I'm Thinking As Loud As I Can

Chapter Eight - Truth

by Mik

Mulder had been agitated all the way back to the scene. He had made it pretty clear from the beginning that he didn't like the fact that an investigation unit had to come with us, even though we were doing it to preserve the integrity of any evidence we might encounter. He understood it, but he didn't like it. He was walking through the fires of his own nightmare and he didn't want tourists along, snapping photos and looking for souvenirs.

As we drove, I had the feeling that he wanted to say things to me. I wasn't sure if he wanted to warn me about something we were going to find, or to finally tell me the things I had been pressing him to know, or if he just wanted me to talk him out of doing the right thing. I didn't try to force him. I left him alone, hoping he'd say what he needed to say without any pressure from me. But he remained silent, albeit restless all the way.

Until we pulled off the Interstate. Then he motioned me to stop. I pulled onto the shoulder of the road and waited, not knowing what I was about to hear, and actually being a little bit afraid of those things I thought I wanted to know.

He unfastened his seatbelt and twisted to look at me. Then he began to spell, slowly. "Y...o...u...v...e......b...e...e...n......g...o...o...d......t...o......m...e......B...e...t...t...e...r......t...h...a...n......a…n…y…....o...n...e........Y...o...u...r...e......a......g...o...o...d......m...a...n......a...n...d..." He seemed to falter. "Y...o...u...r...e......a......g...o...o...d......m...a...n," he repeated. He turned back in his seat, fastened his belt and fell silent.

It wasn't a poetic declaration of love, but it was good enough for me.

It was late in the afternoon when we rolled to the spot where the charred clothing had been found. Mulder's hand shook as he reached for his car door. Impulsively I put a hand on his other arm. "Mulder … if you're not ready …" As much as I wanted him to actually make a statement, to give us evidence, to let us get this bastard, I wasn't prepared to witness his meltdown either.

He looked at me, swallowed a couple of times and said, "Hahahhhhave to." He pushed the door open and unfolded himself.

I got on the radio and instructed everyone in the other car to hold back. Mulder had promised not to touch anything, and I wanted him to be able to get a grip on himself and the surroundings before he was overtaken by a swarm of ride alongs. This had to be a frightening thing he was doing. I was actually frightened for him. For the first time since this all began, I wasn't a cop first. For the first time since this all began, I knew I had a place in his life more important than being the guy who brought his assailant down. I no longer needed to be a savior. I was the guy who was going to hold him, catch the pieces when they fell, the guy that was going to be there for him every day from now on.

He walked slowly, head down … first to the fire site, and then around it deliberately. For a moment, he hovered there, frowning. He seemed somehow detached from the events that had taken place there. Then he looked back toward the road, and then to the stand of trees just beyond. Then he started to move.

I got out of the car then, signaling the others to follow but stay well behind. I was feeling a little bit let down. Mulder was going in the wrong direction. His car was found to the west of this place. Logic dictated that he should be heading to the west, beyond where his car had been left. But he was walking northeast.

He knew what I was thinking. He paused as I approached him, and began to spell. "S...c...u...l...l...y......w...r...o...n...g........B...u...r...n...e...d......f...i...r...s...t......t...h...e...n......m...o...v...e...d......m...e"

"Were you with him when he burned those things?" I asked.

Mulder shook his head. "I...n......m...y......t...r...u...n...k......S...m...e...l...l...e...d......s...m...o...k...e......o...n...... h...i...m......w...h...e...n......h...e......c...a...m...e......b...a...c...k......t...o......m...o...v...e......c...a...r."

I frowned at him. I was no great profiler, but those actions didn't make sense to me. Why make a special trip to burn the evidence when he would just have to come back and move Mulder's car afterward?

Mulder saw the question in my eyes. "I …... t…h…i…n…k." He stopped, made a fist and then shook it out to start again. "H…e …... h…a…d .….. p…l…a…n…n…e…d …... t…o …... s…e…t …... m…y …... c…a…r …... o…n …... f…i…r…e."

He didn't say it, he didn't have to say it, but I said it anyway. "With you in it?"

His head jerked once in affirmation. "Ch-changggged hhhis mmmmind, I gu-gu-guess."

I don't know if he heard me, but I breathed a very heartfelt, "Thank God."

He lifted his eyes from mine and looked around. Deciding on a direction in the middle of those trees must have been difficult, but he started moving with cautious confidence.

I staggered after him, strangely weak with relief.

We walked through the woods quietly, our entourage staying several yards behind us. He knew they were there but he never looked back. As soon as we broke through the trees and out into a field, his breath started to come with more effort. He walked a little faster, but the color was draining from his face, and he seemed to be just a little bit wobbly. I ached to reach out and hold him up, but I knew he'd never allow me to treat him as if he was fragile. Finally at one point, he paused, glanced around and climbed up on a small outcropping of rock, a hand lifted to shade his eyes.

I sent my gaze off toward that same horizon, but saw nothing but an open field. Surely he hadn't been kept out in an exposed area, an open field? He had to be lost.

He climbed down and pointed. "R...o...a...d......Y...o...u......f...i...n...d......t...i...r...e......t...r...a...c...k...s."

I stopped doubting him then. He knew what he was looking for. I got on my radio, and sent a team to check it out. "How did you know all this, Mulder? Didn't he have you blindfolded or anything?"

"T...r...i...e...d......t...o......r...u...n......o...n...c...e......S...a...w......s...o...m...e." The expression on his face answered my next question. He probably sustained the second worst beating of his ordeal after that.

A few moments later, my radio crackled. Confirmation that a dirt road had been found, and there were tire tracks; two sets. One appeared consistent with the tires on Mulder's car, but there did seem to be another set, made at the same time. We had now included a second vehicle in the assault. Hartley had not prepared to leave this place with Mulder. Not with Mulder alive, at any rate.

Mulder and I walked further. He was breathing harder. His fists were clenching. He broke into a sweat. Then he started to run. We crossed about five hundred yards before the landscape dipped into a dry riverbed. On the opposite side was a dilapidated metal building that might have served as an old mill at one time. He stopped. Would not take another step. "T...h...e...r...e."

I signaled the rest of the team and we moved in. Evidential procedures indicated that he should step inside to formally identify it as the scene of his unlawful captivity, however I didn't push it. I had a feeling he knew we'd find enough physical evidence to place him there without his formal declaration.

It was a bigger building than I realized as I approached it. Perhaps three stories high, it was nothing but sheets of corrugated metal pounded against a decaying wooden frame. Stepping inside, we disturbed a flock of birds that took off with a roar of wings and a cacophony of cawing, high in the rafters, making us all flinch. As the echo subsided, I wondered grimly if Hartley had enjoyed the way Mulder's screams must have reverberated in there.

The scene inside was all an evidence team could hope for. An open, concrete floor, almost entirely empty except for a sturdy metal work table, candles, rope, a coil of fine wire, and cutters, heavy gardening gloves, scraps of cloth that were probably stripped off Mulder's body, the shattered remains of a wooden chair, an iron two inch pipe, wrapped in duct tape, and blood. Lots of blood. It was smeared around as if someone had made a vain attempt to wipe it up, and gave up.

I sent my eyes around once, because I had to see everything just once, gave a nod to the team waiting to begin the arduous task of recovering and cataloging the evidence, and stepped back outside. I was shaking. I almost felt that I had heard Mulder's cries, and the sounds of the beatings inflicted on him.

Mulder was sitting on a rock ledge about a hundred yards up the riverbed, facing away from the building. His mouth was working as if he was talking but no sound was coming out. When he heard my approach, he jerked around, mouth open, scanning left and right and then down to me. He relaxed slightly then stiffened again, knowing that I had been inside and had seen what was left behind.

I put up a hand. "You don't have to say anything. You've done the hard part. Now we can go home." I didn't wait for him. I wanted to get away too.

Mulder sat there for another moment, and then slid down from the rock and fell into step behind me.

As we walked silently, back to the car, my mind whirled with a thousand horrific scenarios. I could surmise, just from my limited knowledge, the nature of his violation, but I knew that there was more, something so terrible I couldn't even imagine it, something so heinous it had robbed Mulder of the ability to speak, lest he reveal it to anyone. I flicked a look at him, feeling something akin to what I felt when they brought Ronny's tags back to me. Something had destroyed this man inside those metal walls, vaporized him as completely as the mine in the middle of the jungle had obliterated Ronny. But unlike Ronny, Mulder was somehow rising up again, pulling the pieces of his body and mind together, trying to rebuild what he once was. And I not only loved him for it, I admired him. But dear Jesus, Mulder, what did that monster do to you?

He must have felt my pain even without looking at me. When we reached the car, he began to spell again. "I......n...e...e...d......a......d...r...i...n...k."

I nodded, and slid behind the wheel. I had a feeling he needed more than a drink, therefore I eschewed a half dozen roadside taverns, instead stopping at a liquor store, and took him back to the motel where Dana Scully and I had taken turns with a one room bungalow, while we waited for him to rise from his ashes. He didn't even raise a brow, merely climbed out of the car and followed me inside our assigned room.

Letting him into the room, I had a feeling he needed a moment or two to himself to resolve once and for all that he was sharing those moments with someone. Looking around for an excuse to leave him, I grabbed the cardboard bucket on the bureau and announced, louder than necessary, "I'll get some ice."

He appreciated the gesture. When I returned, he had shrugged off his jacket, splashed his face with water, and was settled, almost in resignation, at the side of one of the beds, his hands clasped together as much as the cast would allow.

I dropped ice cubes into the pathetic little glasses they had left us, and splashed scotch into each. His glass held just a little more than mine.

He took it, tossed it back, shuddered and held it out to me.

I refilled it and this one he sipped, slowly, but he did not speak 'til it was empty. And when it was, he rose, went to the bureau, poured slowly, and began to pace the room, the glass cupped against him like holy water.

His words came sporadically, clearer than of late, but with effort, and sometimes he just gave up and spelled things out. "He didn't like it when I said no," he began softly. "At first he made a joke and when he saw that I was serious he got … ah-ahh......a...n...g...r...y." He looked at me apologetically.

I nodded.

"He said...he sssssaid a lot of dumb things."

"Did he threaten you?" I asked quietly.

His head twitched in denial. "Not at first. Just...uh-uh...a...c...c...u...s...e...d......m...e." He licked his lips and began again. "But finally he said that if I wasn't going to be his, I cu-cu-couldn't be anyone's."

I felt a needle of cold fear in the back of my neck that reminded me of reading the emailed threats.

"At first I was af-af-fraid for Ssss S...c...u...l...l...y. And maybe my m-mom. B-but after a couple of weeks I decided I was wrong and he was just...b...l...o...w...i...n...g......s...m...o...k...e."

"Why Scully, why your mother?" I interrupted, despite my best intentions to be quiet. "Why not afraid for yourself?"

He looked at me, with an 'are you serious?' expression. I......c...a...n......t....a...k...e......c...a...r...e......o...f......m...y...s...e...l...f." He stopped and winced. "Th-th-thought I cu-could."

"Some things, some people, we can't protect ourselves from," I said, almost scolding him. "You know that, Mulder. What do we always say when someone is threatened? If the person is determined to harm you, somehow, he will find a way."

He was quiet for a while. "When we got to that place, he tried to...um..." his face darkened. "He t-tried..."

I felt for him. This was much harder than just the physical difficulty of getting the words out. "Seduce you?" I offered.

He nodded quickly, his skin darkening in embarrassment, his mouth twitching up grimly. "I l-laughed at him. He was so pa-pa-pathetic. Ssssssome gu-great......n...e...g...o...t...i...a...t...o...r." He was mocking himself derisively. "I tried to get up and leave and he h-hit me." He gestured to the back of his head. "W-with that...that...p...i...p...e." He took a quick sip, and shut his eyes tight for a moment. "Wh-when I woke up, I was...was...t-tied to a ch-chair and...and...n...a...k...e...d. He ha-had a sh-sharp w-wire and he-he..." His hand was shaking so hard he was starting to spill the scotch over his fingers.

I got up and eased the glass out of his hands. "We don't have to do this, Mulder," I told him roughly. I know I must have sounded like the hard-ass bastard he was so used to instead of the friend and maybe more that I had become, but I was afraid if I softened at all, I'd be on the floor sobbing for him.

He grabbed my hand and pressed it to his chest. "P-pierced it," he almost sobbed. "Oh...shhhhhit it hurt."

I remembered that thin wire loop through his nipple that first time in the hospital. I let the glass fall and put my arms around him tight. "You don't have to tell me, Mulder. We can stop this right now."

He burrowed his face against my neck. "He s-said, 'Nn-now you're m-marked as m-my …" I could feel him choking on the word and I eased back so that he could spell it out. "P...r...o...p...e...r...t...y."

I know I was shaking as much as he was. If I had known that night what that wire was supposed to represent, I would have probably ripped it out myself. I said something that was considered a mortal sin in the days of my Catholic youth.

He backed away from me and picked up the glass. He set it on the bureau and began to pace again. His face was twisted up in a smirk. "He k-kept wanting mmmme to say it. Say I was his." He shook his head and looked at me. "B-but I w-wouldn't. He kept hitting mmme. B-but I wouldn't ssssay it." He sounded almost defiant. "W-wouldn't gu-gu-give in. And when he ffffffinally slept, I g-g-got loose and ran away."

I could see him, naked, scrambling through the underbrush of that dry riverbed trying to escape though badly beaten. I felt murderous rage.

He sank down on the bed. "Bbbbut he caught me. And he …" He looked up at me. "And he......b...r...o...k...e...... m...y......l...e...g."

"Oh, God, Mulder."

He was quiet for a very long time after that. I thought the story was over for the day, and in truth I was grateful. At last he got up, made himself another drink, and brought the bottle to refill my glass.

I could see his hand was still shaking badly. I took the bottle from him. "Mulder, that's enough. Don't say anymore."

He took a sip, a big sip, from his glass and returned to the bed. Something had changed in his face. Any hint of animation was gone. When he spoke again, it was a dull, flat monotone, an aloof recitation of facts that was far more chilling than the pain and struggle he had revealed before.

"For two days he kept trying to initiate intimacy. He made it very clear that he expected physical intimacy. He would caress, compliment, even try to kiss me. I couldn't keep my anger or revulsion to myself and he took them very personally. He hit me numerous times, both with his hand and with that lead pipe it appeared he had prepared specifically for any possible recalcitrant behavior. It was wrapped in tape so it wouldn't break the skin and mar his..." his mask broke just enough to sneer the word, "...property."

"His attempts at wooing included food, wine, candlelight, even cigarettes. His idea of romantic speeches was limited to extolling the virtues of his penis, which he exposed to me frequently. He masturbated almost constantly." The detached expression was marred slightly by a hint of green in his face. "He was very frustrated when he could not elicit any indication of arousal in me. At one point he held a pair of wire cutters to my...my...testicles and said he might as well cut them off since they were of no use to either of us."

It took every ounce of strength in my body not to cross my legs protectively just at the suggestion.

"Once he leaned over to kiss me. He had a cigarette in his mouth and when I spit at him, he put the cigarette out by grinding it against several places on my chest. I couldn't hear what he was saying...the pain was roaring in my ears at that point. But I could see it...I knew the word." He paused. His mouth worked hard for a moment. He turned away from me. "He kept saying 'M-M-Mine. Mine. Mine.'"

He fell silent again. He sipped slowly until he had emptied his glass. Then he sighed. "Finally, he lost all patience and knocked over the chair I was tied to, and started to b-bash at it, and me, until it was broken and the ropes just hung on me." He started to shake again. "He-he pushed me over the table and ffffforced my legs apart. He was t-twisting the rope around my neck, kkkkkeeping my head up and I could feel him t-trying to...to..."

I couldn't stay away. I was on my knees, my arms around him, holding him close. "It's okay, honey. Stop, please, God, stop."

"Ppppenetrate me." He was almost laughing now. "He was leaning over me, saying 'You'll say it. You will be mine.' And the sonofabitch cu-cu-couldn't even get it up." His arms came around me, clutching. "He pppicked up that ppppipppe and...and....oh, Ggggod, sssskinnner. Hurt. Hurrrrt."

I nearly broke ribs I was holding him so hard. We were both sobbing and soaking with sweat. "Shhh...honey, please, no more."

He was struggling again, not with me but with the words that were exploding within him. "Wh-when I knew what he was going t-to d-do...I tried to sssssay it. I tttttttttried." He let out an almost inhuman wail. "I was thhhhhinking it as loud as I cu-could. B-but he cu-cu-couldn't hhhhhear it."

My hands gripped tighter around him. "We're going to get this fucker," I vowed hoarsely. "I'm going to enjoy breaking every bone in his body. I'm going to be so happy to kill him. " I rocked his body, wiping my eyes against his shirt. "Please...honey, no more."

"He kept shhhhoving it in and saying 'Mine. Mine. Mine'."

*******************************************

Well, there it is. They can't prepare you for that.

I wish I could say that his therapist was wrong, that there was that breakthrough we all wanted; Mulder talked, the credits rolled. It wasn't like that at all. Real life seldom is. Mulder knew he could never again go out in the field and left the Bureau, although he still works as a consultant. He is still a brilliant profiler, despite the doubts he sometimes entertains about himself. He has never forgiven himself for not recognizing that he got involved with a sociopath, even though I've reminded him countless times that he's always said you can never see one coming until they're too close for you to get away.

He had to do something to occupy himself when he accepted that he could never do field work again. His therapist suggested writing as a therapy, and obsessive-compulsive that he is, he started writing round the clock. You've probably read one of his crime novels, written in a quick, witty style that is a pure homage to Rex Stout, with a little fun historical realignment a la Harry Turtledove. His books always make the bestseller list. When we exchanged vows of commitment, I was smugly convinced I'd be the breadwinner in our family. But the little shit makes more than me.

The only problem for him in his new career is the publicity. And it is a bigger problem than you'd think. Despite threats, whines and bribes from his publishers, he will not do any. Even three years later, he has a great deal of difficulty going out into public alone. When it was obvious that he was more than just my guest, the curious neighbors heightened his anxiety to the point where he couldn't breathe, and he became a prisoner in my house. So we gave up the condo, and got a nice place close to a park.

Also on the advice of his therapist, we got him a dog; a big boxer who is devoted to him. Now he can get out to the park and run on his own, and he takes the dog on his errands in town. He's become a wiz at finding services with drive-through; banks, fast food, even dry cleaners, with that dog in the passenger seat, defying anyone who might approach him uninvited. And God help me if he and I get into an argument around that creature. If I raise my voice to Mulder, that thing is in between us, showing his teeth. I wouldn't have it any other way, you know.

There are days when, aside from his profound stammer and frequent silences, he seems completely unscathed by the events. He is quiet, intent, and quite unexpectedly content. He seems happy with me. He's overtly affectionate, comfortable in my presence, with my touch, even when others are around. He snuggles with me in bed. We don't make love … not in that manner. It seems to be the one area where he has not yet completely healed. He does try. He's offered, we've attempted, more than once, but there's always a point where he loses control and ends up in a corner, sobbing. I've learned to leave him alone when it happens, let him work it out, and a few hours later, he'll come to me with apologies and kisses.

I can't seem to make him understand he's not the one who owes me the apology. I can't be angry with him, I can't feel cheated. I love him too much. I would love that intimacy but he always was orally inclined so we've done all right - if we could just keep the damned dog off the bed. His timing is incredible. One whimper of pleasure from me, and the animal is on top of me, looking down, drooling and … I swear it, grinning.

I understand something of how his father must have felt years ago, though. He talks to the dog without a stammer. He's positively glib with the neighbor kids. His French, which he employs primarily when we're arguing and he wants to be articulate, is flawless. I hate that. My French was never so good, and half the time I don't understand what he's saying. He sings just fine. But when speaking to me, to Scully, to almost any adult, his words still lock up in his throat, cutting off his breath. The speech therapist threw up her hands long ago. She said it still looks like selective muteness, but she offers no suggestions, no cures. She comes to supper, though, and we both enjoy her confidence and good humor.

Of course, he and I never talk about what happened. We certainly never make any reference to that night in the motel room, where we waded through scotch and tears. When the revelations were over, and we'd wept ourselves into exhaustion, I'd dragged myself into the bathroom, gotten warm washcloths and came back to wash his face, and chest and hands. We crawled into bed together and held on for dear life. I don't think either of us slept that night, but nothing else was said. And in the morning, without any discussion, we both scraped up our feelings, packed them away, and walked out of there united. We've since had the ceremony, signed all the papers, but we started our partnership, our life, that night. He'd poured his soul into me, and we were forever joined.

I'm not complaining. We've made it a good life, despite the scars. Mulder, to my amazement, is the least damaged person I've ever known. He gets up and does what he has to do. Sometimes it terrifies him, and the things he doesn't have to do, he won't do for love or money, but when it is all said and done, it's done. And although he's never said so, I know he loves me. He thinks very loud.

I wish I could say there was a happy ending, and the emphasis is on ending. Mulder and I...well, we're happy enough, but it isn't over, it will never end. Not until Hartley's caught. Not 'til he's dead. Not 'til I've personally watched him breathe his last. More than anything, I'd like one of those satisfying movie endings where the bad guy got it right between the eyes. But the mother fucker simply evaporated. I watch the crime logs every day, and I've never seen another report with that M.O.

For a long time I'd have waking dreams where I found the son of a bitch and became judge, jury and executioner with three bullets, blam-blam-blam. I even started seeing a therapist for a while to deal with my rage. I don't think the therapist ever saw someone he loved suffer the way I watched Mulder suffer, because he discounted my anger to the point that I thought I'd be better off dealing with it on my own. So I spent a lot of time in the Bureau basement, taking target practice.

I think Mulder feels the same way, although he rarely displays any anger about the changes in his life. He says they had to happen for him to find a life with me, so he considers it a reasonable trade. But take him down to the firing range, and he can nail the center target in a blink, with one hand.

But that bastard is still out there. And Mulder can't ever rest. And there is nothing, in any book, or classroom or confessional that will prepare you for that.

- END -