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10 X 2: RECLAMATION |
In 1921, the
Danish explorer Knud Rasmussen arrived among the
Iglulik Eskimos to discover a culture that revolved
around unseen beings and spirits that inhabited nearly every person, animal,
and object. Rasmussen met an Iglulik shaman named
Anarqaq, who recalled many of these beings,
even sketching them for his European visitor.
Anarqaq claimed to be aided by “helping spirits” who periodically
invaded his body or called his name to offer their assistance. When he answered
their call, their power became his. Many kind spirits appeared initially
to Anarqaq as horrific monsters or ferocious
animals that first had to be conquered. But once these helping spirits were
won over, they were fiercely loyal and readily available to the shaman.
In one vision that
came to Anarqaq, a female spirit named
Qungiaruvlik attempted to steal a child and conceal it inside her
parka. But before she could accomplish her evil deed, two well-armed helping
spirits came to the child’s rescue and killed the spirit...
Monica Reyes
“She was right
over there,” Anita Yoruba recounted, her long index finger wavering as she
indicated a spot near a glossy black grand piano. “It was almost as if I
were watching Melinda on the television, except without a set. She would
occasionally start to fade, and then come back into full view. She said
she had friends who were helping her contact me, and that she was all right.
For now.”
Melinda’s mother
looked quickly to Doggett, Reyes, and her brother-in-law, but, perhaps significantly,
she avoided eye contact with her husband, Enrique, who sat neutrally on
the couch beside her. Ramon glanced at his brother, who looked toward a
bay window and the expansive, flawlessly manicured lawn beyond it.
“I know it sounds
mad,” Anita murmured, her fingers playing at the hem of her blouse. “But
it was no dream. My little girl was standing there, talking to me. She said
they were giving her some kind of shots that they said wouldn’t harm her,
except that she was beginning to get hives or something.”
“Warts?” Doggett
asked. The brothers Yoruba looked up simultaneously. Anita appeared more
distracted than surprised.
“I don’t know.
But I think she’d in danger, Agent Doggett. She said one of her friends,
Martin, Marlon– I assume another victim -- told her something bad was going
to happen, but she didn’t know what.” Anita began to tremble uncontrollably,
and tears spilled from her sleep-deprived eyes.
“I think that’s
more than enough,” Rick Yoruba announced. “She’s clearly distraught, and this
whole thing has her reacting hysterically.”
“Enrique,” Ramon
Yoruba implored.
“No, Ramon,” his brother stated, flatly. “I’m not going to indulge this delusion any longer. For years, she’s told everyone she encounters about these visions, these messages from Melinda. I’ll admit I
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haven’t been the most interactive father to Melinda, and I suppose I must
shoulder a share of the blame both for Melinda’s behavioral problems and
Anita’s emotional issues. But Melinda’s gone, most likely dead – I’m sorry,
Anita – and it’s time for us to begin to deal with reality. Agents.”
Doggett jumped
to his feet as Enrique moved to help his wife from the couch. “Just two
more questions, and then we’ll get out of your hair.”
Enrique stared
at him, at Reyes. “Two. And then I call our attorney.”
Doggett sat beside
Anita. “Mrs. Yoruba, do you have any idea when your daughter appeared to
you. Precisely?”
Her eyes flicked
toward her husband and back to the agent. “It was
Reyes’ brows rose.
Doggett nodded. “All right. And ma’am, do you know who Bruce Springsteen
is?”
A bewildered smile
played at Anita Yoruba’s lips. “Yes, of course. I’m somewhat sheltered,
but not to that extent.”
“Have you ever
dreamed about him? I mean, like the dream about the horse or the yellow
flowers? Does he have any special significance to you or your family?”
She shook her head.
“No. I’m quite certain.”
“All right, that
should do,” Enrique ordered. “Come along, Anita. Ramon, you can see the
agents out, can’t you?”
On the cobblestone
walk, Ramon Yoruba placed a hand on Doggett’s shoulder. “I know my brother
seems a bit, ah, cold, I guess. But you have to know Melinda’s disappearance
is affecting him, as well as Anita.”
“We understand,”
Reyes offered.
“It’s just they
never got along, he and Melinda. Rick is very right-brained, very pragmatic,
and his whole life with Anita has been about providing a good home, security.
Melinda never understood that. She always spoke of him as if he were some
kind of CEO or something, rather than her father. He probably feels a little
guilt, I don’t know.” The transportation secretary sighed. “Look, John,
do you believe that somehow Melinda actually contacted Anita, psychically,
I mean?”
“I don’t know,”
the agent said. “But we had two other similar ‘contacts’ last night – Monica
and the mother of another suspected abductee
. Both happened right at about
“My God,” Yoruba
whispered. “This is too much for me to take in.”
“If it helps at
all, me too,” Doggett said.
"What do you mean she's dead? When did she die?" Scully's eyes had gone
wide at the news.
Mulder placed a calming hand
on Scully's shoulder as he watched the woman who wasn't Sandra Bateman move
closer to them, away from the tourists who were watching the sun set over
the reflecting pool. She tucked her sunglasses into the front breast pocket
of her blouse and looked at them nervously. She was thin, perhaps too thin,
and her mouse-brown hair seemed scraggly underneath the scarf she used to
tie it back. Mulder thought she probably looked
too old for her age, whatever that was, but she tried to hide it with well-placed
makeup and some distracting attire. Still, she
couldn't have been more than twenty-five.
"She died early this morning. You still have time." The woman's words
were cryptic, and Scully felt her irritation grow at the lack of proper communication.
Mulder's fingers gripped her shoulder briefly
and Scully took a calming breath.
"Please," she said, "tell us what you know." Scully held out her hand
in indication for the woman to sit on the bench they had just vacated.
The three of them moved to it and sat down, Scully between
Mulder and the haggard-looking stranger. "What's your name?" Scully
asked, her voice softening from its earlier frenzied pitch.
The young woman sighed and looked down at her empty hands. "My name is
Molly Cantwell... I have a story to tell, and," she looked up, her gaze passing
between Mulder and Scully before returning to
her hands, "it may sound strange, maybe even a little crazy. But I hope
that you'll believe me."
When she glanced back up at them, the nervous expression had returned to
her face, making her light brown irises seem lost in the whites of her eyes.
There was such a sadness in this woman's voice,
Scully couldn't help but feel sympathy for her. Whatever she had been through,
it had been terrible, and it had led her here to them, led her to information
about their baby. Scully reached out to take the girl's hand, feeling a
sudden affection for her and…was that recognition? For a second the girl
looked so familiar, Scully could have sworn she'd seen her before, maybe
even more than once.
"Have I seen you before?" Scully asked finally, the notion becoming too
overwhelming to ignore.
The woman smirked and nodded slightly. "Probably," she said. Her eyes
flicked over Mulder then back to Scully. "Agent
Scully, my mother and I lived in the apartment above yours for almost nine
years."
That was it then, Scully thought, realization finally dawning on her.
She had passed the girl maybe a hundred times coming in or out of her building,
maybe more than that, but she'd never taken enough notice to commit the
girl's face to memory. Perhaps Molly Cantwell took the elevator every day
while Scully had only to take the short flight of stairs to her apartment.
Perhaps their schedules had varied too greatly for them to pass each other
often. Perhaps Scully had simply been away so much over the past nine years,
she hadn't even bothered to learn the name of her next door neighbor, much
less the families who lived above her.
She chastised herself now for not taking more notice, for not paying attention
to the other lives that had been buzzing around in the building she called
home.
How many potentially dangerous people could have taken up residency just
a few feet away from her? How many times could she have gone to sleep with
a murderer on the other side of the wall? She thought briefly of the surveillance
taken of Mulder from the apartment above his
so many years ago, of Phillip Padget moving in
next door to watch her come and go, and shuddered.
"I promise my motives are pure," Molly said reassuringly. "It was accidental,
really, that any of this happened."
Mulder and Scully looked
at each other. If only they could believe in accidents, Scully thought.
There had been too much evidence over the years to think that this could
be simply a coincidence. For good or for bad, fate had proved to them that
nothing happened without a reason. Scully only hoped that this time it
was for good.
"Tell us your story," Mulder said, his voice
encouraging, his eyes imploring.
Molly's mouth twitched into a momentary smile as she began her tale. "My
mother and I moved into the apartment building at the end of my junior year
in high school. I was a loner in high school, without much of a social
life. I studied a lot, to get into
"The building is old, and I think the first ventilation system must have
run between floors without any barriers, because I can hear everything that
goes on in the floor below me." She blushed as she looked up at Scully.
"I wasn't trying to listen, but I could hear people talking sometimes, while
I was working. I heard arguments about 'evidence' and suspects and crime
scenes. I figured you must have been a cop. Eventually I heard enough
to piece together that you were an F.B.I. agent, that your last name was
Scully, and that Mulder was your partner.
"Anyway, I heard things, mostly because I couldn't help but hear, but sometimes
because it was too interesting not to listen. Sometimes the phone would
ring in the middle of the night, and the sound would carry up into my room
and wake me up."
Molly's expression changed, drew up and became sad. "I remember other
things too. Gunshots, cries for help, doors busting open, a window breaking..."
She looked Scully in the eye. "I called the police that time, when I heard
you calling out for Mulder into the phone, telling
him that you needed help."
"I wondered," Mulder said,
a hint of sadness in his voice.
"Anyway," Molly said, "there's a reason for this story, and I don't know
how much time you have. I want you to trust me, to know that I came by
this information with only your interest and safety in mind." She looked
back and forth between them, meeting their eyes and asking for their trust.
Mulder liked this girl, was
glad that there was someone else on their side, someone who understood what
both he and Scully had been through. He gave her a brief smile and nodded
for her to continue.
"Over the years, I came to feel like I knew you, and I got an idea about
how... awful things were in the last two years." The girl swallowed thickly,
as if it was her own pain she was trying to put behind her. "When the baby,
William, was put up for adoption, I felt so terrible for you, Agent Scully,
because I'd come to know how much you loved him. But by some miracle which
I still don't understand, the case came through the agency where I work.
I'd been an intern there during my years at
"You see," she explained, "Sandra Bateman was my boss. I filed the paperwork
for your case." Molly looked back and forth between the ex-F.B.I agents.
"So you knew," Scully breathed out. Tears were
beginning to well in her eyes at the thought that this girl had known
all along where her baby had been. "You knew where he went, where he is."
Molly nodded her head. "Yes. I flew with her to deliver William to the
couple who adopted him. Only Sandra and I knew who
they were, where they lived." Molly reached into a side pocket of
her purse and pulled out a small slip of paper. "No one else was allowed
to know, not even anyone at the agency, as you had requested. But last week,
some men began coming into the offices, asking about your case."
Molly looked between the two of them, the frightened expression returning
to her face. "I knew about mysterious men in suits; I'd heard so much of
your story... I didn't trust them, not at all. I told them that your case
was sealed, that everything was supposed to be anonymous, but they demanded
to speak to Sandra. They came back, every day demanding to speak with her,
and I got so scared. I told her what I knew about you, and she gave me
the passwords to her computer, to her email account."
The small woman was actually shaking now as she held the paper out to Scully.
"She was murdered this morning for what she knew. At first, when she didn't
show up, I thought she was just late...then the news came in at lunch time.
Apparently, she'd been... tortured. Probably to get
the information that I had all along. If you hadn't sent that email
when you did..." Molly shook her head. "The men came back just before we
closed for the evening...walked right past me and left with her computer.
They must have flashed badges or something, because no one tried to stop
them."
"God," Mulder said,
his eyes wide with fear. "Do you think they've already found him?"
"I don't know." Molly shook her head again; she was still trembling.
"I deleted your email, so they won't find us here... but it's only a matter
of time before they get into that computer and find out what they need to
know."
Calvin
Welles had always been an early riser, even as a young boy. Then,
it merely had seemed the best way to avoid a pre-breakfast ass-kicking delivered
by his father. Donnie Welles always found some
rationale (Calvin had always liked that word, ever since the first time
it emerged from the prissy mouth of that tight-assed prison shrink. And
tight-assed was the best way to be in maximum security, even if you got
to wear civvies, Calvin mused) to deliver a good ass-
whuppin’ to his wife or children. Never needed a compelling motivation
(damn, that shrink talked pretty), just a sound rationale, like his eggs
being too runny or his brother Frank showing the bad grace to complain about
his lack of a winter coat or one of the litter having to be rousted out of
bed for the Sunday service Donnie Welles insisted
they all attend. Religiously, that is, he told anyone who would listen or
was afraid not to. As he wielded his belt or a stick or whatever just happened
to be within reach of his calloused hand, Old Donnie preached the righteous
wrath of God and the fires below that awaited disobedient spouses and recalcitrant
children (no wonder that shrink raked in the big bucks).
And when one of
them flinched, Donnie would smile meanly down at them. “Know you have it
comin’, huh?” Funny thing was, Calvin actually knew when it was coming,
had known since about age seven. Donnie would come home from a deacon’s meeting
or the local hole – didn’t much matter – and he’d be glowing blue like the
bug zapper at the back of the Galveston Denny’s. Shoulda
been red, made more sense, but whenever Donnie started flashing blue neon,
Calvin knew to make himself scarce.
The younger ones
were too little to know when to lay low, and his elder sister made too easy
– and, as she developed – too appealing a target for the old man. And so,
when he was 14, Calvin Welles decided Donnie
was done preaching and laying hands on the family. The boy had what for him
would have been an elaborate plot: He’d go to bed early next night the deacons
didn’t meet and Donnie got a thirst. Then he’d wait in the thicket near the
Highway 67 Tavern where Donnie was known to empty his bladder of excess Bud
and do a little batting practice. A missing wallet and the old man’s reputation
for making friends, and nobody’d suspect.
Well, that night,
Donnie came home from the plant where he practiced his hobby by bashing
cows in the head. He chewed his meat loaf and mashed potatoes as he glared
around the table for any sign of disrespect or mischief. And Calvin put
his elaborate plan aside.
For his father
sat there shoving beef and potatoes in his mouth as a fuzzy black aura swirled
about him where the blue glow of violence normally was. Somehow, don’t ask
how, Calvin knew he wouldn’t have to lift a finger that night, that Fate
was about to take care of his family’s domestic abuse issues (God, he loved
that one). And sure enough, one of the county deputies showed up after lights
out (Calvin’s mother always felt it was better to be unconscious before Donnie
could come home and do it for her), and informed them Donnie had had a meeting
of the minds with a group of transient bikers and had been given the final
rebuttal with a tire iron.
That night, Calvin
heard his mother praying and crying through the paper-thin bedroom wall.
But best as he could make out, it was a prayer of deliverance, and the tears
were those of joy.
And that should’ve
been that. Texas redneck happy ending: Momma waits tables ‘til her anklebones
fuse, kids drift off to drink and screw and drop more
Welleses across the countryside to live The Dream anew, but at least
no more broken bones or busted skulls.
But, gradually,
Calvin came to a realization: Fate had screwed him over. He’d had his shot
at evening the score with Old Donnie, and he’d let some drunk Hell’s Angel
take it from him. The revelation and the bubbling resentment within his gut
led him into fight after brawl after riot, but eventually, he managed to hold
down a job at a fabrication plant at the edge of town.
Until the day Calvin
went to his truck at lunch, fished through the glove compartment of his
Ford pickup for Donnie’s old .38, and picked off three co-workers and that
prick foreman Mike Seebold. When the Galveston
P.D. swarmed the place, they found him in the breakroom
, calming sipping a Coke and polishing off a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.
Calvin never told the cops or the judge or anybody else what he’d seen in
the plant that morning to make him launch his downsizing program.
Even if it hadn’t
happened in Texas, Calvin wouldn’t have escaped Death Row. For nearly five
years, he watched the blue auras of the brutal men around him shift to a
swirling black. Finally, he shared his secret with the prison shrink, half
just to mess with the little shit’s mind. The doc eventually brought in all
kinds of cards and tests, and Calvin went along, ‘cause in max, you took
advantage of any diversion you could get.
When the time came
for Calvin’s lethal cocktail, he turned down the priest, devoured a blood-red
T-bone with three Supersize Mickey D’s fries
and a Wendy’s Frosty, and settled in for the injection studying the bleacher
crowd as if they were the ones on display instead of him. When the Mai Tai
of death sizzled through his system and he felt his insides grow cold and
numb, he was astonished to note his own aura remained a vibrant cerulean
blue.
And instead of
Hell (where Calvin had hoped for a second shot at Old Donnie), he woke up
here, in this whitewashed nuthouse with a bunch of egghead queers. The blonde
babe he’d’ve liked to have taken for a mattress
ride, but the rest of ‘em he’d gladly run through
the carcass plant.
Including Clyde
Crashcup, the tall one Calvin had named after
the puffed-up ‘60s cartoon scientist who relentlessly screwed up any experiment
he attempted. Calvin could’ve (and would’ve enjoyed) snapping
“Sleep OK last
night?”
“Just about your
buddy or boss or whatever she is,” Calvin grinned.
“Any aches or pains, headaches, anything new?”
“Right as rain,
Doc,” Calvin chirped. “What’d you give me there, Doc? Little shot of Viagra
for the next time the Ice Queen stops by.”
“Yeah, hey, just
what was that, anyway? Felt like I was dying?”
“It just played
a little havoc with your nervous system, slowed your heart rate to a near
stoppage. We had to fake the effects of a lethal injection. So you’re feeling
OK?”
Calvin displayed
his arms. “Could do without the skin condition, Doc.”
“That’s just a
mild side-effect of the treatment,”
“
Breakfast’ll be up in a minute or two,”
“Yummy,” Calvin
nodded.
“Strikes me as
hinky,” Doggett muttered, leaning back in the
precarious chair he’d inherited with a handshake from Fox
Mulder. It had been one of the few accessories of the X-Files office
that had survived the investigation into Mulder’s
disappearance. The files had been returned to spanking new file cabinets
– no sense in destroying Doggett and Reyes’ official distraction – but the
walls were now clean of Mulder’s collection
of paranormal clippings and the fuzzy UFO poster that had pledged, “I Want
to Believe.” Monica had found a site on the Internet where they could find
a fresh copy, but Doggett had suggested they locate a nice landscape or
some Ansel Adams photos or something else.
“I mean, your daughter’s
missing, maybe dead somewhere, and you’re more upset about your wife sounding
like some kinda Art Bell lunatic? Didn’t you
find that strange?”
Monica looked up
from the virology text she’d been studying. She and her partner had developed
a working hypothesis (according to Doggett, a non-working hypothesis) about
the nature of Melinda Yoruba and the other kids’ abductions and the murder
of Rob Halverson, the young Wisconsin pyrokinetic
who’d been covered with warts. Warts caused by what the CDC in
“What are you suggesting,
John?” she asked, placing the book on her desk. “That Enrique Yoruba’s somehow
involved in his daughter’s disappearance? What we saw was probably just
a CEO’s instinctive reaction to a crisis – a cool head, damage control.”
“I
dunno,” Doggett persisted. “Seemed like Ramon was trying a little
too hard to convince us his brother was distraught. Like it was something
he does a lot.” His computer chimed as the results he was awaiting processed.
“OK, here we go. National Missing Persons Registry kicks out Brian Yuan,
22,
Monica frowned.
“
Doggett started
his printer. “Sounds like a plan. First, though, I gotta
see if my pictures are ready.”
**
“It’s him,” Skinner
confirmed grimly as he rapped the sketch Doggett’s description had yielded.
He sighed, leaning back and templing his fingers.
“Mulder called him the Bounty Hunter. He reportedly
is a sort of alien cop, mercenary, whatever – a clean-up man who retrieves
stray extraterrestrial rebels, assassinates people who are too close to
the aliens’ plan...”
“Whoa,” Doggett
breathed. “You’re telling me this guy is E.T.’s
evil brother. You sound like you believe this shit now.”
Skinner looked
at the agent, neither embarrassed nor offended. “Agent Doggett, John, I
don’t precisely know what I believe any more. I don’t even know if there’s
any real basis for defining what’s possible and what isn’t. Whatever may
be true, I know this man’s a multiple killer and extremely dangerous.”
Doggett rubbed
his face. “All right, say this guy is an alien. Then do we assume that he
killed Lower because whatever he was doing was against the alien, how would
Mulder say it?”
“Colonists,” Skinner
stated gravely, causing Doggett to pause.
“Yeah,” the agent
sighed. “So why doesn’t he kill me? I mean, he had the chance, and I’m not
exactly part of the alien Welcome Wagon.”
Skinner was silent
for a moment. “What are you doing, John? What’s this case about to you,
personally?”
“Saving Gibson,
Yoruba, the others,” Doggett responded without skipping a beat.
The assistant director
nodded. “And to do that, you know what you’re going to have to do?”
Doggett’s mouth
opened, then shut. His face grew dark. “I’m gonna
have to shut ‘em down. Even if they’re working
against the aliens. Even if...” He stopped.
Skinner nodded.
Undisclosed location
The Suited Man stepped into the room and was greeted by several similarly-dressed
men who regarded him expectantly. Some were seated, others stood, but all
wore the same expressions of demanding curiosity, poised in a silent tableau
around the room. The Suited Man's blue eyes gave nothing away.
Finally, a man with a gray mustache and a thick German accent spoke up.
"Have you located the child?"
The Suited Man's jaw clenched in frustration.
He had hoped to bring better news to the group, but the woman at the
adoption agency had done a good job of burying the important files. Everything
on her computer was password protected. "I have located the information
that will lead us to the child. It's only a matter of time before that
information is brought to light."
Another man set down his glass of brandy with a loud
thunk. "We are running out of time!"
"I know that." His voice was stiff but calm, covering his frustration
well.
"And what of Mulder and Scully?"
It was the German-accented man again. Strughold
, his name was, the oldest of the men in the room, the most powerful.
"Have you discovered any more leads as to their whereabouts?"
The Suited Man shook his head. "No. The smuggler told us nothing." There
was bitterness in his voice as he spoke the words. José's unscrupulous
business had made it impossible to trace the vehicle
Mulder and Scully had traded for. "However, we're quite certain
that locating William will bring them out of hiding. Once the child is
in our custody, they will stop at nothing to protect him."
A shadow of doubt crossed the face of the group's leader. "And if they
remain in hiding?"
Icy blue eyes locked onto Strughold's. "They
won't."
“Did she have what?”
Beth Petrie asked softly, as if she had misunderstood Monica’s question
but assumed the agent could not possibly have uttered such a thing.
Tim Petrie had
heard it clearly. “What the hell is this?”
Mr. Petrie was
a firefighter with the City of
“I know this sounds
odd, to say the least,” Monica admitted. “But we believe Iris may have been
abducted by the same people who have kidnapped several persons with unusual
psychic abilities.”
“You’ll pardon
me, but this is fucking nuts,” Tim said, running a rough hand through thinning
black hair. “How did you come up with this?”
“We’re not currently
at liberty to say,” Doggett informed him, holding up a hand to stave off
an anticipated outburst. “Please, give us the benefit of the doubt for a
minute, OK? Did Iris ever exhibit any unusual behavior, know things she shouldn’t
have, seem to be able to affect objects without touching them?”
“For God sake...”
Tim began anew.
“I think so,” Beth
said, barely audible.
Monica leaned in.
“How do you mean, you think so, Mrs. Petrie?”
Tim sank back into
their neat but well-worn couch, staring at his wife. Beth looked apologetically
back, then turned to Monica.
“We had some reports
from the school – Iris’ school – oh, about a year ago,” she related. “Things
were...disappearing. Small things, school supplies, objects from teacher’s
purses, even pockets. I’ve had kids steal from me for attention, because
of emotional disorders, bad home environments. But this wasn’t like that.
The objects would turn up near where they disappeared. And the common denominator
for all the thefts was that Iris was around when they happened.”
Tim sat up. “Why
didn’t you tell me about this? You think I would’ve blown up or something?”
Beth shrugged.
“I wanted to get to the bottom of things before we took any action. And
then, after Mr. Tisdale’s wallet disappeared, I began to wonder if there
wasn’t something going on with Iris.”
“Tisdale?” Tim
asked. “He was her math teacher, right?”
She nodded. “Remember
when he let Iris take that test over after school, to make up for that half-week
she was out with the flu? Well, they were alone in the classroom, Iris seated
at her desk 10 feet away from Tisdale, the whole time she took the test.
Tisdale said he’d checked to make sure he hadn’t lost a credit card right
before Iris showed up, but that it wasn’t in his pocket after she left. He
found it the next day.” Beth stopped, inhaled. “In a locked fire hose case
in the hallway, wrapped inside some 30 feet of hose. He insisted Iris was
the only person who could’ve taken it, but even he admitted it was impossible.”
“What are you saying?”
Tim demanded. “That she moved those things mentally?”
“I don’t know,”
Beth whispered. “I don’t know.”
“Did you tell anybody
else about this?” Doggett inquired.
Beth shook her
head, then frowned. “Just her pediatrician, Dr. Yontz
. Mr. Tisdale thought it was suspicious. And it was the principal who contacted
me after the wallet disappeared, Mrs. Dellums
– Meredith Dellums, I believe.”
“Would your daughter
have confided in anyone at the school about any concerns she had, anything
strange she was doing or that was happening to her?” Monica urged.
“Well,” Beth considered,
“she did have a sort of favorite teacher. Ms. Margolis. Nancy Margolis.
Iris liked bugs, butterflies, things like that, and Mrs. Margolis was her
science teacher.”
Monica glanced
at Doggett.
“Will any of this
help get her back?” Beth asked before burying her face in her hands. Tim
leapt up and sat on the arm of her chair, squeezing her shoulder. He looked
up expectantly at the agents, eyes full.
“We’ll try,” Doggett said.
“Shit,” Tim muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry, but it’s killing us not
knowing what’s happened to Iris. I even had this funky nightmare about her
last night, her and some scary-looking guy...”
**
“Miss Margolis
said she was gonna drive up and visit some family,
might be gone a few weeks,” the old woman told Doggett and Reyes. They sat
on the apartment house stoop, a few blocks from Wrigley Field and a few
doors down from a neighborhood coffee shop.
“You think we could
maybe look at her apartment?” Doggett asked.
The broad, squat
building manager sized him up. “Don’t you need one of those, what, warrants,
before bustin’ in on somebody? This
ain’t
Doggett grinned.
“We weren’t proposing to ‘bust in,’ ma’am. We’re looking for a missing girl
who was friends with Mrs. Margolis. We hoped she’d be in to talk to us,
but since she’s not, I’d like to see maybe if there was some kind of indication
where she might have gone, some family number we can reach her.”
The manager glanced
from agent to agent, then shrugged. “Oh, hell, if you’re looking for some
missing kid, I guess she wouldn’t mind. ‘Sides, I don’t want my taxes et
audited, right?”
Margolis’ apartment
was tidy and spare, feminine but not frilly. As soon as they persuaded the
manager to vacate the premises, Doggett and Monica began a stringent visual
search that bruised but did not violate Nancy Margolis’ civil rights.
“Who do you think
the guy is?” Doggett asked.
“Guy?” Reyes questioned.
“Oh, you mean in the visions last night.” Tim Petrie’s “dream” had been
nearly identical to that of Monica’s, Yoruba’s, and Miller’s. “I’d say either
another abductee or maybe one of the kidnappers.
Thing is, though, if he was being held like the others, why would he interfere
with Gibson’s transmission? And why wouldn’t Gibson mention him with the
others?”
“Less he was
Petrovsky.” Doggett glanced over a computer workstation in the corner
of the front room. “Bingo.” He nudged a hardback book from beside the printer.
“The Psi Factor: Case Studies in Paranormal
Phenomena . Coincidence? I don’t think so.” The agent tapped the black
case of Margolis’ PC. “Wonder what’s in this baby.”
Monica shook her
head. “John, this is already a marginally illegal search...”
“Hey, let’s find
the kids now and worry about getting a conviction later.” Doggett inspected
the tower next to the monitor; a green crescent moon glowed. “Ah, I think
it’s merely sleeping. We’re not breaking and entering; we’re just making
a wakeup call.”
Monica smirked
as her partner pressed the moon button and the machine came to life with
a faint electronic pop and a scattering of desktop icons.
“Windows ’98,”
he said, nodding in approval. Doggett launched Windows Explorer and located
the My Document folder. He studied its contents. “Lotta
stuff about tests and curriculum. OK, gimme
some keywords. Something you’d say if you were part of a nationwide psychic-napping
ring.”
“Well, psychic...the
names of the victims, of course...and Lower and Caswell.”
Doggett fed each
into the Find File function of Explorer. After about five minutes, he shook
his head and closed Explorer. “Nada. OK, onto the Outlook Express. Let’s
hope she has her dial-up password saved. Great.” The modem whined, and when
the connection was made, Doggett started Outlook. “Hmm, she’s cleared everything
out of the Inbox. However, lotta folks, they
don’t realize when they throw their mail in the Trash, it isn’t gone ‘til
they purge it...” He sighed. “Of course, Margolis isn’t one of those people.
Let’ check the Address Book...Ah, here we go – glower@msu.edu.
Wanna bet that’s Gale Lower’s address?”
Doggett’s eyes then locked on the screen. “Well, look at this.”
“What,” Monica
asked, craning over his shoulder. “Oh, my God.”
Doggett’s eyes
narrowed. MCovarubias@dcnet.com. Margolis has some interesting pen pals...
The blonde woman reached out one well manicured hand to knock loudly on
the screen door. The sound of a baby crying could clearly be heard over the
rattling of pots on the stove and a televised baseball game. The black-haired
man and the blonde woman glanced at each other briefly. It appeared this
was the right place. A few seconds later a voice called out.
"Just a minute!"
They waited while more pots rattled and female voice commanded someone
to “turn that thing down.” Finally, a woman wearing a long sun dress appeared
in front of the open door holding the still-crying baby. "Can I help you?"
she asked.
"Yes, I believe you can," the blonde woman responded. "Are you Mrs. Van
de Kamp?" At the other woman's nod, she continued.
"My name is Dana Scully, this is Fox Mulder."
She indicated the tall man beside her. "We don't want to frighten you,
but we think that William is in danger."
The woman gasped, and involuntarily gripped the baby in her arms more tightly,
causing him to wail even louder. "Why on earth would you think that? Who
are you?"
The two people before her sighed and looked at each other. "We're William's
birth parents." The woman said. "We have all the paperwork to show you,
if you want to see."
"Oh, God..." Mrs. Van de Kamp muttered. "I
was so afraid of this..."
**
"But I don't understand," Jim Van de Kamp declared.
"I thought his mother was a single parent. That's what the adoption agency
told us."
The blonde woman nodded, changed her expression from 'explanatory' to 'understanding'.
"At the time he was put up for adoption, that
was true." She looked at the man who had come in with her, reached out
for his hand and gave it a convincing squeeze as she feigned saddened remembrance.
"Fox was missing. I didn't know if I'd ever see him again, and William's
life had already been threatened more than once. I sent him away because
I thought I could protect him this way... but I haven't. The people who
kidnapped him before, the ones who are after him again... we think they've
found out where he is."
There were tears in her voice now, as she told the tale of a life she hadn't
lived.
Both of the Van de Kamp's were horrified by
the story these two people had woven in front of them. Three months ago,
they never could have imagined that William's past involved kidnapping and
danger, F.B.I. agents and near-death experiences. It was almost too much
to listen to all at once.
Mr. Van de Kamp stood up from the couch angrily
and began pacing in front of the coffee table. "How do we know that you'll
be able to protect him? How do we even know that you are who you say you
are?"
"Please," the man who was not Fox Mulder said,
"we can show you his birth certificate, photographs of him. We can show
you our ID, and all of the adoption papers." He looked at the baby who sat
on the floor playing with blocks, picking them up and smacking them together
to make a satisfying 'crack,' before returning his gaze to the frightened
man that paced the floor. "We know what these people are like," he explained
easily-- that much at least was true. "We've dealt with them before. They
will destroy your lives if you let them."
Mr. Van de Kamp continued his nervous tromping
loop about the living room while his wife clutched her hands together, wringing
them fretfully and glancing back and forth between the two men with a terrified
expression on her face. It was a stereotype brought to life, the black-haired
man thought. All they needed was a vocabulary that included the words 'golly
gee.'
He shook his head, bringing his mind back into the conversation. He needed
to be persuasive. He needed this to be voluntary. "Our lives have already
been damaged by the men who want to harm William. If he comes back with
us... maybe we can stop them from ruining your lives too." The sincerity
in his voice was so convincing, he almost believed it himself.
Mrs. Van de Kamp stood up and placed a hand
on her husband's arm, stopping his pacing. She had grown to love this child,
and it would break her heart to see him go, but these people had known him
first, loved him first, and if they could help protect William from harm,
she knew she needed to let them.
"Jim, please. I love him too, but we're not prepared for this." She looked
at the couple on the couch who were holding hands again in a subtle yet
clever gesture that spoke of a loving relationship. "Put yourself in their
shoes." She met her husband's eyes again. "What would you do?"
With a final sigh, Mr. Van de Kamp looked over
the couple again. A few moments later, he made his decision, nodded, and
walked up the stairs to pack some things for the baby.
The students disbursed
quickly as Albert Caswell completed his admonishments, and Doggett and Reyes
moved downstream through a stream of denim and flannel. Caswell, wiping
notes from a marker board at the bottom of the small auditorium, started
as he spotted the agents. His surprise quickly reverted into annoyance.
“What now?” the
professor snapped, watching as the last of the stragglers wandered out into
the night. He threw his text and papers into a beaten leather briefcase and
slammed it shut. “I told you everything I knew about Miller.”
“How about Gale
Lower, Doc?” Doggett posed.
Caswell skipped
only a quarter beat. “Who?”
“Gale Lower, anthropologist
at the
“It’s a rather
large world, though my seeing you twice in two days would seem to cast doubt
on that premise. What are you getting at?”
“How about
Marita Covarubias?” Monica asked, leaning
on a front row seat.
Caswell blinked.
“No idea. I haven’t eaten yet...”
Doggett stepped
in front of the virologist. “Try again, Doc.” The agent reached into his inside
jacket pocket and removed a sheaf of papers he’d printed out at the Chicago
Public Library. “Got this off the Internet. Third Annual World Sustainable
Productivity Conference,
“I meet a lot of
people,” Caswell huffed.
“That
would’vebeen the perfect answer to the last question,” Monica smiled.
“Doctor, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Gale Lower, who we believe is
involved with Covarubias in some kind of criminal
activity, was killed last night.”
“And the guy who did it
ain’t real easy to stop once he gets going,”
Doggett added. “What’s up, Doc?”
Caswell edged past
the agent. “This is exactly the kind of high-handed, fascistic approach
I’d expect from the FBI. Good evening.”
Doggett watched
the professor storm up the steps and out of the auditorium. “That was worth
four hours of talk radio and a couple cold burgers.” Monica followed him up
the auditorium steps and into the warm, overcast summer evening.
“Let’s find a hotel
near the airport,” she yawned. “I just want to get my shoes off and watch
Letterman.”
“Yeah, we’ll--”
Doggett was interrupted by a piercing scream across the campus quad. He spotted
two silhouettes near a fountain, one small and one huge. The larger figure
suddenly lifted the more petite man off the ground, and Doggett and Reyes
pulled their weapons.
“Put him down,
NOW!” Doggett roared, advancing on the pair. The larger man jerked the smaller
around like dog with a rag doll, and dropped him to the sidewalk. He ran
off into the darkness.
Monica dropped
to her knees and inspected Caswell. “He’s got a very weak pulse, John, but
I think his neck is broken.”
Doggett yanked
out his cell phone and program-dialed 911. Caswell’s pale lips began to
move, and Monica bent to hear him.
“Murder?” she repeated.
The professor shuddered and went limp. Monica felt his throat and wrist,
and sat back on the grass.
“He’s dead,” she
murmured.
“You better forget
your date with Dave,” Doggett said grimly.
Gibson Praise glanced
up 20 seconds before The Tall Man’s footsteps sounded down the corridor.
The scientist eyed the boy warily as he entered his room.
“Calvin
Welles is dangerous,” Praise said. The Tall Man’s eyes widened,
and he sat down abruptly at Praise’s small table.
None of the subjects
were to know of the others’ existence, especially that of
Welles, who was kept under particularly high security.
Covarubias had told The Tall Man Praise was special, perhaps the
key to the entire project, and he now regarded the young man with new respect
– and fear.
“How much do you
know about...us?” the scientist asked.
“You hope to fight
the colonization,” Praise stated, without emotion. “You’re trying to rebuild
man’s genetic structure, restore ‘obsolete’ human DNA. If we can develop
our psychic abilities as a species, then we can anticipate what the aliens
are planning, maybe even gain mental dominance over them. You’re scared,
because you think the aliens are already on to you and this project.”
The Tall Man had
been abjectly terrified since learning of Dr. Lower’s
death in
He looked up, and
realized from the look on his face that Praise had read the questions in
his mind. Of course, the boy said nothing. The aliens, the military, now
the scientists who would enslave those whose genetics could save mankind
– The Tall Man still possessed enough humanity to recognize that to Praise,
there wouldn’t be much difference between them.
“At any rate, have
you noticed any difference, any improvement in your abilities since yesterday’s
vaccination?” he asked, adopting the matter-of-fact tone that masked his
constant anxiety. His blasé expression vanished as an alarm sounded through
the halls outside. The last time that alarm sounded, Gibson had sensed seared
flesh nearby...
Maggie Isaacs sent
water splashing onto the black-and-white tile as she heard the loud thud
through the wall. She’d had a long day at the restaurant, and the previous
evening’s event had her wondering if her sanity was slipping.
Brian Yuan was a straight arrow, an architecture student with an uncanny,
almost supernatural ability to capture in his designs the nuances of far-off
capitals and dusty villages without ever visiting them. They’d been dating
for about a year before he’d just vanished one night two weeks or so ago.
Yuan’s family, an old-fashioned clan steeped in Chinatown culture, had been
cool when Maggie had called to check on his well-being, but they clearly
were disturbed. The police as yet had found no leads to Brian’s whereabouts.
Maggie’s heart was now pounding as she sat in lukewarm, shoulder-depth
water. She knew she had triple-locked the doors when she’d come home an
hour ago, and her fourth-floor windows were on the street side and inaccessible
by fire escape. She rose slowly, and halted, dripping, as she heard the first
agonized moan.
Maggie reached for a towel, wrapping it around her and venturing into her
bedroom. She’d left the light on out of urban paranoia and childhood fear
combined, and she scanned the room for an intruder.
Just the TV downstairs again, she laughed. The people on 3 always played
the set too loud.
She turned back toward the bathroom door, and that’s when Maggie saw the
arm, sticking out of the wall next to her Ansel
Adams print, fingers waggling feebly in an apparent death throe.
And Maggie began to shriek...
Scully clutched the paper Molly had given her tightly in her left hand.
She had already memorized the names and address on the sheet, but kept it
with her anyway as if it had the power to bring
William back on its own.
She had a bad feeling, sitting in the small airport lobby while they waited
for their late-night flight, but she refused to let herself become too paranoid.
This was the only logical course of action, she told herself, the only way
they knew of to get their son back.
Mulder had suggested flying
out from the smaller airport; anywhere close to D.C. was far too dangerous,
and driving would take too long. It was a race now, to get to their son
before anyone else, and the thrill of fear and excitement that coursed through
Mulder's veins was like an old friend. So many
times he had sat in an airport or on a plane beside Scully, rushing to save
lives, to stop the bad guys, to save the world.
Never before had so much been at stake.
"Hey," he whispered, reaching out to brush a hand against Scully's cheek.
She turned to look at him, smiling weakly. "We'll get there. We'll find
him."
The paper still clutched firmly in her hand, Scully nodded and
lay her head against Mulder's shoulder.
She needed his strength now to help her get through this, to keep her sane
when she wanted nothing more than to scream at the top of her lungs at the
injustice of giving up a son to protect him, only to have him put in more
danger than he'd been in to start with. She couldn't bear to lose William
again.
Mulder's arm came up around
her shoulders and squeezed her gently. She felt his lips press a kiss against
the top of her head.
"I miss him," she said softly.
"I know."
Scully sighed. "If...when
we find him, we'll be in more danger than ever." Mulder
squeezed her tighter.
"I know," he said again. "But it will be worth it. We'll be all right."
She nodded against his shoulder, glad that Mulder
was here to reassure her. So many months she had spent on her own, trying
to be strong. It felt good to share her fears again, to let him allay her
concerns with comforting words. She believed him when she spoke, more than
she believed herself.
Scully took a deep breath and sat up straight, ready to face the danger
that lay ahead of them. She took one of Mulder's
hands in her own and gave it a squeeze as she waited in silence for their
flight to be called.
Luke Doggett was
wobbling on his bike down the Long Island sidewalk under the proud eye of
his father. His mother was still in bed, and he’d wanted his dad to witness
his mastery of a new skill.
They both glanced
to the sky as the air sirens begin to sound, shrill, portending danger and
possibly death...
Doggett awoke,
dry-mouthed, sweaty, chest palpitating, and he fumbled for his jacket on
the chair next to his bed. He quickly located his screaming cell phone and
instinctively punched the button to silence it. “Yeah?”
“Forgot how late
it is out there,” a vaguely familiar voice said, stating a fact without
regret or apology. “Agent Doggett, this is Inspector Ed Brown with the San
Francisco P.D. We talked this morning about Brian Yuan, that missing student
you were interested in? Well, he’s not missing any more.”
Doggett felt for
and switched on the bedside lamp. “You wouldn’t be calling this late if
he’d come home after a week of backpacking in the
“I’m afraid you’re
right. He’s dead, and in a rather gruesome and, um, unusual way?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re still trying
to work it out,” Brown said, “but his girlfriend found him in her wall.
And I mean in her wall. Not plastered up in there, between the studs, but
in the wall. Like he was a part of it. Boards, plaster, wiring all through
him, fused into his body. You ever see anything like that?”
“It was probably
only a matter of time,” Doggett moaned, rubbing grit from his eyes. “Oh,
hey, Inspector – I got a kinda weird question
for you. They take the body away yet?”
“I’m calling from
the scene,” Brown related. “We’ll probably be here a while: Removing Yuan’s
body and preserving the ‘evidence’ looks to be a tricky proposition. What
do you want to know?”
“Can you check
and see if he has warts?”
“Warts?”
“Warts.”
“Whatever. Hold
on.”
Doggett pondered
Yuan’s strange fate as he waited, wondered if Kersh
would authorize yet one more flight for he and Monica.
“Agent Doggett?”
“Yeah.”
“Best as we can
tell right now, warts all over him. What’s up, Agent? This some kind of
bioterrorism thing? Are my guys at risk?”
“I don’t believe
so,” Doggett assured him. “But maybe you want to wear gloves when you handle
the body, anyway.”
“
“Can’t right now. You’ll be
first when, though.”
“From a fed, that’s
practically a marriage proposal.
Take it you want the M.E. to do a complete workup and ship you the results?”
“You read my mind,”
Doggett responded, wishing Scully was around to do the post-mortem.
“That’s what they
pay me to do,” Brown said. “Night.”
“Night. And thanks.”
Doggett ended the
call and placed the phone on the bedside table. Then he picked up the hotel
phone.
Ten minutes later,
Monica was sitting in her running outfit in Doggett’s room, absorbing Insp.
Brown’s fantastic tale.
“OK,” she drawled
finally. “We can assume Yuan was kidnapped, like the others, for his psychic
abilities.”
“You can assume
that,” Doggett said.
Monica crossed
her eyes in mock irritation. “You ever hear about the Soviet experiments
with remote viewing back in the ‘60s and ‘70s. They found people who could
see events happening thousands of miles away, hoping to use them in intelligence
work. What if that was his special ability? Remote viewing?”
Doggett gave her
a look. “Go on.”
“All right, so
what if this gene therapy or whatever they’re doing to Gibson and the rest
of them somehow amps them up, completes the circuit, so they’re at full psychic
power.”
“What’re you saying? That instead of merely seeing things long distance,
Yuan could actually, what, transport himself there?”
Monica leaned forward in the hotel armchair, clasping her hands.
“Look where Yuan wound up – in his girlfriend’s apartment. I don’t think
this is like Rob Halverson’s death, a cover-up to avoid discovery. It’s too
weird for anybody to buy as an accident or murder. I think maybe Yuan tried
to escape from wherever they were keeping him, but he just didn’t have the
control he needed to teleport himself into an empty field or the street.
If Gale Lower’s theories are correct, we haven’t
been using our minds to full capacity for hundreds of thousands of years.”
“It’s a terrible
thing to waste,” Doggett yawned.
**
“Still no Jon
Petrovsky,” Doggett reported as he stowed his cell phone. “At least
not among the missing or dead.”
Monica, searching
fervently for the exit for
“Who is he?” Monica
asked for the 13th time in three days. She located the ramp and steered
the rental car into the merge lane, between a semi and a pickup. Doggett
turned on the radio, to be blasted with a wave of static.
“
Yoicks,” he said. “It was coming in good last night, though I was
kinda surprised a
Monica grinned.
“You’re a city boy. It was overcast across most of
“Fascinating,”
Doggett mumbled, smiling nevertheless at Monica’s
growing repository of knowledge. She deftly crossed three lanes for the
rental car dropoff, leaving the hardened ex-Marine
and NYPD detective pale and breathless. Doggett braced his feet against
the floorboard as she careened up the garage drive into the rental parking
area and blinked as she made a graceful swing into a narrow space.
As Monica handed
the keys to an awestruck attendant, she noted her partner was still belted.
She leaned into his window and waved a hand before his face. “C’mon, John;
it wasn’t that bad. You can drive the next—”
“No,” Doggett shook
his head. “It isn’t that. What you just told me.”
“I know, fascinating,”
she rolled her eyes.
Doggett looked
up with a long-lost look of hope in his eyes. “More than that. It may be
a lifesaver.”