III

Tuesday, 12/5/95, 12:15 A.M.

Mulder paced back and forth, hugging himself. He
had already inspected every cranny of the small, empty
basement room, intent on keeping his mind occupied,
keeping his fear a bearable chill in his gut rather than a
moving current that froze his heart and his throat and
flooded his brain with cold blue.

There was no window in his cell, just dirty white-washed
walls and a poorly leveled concrete floor lit a glaring 100-watt
bulb in a bare ceiling socket. Cobwebs draped the corners
of the cell and swayed from the exposed joists overhead.
The door was strong. He couldn't break it--panic had already
made him try. Probably cross-bolted on the outside, he thought.
Mulder's stomach grew tighter and colder. He embraced
his anger to warm himself. Fucking Interrogation 101. Give
the prisoner time to invent horrors, to prime himself with terror.
Why the hell did he need to invent anything? Mulder's own
memories were enough.

He saw again the wooded lot behind the high school where
all the geeks got what they deserved. He remembered
the other boys' tight grip on his wrists and ankles, holding him
to the ground, to the fallen golden leaves. Slanting autumn sun
had been in his eyes as the blows came down and the kicks
caught him in the ribs. And he remembered the old grounds
maintenance man rousing him out of the peace of unconsciousness
and the sobs that racked his aching body when he realized he
was still alive and he was still Fox Mulder.

Tears tracked down his face. He hated himself for weeping.
Mulder wiped his eyes with his hands. "Come on, you bastards!"
he shouted at the ceiling. "Get this over with!"

********