Title: Skin Tight (Sequel to 'Look at the Stars'} Spoiler warning: Requiem Rating: PG Classifications: Skinner/Scully. Character death Summary: Not everything is dead and buried. Feedback: fleable@hotmail.com The characters and situations of the television program "The X-Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit will be made. ******************************* Skin Tight By Fleable ******************************* I see your shadow on the street now I hear you push through the rusty gate Click of your heels on the concrete Waiting for a knock coming way too late It seems an age since I've seen ya Countdown as the weeks trickle into days ******************************* The inside of the van was hot and muggy. The rarefied air smelt of old coffee and ozone from the electronics and burnt plastic. Skinner screwed up his nose as he looked at a screen, a study of intense concentration as the greenish night vision light bathed his face. On the screen two white-hot figures separated and carefully moved off, checking the perimeter of the house they had under scrutiny. A woman's voice reached his ears, attenuated by the hum of recording devices. "Clear." A moment later Doggett's voice agreed. "Same here." Skinner looked up at an Agent leaning almost over his shoulder and straightened his back to create distance and impressing upon the man that he was in charge here. The Agent stepped back and nodded. In a rush three screens of night vision were filled with running and crouching figures. DEA and FBI Agents rose like spawning of demons erupting from the monster green darkness, adding to the chaos of light and shadow. A moment later a screeching and splintering of a door being butted in joined with shouts of warning, caution and disbelief. He could hear them from speakers and through the insulation of the van. Skinner turned his study away from the screens and stooped up, pushed open the door and stepped out into the lake-cooled night. Pulling his coat about him the cold wind flapped his lapels, rippling his black coat about his legs. Rolling the van's door closed, he strode purposefully up the path, taking the house's steps two at a time as the first of the crack heads was dragged out screaming in Spanish. Stepping aside he let the DEA officers take the man away. "Agent Bilyeu?" He addressed the FBI agent as she approached him cutting through the chaos of squirming and fighting people. "Sir?" "We found this, sir." She said handing him a notebook, checking over her shoulder as another addict was jostled past her. "Is this what you were looking for?" Skinner took the small red notebook his large hand, engulfing it in his grasp, he cocked his head as he rapidly flipped through the pages with his thumb, his eyes unblinking as he recognised the writing. Only once did he pause when he found her photo stuck on the inside cover. He twisted the book about quickly to look at the picture then as if afraid he revealed too much, he snapped it shut. Glimpsing past Bilyeu into the dark moving interior, face giving nothing away. "Yes." He replied speaking to the darkness, neatly pocketing the notebook with a small tense jump in his cheek. "It is." ********************************** So you come in and put your bags down I know there's something in the air How can I do this to you right now If you're over there when I need you here ********************************** The wind was warmer near the middle of the day. He sat and watched the families as they walked along the cedar tree lined paths, flowers clasped in hands, heads bowed, children skipping ahead. A young man held the shoulders of an older woman as she pushed away from him and bent to touch the black granite headstone before her, before raising the shaking hand to her lips. Over the years Skinner had become a connoisseur of grief, but this felt like a species of voyeurism; he was here to grieve himself but his outward mien remained unchanged, as befitted a control freak. Something was holding him back, draining his spirit; he felt it dragging him back as if he were being sucked down into the murky soil of the city of death. Shaking his head, he pulled the notebook from his pocket and rubbed his thumb across its vinyl fire engine red surface. He opened the book and for the first time gave into the temptation to read… 'Owen Turnbull knows more than he admits.' Skinner scanned the first line of text, mentally translating the journalistic shorthand before letting his gaze drop from the hurriedly scrawled words to the grey face of the headstone before him. "Dana Katherine Scully and her unborn child - a daughter" were terse gold letters embedded into stone. He swallowed as he read her name and then returned to the notebook, which had her thoughts signposted by Kipling's honest serving men. "Sg ~ add up hr. Why hom. @ crack house/v not addicts? How come thr, What in cmn? -> Dr O.T." Which, being translated, thought Skinner; 'Something does not add up here. Why did the murders centre on the crack house when the victims were not addicts? How did they end up there? What was their common thread? Owen Turnbull, the doctor knows.' The wind whipped up, fluttering the small pages against his fingers, Skinner looked up and blinked as the air hit his aching eyes. He felt tired and wrung out, his cell phone chirped and he struggled it out of his breast pocket and saw that it was an alarm not a call. He had a meeting he had to go. Standing he gained his feet and almost gave into the urge to look back at the gravestone. There was little point in coming out here, he told himself. She never wanted anything deeper than a nod from you. You've done your duty; let her go. *********************************** My happiness is slowly creeping back Now you're at home If it ever starts sinking in It must be when you pack up and go *********************************** Owen Turnbull sat in the interview room, his hands neatly folded on his lap, his gaze ambling about the room, taking in the files, the photos, and the police officer at his back. Skinner turned away from the mirrored wall and nodded at Bilyeu. In response, she nodded slightly and stepped into the Interview Room, closing the door behind her. Owen would have risen out of his chair in courtly fashion upon her entrance, but that a cop's hand came down on his shoulder, stayed the movement, shoved him back down, scraping the chair legs on the floor noisily. Skinner listened to the tales Turnbull spouted, his tinny voice ringing in the concrete air, and watched as Bilyeu wore him down. Surely lies, but how else to prove it than by the attrition of long interrogation? At some point, Doggett stepped up to him and whispered unnecessarily. "We searched his house and found some items you may be interested in, sir." He handed the big man a folder, Skinner took the file with a sigh. Almost annoyed, he disregarded Doggett as he read the contents, then his fingers tightened on the cardboard. "How many?" He hissed. "Fifteen." "Where are they?" "In the forensics lab." Doggett watched the big man as he closed the file, stiffened and considered the wall darkly. "The rest of the bodies must be somewhere?" "Sir." Doggett nodded. "We're checking the woods behind his property." He let the statement hang in the air, waiting for Skinner to reach out and grasp the horrible consequence of this knowledge. Skinner's voice came out dry, a husk. "Get me the post-mortem file on Agent Scully." ************************************ It seems an age since I've seen you Countdown as the weeks trickle into days I hope that time hasn't changed you All I really want is for you to stay ************************************ Skinner closed his eyes and waited… He waited until Kim had gone home, until the cleaning service had passed by his room, until the folder he had requested of Doggett could have indented his desk with its unbearable weight. Finally in deliberate exasperation he grabbed up the file and opened it. He wiped his mouth as pictures fell out. He spent little time over them, triaging them, leaving them as splashes of blood red and pale blued flesh that fumbled in the periphery of his vision, he stacked them up and over out of his mind, black letters and numbers spread upon their white pristine backs. He extracted the PM report and read the words… nausea rising in his throat. 'Post mortem report no. SDE2457-K47 performed on the remains of Dana Katherine Scully by order of…' Don't make me do it, he growled as the words settled before his jerking eyes. How could you make me do it? Words and jargon ran together in a rush, as he ripped the report open, getting to the details he needed to know... Lacerations spleen, liver, crush injuries to spine and pelvis, 24-week gestation foetus… He could not read the words. He groaned at his weakness and gritted his teeth as the document fell from his grasp and fell halfway to the surface of his desk. He had extracted the essential point. In principle a textbook PM, yet no countersignature; Turnbull was both ME and coroner. Do I want to exhume her? Slamming down the papers, he punched his brow in frustration trying to knock sense into his head. Taking a deep steadying breathe he braced his sore head on the same hand and glared at the dark walls, clenching his other hand on the desk so hard that it ached, nails digging into palm, jaw cracking, eyes burning, using his anger to reduce himself to a hot point of duty, flaring off irrelevant parts of his psyche till he could no longer recognise himself, nor needed to. The walls of his isolation were a monument and testimony to his will and pride. Only when he was safely ensconced behind those walls, did he pick up the report, and feigning calm, reread it. ********************************** So you come in and put your bags down I know there's something in the air How can I do this to you right now If you're over there when I need you here *********************************** The yellow digger hung its clawed hand over the grave and let its arm drop, impacting, splitting the pristine green grass surface with a small earthquake as it scraped back the turf, rucking up green, piling up muddy earth. Skinner turned away. The police and coroner's men stood on the opposite side of the grave, joking and sipping coffee from steaming cups, upon seeing him one of the men skipped over muddy puddles to come to his side. "AD Skinner?" He nodded in reply, the cold pinching his lips back. "We're from the Coroner's office." The man informed him. "We need you to sign some release forms." He nodded and took the clipboard proffered, signing away his life and any respect he had left over the remains of the woman or her child inside that grave. He felt his gut burn with a sudden influx of acid and he bit it down, sucking in the edges of his mouth again fighting for control. "Will you be there for the post-mortem?" Skinner shook his head. "No. One of my Agents will go to that." His voice burnt with the acid that had now climbed from his stomach into his throat. There was a heavy sick clunk from the machine behind him and a shout went up. "Jesus Harry!" A workman looked down into the grave. "You broke the casket!" Skinner found himself moving away, he did not turn around when the curses turned to shouts, did not stop as the Coroner's men flashed camera's down the open mouth of the grave. Did not pause, even at the exit of the cemetery as his car joined the afternoon traffic with swift and ruthless anonymity. ********************************** My happiness is slowly creeping back Now you're at home If it ever starts sinking in It must be when you pack up and go ********************************** Have you ever noticed how guys who wear keys hanging from their belt know everything? It's their badge of honour, their statement to the world. See how responsible I am? See how many doors I can open and locks I can undo? The secrets I know… Or it could just mean he had a bad memory for keys and didn't dare lose them. Still, Skinner thought he knew the type. He was watching one of them right now as the man slowly and delicately filled out a statement on the desk in front of him. "I would have preferred a blue pen." The man says with a peeved expression. "It's more professional." Pedantic and pompous men. Skinner's face remained impassive as he sneered inwardly; he used to listen to the interminable drone of effluent that gushed from their mouths every other day... but not now, not when he had a choice. He climbed to his feet, the cheap chair wobbling back as he straightened. "Phone me when he's finished." He told the guard as he left swiftly, not looking back and slamming the metal reinforced door behind him. "Hey! Where you going? Hey!" Why did these know-it-all types have voices that warped speech? He felt empathy for the bored and indifferent guard who was assigned to watch the freak; the guard doubtless felt as much put-upon as he. His footsteps echoed down the slick concrete corridor. Even so, Skinner could hear the man's loud voice echo off the walls, scratching up his irritation. He felt skin-tight, as if he were encased within a body bag. It bought back memories of red, a different red, flowing red like hair, like a cloak, like a river. Skinner tightened his hands on the metal bars of the jail block's door and waited, ignoring the glowing red LCD clock on the wall opposite that told him he was late. He knew it. He did not need to be reminded. "Hurry up." He breathed, checking his watch in frustration, not admitting that he need to escape this place and no meeting was that important. "Come on." *********************************** I know I know I know what is inside I know I know I know what is inside I know I know I know what is inside I know I know I know what is inside *********************************** The backwash of Skinner's life tasted like bile as he swallowed down the scene before him. "How many?" he asked as Doggett came up to him, his face stark and stony. "Nine so far." He answered, wiping his nose with a eucalyptus scented handkerchief. "All adolescents... a couple of kids too. Remind you of anything?" Skinner nodded and shoved past Doggett out into the makeshift graveyard, pines rustling in a gust of wind that swept over their tops, casting up dust and scrunching the plastic of evidence bags, body bags, and scraps of clothes stained by long-decayed fat. "We'll run tox screens on them, sir and do matches. They all appear to be missing their left eye teeth." Doggett replied, "Just like-" Skinner twisted his head and glared hard at the man until Doggett looked away. Changing the topic, the Agent pointed across the piles of dirt, past the moving and huddled forensic teams to Bilyeu. "She said Turnbull's undergoing psychological testing, sir." "He will tell us." Skinner replied. "Even if I have to kick the shit out of him." "Sir?" Agent Bilyeu came up to him and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "His house, the morgue and his practice were clean, sir." "What did you expect Agent?" Skinner's voice was cold. "He was going to leave you a trail of bread crumbs?" Embarrassed Bilyeu looked down and away. Doggett remained impassive. Any support he was willing to give was absent from his face. The woman scowled and hissed out a breath in disgust. This was a hole and it was just getting deeper. Doggett was equally unimpressed. He knew his boss had taken evidence from a crime scene, knew how many rules they were breaking by detaining a man without just cause. A prominent man, a doctor and police coroner no less. The perfect murderer in fact, if anyone knew how to hide evidence someone like Turnbull would and had done so- over and over again, not that it mattered now that time was running out. Running out, not only for Turnbull, but also for him, for Skinner, for Scully, for everybody. No more injunctions, no more pleading… It would soon all fall about their asses in one giant stinking mess. Not that Skinner cared anymore Doggett frowned, not that the bastard gave a rat's ass about anyone or anything except this case and what it meant to him and his cause. And it was getting late. Doggett fidgeted as Skinner moved aside to let another small body bag be escorted away. Feeling in his pockets for his keys, he wanted to go, he wanted to be at home in front of the TV watching sport like any other normal adult male on a Saturday afternoon. He extracted his keys and flipped them to find his car's key, only to find Skinner's hand hard on his wrist and his voice edged with roughness. "Keys…" Skinner looked at Doggett his eyes boring into the man. "Get me all of the son of bitch's keys!" *********************************** If you're over there when I need you here My happiness is slowly creeping back Now you're at home If it ever starts sinking in It must be when you pack up and go *********************************** Keys were spread out on the green evidence cloth like expensive jewels, some were paired, some were triplets, only two were alone and it was these keys that Skinner picked up between his forefinger and thumb and studied closing. "Ask him." He ordered and Bilyeu nodded assent, stepping up to the table as the guard stepped back. Bending into the small man's face she asked. "What do these unlock?" Turnbull eyed the keys and shrugged, the chains about his wrists rattling the ones about his ankles, the orange of his overalls a stark hard colour against the pasty walls. "Why are you asking me?" He asked blithely. "We found these in your house." Skinner replied, his voice low and growling. He fixed the man with an uncompromising glare, "What do they open?" "I…" Turnbull blanked, his smooth wrinkleless face becoming serene, his eyes losing focus as if he were remembering some pleasant memory, mouth slowly opening into a sweet sure smile. "What do they unlock?" Skinner's voice punctuated the air like gunshots. The moment gone, Turnbull's weak blue eyes flashed onto Skinner's in defiance, "I have no idea." He breathed and then showed Skinner his teeth in a mockery of a grin before starting to chuckle. "No idea! I have no idea!" until he almost choked on his own sick humour. ********************************** My happiness is slowly creeping back Now you're at home If it ever starts sinking in It must be when you pack up and go ********************************** The lockup was on the edge of town. Old tin lined its walls and old rusted out nail holes permitted light and occasional rainwater to penetrate the gloom. Within the oil smeared floor an old pit well was dugout and within it, there lay a body. It was curled up on its side, hands tied behind a bent back, wrists torn and bruised, rain puddles congealed with blood and oil shifting about the body as it breathed, sucking in and out the tainted air. She had drunk the mucky water knowing it would keep her alive. As her mind wandered between pain and dreams, her tongue wandered along the gap in her teeth to find the hole, the gum raw and ripped where once a tooth had been. He collected the teeth wearing them as a necklace, a momenta of his chores. He collected skills in death and dying, he practised long and hard. He collected her and killed her. Sending her off a bridge in a car… but she had lived and he had to use his other 'piece of meat' to replace her… at least, Scully thought, in sad consolation that 'piece of meat' was dead. Her child kicked within her at the thought of death and she knew she had to make it through this nightmare. She had to go on. The door was opening again, rough tin screeching with effort and decay and she knew he was back. He would come back to stare down at her and bide his time. He tortured his victims here. She knew this as soon as he tossed her into the space, glimpsing the blood-splattered walls, the chains rusted with blood, the knives, the iron fisted mallets, the axe and the twisted body of a woman, grotesquely turned out and abused. He practised his cuts here, training his crushes, breaking long bones… So real, so lifelike, so gifted he told her as she heard the sick sounds of sucking flesh. He sexually abused them too, enjoying the stink of the dead and dying flesh. He lusted after death he needed it as much as she needed air and water. While she was still alive he would not touch her. Her pregnancy was her saving grace and her damnation. He could not kill her so easily. He needed to use all his skills to do that… He wanted her dead he wanted her alone, viewing the baby as some kind of voyeuristic witness. Oh there were many ways to die, he told her, but he liked his victims to suffer. He liked to practice his craft to show the world he could convince anyone of anything. Crack house junkies! How convenient, he had jeered, for you to believe anything I told you! They were his cast offs his failures at perfection. In reality, if he could see reason, he was growing lazy and had no time to dig the graves anymore. His bloodlust had grown to consume him so that he needed a fresh victim every month. How sad to know that the thrill had gone… when once it could last three or more months on a run. Sending him wide-eyed and pumping back into the world. How ironic he dumped them at the local crack house… He laughed at his own perversity, a gift, from one junkie to another. She berated herself for being stupid! Her notebook containing the only evidence linking Turnbull to the murders had been lost to some Narc who thought it was a wallet. The door ceased aching on its rusty bolts and eased to allow a curtain of light into the darkness. She knew he toyed with the idea of cutting the baby out. She was sure he would sooner or later…. but he had not return to do that, did not come back until now… and she shuddered with fear and loathing. Not her, not her child, not again! She struggled in the grime, oil and grease smearing itself over her cold cramped form, her face and hair black with it. She heard a thump as a body impacted into the pit next to her. Heavy and solid, she relaxed… and shuddered, another victim, so soon? She heard a voice and tried to squirm from it, closing her eyes with dread, not wanting to see the knife. She did not want to open her eyes. She did not want to see what he had done to the body, she had seen enough. Hands gripped her and pulled her upright and then she opened her eyes and stared in disbelief. "Dana?" She could not speak. Was she dead? But before she could rationalise his presence, Skinner was picking her up, half-cradling, half- carrying her up to the edge of the pit. "For Christ's Sake Doggett take her!" She heard his voice, felt it through his chest, looked up to see his chin turned outwards, neck corded as he struggled her up in his arms to the waiting embrace of Doggett. His voice followed her from below, "Get an ambulance and lock down this scene, Bilyeu!" "Welcome back, Scully." Doggett muttered into her ear as he took off the ropes that bound her hands and then wrapped her in his coat. Somewhere behind Doggett a woman appeared, Scully recognised a fellow Agent. Bilyeu was her name she remembered. The woman began to speak hurriedly into a cell phone, her face and shoulders turned away from the horror of the interior. "You've been gone too long." Doggett's voice dragged her back into the darkness. Scully gave Doggett a small sad smile, seeing the mess of her wrists she tapped at the welts and rope burn as she was lain down. The last thing she saw was a galaxy of pinpricks of sunlight in the lockup's roof; they look like stars, she mused, like the stars she had seen with Mulder and then Skinner, but these moved, they spun and shot down all about her. "Stars…" She sighed, her vision fading. "I can see the gaps between the stars." Doggett frowned and shook his head as Skinner clambered out of the pit and banged at the greasy mess on his shirt and hands. "Is she alright?" He asked softly, coming to crouch beside her and taking her hand in his scrutinising the rope marks. "She's passed out, sir." Doggett frowned. "She was talking about stars and the space between them?" His brow puzzled. "What do you think she meant?" Inexplicably Skinner smiled down on the unconscious form of the woman before him and traced a line of greasy hair from her neck, feeling her carotid pulse strong and hard. "I see them too, Dana." He whispered enigmatically, excluding Doggett with the intimacy of his voice, "All the space between them, all stars we cannot see." Doggett huffed in disgust and stood up, joining Agent Bilyeu as she closed her cell phone. "The Sheriff will be here in about fifteen minutes, the paramedics will take a while longer," She informed him. "Look at this place! What kind of crazed animal was this guy?" "The antisocial personality kind." Doggett replied, rubbing his nose in distaste. "Narcissistic too I bet. Otherwise he'd never had the audacity to use the local locksmith like that. He thought he was untouchable." "He'd been doing it for years. I guess that would breed complacency." Bilyeu commented and looked back out onto the sunny road and pastures beyond, changing the subject with the view. "How is she?" "Seeing stars." Doggett replied whimsically. "And AD Skinner?" Doggett scuffed his toe on the gravel and smirked, "I think he's seeing them too." Bilyeu pursed her lips, cocking her head as the distant sound of sirens faded and rose on the air. "We'll all be lucky not to see a commission of inquiry for this." She sighed shaking her head. "But we got the bastard." Doggett added, jamming his hands into his pant pockets as a series of flashing red and blue lights appeared on the horizon. Bilyeu eyed him, "Did we?" She watched the procession of police cars. "Or was it only a matter of time?" Doggett shrugged. "Who cares, it's over." "I hope so." Bilyeu replied. "I really do hope so…" ************************** the end