darting in the blackness of the closet where she sat, her nightmarish memory broken as she painfully awoke in a new one. Her breath came quickly through her nose, the taste of the cotton rag dry and uncomfortable on her tongue. The door opened once more, and she sat upright, trying to shrink away from him as her eyes glaring and trying to hide any hint of fear among the pools of blue. She noticed the knife in his hand, and let out a few muffled sounds as he knelt down and took her hands in his. "Get the hell away from me!" she yelled into the gag as she pulled her bound hands from his grasp. He reached up to take a strand of her hair and roll it between his fingers. She realized in horror that this was their guy, the print, the prostitutes, the mutilation, this was him...she felt panic rising in her body and fought to keep it down. "Don't be afraid…" he said, his voice soft and effeminate as she stared at him in wild-eyed fear. His face shifted into every offender or perp she'd ever seen. Duane Barry's face was the last as she shook her head and tried to shrink back into the corner; blinking away the fog of fear that was clouding her mind. She tried to pull away as he took the small knife in his hands and cut the cords binding her ankles. The sensation of blood rushing back to her feet was almost numbing; and she was unsure if she could walk. He took her by the upper arm and pulled her to her feet. She was sore, but felt the surge of adrenaline as he began to drag her along behind him. She tried to make herself heavy, fighting him every step of the way; her muffled protests falling on deaf ears. He pulled her along; the hallway was dark, her terror heightening as she was led down it. She knew...deep down in her gut and in the darkest recesses of her mind...she knew that he would kill her in that bathroom. He'd hold her underwater, or strangle her, and then take a few fingers and locks of her hair to add to his collection of gory trophies. Mulder said he was escalating, would he do more than mutilate her? She could hear Mulder's voice in her mind, "He'll get the taste for a warm body." She fought against him harder, determined to make it as difficult for him as possible. Her mind raced, it would be a closed-casket service, and her family would never get over it; Mulder would lose his mind. When he mentioned a "warm body," it never occurred to her in her most vivid night-terrors that it could ever be her. She pulled away from him, yanking her hands away from his grip as he shoved her forward. She stumbled into the bathroom, nearly falling until she caught herself on the counter, watching him like a hawk, examining any opening to get away. He held her by the back of the neck, forcing her against the counter for a moment; an indication for her to stand still. She complied to make some distance between them as he sat down on the edge of the tub and ran a hand through the suds. She slowly began stepping back, the adrenaline coursing through her body and the numbness in her ankles and legs subsiding. She was near the shower; she felt her shoulder brush the wall, and braced against it. He looked up at her, his voice sickeningly sweet, "Is your hair normal or dry?" His face changed to one of worry when he saw her inching away, "Where are you going?" She raised her bound hands and managed to bring them down hard on his head, catching him off-guard and knocking him backwards into the claw-footed tub filled with frigid water. She took off like a shot; running down the hallway. She made it to the door and found it bolted, locked, a dead-bolt well above her reach. "There's no way out, I know this house…" She cursed inwardly as she heard his sickeningly sweet voice croon, and found herself running blindly down the dark hallways and staircases in this monster's house-of-horrors. She tried an open bedroom door and reluctantly hid in a closet. She was breathing heavily, and managed to reach up and loosened the gag, allowing it to fall around her neck, and taking shaky, deliberately calming breaths. She carefully cracked the door and reached for a weapon for anything, settling for a can of tire cleaner that was on the vanity within her reach. She thought a silent prayer, begging God to let her make it out alive; and then braced herself in the darkness. "Fight-or-flight, Dana," she told herself, "Don't make it easy…" She counted the seconds with every wild thump of her heart as it pounded in her chest. She stilled her breathing, held it as she heard the creaking of the floor; he was in the room. He eased open the door to the closet and as soon as his head came into view, she sprayed a stream of the corrosive foam right into his eyes. It was a perfect shot (although she didn't take the time to relish in it), she sprinted past him as his hands flew to his eyes. She could hear him in the hallway, he wasn't far behind her, and caught up to her at the staircase. He had her service weapon in one hand, and attempted to bring it crashing down on her head. She pulled away and the both of them lost their footing and tumbled down the stairs. She knew she was hurt, her body had taken enough already, but she pushed it out of her mind. She could hear him groan beside her and her eyes fell upon what they were so desperately seeking. Her hands found the familiar steel and felt the weight of her gun. She rolled to aim, fighting from her back as he loomed over her. It would've been a perfect point-blank killshot; a star would have bloomed in his chest and the hollow-point would've blown a sizable hole in his back at this range. He stood over her as her finger touched the trigger, he changed in that moment. His features shifted into whatever red-horned-demon she'd witnessed when he had pulled her from the closet. Her disbelief at what she saw made her hesitate for a split-second and his massive hand swatted the gun away. She began curling away, trying to scramble back to her feet as every limb, every inch of her body groaned in protest. He grabbed at her, and she kicked out at him wildly getting one well-timed kick in as the unmistakable sound of a door being kicked off of its frame was heard.
Scully heard Mulder's voice as she managed to pull herself up to her knees, "Hands in the air! Federal agents! Hands in the air!" Three agents from the Minneapolis Bureau were on Pfaster in half-a-heartbeat; their guns and Mulder's Sig trained on him until he was cuffed; Bocks held his head down, not allowing him so much as a glance in Scully's direction. Mulder holstered his gun and was at her side in an instant; fear and worry painting his face as he carefully helped her to her feet. She was shivering, watching as they dragged her captor out of the house. "Can we get some paramedics here, now!" Mulder called before he focused his attention back to her, "Are you hurt?" She didn't look at him, she watched Donnie Pfaster like a hawk as he was being led away. She shifted her gaze only slightly when she held her numbed hands in front of him, as she was attempting to twist out of the cords that were binding them. "Just help me get my wrists undone," she directed, her voice shaky and quiet. He gently took her hands in his and went to work on the knots, cursing himself for not having a knife. Her hands went still in his, he saw where the bonds were cutting into her skin, he could feel her shaking like a frightened animal. He focused his gaze on her, taking a mental photograph to analyze the damage; relieved that she was alive. She kept looking past his shoulder, never at him, bruising already beginning to show on her face, "How did you find me?" She asked softly, her voice sounded so small, still full of fear. "His mother used to own the house, and willed it to his sisters. A patrolman saw his car out back." He undid the last knot and saw the look of disgust on her face as he pulled at the cords and she shrugged them the rest of the way off; flexing her fingers as she did so. Her wrists were red and the skin was raw and bleeding where the ligatures had bitten into her flesh. He had to stop himself from leaving her and going after Pfaster as he was being read his rights and put into the patrol car. As satisfying as landing a few blows would feel, he knew that he was needed here; Scully needed him. "You sure you don't want to sit down, Scully, let someone take a look at you?" He asked, his eyes and voice calm but full of concern. She shrugged it off immediately, her eyebrows raising, "I'm fine, Mulder," the response was too automatic, too superficial; and he knew it...knew she was about to shatter. She couldn't even look at him, and he knew she wasn't alright. Duane Barry was still fresh; still recent. She had lain comatose in a hospital bed and nearly died; and had woken up with no memory or recollection of how she got there. A month, an entire month of her life had been stolen. He looked down at her now, as she shook, the adrenaline wearing off; he knew that she was lying to him, lying to herself...that she was not fine. She tilted her head down and he gently eased his fingertips under her chin; a bloody scrape marked the tip of it and her frightened eyes finally met his. Her eyes filled with the tears she'd been holding back, the ones she didn't want to shed; and she broke. Dana Scully fell apart in his arms, her small frame shuddering as she wept into his chest. He folded himself around her as she wrapped her arms around him and held onto him for dear life. He held her in his embrace and rested his large hand on the back of her head, holding her to him and muttering, "It's alright, it's alright," into her hair. He thought about Pfaster as he held her, as he spoke words of comfort into the burnished copper-hair of his partner; about how the ordeal could've gone another way entirely. He would've lost his mind if they'd come too late. He had envisioned that possibility in his mind; tried to prepare for it, for the horror of finding his partner's lifeless, desecrated body submerged in the icy waters of a bathtub, violated, assaulted, bruised. He pushed the haunting image away and hugged her tighter, grateful and thankful that she was safe.