|
Tomodachi An epidemic intrusion of the past into the present turns into murder, and Agent Fox Mulder and his partner, Robert "Pusher" Modell must deal not only with past realities but an uncertain present. Disclaimer: The X-Files, Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, and all other X-Files related characters do not belong to me, but belong to Chris Carter, 20th Century Fox, and 1013 Productions. Feedback: fwidsvnt@ilfb.org 6:05 a.m. The alarm in subconscious, pre-empting a convoluted fantasy no doubt inspired by his partner but flavored with his own urges. Dreams were said by some to last but a few seconds, in the final stages of sleep, Fox knew — a bug zap of bioelectric communication, a twisted marriage of psychology and physiology, an illusion of time and space generated by the most complexly flawed mechanism known to nature. “Damn,” he croaked as his feet hit the carpet. “Forgot to get the Cheerios.” ** The Egg McMuffin and a phlebitic Friday clot of congressional aides, lobbyists, and workaday bureaucrats put a 20-minute crimp in Fox’ ETA at the J. beefy, stoically bemused uniform at the detector and quietly cursed the Otis Elevator Co. as he awaited a car with the other tardy feds. As a perfume of egg, cheese, and ham wafted upward, Fox relaxed. The clockwatchers didn’t much care when Mulder and his partner punched their cards, as long as they stayed in the cellar or out chasing aliens and Jabberwocks. ‘Sides, his partner had long ago accepted the role of official apologist for Spooky Mulder. As he exited the car, Fox smiled a few greetings at fellow agents and secretaries and braced himself at the door to his office. He braced himself before entering, preparing to expound on the value of the day’s most important meal. Yanking the knob, Fox entered with a contrite grin and a bag of McMuffin. Then he stopped dead. “Agent Mulder.” Robert Patrick Modell had his feet up on the desk, the familiar enigmatic smile on his face. “You appear to be a touch late this morning.” Fox stared, motionlessly. “Partner, where DID you get that tie?” Mulder finally chortled. “Benihana?” Modell, known to his colleagues at the Bureau as Pusher, smoothed his imported silk tie, smoky gray dragons poised on a field of cerulean blue, with a mock expression of extreme dignity. “And what would you call THAT design? Processed cheese rampant on black polyester?” Fox glanced down and searched for a retort, but was saved the effort as the phone warbled. Modell held up a palm and picked up. As he cradled the phone a second later, he grabbed his blazer. “How do you feel about Danish?” Modell inquired. Fox held up the McDonald’s bag. “Picked up something on the way in.” “Nope. The Danish. Skinner said there was a situation at the Danish Consulate. One that, quote, ‘Requires our individual very specialized skills.’” “There’s trouble,” Fox concluded. ** “Ok, hit me, Great One,” Fox requested, wiping McMuffin crumbs from his lapels as Modell turned onto Embassy Row in Northwest. “Death.” Modell smiled enigmatically. “‘A person who does not want to be struck by the enemy's arrows will have no divine protection. For a man who does not wish to be hit by the arrows of a common soldier, but rather those of a warrior of fame, there will be the protection for which he asked.’ Go. Uh, Gaelic this time.” Fox’ partner long ago had absorbed The Hagakure: The Book of the Samurai, and could, on demand, recall any section of its text. Fox, in turn, called on his rich lexicon of folklore and paranormal esoterica. This routine morning exercise had begun years ago as a dig at each others’ eccentricities, but had evolved into a form of mental calisthenics and, in Fox’ mind, a talisman against bureaucratic mediocrity. “Birds are heavily associated with death and transformation. Many heroes and leaders were said to not have died, but rather transformed into various birds. There is an ancient Celtic belief that the soul leaves the body like a bird dying. Yo, red-and-blues at 3 o’clock.” Three DCPD cruisers were blocking the street before the Embassy of buildings of the venerable neighborhood. Mulder flashed his ID, and the uniform waved the agents to the curb. “You Mulder and Modell?” a burly man with a Wyatt Earp mustache inquired. “Sergeant Ed Queck. Got a hostage situation in the embassy here. Man comes in about an hour ago with a question for the scientific attache, whatever that is, then when he finds out the guy’s at “Receptionist says no, sir, we can’t have walk-ins loitering in the foy-ay, and could you have a nice day and hit the bricks? Our guy doesn’t care for that kind of hospitality, and he pulls a nine and says he’ll wait anyway.” “Terrorist?” Fox suggested. “That your take?” “Fruit loop,” the D.C. cop theorized. “You two all the Bureau sent?” Fox squared his shoulders. “All they need, Sergeant. Guy a Danish national, you know?” “That’s the squirrel-shit part. You just gotta see this for yourself.” ** Fox and Modell turned down the kevlar vests, based not on macho bravado but on the premise the body armor might spook Wrensted into a more defensive state of mind. They mounted the embassy steps and entered the diplomatic offices calmly and openly. The embassy receptionist looked apprehensively at the agents, terror contorting her face. Other members of the Danish delegation sat in guest chairs or on a large rug before the receptionist's desk. Before Jorgon Wrensted even turned, Fox recognized the source of Queck's combined amusement and puzzlement. While Agent Mulder was loathe to play into ethnic stereotypes, Wrensted's glossy black hair was about as Scandinavian as the Roman Coliseum. As the man wheeled around, brandishing a nine-millimeter pistol, Fox could see from his distinctly Asian features that he was frightened as well, but determined. "Godmorgen," Modell greeted, his hands far from his body but his voice betraying no fear. Fox swallowed a grin despite the tension in the marbled lobby. "Godmorgen," Wrensted responded automatically, his young voice wavering. There was a definite Teutonic roundness in his syllables. "Fox," Pusher indicated his partner. "Robert," he said, tapping his chest. "We are?venskabelig." "I speak English," the Asian Dane said. "I am friendly, as well. When will Jan Coldevin return?" "Coldevin's the science attaché?" Fox asked the receptionist, who nodded silently. "Mr. Wrensted, why don't you release these people? They have no business with you, do they?" "I try to, to call, Coldevin, but they will not let me speak to him. We must resolve our problem. His family must return what is mine." "And what is that?" Fox asked, helpfully. "Our land, of course," Wrensted spat. "Lars Coldevin has taken it, and it is up to his heirs to set things aright." One of the embassy staffers, a thin, balding man with thick, whitish-blonde brows, gasped as Fox registered the gunman's archaic phraseology. "Do any of you know Lars Coldevin?" the agent asked the hostages. The balding man glanced anxiously at his captor. "Ja, Jan has spoken of him." He looked oddly at Wrensted. "Lars Coldevin is Jan's great grandfather. He has been dead for more than 50 years." "Du lyve!" Wrensted shouted, the gun leveling at the man. "They all lie," he told the FBI agents. "Mr. Wrensted," Modell said, stepping confidently forward. Wrensted tensed. "You obviously have been dishonored by this man. A man's land is the extension of his soul, and Lars Coldevin has stolen your soul." "Ja," Wrensted said, as if someone finally had grasped a blazingly simple point. "Because he is wealthy and I am not informed on the laws, he believes he can commit this theft. I am here to tell his heir this is not so." "These people don't understand," Modell said, companionably but with a tinge of contempt for the huddled embassy staff. "They are frightened and will do something stupid unless they are made to leave. Look at these foolish bureaucrats. They are a weight on you." Wrensted had begun to weave slightly as Modell quietly began to "push." "They are dangerous in their blind fear. They must leave." "Afga!!" Wrensted yelled. "Go ud!! Or I will kill you all!" The staff quickly fled the lobby. Fox allowed himself to exhale. "Good, we're alone," Modell breathed. "They would have forced you to act, sooner or later, and with your injured arm, you might not have been able to act quickly enough." Wrensted's gun arm twitched as a flicker of pain crossed his face. "The paralysis already is setting in, isn't it? You should never have come here today without having that wound treated. Your fingers are like frozen sausages, aren't they?" Wrensted struggled to keep the nine in his now-spasming fingers. Finally it rattled to the marble floor. "You're exhausted, min ven," Modell empathized. “The floor is cool, a wonderful bed. Rest.” Wrensted dropped to his knees, resting his palms on the marble. "Wakari mashita," Pusher said softly, in Japanese. Wrensted looked up sharply, his eyes fluttering. "What is this shit, dude?" the dazed "Dane" demanded. ** Larry Mochizuki was a second-year poli-sci major at University, the son of a third-generation Japanese-American financial consultant from having heard of Jorgon Wrensted and suggested he had been drugged at a frat party the previous night -- the last thing he recalled. Jan Coldevin, who returned from his academic visit to find his embassy flooded with police and frenzied colleagues, had never met nor heard of the young man. "The Wrensteds, ja, I certainly know of them," the science attache, a small man with a smoker's rasp, informed Fox and Modell. "My bedstefader -- ah, grandfather, sorry -- and Niells Wrensted went to the courts to settle a dispute over some prime farmland. He deeded the land back to their family, and the matter was closed. You know, I believe Jorgon was Niels' father's name. How curious." "And curiouser," Fox agreed. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Coldevin. We'll let you know if we have any more questions." "Tak for det. Thank you." After the attache had left the small meeting room, Fox arched an eyebrow at his partner. Modell smiled. "So where'd you pick up the Danish?" "The warrior must have at his side all the weapons he may never use," Pusher explained. "The Hagakure?" Fox asked. "David Carradine, I believe. I feel like smorgasbord. You?" ** "I don't know, Bob," Fox murmured as he dug eagerly into his third plate, piled high with aebleskiver -- pancakes with raspberry syrup and powdered sugar. It was still early for lunch, and the Danish restaurant, The Scullery, on Pennsylvania NW, was only beginning to fill. "It was the same woman. A little red-headed woman -- hey, maybe I'm suffering from Charles Schultz' syndrome. The dream started like some kind of Akiro Kurosawa flick by way of Ridley Scott -- samurai and Budo warriors fighting razor-toothed aliens. Then suddenly, déjà vu. It's not like she's Claudia Shiffer or Tea Leoni or anything; I mean she is kind of hot, in an MIT sort of way, but in the dream, she's always kind of grim. And I have no idea who she is." "Red -- blood?" Modell said, sipping the steaming Earl Grey that substituted for his customary green tea. "Maybe she's some sort of mortality symbol, filtered through your erotic subconscious." "Maybe next time, I'll get to play strip chess with Death," Mulder suggested, dusting sugar powder from his jacket. "I'll get this time. Or since this is something of a cultural extension of our assignment, perhaps my Uncle Sam will get." "What do you make of that this morning?" Modell posed. "How might the kid have found out about some Old World Hatfield-McCoy feud more than a half-decade ago? And what about the accent?" Mulder smiled at the robust blonde, who accepted his federal Visa. "I have, as usual, a smorgasbord of theories. Disassociative personality disorder, except Larry's student health record shows no history of psychological problems. Possession? Maybe, but if our buddy Jorgon was a disgruntled spirit, wouldn't he have realized the unresolved business he'd left on Earth already had been resolved by some Danish Judge Judy? What do you know about past life regression?" "Ah, the great teacher, Shirley MacLaine," Modell said appreciatively. "Loved her in Terms of Endearment. Past life regression is the purported use of hypnosis or dreams to obtain information about a person's alleged previous incarnations. Some claim past life regression can reveal information about the future. Past life "therapists" try to trace physical and psychological problems to traumatic events the patient experienced during previous incarnations. Talk about multiple billing problems." Modell was essentially existentialist, if his actions in the present reflected flawless split-second judgment. But Fox had always believed the modern Budo warrior thought himself the reincarnation of the samurai of old, and Pusher always listened intently, without initial critical comment, to Mulder's offbeat theories. "So young Larry may be version 6.0 of some Danish farmer," Modell mulled. "And Joan of Arc and a Greek wheelwright and maybe even a Cro Magnon who was eaten by a saber-toothed marsupial. Jorgon did seem traumatized about his lost land, and maybe the stress of college finals and too many fraternity Jello shots spurred some natural regressive event in Larry Mochizuki." "Let's put all this in a PowerPoint presentation and take it to Skinner," Modell jested, mildly. "Ja," Fox sighed. Caparoja Estates, 4:17 p.m. By mid-afternoon, two weeks' worth of Posts and some calls to metro precincts yielded Fox a scattering of intriguing prospects: Darrell Bales, a 19-year-old African-American fast food assistant manager, had been terminated and nearly arrested after hurling a flurry of seemingly incomprehensible but clearly obscene babble at a dissatisfied group of teen customers. A visiting anthropologist from Bales' diatribe as a form of obsolete Mayan dialect. The former gang member turned community college programming student recalled nothing of the incident, and vehemently denied ancient Central American languages had ever been part of his high school curriculum. Juan Perriera, a 27-year-old, second-shift truck mechanic, had reacted to a fender-bender near -- in German, a language unknown to PPerriera but familiar to the second-generation Bavarian-American state cop who wrote up the incident. An ambulance was called for Perriera, but by the time it arrived, the mechanic was asking who the hell had crumpled his front end. And Carol Thibault, a part-time charity consultant from was ousted forcibly from a ascending the board table, uttering a series of seemingly disjointed gutteral half-words, and batting the campaign chairman’s head repeatedly against the teak table. Charges had been dropped following her husband’s promise she would seek counseling. “Gawd,” Thibault moaned at the recollection of her recent Bronze Age behavior and she stirred some hazelnut creamer into her coffee. She roosted on a stool in the center of the Thibaults’ black tile-and-brushed metal kitchen. “A psychoanalyst, and everyone in the community knows it. Getting shrunk’s no shame; it’s actually kind of fashionable, but not when it’s part of a plea bargain. Brian’s mortified — he’s an economist at the State Department, and he’s concerned this whole episode is going to wreak havoc with his security classification.” “I wouldn’t worry, Carol,” Pusher said with the familiarity she’d requested. “What do you think happened. The police report stated you had no recollection of the incident.” “Police report,” the attractive brunette winced. “No, I don’t remember a damned thing about it, except the cops hauling me off to jail.” “Have you ever heard of past life regression?” Fox inquired. “Like I was Napoleon in a previous life?” Thibault brightened. “How New Age! You think that’s what might’ve happened to me?” “We’re just exploring a few possibilities. Have you been hypnotized lately?” “Oh, no. I thought about it for my smoking, but I opted for the patch instead. Gawd, you think it’s going to happen again?” “I have no idea,” Fox said, sympathetically. “Maybe your counselor will help get to the root of things.” “Gawd,” Carol Thibault repeated. “My friends see shrinks for mid-life crises, unresolved childhood traumas, neurotic compulsions. I’m paying a couple of hundred a pop to get in touch with my inner cavewoman!” ** “I get out of Southeast without getting my head blown off, hustle beef patties so I can get a B-S and some righteous bucks, a little Ozzie and Harriet?” Darrell Bales laughed harshly. “Then I go all Indiana Jones and shit -- so I was told -- and now here I am.” Bales and the two agents were standing in a concrete clearing surrounded by cases of toilet paper, cornflakes, and detergent. “Darel” was misspelled on the plastic badge pinned to his salmon Beltway Mart apron. “So it’s all a blank to you?” Modell asked. “Man, like I left the planet for awhile,” Bales said. “We gonna be long? I know Mr. Freebairn said it was cool, but I have to keep this job I wanna finish the semester. Get off here, I collect shredded paper in some offices downtown. Didn’t give up a little B-negative plasma time to time, do a trial now and then--” “Trial?” Fox repeated. “Clinical trial, man,” Bales said. “Right now, some pill company's payin’ me six large to play games.” “Games?” “Memory games, remembering names and lists and shit. Hey, pays for pencils and diskettes, you know?” Lifeways Pharmaceuticals Inc. 6:35 p.m. “Well, ‘games’ wouldn’t be inaccurate,” Dr. Fletcher Archer chuckled, rapping his glasses on his expansive but cluttered desk. Congress was in the midst of heated debate over story window, Fox and Modell could see the snakelike tendrils of dinnertime D.C. traffic and the scattered lights of lobbyists’ offices. “Right now, look at any drug superstore, any mall nutrition shop, and you’ll see we’re in the midst of a massive herbal/botanical revolution,” Archer continued. “Echinacea, ginkgo biloba, believe natural means automatically safe, and they want to believe they can pop something natural with their breakfast coffee that will take away their stress, enable them to go to the office and not only perform more productively but also resist the urge to cram their supervisor’s head in the laser printer. Cell phones, microwaves, Jerry Springer – instant answers for a breakneck society. “So far, the herbal folks have managed to hold the FDA and Congress off. All they have to do is keep their claims vague, stick to generalities, and keep raking in the bucks. But I guarantee you: One Dateline segment linking dandelion oil to cancer, one Washington Post series questioning the lack of federal overview of nutritional supplements, and the party will be over. We’ve read the writing on the Federal Register wall, and we’re trying to capture the best of both worlds. We’re a few years out on an amazing memory-enhancing formulation that’ll make standard gingko look like a Tic Tac. We’re using ginkgo enzymes – that’ll be the consumer pitch -- with a safe blend of synthetic components that actually appear to boost cognitive/associative activity. Can’t discuss those components, of course.” “Of course,” Fox agreed genially. “So you’re doing clinical trials right here in D.C.?” “And in with a touch of wariness. “Look, can we just lay it on the table, guys? We’ve taken every safeguard with this product – FDA signed off almost immediately on the trials, and we’ve got an extremely well-respected team of administration and monitoring every side effect. What’s going on?” Fox and Modell capsulized the recent eccentricities of “Jorgon Wrensted” and his other “past lifers.” “It hit me that with the exception of Carol Thibault, all of the individuals who’ve exhibited these symptoms are in need of additional income,” Fox pointed out. “You’re paying several hundred dollars to the people participating in your trials, right?” “Plus expenses,” Archer said. “Look, I may mainly push a desk these days, but I can tell you that what you’re suggesting has no scientific merit. The chemicals we’re using, at the dosages prescribed, couldn’t conceivably have the effect you’re describing. Past life regression? No, I suspect you’re looking for something else, some common factor among these people that could explain delusional disassociative behavior.” “To the extent they were able to communicate in languages in which they had never been trained, in one case a pre-Columbian, Central American dialect?” Mulder posed. “Could we have a list of the trial participants and the researchers involved both with your company and the university?” “You know, I do want to cooperate fully,” Archer said, growing more formal. “But this sounds like something maybe I’d better talk to some of the legal staff about.” “We could get a federal warrant fairly quickly,” Modell noted without menace. “But I can see you have a strong sense of loyalty to your company, to your science. I can appreciate the honor in that.” Fox suppressed a grin as Archer blinked. “I can also appreciate the concern you would feel if your company’s image and consumer goodwill were damaged by some miscalculation that presents a public health threat,” Pusher continued in a regulated, nearly hypnotic tone. “I would believe you'd want to help us prevent such a thing from occurring. I’m confident you’ll ultimately do the right thing and make us a photocopy of the list. With phone numbers.” Archer stood abruptly. “Just give me a second." ** “Not sure Skinner would’ve approved of that,” an amused Fox murmured, once they were back in the Bureau car. “Of what?” Modell asked, smiling inscrutably. “Mr. Archer obviously recognized the greater good in this situation.” “Okay,” Fox surrendered, glancing through the sheaf of papers the scientist had presented them. “Here we go – Bales, check. Perierra, Mochizuki… Several names I don’t recognize here; we ought to split ‘em up. Uh oh.” “What, partner?” Fox bit his lip. “I was wondering about Carol Thibault’s motivation for signing up for a university study. She didn’t seem to need the money. Looks like Carol must've regressed on her own time, ‘cause she’s not on this list.” ** Fox ripped his tie from his neck, thumbed the TV remote, and hit the “Play” button on his answering machine. He flopped onto the couch as a Millennium rerun materialized on the screen. “Mulder,” a woman’s voice flowed from the answering machine, quiet and low. “You want to believe, but don’t.” Fox sprang from the sofa, and was ready to replay the message, but the phone warbled first. “Mulder,” Walter Skinner said urgently. “Lifeways Pharmaceutical corporate offices. Now.” “What’s up?” “You and Modell talked to a Fletcher Archer tonight? Well, someone appears to have taken out a great deal of hostility on him.” Lifeways Pharmaceuticals 11:10 p.m. “Beat him shitless,” Sgt. Queck grunted, gnawing slightly on his Wyatt Earp mustache and reviewing the ravages visited on Archer’s office. “Ripped his throat out, looks of it, took out an eye. Cleaning lady found him – they’re still trying to calm her down.” “What about security?” Modell asked. “Ain’t the CIA, tell you that,” the D.C. cop snorted. “Even after hours, lotta employee traffic in and out. Cameras in the lobby and stairwells, but nothing in staff areas. Couple of the late workers tell me the key card system is a little lax. Short of it, we’ll look at the surveillance tapes, but I don’t know we’ll have much luck.” “Thanks,” Fox said. Queck shrugged, and started to bark at a crime tech. “Strange.” “What?” Pusher demanded. “Guy must be working a double shift,” his partner mumbled, more to himself. “Nothing, nothing. So you think this is connected to our happy crew of regressionists?” “One of the test subjects found out what was fucking them up, came down here, and registered a rather graphic grievance?” Fox exhaled. “Too much violence, too much primal wrath.” “Hey, agents,” Queck shouted. The pair rushed to Archer’s desk, which was being inspected by the cop and the tech. Deep, blood-soaked gouges marred the blotter. “Assistant M.E. found splinters under the man’s nails,” the cop explained. “Looks like maybe he was trying to tell us something.” “'Ali,'” Fox pondered, reading the apparent dying message. “Bob, you got the list in the car? The one Archer gave us? We need to see if there’s an Ali, an “I’ll get it.” Modell disappeared. Walter Skinner appeared in the door a second later, a look of grave curiosity on his chiseled features. “Agent, what’s the story here?” the A.D. asked quietly, glancing at the milling police crew. “I think,” Fox drawled, nodding toward Archer’s damaged body on the floor, “that somebody’s past caught up with him.” Georgetown University Department of Biomedical Studies 8:47 a.m. Jason Rouge wrapped his mocha-brown fingers about his coffee mug, as if it were some protection against the tragedy that had been brought abruptly into his comfortable academic biosphere. The mug proclaimed “Biochemists do it under strictly peer-reviewed conditions.” Fox wondered vaguely if Rouge’s female grad assistants considered that political incorrect or merely a contrived attempt at projecting joviality into a largely humorless environment. “I invited Dan Shriver to sit in with us – he’s been fully as involved in this trial as I,” Rouge rumbled, glancing at the compact, goateed doctoral student resting one buttock on a lab sink. “This is absolutely shattering: Fletcher Archer served on the faculty here for a number of years before he left for Lifeways. But I find it quite a logical stretch to assume his death was related to our enzyme research. “As I’m sure Fletch told you, we’ve been strictly monitoring the health and metabolic responses of our test subjects. You were aware our provided the Lifeways formulation and 10 controls who have been giving a dummy tablet. When we’re dealing with subjective criteria such as intelligence and memory, it’s particularly important to have a control, to ensure improvement in cognitive test skills is not merely a placebic result. The test subjects, of course, have no idea who they are.” “Can you tell us?” Fox asked, bracing for a barrage of academic ethics. Rouge’ eyes flicked toward Dan. “Certainly. Fletch was a good friend, and my ethics as a researcher take second seat to my humanitarian responsibility.” Fox decided Rouge was one of those awkwardly intellectual individuals unable to express himself in less than cumbersome terms – the mug was probably his equivalent of dropping trou on the National Mall. “We’ll try to be discreet,” Modell pledged. “I would appreciate it.” A few minutes later, Fox looked up from the trial abstract. “We’ve received reports of aberrant behavior from four of the 10 test subjects – we’ve been able to contact 18 of the total subjects, and none of the controls appear to have experienced any problems. Five of the test subjects also report no unusual occurrences.” “Lord,” Rouge invoked, running a hand over his cleanly bald scalp. “It’s impossible, Jace,” Dan protested. “Guys, we couldn’t even do this trial if the FDA hadn’t already decided the formulation posed no obvious health risks. The kind of enhanced brain activity we’re seeing is incremental – more than you’d get from strictly herbal supplements, but we’re talking about a product that’ll probably be available in non-prescription form in five years.” Rouge coughed. “Dan. Let’s help these gentlemen, but let’s not forget our confidentiality obligation.” “Sorry,” Dan smiled apologetically. “Hey, Jace, you mind?” “No, Dan – you head on out,” Rouge said. “Thanks for your assistance; see you around 2, right?” Shriver saluted to the agents and the researcher, and vanished into the labyrinthine university corridors. “This Kristin Durell is the only test subject we haven’t been able to reach,” Fox noted. “Kristin, eh?” Rouge’ forehead disappeared in deep wrinkles. He breathed. “Monday was a check-in day, and Kristin didn’t show. She and the others have been scrupulously responsible in reporting for check-in days, and we were concerned. Dan called her, and it turned out she’d slept in.” A smile flashed uncharacteristically across the researcher’s features. “Kristin’s a senior, and fatigue is not unusual for that subculture. Busy girl, too – 21, and she’s heavily involved in environmental issues, even local homeless charities.” Fox saw Modell sit up a bit straighter. Then, as if he and Pusher shared a common mind, the possibility hit him as well. ** “Kristen, yeah,” Carol Thibault said over the cellular speaker in Fox and Modell’s unit. “A little intense for my constitution, but it’s hard to find these MTV-generation kids who are willing to work as hard as they work their jaws. She’s really interested in the homeless problem – we fling hash at a mission in town once a week.” Fox looked meaningfully at Pusher. “This is important, Ms. Thi-, Carol. Has Kirsten, um, has Ms. Durell shared any medication with you over the last few weeks?” “Drugs?” the philanthropist/Cro Magnon squeaked. “Now, I’m some crackhouse addict? Should I get a lawyer.” “I’m not talking about narcotics, Carol. Something she might have given you, thinking it was something else.” Thibault was silent for a second. “Well, you’ve got to swear you won’t tell her, but we were serving lunch at the mission last week, and I had this crashing headache. Sometimes, these guys get on my very last nerve, you know, not that I mean to sound uncompassionate, you understand. Anyway, she was in the kitchen, getting some more spaghetti, so I just got into her purse. I didn’t snoop; just got a couple of Bayers. You mention it, they were a little odd – the tablets were kind of pastel green, and they tasted sweet. I’m not a nurse, so I just figured the aspirin people’d finally realized how shitty their product tastes. Hey, you know something? That was just a few hours before my little Neanderthal table dance at the board meeting. That little crackhead drugged me!” “We’ll be in touch,” Fox promised as Thibault built up a head of indignation. He hung up, and bumped his head against the seatback. “Partner?” Modell asked. “What’s up?” “Had a weird message last night on my machine, right before we got called out to Lifeways,” Fox said. “It was a woman, and she told me not to believe.” “In what?” “I don’t know. She said she knew I wanted to believe, but warned me not to.” Modell considered. “Think it has to do with the case?” Fox shook his head. “But whatever the case, I’ve got this strange, disoriented feeling. You know when life seems to have a dreamlike quality, when things seem hinky, and then you wake up? Well, I feel like that, but I’m fairly certain I’m not dreaming.” “Well, what’s hinky?” Pusher asked with that sometimes-maddening unquestioning acceptance. Fox frowned. “OK. Sgt. Queck, the DCPD guy. Yesterday morning, he’s working hostage negotiation at the Danish embassy. Then, last night, he’s Homicide, and he’s still on shift more than 12 hours later.” “Maybe the department’s shorthanded. Maybe he took a shift for a friend. Overtime?” “And then, get this. Jason Rouge – his last name’s French for ‘red.’ Linda Thibault’s home’s in a development called Caparoja. In Spanish, that’s roughly translated as ‘red head.’ Like the woman in my recurring dreams.” “Eastern beliefs teach us the universe is full of recurring elements and subtexts. Coincidences that don’t necessarily occur by accident.” Fox grinned, feeling foolish. “Except the voice on my answering machine. It was her, the redhead. My ‘dream’ woman.” ** Kristen Durell’s apartment was near campus, a second floor walk-up in a brick residence. After punching the doorbell for a full three minutes, Fox peered in a nearby window. Typical student digs – open books, papers, pop cans, and pizza boxes on every exposed surface. A few retro movie posters, a cluster of cheaply framed photos on the hearth of a non-functioning fireplace. Fox was about ready to suggest they look elsewhere for Durell, but the something caught his eye. He turned. “Bob, we got those binocs in the trunk. Ones we took to the Redskins last week.” Redskins, he reflected. “Yah,” Modell acknowledged, skipping down the house’s outside steps. In a few moments, he was back with the binoculars. “Look, on the fireplace.” Modell put the glasses to his eyes and the glasses to the window. “Ah.” Among the badly composed, badly lit shots of campus parties, celebrations, and loved ones at home, Durell had posted a blowup of her bikinied self with a clearly older boy – probably taken during Spring Break. Kristen was an attractive girl, but it was the boy who captured Modell’s attention. ** “Yeah,” Dan Shriver yawned. “Hey, Agents Muller and Modell, right?” “Mulder,” Fox corrected. Shriver rented a small frame house on the other side of the held the door open a scant six inches. “Catchin’ some Zs. Jace and I plan to make it a late one at the lab.” “Jace and you, or just you?” Shriver slipped outside onto his porch. “What do you mean, man? That sounded like an accusation.” Fox held up his palms. “Whoa, Danny Boy. I was just wondering whether the idea of running two test groups is yours' or yours and Dr. Rouge’. I suspect yours’ alone – Agent Modell and I just visited Kristen Durell’s apartment, and we saw your little beach picture.” “OK,” Shriver backed off a step. “So I got Kristy a spot in the trial. Maybe it’s not real ethical, but it ain’t a federal offense, is it?” “I suspect feeding unwitting guinea pigs an unauthorized, potentially dangerous drug may be,” Modell responded pleasantly. “Is that why you got your girlfriend involved? You wanted to try your own ‘formulation,' you figured it was safe, but you had to have a test subject you could trust." "Fuck you, man; I'm getting a law--" "My partner and I made a call or two before we came over," Fox interrupted. "Your father's a very devoted man -- his compassion for your mother came through in our conversation. Alzheimer's, isn't it?" Shriver fell back against the door. "Oh, God." "Something went wrong, didn't it?" The would-be researcher closed his eyes. "I'd been doing research on plant enzymes with potential to improve human memory. I know I'll never come up with anything in time to help Mom, but maybe others. Then Lifeways contacted Jason, and as I looked at their studies, everything came together. Jace is a real conservative guy, so my thought was I'd just try the drug on a few subjects, then 'develop' it in a few years with some major company -- maybe even Lifeways. A successful Alzheimer's suppressant or cure? It would make any company a fortune, and save people so much pain and grief. "But then I recognized the need for a larger test sample. Nobody knew -- definitely not Jace. And at first, Bales, Perriera, Mochizuki, and Kristy started showing just absolutely awesome memory improvement. We'd sit around at check-in, and they'd recall childhood stuff that had to be 'way suppressed. Their test scores were through the roof. Then the weird shit started happening, so I adjusted the levels of enzymes. But Kristen…" "What happened?" Modell asked quietly. "She-, she found out who she was -- if this is really some past life regression thing -- and she freaked. It's really messed her up." "Kristen discovered her extraterrestrial origins, didn't she?" Fox pushed. Shriver's eyes popped open. "Where did you come up with that?" "Kristen's in there, isn't she? That's why you came out here. Let's go inside." Shriver sighed and unlocked the front door. "She's in the back bedroom." "My guess is Kristen came up against a truth she couldn't handle -- that in a past life, she had been an extraterrestrial," Fox said, "In effect, that she had extraterrestrial genetic origins, at least in part. She blamed Lifeways, and confronted Fletcher Archer apparently in her extraterrestrial state. But when she left, Archer was dying, not dead. He didn't know his killer, so he started to scratch the only identification he could under the circumstances: A-L-I. He died before he could complete the E-N." The bedroom door was ajar. "Kristen?" Fox called. Kristen Durell was on the bed, asleep. Except when Fox shook her, her head lolled on broken vertebrae. A slip of white paper lay atop the covers. "You think I would subject my girlfriend to an unknown drug without trying it myself, first?" Shriver challenged, except his voice was not quite that of the doctoral student. "Kristen actually was thrilled with the whole past lives phenomenom. She was some kind of soldier in the Crusades, a hero. It was my 'family' history she couldn't take. I could see she was starting to view me as some kind of aberration, an anomaly." Fox looked at the slip of paper, a receipt, and then up from the bed. Shriver's eyes looked foreign, and his somewhat pudgy young face was now solid and substantial. His finger was on the trigger of a .38, leveled at the partners. "Wait a minute," the agent said. "Dan," Pusher interjected. "I understand the isolation of the ronin, the warrior who fights alone. As does my partner. It is a mark of honor to accept destiny, identity." "Hold on," Fox insisted. "You will feel that honor, now, and hand me your weapon. We will discuss your future together, as men…" "I feel you inside my head, like a buzzing insect," Shriver laughed. "Do you not realize your ability would work only with those who are in synch with your brain frequencies, your own kind? However, the buzzing is annoying, human." "Human?" Fox chuckled. "Then let's end it now," Modell said, obligingly, swinging his service revolver in a 90-degree arc and shooting the doctoral student twice in the left quadrant of the chest. He slowly lowered his weapon, and turned to his partner, who had his gun trained in a two-handed grip at Modell. "You set all this up so well," Fox said, "But the ending was sloppy. Why all of a sudden does Oxford-trained, B-movie alien?" "Partner, Fox…" "You're not my partner. You're Robert Modell, a serial killer with delusions of Samurai greatness masking a smorgasbord of insecurities and a basic social ineptitude. What is this, some kind of mindscam, a push for what purpose?" "You need help," Modell pleaded. "Fletcher Archer," Fox spat. "A fletcher is a maker of arrows, an archer a shooter of them. A bowman. Like your sister, Linda Bowman. Is this revenge?" He caught a breath. "But you're both dead…" "Fox, we've been partners for nearly eight years now. Skinner put us together so I could regulate your obsession with the paranormal and you could balance my maverick nature." "Spoken like a cheap crime show blurb. My subsconscious has outsmarted your pushing power, 'Bob.'" Fox plucked the receipt from the bed. "This is from our lunch yesterday, at the Scullery. The Danish Scullery. “Except why would a Scandivanian restaurant be named after a British term for a kitchen? Danish Scullery -- Dana Scully. My real partner. What did you do with her, you son of a bitch?" "The gun," Modell said, dispassionately. "You will give me the gu--" Fox fired, and then fired again. ** And bolted upright, his sweatshirt soaked. "Mulder, lay still," Scully said, her voice husky with concern. A trio of faces hovered above her -- Frohike, Langley, and Byers, Frohike balancing a large pizza box. "Where's Auntie Em?" Mulder inquired weakly. "You looked like you were into some deep Altered States action, my friend," Frohike informed him as he flipped open the box and tore off a triangle of cheese and pepperoni. "You appeared to be in an extremely advanced sleep stage," Scully murmured, grasping Mulder's forearm. "We've been trying for five minutes to rouse you." "Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue would've worked," Mulder grinned, stretching. Scully bobbed to her feet. "Happy to see you've recovered, Mulder." "I just had the mother of all nightmares, Scully. Must've fallen asleep n the tape I've been listening to waas deadly." n "That wasn't standard Beautyrest sleep, dude," was enough rapid eye movement going on to break limestone." "He's right, Mulder," Scully concurred. "What were you listening to?" Mulder plucked his sweat-dampened shirt from his torso. "It's in the stereo tape deck. Some professor down in UPSed me what he said were some interviews with psychotherapy patients undergoing past life regression under hypnosis." "I prefer John Grisham, as read by Lance Henrickson," Frohike mumbled through a mouthful of New York-style. Mulder grinned up at him. Scully did not smile as she moved across the carpet and punched first rewind, then play. "…You and Modell then drive to Shriver's place," a coarse male voice recited. "It's a small house, and when you knock on the door…" "Modell," Scully whispered as she turned from the stereo. "He's dead. Mulder, the package -- what did this come in?" "On the kitchen table," Mulder said, his mouth going dry. Scully was back in a moment. The Gunmen craned to read the express delivery envelope. "Mulder, this hasn't even been scanned," Byers alerted the agent. "This package wasn't processed before it was delivered. Your Prof. Pousser appears to be a fraud." "Pousser," Scully exclaimed. "Second-year French, Mulder. Pousser means 'push.' Are you sure a legitimate UPS man delivered this?" "Yeah, a large guy, overweight," Mulder recalled. "He was very assertive -- he said he'd been out on the routee a double shift, and I fixed him a soda and a sandwich. Very pushy guy." He stopped. "Scully, the signature on the envelope invoice, the delivery guy?" His partner looked down, then dropped onto the couch. "A. Modell." ** At Modell's insistence, they met during his lunch hour at a sub shop near the Capitol. Anthony Modell leaned well over onto Mulder's table space in an effort to keep lettuce, ham shreds, and mayo away from his pristine brown summer uniform. "You seem almost to have wanted me to catch you," Mulder suggested, marveling at Modell's ravenous grace. "Oh, I knew you'd find me pretty quick," the delivery man said cheerfully. "Though I kind of hope you didn't tell my boss about faking the express package." "That's the worst of your concerns?" Mulder smiled in awe of Modell's bald-faced audacity. "What, you gonna charge me with aggravated pushing, hypnosis and dream inducement of a federal employee. Want some chips?" "I'm afraid to get my fingers that close. Let's just say I'm not interested in pursuing any criminal charges, though if I'd been listening to that tape in my car…" Modell dropped his mangled sandwich. "Uh uh. You go back to the beginning of the tape -- I told you if you were in a car to pull into a safe spot and shut off the engine." "What's the deal here, Modell?" "Tony, man," Modell insisted, retrieving his sandwich. "I guess you could say I'm kind of Bob's executor. When he broke prison that last time, he wrote me a letter asking me to do one last thing for him. See, we were first cousins, but as kids, you couldn't drag us apart. "I was always the fat kid, the one the others always whaled on? Well, Bob wasn't much better off -- frail kid, asthma, grades too good for his own good? But he had this idea he was my protector, and after he got the shit beat out of him a few dozen times, he started raggin'his folks to let him take martial arts. It helped, at first: Bob toned up, and learned to defend himself. But then he started studying up on all this samurai shit and before you knew, every 'offense' to his or my honor, or his faolks' honor, or some stranger off the street's honor, got somebody a busted nose. "Then he found out about the family talent. Yeah, it runs in the gene pool, like color-blindness or hemophilia -- that brain cancer stuff apparently just strengthened it. Then he really started doing some damage. My folks moved shortly after that, to D.C. here -- I think as much because they were scared shitless of what Bob might do if I ever got on his bad side. They didn't understand: Family was everything to Bob. That's why he took a bunch of bullets for Linda. He'da never hurt me. But I did desert him, kind of, and who knows if I could've helped straighten him out. "So he sends me this letter, right before the shit breaks loose. He thought a lot of you, I could read through all his fancy crap about masters and teachers and ronins and shit. I guess maybe Bob found some 'religion' or something in prison, 'cause he wanted me to do that tape. I'm thinking it was his way of making you see how things coulda been if his head hadn't got so screwed up. How he might've used his powers for good, so to speak. Maybe how your life can go in the crapper with just one bad move. My talent was always vivid dreaming -- I can make you feel like you're right there. You can imagine how much fun that was when Bob and I were 14." Modell punctuated his tale with a huge bite of capicola and salami. Mulder thought while the Pusher's cousin grazed. Finally, Tony turned and addressed the counter. "I'm ready for my second one." "Another Big Sicily," the clerk recited, reaching for the cash register button. "Hey," Modell protested. "Two for one. That's what the sign says." The clerk followed the mayo speckled finger to the placard on the counter. It read, 'No checks accepted.' "Right, sorry, Tony -- it'll be right up," she sang. "Big run this afternoon," Tony explained, patting his gut as he turned back to a dumbstruck Fox Mulder. "Pardon me," Mulder said. "You can do that, and, uh, you're doing -- no offense -- this?" Modell sighed and leaned back. "Bob always wanted to be significant, always wanted to be this bigshit warrior in a world didn't even exist. I may not look like much to you, but just knowing I got a wife, two great little kids, a paying job, and just a little something special going nobody knows about, that's power, pal." Agent Mulder nodded and rose, tossing a bill to the table. "Good to meet you, Tony. My treat today." Anthony Modell's eyes glinted mischeviously. "Woulda been, anyway." |