Disclaimer: Scully and the victim (yes, it's Mulder) belong to CC and 10-13, the killer belongs to me. The lucky devil. No infringement intended.

Author's Notes: Remember, this is a series of notes to Scully, from the killer. They are all dated. Now, mail me. Mail me big, mail me little, mail me praise, mail me flames. Just mail me. XScout@hotmail.com

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I Know Someone

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7/12/98

Dear Agent Scully,

I know someone who has an amazing tolerance for pain. As you can imagine, I was amazed and overjoyed at this discovery. He kept up a stoic front for days, throwing back witty remarks at my threats and refusing to eat any of the food I gave him, knowing it was drugged. That was a week ago.

Now he is too weak to talk and too tired to resist crying out as I... play... with him. He still is stubborn enough to lash out at me on occasion, even when he can hardly move from the pain or is about to pass out. Remarkable man.

He was, however, pathetically easy to acquire. You would think that a man as paranoid as he would be more cautious while running. What was he doing jogging at three in the morning anyway? Wasn't even paying attention to his surroundings, just running along and staring into space. I simply stepped out of the alley and shot him. I had a silencer of course, it wouldn't do to wake up any potential witnesses now would it? Hit him right where I aimed I am pleased to say. Went clean through his calf muscle, shattering the bone.

He actually stumbled forward a few steps before he collapsed, his leg crumpling underneath him. I walked up to him and introduced myself as the man that you both had been seeking for the previous eight days. You know, he didn't seem surprised at all. Maybe he wanted this to happen, maybe he had gotten so far into my head, he wanted to be with me. I must say, that profile he wrote on me was eerily accurate. Spooky you might say. Oh, sorry about the mess I made in his apartment, I had to search it for anything that might incriminate me, you understand.

I'm rambling. Back to the night this all started. There he was, lying on the pavement, bleeding all over the place, and acting like I was the one in trouble. He started reading me my rights. Such tenacity. It took a few good kicks to the head to shut him up. His head must be as hard as granite. You should have made sure he ate better though, he was astonishingly lightweight for a man of his height. I slung him over my shoulder and tossed him into my waiting van. Not a soul in sight the entire time.

Brought him to my private little 'Shop of Horrors' and gave him the most comfortable room available. Stone floors and shackles included free of charge. You know what the first word out of his mouth was when he woke up? Your name. How sweet. I watched him for a while through the camera I installed a while ago, modern technology is wonderful, don't you agree? He searched for an escape route, a weak spot in the chains that held him to the floor, a weapon to use against me. Even tried to get up, somehow he must have forgotten about his useless leg. Must have hurt like hell when he put weight on it because he let out the most agonizing sound I have had the pleasure to hear. I decided that was my cue to bandage the wound up. Couldn't have him die too fast.

It really is amazing what a little iodine and bandages will do. He passed out when I was done 'cleaning' him up. Lasted longer then I thought he would. We spent the next few days having 'sessions', as I like to call them. They consist of me inflicting as much non-lethal pain on him as possible. Quite fun really, you should try it some time. And there are so many different ways to cause pain. I intend to try them all before I am through.

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7/19/98

Dear Agent Scully,

I know someone and he cries for you. He lies awake at night and dreams of you, some good, others quite horrific, judging by his desperate pleas echoing in the darkness. Doesn't sleep much, that man, mostly he just lies there and talks to you, telling you his deepest darkest secrets and wishes, as though you can hear him. Crazy bastard.

I pity him sometimes. Like when he was lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit, after a rather long session, he called your name and started thrashing about, trying to get up, despite the broken bones. Had to hold him down until it passed. Damn, the man is strong when he's insane.

That's how I figured out how to get to him. Through you. The very mention of your name sends him into a rage, threatening to kill me if I lay a hand on you. He tells me to leave you out of this, that you had nothing to do with it. How chivalrous. As if he could stop me. But don't worry your pretty little head, I have no intentions of having you join our party. Sending you these notes is probably more painful than any physical injury.

Speaking of which, would you like a list of his injuries? A vivid description of every scratch and bruise he has acquired over the past two weeks? I thought so. I'm sure your medical mind will create images in glorious Technicolor. I hope you're sitting down, this may take a while.

You know about the bullet wound to his calf, as I have already mentioned, but now it is magnificently infected, gangrene setting in a few days ago. Good thing he won't be needing his legs again. Ever. I'm afraid that when I kicked him in the head I gave him a concussion, which seems only to have worsened over time. The man can't turn his head without almost vomiting, his balance completely off kilter. He has second degree burns covering his left arm and shoulder, a few more on his right. He is terrified of fire, did you know? Of course you do, how silly of me. His fear was invigorating, filling me with indescribable ecstasy. His back looks more like ground beef than anything else, I got a bit carried away with the coat hanger. His chest is decorated by several artistic cuts, carefully drawn with a razor blade over a span of two days. A work of art if I do say so myself. And though I readily admit I am no doctor, I think his right collarbone is broken. At least the grinding sound it makes when he moves it makes it seem broken to me.

Other than being dehydrated and suffering from malnutrition, added to the list above, he is perfectly fine.

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7/26/98

Dear Agent Scully,

I know someone and he called your name, either your first or your last, a million times and still you never came. He ignores me now, whether on purpose or because of the fever clouding his mind, I don't know. He just curls into a ball - for such a tall man it is incredible how small he can make himself - and whimpers quietly as I play with him. Each time my hand or foot comes in contact with his body, he whispers your name, as though drawing strength from the very thought of you. How touching.

I'm afraid that the infection in his leg has spread to most of his other wounds and the resulting fever spiked at 106 degrees. I have never seen a seizure before but it looked agonizing. It was beautiful. Though it probably didn't help his broken ribs or collarbone any. Yes, I fractured at least seven ribs, maybe six, I can't be sure without X-rays. Well, after his seizure subsided, I decided I had better cool him down or else my fun would be over fairly quickly. Dumping him into a tub of ice water woke him up like a bat out of hell. He actually made it out of the tub and on top of me before I could jab him in one of his sore spots. Definitely a remarkable man.

At night he lays in his cell, shivering miserably and calling out to you, begging you to come find him. Rescue him. You would think that he would realize that you've abandoned him by now. But no. He doesn't resent the fact that you haven't come, that you cannot end his pain. You could probably kill him yourself and he would go on loving you just the same.

You heard me. Loves you. The man hasn't said it in so many words, but I can tell. You think it is impossible for a monster like me to recognize love? Any fool could see it. You are soul mates, you two, I envy you. Yet, I pity you too. Without each other you are only half of a whole, a dismal echo of yourselves, incomplete. He is your strength and your faith, your believer. You are his guardian angel, his protector and partner in so many things, but you couldn't protect him this time, could you?

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7/31/98

Dear Agent Scully,

I know someone and he died with your name on his lips. His confession of love for you the last words he uttered. How tragic. If he had told you before any of this had ever happened, would things be different now? Perhaps you would both be safe and sound, happily married with a house, dog, and 2.5 kids. Perhaps not.

I'm not sure what finally did him in, whether it was the internal bleeding or the fever ravaging his body, but it was a very slow and painful process, I assure you. He moaned and groaned for hours, his arms wrapped around himself as though that could alleviate the agony, praying that you would come. Finally he gave up. He rolled onto his back and cried the first tears I have seen since he arrived here.

He cried for about an hour, until his weakened body couldn't take it any more and forced him to stop. The tears left him gasping for breath and soon he began coughing up blood, his insides convulsing with each spasm. What little strength he had remaining fled with his hope. He knew you wouldn't come. So he lay on the floor, his eyes closed, blood dribbling down from his mouth, and he whispered, "I love you, Dana."

Then he died. Died because you couldn't save him.

I know someone and he forgave you.

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End