Title: Gutless (7/16) Author: Magdeleine See Prologue for full headers; all posted chapters can be found at http://shannono.simplenet.com/gutless GUTLESS Chapter 7 Bryan Memorial Hospital 8:27 AM The coffee finally kicked in about halfway through the autopsy. Scully could feel the caffeine making its deliberate way through her veins, easing the ache in her hands and making her sluggish thoughts suddenly slam into hyperdrive. All the anger and frustration that had been buried underneath the exhaustion came crawling to the surface, and Scully found herself standing at the head of the old-style porcelain table, clutching a Strycker saw and entertaining thoughts of using it to chew through Jean Denison's skinny neck. The nerve of that woman, to put her on the spot like that. The *nerve*. This was possibly the most frustrating autopsy in history, rivaled only by yesterday's frustrating autopsy of Marjorie Bailey. The only thing revealed in the external examination -- besides an impressive collection of acne scars and a birthmark shaped like a telephone receiver -- was the large red patch on the torso, and which revealed nothing upon closer examination that she hadn't already noticed. There was no block of organs to examine, and the brain, now soaking in a jar of formaldehyde, wouldn't be solid enough to manipulate for a good two weeks; all that was left to do was poke around in the body cavity, taking samples of the scalded-looking muscle tissue and the occasional puddle of foul-smelling mucus. And nothing, *nothing* on the outside. Scully had checked, and checked again, searching for any marks that would indicate restraints, or a bruise from a struggle, or even fibers or hairs from a stranger's mere presence. Not a thing, except for the flaky red patch. She had examined some of the skin samples from the patch, and found exactly what she'd expected: it was a burn mark, a scorch mark, as though someone had taken hot water and let it dribble over the boy's upper body. No sign of what had made it. Stranger still, there was an identical swath of scalded tissue on the inside muscle wall, exactly parallel to the mark on the outside of the body. Closer examination showed signs that the heat, whatever its source, had penetrated right through; the question was -- was it something burning its way in, or something inside the boy burning its way out? She was too tired to remember why she had agreed to do this. All she could focus on was that it was one-hundred-percent Jean Denison's fault. Jean, who had shamelessly volunteered Scully for this crap. Jean, who could have been doing this instead. Jean, who was probably still sleeping right now. Jean, who spent all her time staring at Mulder's ass instead of getting any damn work done, not that Mulder would ever have anything to do with her ... Oh, that *bitch*. Scully realized she was brandishing the Strycker saw like a weapon, and carefully set it back down on the aluminum tray. God, what was the matter with her? Back to work. Finish this up, then go get some more coffee and wait for Mulder to get back from the psych ward ... coffee, yes, definitely; even that awful bitter hospital-cafeteria coffee sounded good. How pathetic. At this rate, she'd be chewing coffee beans by the end of the day. She had just pulled the scalp back down over the calvarium when her caffeine-heightened senses picked up on a presence, someone hovering just behind the doors of the autopsy bay. She looked up to find Mulder peeking through the window. He met her gaze and smiled. Scully stripped off the latex gloves and tossed them in the medical disposables bin, which Mulder seemed to take as his cue to push the door open slightly and stick his head inside the room. "Hey there." "Hey." She pulled the surgical mask and protective eyewear off her face and ran a hand through her hair, trying to get rid of the lingering sensation of pressure from the mask ties. "I didn't expect you back so quickly." "Almost finished?" Mulder asked, his eyes flickering from her face to the corpse and back again. "Almost. I can leave the rest of it to the morgue assistant." She raised an eyebrow. "Didn't Uncle Fred have anything interesting to say?" "Haven't talked to him yet," Mulder said matter-of-factly, pushing the door the rest of the way open and walking on in. Something was up. Scully's eyebrow crept further toward her hairline. "By any chance are you having trouble finding the psych ward?" "Haven't looked for it yet," Mulder said in that same tone of voice, frowning as he looked down into the still-open chest cavity of the corpse. He caught Scully's look as he glanced back up, and shot her a swift grin. She ignored it. He wasn't buying her off with that grin, not today. "Then what have you been doing for the past hour and a half, Mulder?" "Waiting on you, mostly." "Why?" He grinned that adorable Aw Shucks, Ma'am grin, shrugging one shoulder. "I just thought the interview might go better with you there." "I'm touched," Scully said dryly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "What brought this on?" Mulder shrugged again, chewing just a little on his lower lip. "I might need backup in case Fred starts hurling Bible verses at me." Scully shook her head. "I'm pretty rusty on my Scripture, Mulder. I don't think I'd be much help." "Why, Scully, I'm shocked," Mulder gasped mockingly. "A good Catholic girl like you, unprepared to lock horns with a small-town chapter-and-verse nut like Fred." Her frayed temper snapped. No more of that shit -- first Jean Denison, then Marty Schmidt; there was no way in hell that she was going to let Mulder jump on this particular bandwagon. "Dammit, Mulder, will you give the religious stuff a rest?" she snarled. "Just because I happen go to church doesn't give you the right to pawn off every fundamentalist freak on me, so drop it." Mulder blinked at Scully. It occurred to her, belatedly, that she had blown up at the wrong person. It wasn't his fault that Jean Denison had pulled this crap; it wasn't his fault that the victim's family was intensely religious; it wasn't his fault that she hadn't found anything in this autopsy. It *was* his fault that she hadn't slept last night, but then again, it wasn't something he'd done on purpose. God help her. She closed her eyes for half a second; when she opened them again, Mulder was walking toward the door. Oh, no. "Mulder --" "I'll just go do the interview," Mulder said, not looking at her. "I don't think it'll take more than five minutes, ten tops. I'll meet you in the lobby." He was out the door before she could apologize. "Mulder!" Mulder turned to find Scully bearing down on him like a redheaded bullet train. She'd come after him. Of course she had; Scully never liked being let off the hook, even when Mulder was the one who'd put her on the hook in the first place. "Scully," he said sharply, continuing his walk down the hall, "I told you, I'll handle it on my own." Scully caught up with him, automatically adjusting her pace to keep up with his longer stride. "Mulder, I'm going with you." "Forget it, Scully," Mulder said with an overly casual shrug. "You're busy. I'll meet you back here in ten minutes." "Mulder --" "Ten minutes, Scully." Scully grabbed Mulder's sleeve, bringing him to an abrupt halt and pulling him around to face her, so close that she was practically treading on his toes. "Dammit, Mulder, will you let me apologize already?" Mulder stared down at her, surprised. Some unidentifiable emotion flitted across her face before she regained her usual neutral expression; she pulled her hand away and moved back half a step. What had just happened? He searched her eyes, looking for the source of that sudden withdrawal, but the barriers were back up and he couldn't get a read on her. "Okay," he said slowly. "Go ahead." Scully just looked at him. "Stay here," she said at last. "Give me a minute to get cleaned up, and I'll go with you. All right?" "All right," Mulder agreed. He chanced a small smile. "Is that the apology?" Scully's mouth twisted in something halfway between a smile and a grimace. "At this point, Mulder, I suggest you take what you can get." There was only one nurse manning the station at the psych ward, and she seemed far too young to be in charge. She was twenty-five, perhaps younger; an attractive, baby-faced woman, her dark hair and huge dark eyes contrasting with the brilliant white of her uniform. She glanced up as the agents approached, swiveling her chair away from the computer with a professionalism that bordered on religious fervor. Scully was struck by a memory of herself around that age, throwing herself heart and soul into medical school, burning up with dedication. Mulder, it seemed, was not considering professionalism; out of the corner of her eye, Scully noticed his gaze slip past the nurse's face, lingering lower -- on her breasts? -- before he looked back up with his most charming, conspiratorial grin. "Hello," he said, the flirtatious tone of his voice echoing the implications of his grin. Scully gritted her teeth. The nurse -- her name tag gave her name as Lois Rubin -- did not respond to either the grin or to the voice. She merely smiled politely, exposing small white teeth that reminded Scully of Tic-Tacs. "May I help you?" Mulder leaned forward, resting his elbows on the high counter surrounding the nurse's station; Scully could practically smell the testosterone levels sliding up the scale. "I certainly hope so. We're here to speak with Fred Schmidt." Lois glanced at a clipboard on her desk. "I don't have any information on this. Are you related?" "To --?" "To Mr. Schmidt." "No," Mulder said, sounding amused. Scully flipped her ID open and held it up, tired of this game. "We're with the FBI. I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Mulder. We'd like to ask Mr. Schmidt some questions." Lois blinked, her eyes getting even wider. She went stock-still like a startled woodland creature, wary and poised for flight. "May I ask what this is regarding?" Scully put on her stern expression. "It's regarding the death of his nephew." Wheels spun almost visibly in the young nurse's head as she attempted to process this unfamiliar request. Finally she stood, making an almost unconscious gesture toward the phone. "I'll have to call my superior." "That's fine," Scully assured her; Lois picked up the phone and dialed, turning away to ensure her privacy. Scully glanced at her partner, only to find Mulder's attention still glued to the shapely nurse. He seemed to be staring directly at Lois's round bottom. Scully felt like punching him in the nose. Lois murmured something into the phone, pitching her voice too low for Scully to make out what she was saying. A pause; more murmuring. Lois turned her head to glance at the agents; Scully caught the words "don't know if we should, really" as Lois turned back around, then more unintelligible murmurs. Scully looked over at Mulder, expecting to find him still staring at Lois's ass; she was relieved to realize that he was engrossed in one of his less offensive hobbies: eavesdropping. Under normal circumstances, Scully might have elbowed him or cleared her throat to indicate her disapproval, but at the moment, almost anything was preferable to ... to ... Well, eavesdropping wasn't really so bad. Lois turned back around, setting the receiver back in its cradle with a very professional *click*. "Mr. Schmidt is in room three-oh-three. You can stay for ten minutes; any more than that and he gets agitated." She leaned slightly over the counter and politely pointed at the hallway to their left. "It's down that hallway, past the elevator." "Have you been washed in the blood of the Lamb?" Fred Schmidt was sitting cross-legged on the hospital bed, the sheet pulled to his waist, the hospital gown hanging on his skinny frame in baggy folds. He was considerably calmer than he had been last night, possibly due to some kind of medication. His enthusiastic Bible-waving had been replaced by wide-eyed staring -- but after two long minutes of the staring, Scully was beginning to miss the Bible-waving. This was insane. She couldn't believe she'd actually argued with Mulder for the privilege of coming along on this interview. Damn him and that pitiful look of his. So she'd jumped down his throat for no reason. So what? She shouldn't feel as though she had to make it up to him, she shouldn't have some automatic need to make the puzzled hurt leave his eyes. She'd made the offer and now she had to deal with the consequences. Namely, Fred. Fred, who had been staring at her face with his dry, spiraling, mesmerizing stare for two very long minutes now -- and completely ignoring Mulder. Fred, who had been keeping up an intense, low-pitched monologue for most of those two minutes, ignoring any queries that the agents had put to him and not listening to any of their answers to *his* questions. Fred, who did not seem to have anything useful at all to contribute to this investigation and was still *staring* at her. Mulder was a dead man. "*Have* you?" Fred pressed. He never seemed to blink. Perhaps his colorless eyes were equipped with a clear nictating membrane that prevented them from drying out ... or maybe they were already dried out, and Fred simply didn't care. "Have you been WASHED, have you been SAVED, have you found SALVATION?" Enough of this. Scully crossed her arms over her chest and returned Fred's stare. "Mr. Schmidt," she said calmly, "there are a few questions that we need to --" "You need the love of CHRIST," Fred informed her; his eyes grew even wider, and a thin trickle of saliva began to make its way down his chin. "A woman is a base creature of LUSTS and PERVERSIONS, she must be sanctified by the blood of the LAMB before she goes out into the world to TEMPT men into sin, just as Eve tempted Adam in the Garden of Eden ..." It occurred to Scully just how much Fred's attitude towards women would benefit from a swift kick in the testicles. Mulder cleared his throat and leaned into Scully's line of vision, bringing an end to the staring contest. "Mr. Schmidt," he said, "we have to ask you some questions about your nephew's death." "All God's creatures return to the dust at their proper time," Fred intoned, tilting his head so that one colorless tuft of hair pointed skyward. "Joshua's soul is in the hands of his Heavenly Father." He still hadn't blinked. Scully couldn't remember how long the interval between blinks was supposed to be in humans, but she was positive that Fred had exceeded it at least a minute ago. "Be that as it may," Mulder said calmly, "what we're concerned about is the *manner* in which Joshua's soul departed his body last night." He was using his soothing voice, with just a hint of-- what was it, amusement? Yes, that was it, Mulder was amused. The bastard. "You told the sheriff that you yourself were attacked shortly before Joshua's death. Can you tell us about the attack?" "I was sleeping -- I was dreaming -- I felt-- someone -- PRESSING me," Fred announced, staring at Mulder now, spitting a little on each plosive sound. "Pressed so that I could not MOVE, could not BREATHE -- someone on TOP of me -- on my CHEST --" Well, now, this was getting somewhere. Scully risked a glance at Mulder, searching for his opinion in his face. Whatever he was feeling, he was hiding it well; her only clue was the slight press of his lips ... could be tension, could be annoyance, could be some kind of repressed smile ... It sure as hell was sexy. "Running hot HANDS over me -- PRESSING into my body like a WHORE --" Mulder turned his head slightly, and Scully realized with a jolt that she'd been staring at his mouth. Oh, no, for God's sake, not now ... He caught her eye, lifted an eyebrow slightly and tilted his head just a little in Fred's direction, the ghost of a smile lurking in his eyes. "HOLDING me down, helpless -- helpless as a BABY -- lighting a FIRE in my belly --" She looked away. "A FIRE that burned in my loins like the --" "Mr. Schmidt," Mulder interrupted, "can you tell us who it was that attacked you?" Fred focused on Mulder, leaned forward, and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. "The spirit." "I beg your pardon?" Scully exclaimed, immediately regretting it as Fred swiveled around and focused on her. "The unclean SPIRIT," Fred hissed intently. "The unclean spirit came upon me in my SLEEP -- it tempted me with LEWD DREAMS --" "So," Mulder interrupted again, "you were asleep, the ... unclean spirit ... pressed you to your bed and made you dream ... and then what happened? You woke up?" "Yes." "What exactly was it that woke you?" Mulder asked. "Was there a noise in the room?" "No no no ..." Fred shook his head slowly, and let out a long hissing breath. "It was the dream." "You woke up because of the dream." "Yes." Fred nodded once, sagely. "The Lord commands us to FIGHT temptation, just as He fought Satan in the desert." Mulder had his Super G-Man face on; his body language was deliberate and showy, designed to prove that he was firmly in charge of this interview. "So you fought the dream, and woke up." "Yes," Fred agreed. His lips parted slightly and the tip of his pale pink tongue thoughtfully touched first his upper lip, then his lower lip, and disappeared back into his mouth. "I awoke, and the demon was on me -- a perverse creature of SATAN -- a demon built like a woman, created to TEMPT men with her body, ENSNARE them and TRAP them in sin --" "Mr. Schmidt," Mulder began ... but whatever control he'd had of this interview had been short-lived. Fred had started to sway back and forth, his eyes rolling back in his head and his voice edging back up into that peculiar evangelical resonance as he continued his monologue. "-- eyes like glittering EMERALDS and hair the color of NIGHT, FLOWING like a flock of goats moving down the slopes of GILEAD -- lips like a scarlet THREAD -- breasts like two FAWNS--" Scully hadn't been kidding when she'd told Mulder that she was a little rusty on her Bible verses, but Fred's babbling was eerily familiar. The Song of Solomon, practically verbatim. She frowned. Green eyes, black hair -- why did that sound familiar? Someone she'd met recently? "-- running her HANDS over me -- her HANDS -- on my CHEST --" The description clicked home as Scully remembered Marty Schmidt, the dark- haired, startlingly green-eyed alpha female of the tiny zealous family. The Commandments said not to covet thy brother's wife, but apparently Fred had ignored the fine print and gone for his nephew's wife, instead. An affair? No, even Marty Schmidt had to have better taste in men than that. Unrequited, then, but still noteworthy. Something strange was definitely going on in this town. "MR. SCHMIDT!" Mulder snapped. Scully whipped her head around, surprised, half-expecting to see her partner grab Fred Schmidt by the front of the shirt and shake him -- but Mulder seemed calm enough. His eyes had that sharp look, the watchful gleam of a hunter who has just spotted a flicker in the underbrush and is waiting to see if it was just the wind or the brush of a tiger's tail. Focused. Intense. Sensual. Oh, sweet Mary, mother of God... Fred ignored Mulder as though he had never spoken. "-- PRESSING against my body --" Mulder turned his eyes to Scully. There was frustration in his look, amusement and annoyance and anger all churning together, making his eyes seem darker. His thought processes were easy enough to follow. That flicker of attention from her, to Fred, and back again, the barest movement of an eyebrow -- that was an old signal, the one they always used to trade off during interviews, the one that meant, 'I'm not getting anywhere with this, it's your turn.' Scully frowned marginally and shook her head just a fraction. No. She'd had enough of Fred for one day; she was still angry with Mulder for pulling her in here in the first place, and besides, she couldn't think of anywhere to take this interview. "-- putting her scarlet MOUTH to mine to sip my LIFE out through my lips --" Mulder gave her the signal again, elaborating it with a double-eyebrow lift and a tilt of the head. Scully glared at him and deliberately turned away. Forget it. She'd already done Mulder enough favors for one day -- And then she felt Mulder's hand brush against her wrist. A very light touch. Warm fingertips. An almost palpable electrical charge vibrating between them. Oh God. Scully stepped away from Mulder, ostensibly to get closer to the bed but really in a desperate quest for escape. "Mr. Schmidt!" she bit out. Amazingly, Fred stopped his swaying and chanting, and focused his pale eyes on Scully. She took a deep breath. "Mr. Schmidt, can you please tell us how you fought off this ... demon?" Fred blinked, actually blinked. "I PUSHED the harlot from me -- she HISSED, and MOCKED me, and sprang toward me AGAIN --" He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I prayed, prayed to JESUS, to save me from the demon, and --" He stopped, his mouth hanging open, as if his batteries had run down. "... And?" Scully prompted. Fred focused on Scully. The crazy whirling in his eyes came to a sudden halt, and for a moment his expression was completely normal and sane. "And it was gone. It just disappeared." Scully felt an opinion forming in the back of her mind, but this was not the time or place to share it. Instead, she looked up and over her shoulder at Mulder, raising her eyebrows in a silent question -- Can We Go Now? Mulder, deep in thought, shook his head. "Just a few more questions, Mr. Schmidt. Last night you said something about needing to 'cleanse' your nephew. What exactly did you mean by that?" Fred still seemed sane; he blinked owlishly at Mulder and spoke in a normal voice. "Joshua needs to be cleansed of the touch of the demon, lest his immortal soul be compromised." "The same demon that attacked you?" Mulder asked. "Of course." Fred's attention drifted back to Scully and he smiled, narrowing those eerie eyes and showing most of his teeth. As she watched, the pale light in his gaze began to spin again, like a crazed merry-go- round. "The demon," he whispered, holding her eyes. "The unclean spirit. The succubus." End of Chapter 7 (7/16) Feedback to playwrtrx@aol.com All posted chapters can be found at http://shannono.simplenet.com/gutless