It didn't *start* with Annette Gardener.

Of course it didn't. There are too many reasons, too many 
pathways in a person's mind to ever blame a set of circumstances 
on a single event, a single night. There are only turning points, 
like a sister disappearing, like a distraught family, like an 
irresistible woman holding a shard of glass and saying, "Hold out 
your hand."

And he did, not knowing why, and she smiled, rich full lips, and 
she brought the shard down on his arm and the blood flowed out 
over his hand, spilling down to the floor and it started hurting 
right after that, and he didn't protest didn't cry out even when 
she pulled back and smiled and laughed at him right there 
laughing...

Or was that just a dream? Just a dream, that couldn't have 
happened, could it? She hadn't had the shard until... until...

Mulder was not a man to resort to alcohol or cigarettes when he 
was feeling depressed.

No, not cigarettes. God, no. Too many memories there. Memories he 
was trying to fight, right? Memories was what he was fighting, 
when he was deciding not to resort to anything like--like that.

He was on his knees, rifling through a drawer of near-identical 
black videotapes, his mood getting blacker by the moment. Finally 
he slammed the drawer shut and rocked back on his heels, head in 
his hands. Normally he'd just grab a video, shove it in the VCR, 
and relax for an hour or so in a porn-induced trance. It had 
worked before--a drive back to the primitive or something. He 
wasn't interested in dissecting why it worked, but it did. It had 
always worked before.

Before--maybe. Before that night--certainly. Before now--not 
sure. Maybe he's just thinking too much. Thinking too much, 
Spooky? Scared to think too much, instead? You've never been 
afraid of thinking before, but now...

Now he pulled himself from the floor and took a few steps to 
sprawl facedown on the couch, staring at the scars from hundreds 
of cuts covering his arms. He still hurt, all over; phantom pain 
from remembered wounds, wrists still remembering pulling against 
the ropes that held him, bound, quivering...

You liked it, Spooky. Admit it. You liked it.

He didn't want to remember. He didn't *want* to remember how that 
night felt, how he'd been tricked, captured, hurt so badly... but 
he had to remember. He had to throw an arm across his eyes and 
remember.

Take a walk with me. It's an office, in the basement, and he's 
studying the two photos he's been given while his partner's 
getting the shakes in the corner.

Mulder had squinted at the two eight-by-ten stills, mercifully 
reproduced in black and white instead of color. There had been 
enough blood covering the two bodies pictured there that he'd 
known adding red would have made it impossible to concentrate.

Just the images themselves, in merciful black and white, were 
making it hard for Scully to concentrate. Two children, both 
twelve years old. Both lay face-up, tied spread-eagle to a 
bedframe. Both were covered in slashes, angry red marks that 
crisscrossed their innocent forms. Half-healed scars, barely 
visible under all the black, covered everything that the newer 
cuts did not.

"The suspect's name is Annette Gardener. She apparently became 
friends with the children, then lured them to a hotel with her, 
tied them down, and did... did... that." Scully's voice, fighting 
to stay calm against her feelings. Scully loved children. Mulder 
didn't know what to say to calm her down; didn't know what he 
could do other than solve this case, and quickly.

He pointed to the photographs. "These scars couldn't have formed 
over one night. She must have gotten to them multiple times." He 
paused. "What about the third victim? Jessica... Ibrel, wasn't 
it?"

Scully nodded, his professional tone helping to steady her. He 
hoped. "I don't like it. I don't *like* it, Mulder. Jessica isn't 
from an abusive family, she doesn't have any problems... there is 
*no reason* for her to say she liked what Gardener was doing to 
her."

"Neither of the others were problem children, either, but she 
obviously got to them, too. More than once." He waved a hand at 
the photos, and Scully's jaw locked angrily. He sighed. "There's 
something here we're not seeing. Some sort of control she has 
over people."

"Mulder..." She gave him a look, and he wondered what he'd done 
wrong. "I'm willing to believe one person with The Whammy. Maybe. 
But not two."

"Are you willing to believe in hypnosis?" He gave her a perfectly 
serious glance in return. "She obviously had the time. Maybe it's 
a perfectly normal psychological twist. Maybe she's able to pick 
out people who react to pain as pleasure."

Scully twitched again, and he sighed. "It's worth a thought," she 
finally said, reluctantly.

"Right. And this is definitely worth a look. Let's see if we can 
find anything..."

Oh, they'd found something, all right.