Midnight's Sorrow, Chapter 12
Disclaimer in Chapter 1.
This story is rated NC-17.



July 13th
2:58 p.m.
Harold Voight Residence


Dr. Voight paced the span of his kitchen
uneasily.  Things had not gone according to
plan once again.  True, Kathleen Miller
would certainly not be a problem to him any
longer, but it had still not gone the way he
wanted it to.  Everything he had done to try
and correct the situation would not be enough. 
When plans failed, there was always hell to pay.  
Hell, he was almost certain, would show up in 
the form of a pesky FBI agent on his doorstep. 
Harold gently pushed aside the ruffled, daffodil 
colored curtain above his kitchen sink.  A white 
van with tinted windows sat just around the
street corner; a change from five minutes ago
that didn't rest easily with him.  Harold
strained to see from the side of the
window while keeping his face out of sight. 
The van was labeled with large black letters
on the side, Jack's Pest Control.  Harold
watched silently as the door of the van swung
open and the driver stepped out.  The man
held a clipboard up against his black
nylon jacket and glanced towards Harold's
house several times as he made his way across
the street.  Harold slowly replaced the edge
of the curtain and stepped away.  He had a
job to get done; and time was almost up.

He opened the cabinet drawer beside his
refrigerator and withdrew his black case,
visualizing the instruments within as he held
the  soft case in his hands.  The steel inside, 
that shone so bright yet was so cool to 
his touch, not unlike his beloved ring.  Although 
the knives lacked the beautiful garnet that his ring
boasted, they held within them the power of
release.  Harold slipped the case into his
pants pocket, some of his initial
apprehension giving way to a powerful
adrenaline rush.  Harold grabbed up the oval 
brown and cream woven rug that lie in front
of his sink and tossed it over his shoulder. 
He pushed the side of the deep brown
refrigerator, shoving it to the side to
reveal the door underneath it.  Harold tossed
the rug over the top of the door, carefully
folding back a corner as he opened the
it, and held the rug in place as he climbed
down the first couple of steps.  Harold
straightened the upturned corner of the rug,
and gently shut the door behind himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Scully felt as if she had been slammed back
into herself.  She lay still, waiting as pain
returned full force into her heavy body, her
reasoning awakened.   Her wrists and ankles
were bound tightly again, this time with rope
that bit into her already raw flesh.  She
held still momentarily, listening as  the
stairs began to creak above her.   She tried
her wrists and ankles again, but there was no
leeway to slip free, and from the sound of
the footsteps quickly approaching, she didn't
have enough time to attempt to.  Scully
pressed her eyes closed tightly, attempting
to think in what little time she had.  The
image of the boy came to mind.  He had freed
her from the storm in her dream, but she had been 
sent back to this.  It didn't make sense.   Scully inched
her way into the corner, trying to think of
something, anything, that would ensure her
next autopsy would not be her own.  As the
footfalls grew louder, she concentrated on
Mulder, on his relentless, dedicated nature. 
If any hope existed for her at all, Mulder
would be the one to find it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Harold Voight's Residence
3:04 p.m.

Mulder watched as Special Agent Mason
Mackenzie knocked again on the front door. 
He shifted slightly from his position
alongside the house, beside a 7- foot
evergreen in the shape of an upturned
rectangle as mosquitoes swarmed angrily around
him.  Agent Mackenzie shook his head 'no'. 
Mulder watched him then as he spoke softly
into the tiny microphone he had clipped
beneath the uniform's collar, trying hard to
ignore the flying pests as he awaited the
order.

"There is no answer at the door.   Is
everyone in position?"   He then motioned for
Mulder.

Mulder joined Agent Mackenzie at the door,
his gun in position as the other agent began
to pick the lock.  The door finally opened; the
men stepped inside, covering each other as
they stepped out of the sweltering heat into
the cool air-conditioned house.

"FBI! Harold Voight, come out with your hands
up!"  Mulder shouted out as he entered the
living room.

"FBI!"  He heard as the agents' began to storm 
through the back door. 


Mulder quickly scanned the living room; the
small TV balanced on a floral TV tray was
turned off, no books lay open, no  food sat
out, the well - worn avocado rocking chair was
still.  No mail or newspapers were visible. 
He moved off into the hallway towards the
bedroom as the other agents made their way
through the small kitchen.  

Harold Voight's small, white bedroom was
exceptionally clean; nothing sat on top of
the large mahogany bureau straight across
from the door.  The full sized bed to the left
of it looked as if it hadn't been slept in
for days, its blue chenille bedspread was
pulled almost impossibly smooth across its
surface.  Just to the right of the bed sat a
small matching nightstand that held only a
silver, wind-up alarm clock.  Mulder made his
way cautiously to the closet to the left of
him, that shared the same wall as the door. 
He tossed open the door, his gun in front of
him.  A row of dark black dress pants hung
neatly on wire hangers; a small space
separating them from the row of pressed white
dress shirts on the right side. A single pair
of black dress shoes sat on the hardwood
floor beneath.

"He's not here," a voice informed from behind
him.  Mulder turned towards  the agent, his
irritation evident as he addressed the
younger man.

"His cage has been rattled; if he's not here
then he's somewhere else that's important to
him," he replied shortly, his trained eyes
still scanning the small bedroom.

Agent Larson pulled the sleeves on his black
nylon jacket back down from elbow level as he
sized up Mulder's remark. "How do you figure? 
If I were him I'd be skipping town right
about now."

"For the same reason that I also know that
Agent Scully is still alive, for now.   He's
very methodical, likely obsessive-compulsive.
He won't leave until he's done with her, and
he hasn't been allowed enough time to do it
the way that he needs to so far.  If we leave
now, she dies.  We need something here,
something to point us to where he might be or
where he might have her.  There isn't much
time left."

Agent Larson held back a sigh; he was ready
to agree with him more out of sympathy for
the situation then anything else.  If it was
up to him, Agent Mulder wouldn't have been
allowed here in the first place; he was just
too close, and from the look of the pictures
he had seen of the past victims, things had
great potential to turn very messy, very
quickly.  Not a good situation at all. He
placed his hands on his hips. "Alright, Agent
Mulder, I'll tell the guys to start searching 
the bookcases; they're already in the trash."

Mulder nodded to him as he left the bedroom
and watched him make his way into the living
room.  Mulder closed the louvered closet
doors and headed into the kitchen, his mind
reeling.  He looked over the whole area; the
worn, orange counter tops, clean although
damaged, the chocolate brown range sat
against the left hand wall, immaculate
despite its apparent age, no grease smears
or charred rings around the burner bibs like
his own had.  The sink sat below a small
window, just opposite the stove; a white and
blue striped kitchen cloth hung over the
faucet, still damp.  Mulder bent in closer. 
Tiny droplets of water sat directly below the
rag on the otherwise clean stainless steel
basin.  He had been there today, right
where Mulder now stood.  Mulder pushed aside
the ruffled yellow curtain that covered the
window.  The white Pest Control van they
had used sat clearly in sight.  He let he
curtain drop, adrenaline surging within him.  
Dr. Voight wasn't far, and neither was
Scully; he couldn't explain why, but he was
certain of that.  

"Is there an attic or a crawlspace in here?" 
Mulder called out, turning away from the
sink.  His forehead felt sticky, almost
starched  where the air conditioning had
dried the sweat from earlier. He heard the
commotion that had been coming from the other
rooms come to a stop.  

Agent Mackenzie stepped into the entryway to
the kitchen.  "I didn't see any basement
windows outside and no one saw any type
of cellar out there either or that would
have been stormed as well."  His nylon jacket
made a whisking noise as he placed his hands
into his pants pockets.  "If he's got
anything inside, nobody's stumbled across it
yet."    He looked behind him, scanning the
living room, the small crease lines at the
corner of his eyes further exaggerated
as he considered things.  "This house is
sterile, neat as a pin, too, only one damn
picture on the wall.    It would be hard to
hide a thimble in here."    He shrugged his
shoulders slightly as he walked away, his
hands still pocketed.  "It's a nice picture
though," he muttered, facing away from him
and motioning towards the living room wall
straight across from him.

Several agents flipped through the last books
that remained on the bookshelf.  There, just
above it, the solitary picture hung on the
wall: a family photo, just an amateur's shot
in a dark wooden frame, nice from a 
nostalgic point of view.  Mulder stepped
closer.    The picture appeared to be of a
picnic: what he assumed were mother and child
sitting on a red and green plaid blanket
beneath a large Maple tree.  Both of them
were smiling as if having the time of their
lives; the young boy sitting nestled against
his mother's chest, a toy cowboy hat in his
hands.  The young boy's hair was slightly
messy, as if from a long day of playing.  He
held one hand tightly to his stomach as he
rested against his mother, as if hiding
something from the picture, or as if he were
holding on to something very important. 
Mulder turned away, undecided and
disappointed.  The cheerful smile from the
boy in the picture felt as if it were burning
into the back of his head as he returned to
the kitchen, a young Harold Voight boastfully
gleeful about his future atrocities.   

The agents he passed up watched him for
direction as he walked past, obviously
feeling at a stalemate, but none of them
ready to challenge him at the moment.  Mulder
left them to clear their throats nervously
and fidget.  They were wrong, there had to be
something here, something tangible that would
send them in the right direction.  Hope for
Scully was passing by the minute; he felt
each one tick by with agonizing pain, in the
tightness of his gut and  with the increasing
desperation  in his heart, but he couldn't
afford to give up, not when she needed him.  
Mulder stopped just past the entryway of the
small room with  his feet planted on the tan
linoleum, its blue floral print mostly
scratched away from years of use.  He
surveyed the room again, slowly.  Everything
seemed to be in perfect order, except for
some of the kitchen drawers that hadn't
been fully closed after they had been
searched throughly, but Harold Voight had left
no obvious trace of where he had gone.   
Mulder headed for the opposite wall, ready to
view the room from a different perspective.  

"Damn it,"  Mulder muttered to himself as he
accidentally kicked up the corner of the
small throw rug beside the fridge.  He bent
down with a sigh of frustration to straighten
its upturned corner.  As Mulder flipped the
edge back over, a small glint of light caught
his eye.   On the under side of the rug,
something had caught in the rough threads -
some type of necklace from what he could see
of it.  Mulder carefully pulled the gold
chain lose from the rug, rolling more of it
over to help as he freed it.  As the last
bits of it fell loose, he swallowed deeply,
his eyes wide, his heart racing.  He held
Scully's crucifix in his right hand, and in
the left, the throw rug that had been tossed
over a small door.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

July 13th
3:05 p.m.
Harold Voight Residence


Scully whimpered softly, the faint sound even
further muffled by the duct tape across her
mouth.  Her eyes teared as she turned her
face away from Harold Voight, not wanting to
give him the satisfaction of her desperation. 
Mulder was upstairs; she was certain that she
had heard his husky voice announce the
arrival of the FBI.  She was also certain
that Dr. Voight had heard it as well.  She
attempted to push away from him, wanting to
escape him in any way that she could, to free
herself of his body heat, his sterile,
anesthetic scent, and his cold, angry hands. 
Harold further tightened his grip on her
forearms and pulled her closer to his chest.  
He focused on the ceiling, temporarily, as
the sound of footsteps grew closer overhead.
 
The noise overhead moved away once again, and
Harold returned his gaze to her.  He leaned
into her chest, his hands bruising her arms
as he pulled her tightly to him, placing his
mouth up against her left ear.  "Not a
sound," he warned, his lips brushing her ear
as he slowly dropped  his right arm from her
to reach into his pocket.  Scully felt his
fumbling against her abdomen as she prepared
herself for what new threat he may present
her with.  

Harold skillfully manipulated his case from
within the confines of his pants pocket and
drew out the  surgical scalpel of his choice. 
"No noise at all," he instructed, bringing
the blade of his weapon to rest on her
throat.  "Lie back, slowly."

Scully didn't need to see to recognize the
object that had been placed against her
throat; it was one that she used often, and
she could feel its coolness against her
flesh.  She knew its contours well, well
enough to recognize it when pressed against
her jugular in a dark   room.  She lowered
herself onto the basement floor, her bound
arms trapped beneath her, with him guiding
her very slowly.

"Excellent, Dana," he whispered into her ear
as he pressed her tight against the floor,
his breathing growing more erratic.  He
straddled her, weighting her down with his
body and slowly pulled the knife away from
her throat.  "Be still now."

Scully felt a sickening mix of relief
followed by immediate concern as the knife
left her neck.  Her shoulder blades and arms
throbbed from beneath her. Her rib cage
strained to keep up with her heavy
breathing as it also supported the added
weight of  Harold Voight.  Her nostrils
flared as she bordered on the edge of
hyperventilating.  The duct tape tugging
relentlessly at the corners of her mouth, her
chest burned.  Scully mentally reminded
herself to slow down as her head begin to
spin.  Mulder was there, she knew that, it
would only be a matter of time now.  

Harold lowered the knife to just below her
shoulder blades and drew it through the
delicate fabric on her blouse, easily slicing
the fabric in half so that it fell to either
sides of her body.  He lifted  the knife back
up and placed it just above the small rosette
in the center of her satin bra, stopping
temporarily as he leaned in close to her so
that his face almost touched hers.  "If you
just keep still, they'll be gone soon. 
They'll all leave, and I can get you some
medicine.  There'll be no pain, Dana, just
sleep. Just like going to sleep."  Scully
shook her head violently from beneath him;
tears spilling down her cheeks, mixing with
small droplets of sweat that dripped off of
his forehead as he leaned over her.  She
arched her back, attempting to push him off
of her, rocking herself from side to side to
try to throw  his balance.

Harold squeezed her middle tightly between
his thighs as he allowed the tip of the
scalpel to bite into her sensitive flesh. 
Scully's body jolted immediately in response
to the sharp pain, her motions stilled, her
eyes wide in the darkness, her breathing
labored.  

"I hope that you have learned your lesson
now, Dana, because I won't be so patient with
you next time,"  Harold whispered in the
silence that followed.  He drew his scalpel
down quickly through her bra.  "I told you,
this doesn't have to be painful," he added as
the taut fabric gave way with a ripping
sound.  "It's all up to you."

She avoided his face; the idea of him looking
at her, even half undressed, disgusted her. 
Scully's mind fought to find a way out as
a warm trickle of blood ran down the newly
exposed skin on her chest.  She pushed aside
the images of Sarah Mckay's heavily
mutilated body, knowing too well that his
intentions were to do the same to her.  She
attempted to think faster and more clearly as
he moved his scalpel to the top of her pants,
straining to hear what was happening above
her, hoping that very soon, the door to the
basement would swing open and bring about an
end to Harold Voight's plans.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX


Mulder held his flashlight out in front of
him as he stepped off of the last step, his
gun drawn.  He was painfully aware that his 
descent into the basement on the aged wooden
steps had no doubt heralded  his arrival.  He
crept slowly forward anyway, letting the 
small yellow arc of light illuminate the dark
corners for him as he advanced.  Grit scraped
on the concrete floor under each step he
took, the sound amplified in the confines of
the dank room.  Deep inside of him, he wanted
to holler out for Scully like a madman, to
end the agonizing suspense of where she was
and if she was alive, but reason held him
back.  One wrong move at this point could
easily cost her  life.  

He moved ahead, stepping against the side
wall as he swung his flashlight beam into a
small room built of fieldstone.  Empty
wooden shelves sat to one side, some wadded
up pieces of silver colored duct tape sat off
in the far right corner.  Mulder heard the
crunch of sand against stone, just off to his
left.  His back up was still feet behind him. 


"FBI!  Harold Voight, drop your weapon!",
Mulder spun to his left, lighting the corner
only feet away from him.  Mulder swallowed
hard as he saw he had his gun aimed at
Scully.  Dr. Voight held her from behind, a
surgical scalpel against her throat.  Her
face was caked with dirt and blood, her mouth
tapped, her shirt and bra ripped open with
fresh blood on the exposed skin.  Her blue
eyes pleaded for help as she looked up at
him.  Mulder lined the gun up with Harold
Voight's forehead.

"Walk back out of here, and I won't slit her
throat open."  Harold Voight responded, his
voice a low hiss as he clenched Scully
against him.

"Why?  So you can butcher her, like you did 
the other women.   Drop your weapon and you
can still come out of this alive.  Make one
move on my partner and you won't live to have
the satisfaction of seeing  what you've
done."  Mulder cocked the gun without moving
it from its intended target.

Dr. Voight pressed the knife against Scully's
throat more tightly, asserting his position. 
Scully's eyes teared.

Mulder swallowed hard, his mind racing as he
assessed the situation.  He concentrated on
not allowing the stress he felt to make its
way into his voice. "Of course, I  wasn't too
surprised to find you here, Harold, hiding
down here in the dark, using her as your
shield. You were too afraid to face us, so
you ran, you hid, just like a child.  I'm
sure you are used to doing that by now, it
seems that you've been too afraid to face
your own demons for a long time.  That's what
got you here, Harold, hasn't it?  Hiding in
the dark, like a frightened little child."  

"I'm not hiding!"  Harold snarled, his arm
around Scully's bare waist  clenching her
tighter against him.  

Mulder watched Scully's position change
closely, hoping for an opportunity. "No? 
Because that's what you look like, a scared
child hiding behind his mother.  Only, she
sure as hell doesn't give a fuck about you. 
So tell me, did you shit yourself when you
heard the FBI enter the house?"  A strong
breeze tore through Mulder's hair, slapping
his polyester jacket against itself and
creating a small dust devil on the concrete
floor.  

Harold's brow began to furrow, he shifted
Scully roughly in his arms, the knife still
pressed to her throat.  "I am not a child!" 
He spat at Mulder.  He rocked slightly from
side to side as if trying to overcome an
intense need to pace.

"Well, you're sure as hell not a man," Mulder
gesticulated slightly with his outstretched
arms. "A real man would be able to get a
woman without tying her up."  The breeze grew
stronger, an empty light socket swang from
side to side on the ceiling above him as a
low rumble filled the room.  "A real man
would have faced his problems." A loud slam
came from the stairway as the door shut in
the wind.

"Just what the hell is going on down there? 
Open up!" Mulder listened to the muffled
sounds of the agents on the other side trying
fruitlessly to reopen the door.  Thunder
rumbled again, its low groan traveled slowly
across the basement as if the storm was
confined there.

"Is this you causing this?" Mulder asked.

Mulder watched Harold's agitation grow, his
hands shook as he held Scully, the knife
moved about only millimeters away from
cutting her throat.  His eyes darted from
side to side and then back to Mulder,
uncertain how to respond.  

"Just what are you, Harold Voight?  Do you
even know?"  Mulder asked softly as the man
in front of him visibly struggled with his
own emotions, his face more like that of a
despairing child then a man.  

"Mommmieee!" The child's voice carried eerily
across the room as if it rode the thunder. 

"Stop!", Harold whimpered, he closed his eyes
tightly, turning his head to the side.

"It's you Harold, and it can't stop until you
face it.  Face yourself Harold!"  Mulder
shouted at him as the storm grew louder
around him.  The faint sound of footsteps
behind him caused the tiny hairs on the back
of his neck to stand on end.

"Mommy, what's happened?"  The question sound
slightly garbled, the pitch warped as if from
traveling through some strange medium.

"No, make it stop!"  Harold shook his head
violently, still holding tight to Scully.

"You have to stop running, Harold," Mulder
shouted to him, "that's what started all of
this to begin with.  He is you, you can not
escape yourself.  You need to face whatever
it was that made you separate, none of this
will stop until you do!"

"I can't!"  Harold whined, he shook as he
held Scully.  Thunder cracked crisply in the
humidity of the small room as the wind
continued to pick up in intensity.

"I don't think that you have a choice
anymore."  Mulder remarked, his attention
split between Harold and the bizarre weather
phenomenon.  

"Mommieee!"  The child's strange shreak broke
through the noises of the storm.  "Why are
there empty medicine bottles all over the
floor?"  The distant voice asked.

Mulder watched Harold raise his hands to his
ears, attempting to block the sound, He
quickly bolted forward and pulled Scully
away, forcing his way across the room past
the strong, howling wind.

"Mommy, what's wrong?  Answer me, mommy!  Why
won't you wake up?  Mommy!  Mommy!"  The
voice faded out and thunder rattled the small
house.

Harold slumped to the floor, holding his
head, shaking.  A small boy stepped out of
the darkness of the corner, approaching
Harold.  He stopped in front of him as the
thunder stilled and reached out a small hand. 
A bolt of lighting flashed brightly as his
hand touched him.

Mulder winced in the bright light, his gun
still aimed at Harold as Scully stood 
silently beside him, watching as Dr. Voight
writhed on the floor, the small boy gone, as
if absorbed by the touch.  The door slammed
back open.

Mulder moved in quickly to cuff him, the
sound of running coming from behind him as
several other agents moved into position. 
Scully watched the wall in front of her grow
black as a strange sensation of warmth crept
up the back of her neck.


XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Scully!  Scully, are you alright, are you
okay?"  

Scully became vaguely aware of the fact that
her arms and her legs were now free, although
still throbbing. She could still feel the
coolness of the concrete floor beneath her
back.   She opened her eyes slowly.  Mulder's
face was above her, he smiled gently at her,
his eyes teary.

"It's over now," he assured her as he brushed
a warm hand gently over her cheek. 
"Everything's going to be okay now."

Scully closed her eyes again to the sound of
his soothing voice and the softness of his
touch, his words repeating in her head.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

July 25th
2:32 am


Scully tossed in her bed, she pressed her
face into her pillow, attempting to block
whatever was threatening her sleep, drawing
her quilt up tightly around her.  Her
movements were stilled immediately as she
heard a noise, quiet, yet distinct.  She sat
up in her bed.  Something wasn't right.  She
listened in the darkness, waiting.  A shadow
moved across the floor, just outside of her
doorway.  She held her breath, straining to
hear.  Footsteps followed, faint, but clear.  

Scully loosened the blankets from around her
and left the warmth of her bed.  She moved
quickly but quietly across the moonlit living
room, avoiding her furniture mostly from
memory as she made her way to the kitchen. 
She saw him there, softly illuminated in a
pale yellow light, his back turned to her,
his dark hair bed-ruffled, in only a pair of
pajama pants.  She could see that he held
something in front of him.  Scully stepped
slowly forward. She knew what she had to do.

"Drop the cake!"  She yelled out.

Mulder spun around to face her, the evidence
of his crime on a dessert plate in his hands,
along with a few crumbs that stuck to his
early morning stubble.  

"Scully?"  He mumbled past a mouthful. "I
thought you were sleeping?"  He quickly shut
the fridge door, killing the light in the
room. 

Scully reached over and turned on the light
switch. "You were drinking out of the milk
carton, weren't you?"

He wouldn't  have had to had light to know
that her hands were on her hips.  "Uhhh,
maybe..."  He finished chewing the last of
what was in his mouth and set the plate on
the counter to the side of him. 
"So, Scully, what are you going to do about
it?"  He challenged in a silky smooth voice.

Scully smiled to herself.  "I don't know,
Mulder, I mean, that was the last piece of
cake, and you more or less admitted to
drinking straight out of my milk carton, with
the fridge door wide open no less," she
watched him bite his lip in anticipation.  "I
think that you owe me now, big time."  

Mulder moved forward and slid his hands
around the gentle curves of her waist,
sliding them up and down over the satin of
her pajamas.  "I had better start paying you
back right now then."  He brushed his lips
against the side of her neck, moving up to
her left earlobe.  "What do you say Scully?"
He whispered into her ear.

Scully ran her hands up over the tight
muscles on his belly, making her way up to
his chest. "I'd say, that you might just owe
me a lifetime of that."  

"Over one little piece of cake?"  Mulder
pulled her waist closer until his hips met
her stomach.

Scully stepped up onto her tiptoes. "It was
chocolate."  She pointed out, wishing she
were just a little bit taller.

Mulder nodded and fingered a small satin
covered button on her pajama top slowly, as
if considering.  "In that case, Ms. Scully, I
guess that I had better get started right
now."  

Scully smiled impishly and flicked the light
back off.   Tomorrow was going to be a rough
day at work, but night's like this made it
well worth it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

End of Midnight's Sorrow

Feedback is welcomed at Semantics@writeme.com

I can not thank my betas enough, Brandi,
Foxcat, Memento, for helping me with this
story.  I would not have been able to see
this to completion without you.  You have all
gone above and beyond to help and I am so
very thankful for that.  Thank you a hundred
times over.