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St. Peter's Catholic Church
Bethlehem, Ohio
8:02 pm
"You want to kill me, don't you?" Chancey asked. His tone was conversational, as if he had just asked about the weather. He propped his elbow against the ladder. He smiled. "I would want to kill me, too, if I were you. I'm a bad man."
Mulder stood slowly. Chancey watched him, his smile intact.
"You know all about bad men, don't you Mr. Mulder?" he asked. "I think you do. That's why you want to kill me, why you want to kill us all. But you won't. You had your chance to do it, and you let him go. And you will let me go, too, you poor, poor man." Chancey chuckled a little.
Mulder knew that his gun was in his hand, that it hung limp from his fingers, he could feel its weight, its smooth grip. He couldn't lift it. He couldn't. He couldn't take his eyes from the pleasant chubby old man who laughed so much.
"You wanted to know the truth, Mr, Mulder. That's why you don't shoot me now--you have doubts, questions. Things only I can tell you. It's quite amusing when you think about it."
It wasn't amusing. Mulder could feel the sweat on the back of his neck, inching its way down his spine, a liquid worm of frustration. One little traitorous corner of his mind whispered for him to do it, to ask the question, to sell his soul to this Mephistopheles for the knowledge he wanted. For the answer to the unanswerable question: is there a God? Do you know Him?
"Mulder." Scully's voice rose to his ears.
"She believes, Mr. Mulder," Chancey said. "She thinks she knows the answers to all of your questions. I always found that annoying myself, people who think they know everything. Especially women. Show-offs." He grinned. "I'm an old fashioned man myself. I'm sure you're more accepting of that than I would be."
"Mulder," he heard her say again, and this time he felt her hand on his thigh, pressing just above his knee. "Mulder, don't listen to him."
"Oh no!" Mr. Chancey laughed. "Don't listen to me, Mulder! What do I know? Who am I? I'm just a shopkeeper who sells novelties, silly tricks." His hands moved, and a bouquet of paper flowers bloomed. One coin after another spun from his fingers and clinked to the cheap linoleum floor. "I'm just a joke with a dark side, but I won't bore you with the details of that. I'm sure Kevin can fill you in later, if he lives."
"Shut up," Mulder mumbled. Perspiration ran on his face.
"Mulder, don't listen to him." Scully's hand on his pants leg tugged, pulled at him.
"She's right, Mulder. Don't listen to me. Listen to him."
Mulder came back into himself, confused. Him? He looked down, but Kevin was still hardly conscious, eyes closed, breathing though his mouth. Scully shook her head. Chancey rested casually against the ladder, elbow propped on a rung, smiling.
There was a bump, a shuffling movement from above, and Mulder understood.
"No, NO! Nathan, stay back!" he shouted.
"Mulder, is that you?" Nathan's faint voice moved closer.
"Nathan, stay back!" he shouted again.
"Did you find Kevin? Is he okay?" Closer still.
"Nathan, stay away from the trap door!" Scully hollered.
"Is he okay?" Nathan asked again, from right on top of them.
Mulder found his gun again, poised in his hand. He brought it up and fired, twice, at Chancey's head.
The fat man ducked and giggled a little. "Oops!" he cried quietly. "Missed."
"Mulder!" Nathan yelled out, and the light from the trap door was blocked off.
"Nathan, NO!" he screamed, but it was too late.
In one swift and impossibly smooth motion, Chancey reached up and pulled Nathan down by the ankle. There was a brief struggle as Nathan fought for purchase before falling, and Mulder heard the smack of the boy's chin on a rung.
When he opened his eyes (he had closed his eyes? When had he closed his eyes?), he saw that Chancey had Nathan in an embrace like that of a dancer, holding the boy against him with one palm in the center of his back, keeping him motionless with the pressure of a small knife at the side of his throat. It looked like a snake, small and silver and deadly, the tip pressed into the flesh of Nathan's neck.
Mr. Chancey's breath whooshed in and out, forcing Nathan's back to rise and fall with it. Mulder wished that Chancey had held the boy the other way, so he could see his face, so he could reassure him, know that he was okay. The thin column of Nathan's neck seemed tender and vulnerable. Mulder's fingers tightened on his gun.
The sound of Chancey clearing his throat drew Mulder's eyes back to his face.
"I believe this is what's known as a standoff, Mr. Mulder. You should have killed me when you had a chance."
"What do you want, Chancey?" Scully asked. Chancey beamed at her, pushing the point of the dagger until it dimpled Nathan's skin. Mulder heard the muffled whimper.
"What do I want?" Chancey pursed his lips and made smacking noises in Nathan's ear. "Hmm, what do I want? That's an easy question, Miss Scully, because I already have what I want."
Mulder saw Chancey's tongue, fat and wet, lick a path up Nathan's throat, saw the boy's horrified squirm.
"I cause trouble, Miss Scully, that's what I do, and I've certainly caused some trouble for you." Chancey paused, eyes bright. "Why, that's a rhyme. I'm a poet, and I didn't know it!" He laughed, a hearty belly laugh that shook Nathan's body. "My work here is done, so I guess I'll run. How easy it is!"
He glanced up at the ladder, ascertaining its location. Mulder kept his gun up. Chancey couldn't carry Nathan up the rungs, not with only one arm. This was their chance to get the bastard. Their last chance.
"One more thing," Chancey said. "A parting gift for the golden boy, if you will. It's been so much fun. Say goodbye, Nathan," he said.
And drew the dagger down the side of Nathan's pale throat.
*****end 10/12*****