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10 X 21: SYNTHESIS Humanity's secret is unlocked, and with it, the possible salvation of mankind... |
“‘…but he must’ve been hard of hearing, ‘cause I wound up with a 12-inch
pianist,’” Jack Bales concluded
with a flourish. “Then I go off, you know, on listening, you know, the importance
of listening when you’re closing the sale. Know your customer, blah, blah,
blah, all that happy bullshit. So? What d’you think?”
Barry Tremont’s own listening equipment had shut down right before his colleague’s
punchline, as he discovered a spot of the keynote luncheon’s hollandaise sauce
on the lapel of his cobalt blue Millennium 3 realtor’s blazer. The Southwest
regional manager resisted the urge to scratch at the now-crusty stain, and
laughed absently at the payoff he hadn’t heard.
“Jesus, Jack,” he then chuckled worriedly. “You think, this day and age,
you wanna tell a penis joke, all the ladies in the crowd? Especially with
Marci Glickman getting the Most Valuable Promoter plaque?”
Jack, M3 senior VP for marketing, sucked at his prominent white teeth in
annoyance. “No, see, that’s the beauty. I don’t say penis anywhere in there.
The guy wanted a 12-inch penis, but the leprechaun gave him a pianist instead,
get it? Everybody knows what you said, but nobody can get their
“I don’t know, Jack,” Barry drawled,
glancing around the hotel corridor outside the crowded ballroom. “I don’t
think you can even suggest a penis any more. I think they still call that
harassment.”
“I have never once touched any of these broads, even though if you ever
saw the rack on Marcie—” Barry winced, and Jack stopped dead, a look of pure
disgust on his deeply tanned features. “OK, OK, no dick humor, all right?
Jesus, the pussies have truly come to rule this planet. I got a back-up icebreaker,
anyway, so fuck ‘em.”
The thought of his colleague’s potential icebreaker brought chills to Barry,
and he glanced quickly at his watch. “Hey, man, we’ve only got about 20
minutes, so I better get out there. Don’t forget you have to intro
“Yeah, yeah.” Jack waved as he glanced distractedly at the nearby bar set,
which, of course was tuned to the war. “Just go on in – I gotta practice something
I can tell these pussies that won’t get my ass sued by the ACLU or the feminazis.”
Apartment of Monica Reyes
The doorbell buzzed, and Monica glanced irritably at the time clock to the
lower right of Aaron Brown’s lapel. She lamented the death of “Thirty minutes
or it’s free” on the pyre of public safety and pushed herself from the couch.
“You the large garden, extra cheese, side of sticks?” the pizza guy muttered.
He looked like the comic book store guy on
The Simpsons, without the haughty demeanor or really much of any personality
at all, and a beat-up Corolla rumbled and belched EPA-violative particulates
at the curb.
“Busy night, huh?” Monica inquired, smiling.
“Naw,” the Jenny Craig dropout grunted.
“Keep the change,” the agent informed him, handing him the precise amount
of her order.
“Hey, than--” she heard the delivery man murmur as she shut the door and
threw the bolt. Monica conveyed her pizza one-handed to the living room and
deposited it on her coffee table. She glanced at CNN as she dropped to the
cushions, then froze.
The face inset on the screen above Brown’s bespectacled face was stolid
– strong Latino features framed by a buzz-cut and a Desert Storm collar.
“…Army public information officials reported to be Private First Class Paul
Reyes, who had been assigned to a tank command unit near
The anchor transitioned to Wolf Blitzer with details, but Monica was too
dazed to register them. She fumbled on the couch for the remote, but it had
disappeared. Had she carried it to the kitchen? To the door to collect the
pizza? She banished the ridiculous speculation, bounding over the table to
silence the CNN crew.
Hands shaking, Monica snatched the portable phone from an end table and
hit her second program button. The handset buzzed insistently as Monica cursed
her parents for refusing to succumb to the miracles of call-waiting. She chastised
herself – of course, Antonio and Rina, Paul’s folks, were probably on the
line, seeking consolation and answers and sanity.
Monica dropped back onto the couch, impotent, ineffectual, heart pounding.
Suddenly, she was overtaken by memories of her tall, machismo nephew, the
long
She hit redial, and quickly disconnected. Monica punched the first programmed
number.
“Come on, John,” she begged. To no avail – her partner’s answering machine
kicked in, and she irrationally hung up.
Monica stared at the blank TV screen, and then at the plastic face of her
phone. She sighed, and hit the third button, the one that had been reserved
for the absent Dana Scully for nearly a year until the present – and Monica’s
more pressing needs – had intruded. A cheerfully tinny answering machine voice
popped on, and Monica hiccupped in frustration.
“Jan, it’s me,” she greeted tremulously, struggling for control. “Something
happened. If you can call me, or come over or something. I really need, you
know…”
Monica lapsed into silence, and she jumped as Jan’s machine beeped. She
tossed the handset on the table.
“No,” she murmured. “No, no.” She retrieved the phone, redialed, hung up
onJan’s machine with a curse, and dialed
her parent’s number. The busy signal shrieked at her, and she threw the phone
across the living room.
You’ve got good reason, a dark voice assured her. “No,” Monica said. Anyone
would… “No, no.”
He’s dead, he’s God knows where, the dark voice whispered with an irony
that had haunted Monica Reyes for months.
She stumbled from the couch toward the kitchen…
Ernie’s Cincy-Style Chili
Calvin Welles dumped another handful of onions on his chili 5-way, savoring
the cloves and other spices that differentiated
Calvin surveyed the glaring interior of the out-of-the-way smalltown diner.
They hadn’t refilled his coffee in a half-hour, but that was all right with
him, as everyone in the restaurant – the owner, two waitresses, the cook,
and five customers – had died about 15 minutes before that. Their bodies littered
the filthy linoleum – Health Department violation, for sure, he mused.
Calvin hadn’t killed any of them directly – he didn’t do that any more.
Too hands on, too pedestrian, as the prison shrink would’ve said. Instead,
he had merely introduced the supper crowd to a few of his friends from the
other side, and simply set his gun on the counter near the register. Strange
what people couldn’t take, how easily that thin shell around their sanity
cracked like an M&M when they were exposed to ideas they couldn’t comprehend.
It was a somewhat childish hobby – Calvin recognized the significance of
what he knew, what he could do, what laughably simple truths he had been made
privy to, but he was man enough to admit what he was. Which was a sociopathic,
inhuman killer who enjoyed watching the life leave others. Nothing to be proud
of, certainly, but he had some 85 kills under his belt – 85 after his brief
confinement in that lab in
Before his conversion, Calvin had murdered a few dozen people the old-fashioned
way, but it somehow had been more pleasurable then, when he believed he
was single-handedly erasing each soul, each life. Now, he had the means
to wipe out busfuls of souls in one sitting, but the knowledge that he was
merely transferring energy, rather than obliterating it, left him less-than-satisfied.
Like sitting down to a bowlful of pussy-assed Cincinnati-style chili when
he was used to jalapenos and habaneros.
Something big, he reflected, absently swallowing beans and meat and cheese.
He had a plan, but it hadn’t yet taken full form.
Calvin Welles’ only earthly concern was the gaps – the dark holes of time
into which he occasionally descended. His watch – a Rolex lifted off a Mafioso
who’d been persuaded to shot-gun his entire family over Sunday dinner –
would skip minutes, hours, a day or so sometimes, and he’d wake up someplace,
usually in the universe of his birth, with no idea how his body had hauled
him there.
A bright light suddenly cast sharp shadows throughout the diner. It wasn’t
like the high beams of one of the jacked-up pickups men around here wore
like a surrogate dick. It was more like the cold halogens of a dozen floodlights.
Calvin wondered if someone had been able to get through to the sheriff’s
department before they had perished, if maybe a farm neighbor had heard the
gunshots and called out Andy and Barney to investigate.
He sighed, tossed down his napkin, and slid out of his booth. This ought
to be interesting.
But as Calvin shoved the glass door open with a departing jingle, he saw
no cop cars, no Mounties, no smokies, no pigs of any description. Only that
cold, blinding, consuming light. Then he made out its source, high above
the cornfield which bordered Ernie’s to the west.
“Kee-rist almighty,” Calvin murmured.
John Doggett residence
“Shit!” Doggett yelled as he heard his own voice across the dark living
room. He ran for the phone, barking his shin on a chair before hearing the
tone that informed him his party had declined to leave a message.
He’d just left Monica a few hours before, wasn’t likely her. Besides, she
or Skinner would call his cell if they needed him. Kersh would’ve left a chilly,
ostracizing missive on the machine, convinced John had stepped out to the
grocery just to vex him.
Barbara? Doggett dismissed the thought immediately. After he’d stumbled
onto the solution to their son’s absurdly tragic murder, he and his ex-wife
had parted on quietly final terms. She’d e-mailed him a month ago that she
was marrying some man she’d met at a city council meeting – Barbara had filled
her void with civic responsibility – and Doggett had typed out a quick congratulatory
note and not communicated with her since.
The agent shrugged, and spent the next 10 minutes poring over bills, the
law enforcement journals the former NYPD cop still received, and a letter
from an old Marine buddy he’d known in
Doggett retrieved a Bud Light from the kitchen, and flipped on the TV.
ESPN was his natural instinct, but like most Americans over the last month
– even jaded federal employees privy to detailed military intelligence –
he was drawn to news of the war in
A weary, grim Wolf Blitzer was standing in the center of a stark Middle
Eastern street swarming with tanks and
Doggett’s head whipped toward the set. “Holy shit,” he whispered as he
spied the face hovering above the CNN anchor. “Aw, Jesus, Monica.” He silenced
the set and plucked his phone from its base.
Busy. Of course. Her folks must be in shock. Doggett fought the impulse
to throw on his jacket and run over to Monica’s apartment. No; this was family
time. He turned the set back on to learn all he could about Pvt. First Class
Paul Reyes’ death.
When the phone jangled 15 minutes later, he leapt for it. “Doggett.”
“Yeah, John? I don’t know if you remember me. Jan Roosevelt? I’m a friend
of Monica’s…?”
“Sure,” he acknowledged. Friend. Jan was Monica’s AA sponsor. “I saw the
news about Monica’s nephew. You talked to her yet?”
Jan paused. “I’m not really certain
I should even have called you. I’m, you know, Monica’s…”
“I know,” Doggett interrupted, suddenly anxious. “Is she OK?”
“I don’t know, John. She left a message
on my machine, said she felt like a drink. I ran right over, but nobody’s
answering the door and the TV’s blaring. I thought about calling 911, but
I know she’s FBI, and I didn’t want to get her into any trouble if I was wrong.
More likely if I was right, I guess I mean. So I thought maybe her partner…
She’s told me you know about AA…”
“Ten minutes,” Doggett barked, grabbing his jacket.
**
Doggett had a set of keys: He’d watched Monica’s mail and papers several
times, and as their relationship began to edge toward some interesting new
dimensions, they’d decided he should just keep them. Jan, a petite black woman
in her mid-thirties, waited impatiently behind him, and stayed back a few
paces as he moved into the apartment.
The guy with the glasses, Doggett never could recall his name, was loudly
highlighting the day’s developments in the
She looked up, and beamed at the intruders. “John, Jan. John, Jan, ha.”
“Monica?” Jan ventured, a tone of resignation tinging her concern. Monica’s
eyes were bleary, and she fumbled toward the remote at her knee, making several
unsuccessful passes at retrieving it. A bottle of Smirnoff’s was open and
half-drained on a nearby end table
“Sorry to start without you, Jan,” Monica shrugged, a little too loosely.
“I’m guessing neither one of you wants a drink, huh?”
“Monica, I’m sorry about Paul,” Doggett said simply, sitting beside his
partner and squeezing her hand.
“Oh, well,” she said in a ghostly voice, turning again to the electronic
face on the TV. “Oh, well.”
Jan joined the pair and took the other
hand. “Baby, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you called. I was, well, I guess
it doesn’t matter. I’m so sorry about your nephew. It’s a terrible thing,
and I know it’s rough on you. I only know what my mother would’ve said. Your
Paul is in…”
Monica yanked her hand from Jan’s grasp, and stared at her incredulously.
“In a better place? Is that what you think? That Paul’s somewhere in the clouds,
at the left hand of Jesus, looking down at us all with a beatific smile?
Or maybe in eternal torment, his flesh searing on his bones for all the
pot he used to smoke, all the girls he’s screwed? What if there is no Higher
Power, Jan? What if it’s all dirt and worms, huh?”
“Monica, honey…”
“No. None of that Twelve-step, holy roller crap tonight. No, no, no.”
Doggett held tight to her fingers, despite Monica’s efforts to retrieve
them. “Monica, she’s just trying…”
“John, it’s OK—” Jan assured him. She’d heard it, hell, done it.
“I know!” Monica shrieked, wrenching free and pushing wobblingly from the
couch. She fell back, breathing raggedly and looking wildly at the photos
of dead soldiers being recycled on CNN.
“A better place,” she finally breathed.
**
“I thought she was doing pretty good,” Doggett murmured as Jan returned
from the bedroom. She’d tucked his partner in and called Monica’s adoptive
parents – she’d never known her real ones – with a story approximating the
truth.
Jan, who Doggett understood was a marketing consultant, dropped into an
armchair. “Yeah, you probably would. Everybody always thought I was doing
pretty good, ‘til I’d drop off the face of the planet for a few days or drop
into a family reunion or staff meeting totally shit-faced. Tal about winning
friends and influencing people. Let me ask you: Has this come up at work?
I mean, has Monica ever come in, you know, under the influence, that you
know of?”
“No,” he responded too emphatically. Doggett grinned sheepishly. “No, I’m
really pretty sure not. But I’ve wondered…”
“What?”
The agent looked her directly in the eye. “Look, how much has Monica told
you about what she does – what we do?”
“Well,” Jan leaned back, and Doggett knew Monica had shared more than he
might have thought. Or maybe just more than Doggett ever shared about the
X-Files. “I know she doesn’t have any idea who her real people – her biological
parents – were. I know about the Satanic shit she investigated in N’awlins
– pretty dark stuff. And she tells me just enough about her current job to
whet my appetite without giving me enough to have her committed. Sorry.”
“Oh, crap, I don’t blame you,” Doggett sighed, resting his head against
the back of the couch. “Sometimes I think I’m going a little batshit myself.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“I’m not trying to upstage you, Jan, but you’d probably reappraise that
statement if you saw what Monica sees on a daily basis.”
Jan arched an eyebrow. It reminded Doggett of Scully, and he wondered fleetingly
where she might be right now. “You mean,” Jan chided gently, “what you both
see on a daily basis.”
“Yeah,” Doggett nodded, and said nothing more. As if to fill the sudden
void, his cell phone twirped urgently…
Mark Rothmann swiped the last morsel of his pork loin through its piquant
cranberry-chipotle sauce, feeling just a twinge of residual guilt. The forbidden
pork would never have passed the lips of Rabbi Marcus Rothmann, the man Mark
had been seemingly light years ago before he’d traded his Talmud for a real
estate license.
But they seldom provided kosher alternatives at these predominantly goyim
gatherings, and Mark had learned early on not to emphasize his religious
and cultural differences around his WASPish Millennium 3 colleagues. He now
surveyed those colleagues, and re-examined the crisis of faith that had led
him down this new path. Despite a six-figure salary and a virtual palace
of a home on
“Everybody? Everybody?” Mark jumped as Gene Thorpe, CEO of Millennium 3,
commandeered the dais mike. “I know dinner’s running a little long, but if
we’re going to kick off the evening’s entertainment on schedule, we need to
get our program on the road.
“I’ve known Jack Bales for 17 years now, ever since he was M3’s top mover
in
Obligatory laughter. Rothmann had met the misogynistic, mildly anti-Semitic
asshole at a closing workshop a year ago, and he wondered if Thorpe had intentionally
injected such a grain of dark truth into his intro.
“Seriously,” Thorpe continued as everyone decided they could stop laughing,
“Jack has consistently been one of Millennium 3’s top producers, whether out
there in the trenches or in the home office. The ‘Homing in on You’ broadcast
campaign won three major awards last year, and our sponsorship of programming
on the Home and Lifestyle Network has given the company unprecedented visibility
with the industry’s most desirable consumer demographic.”
Avaricious thirtysomething vultures looking for refuge from the dregs of
society and their own ethical conscious in gated communities and well-patrolled
suburbs, Rabbi Rothmann retorted silently. Mark was always taken aback when
this voice popped forth from the inner recesses. He glanced about quickly,
irrationally fearful his suppressed contempt for M3’s largely pampered customers
might show in his face.
“…And so it is I introduce with pride and gratitude one of M3’s shining
stars with, hopefully, some illuminating insights for all of us. Friends,
let’s show our appreciation for Jack Bales!”
Mark, of course, joined in the wildly enthusiastic chorus of automatic handslapping
that greeted the sleek, silver-haired game show host that mounted the risers
to the stage, waving as if he were Tom Cruise, George W., and the Pope all
bundled into one blue blazer. Bales pumped the CEO’s hand as if Thorpe were
some young stockbroker the aging realtor was trying to reel in (did Mark see
a momentary grimace of disdain on Thorpe’s face, or was that merely his own
fleeting hope that at least some of these glad-handing barracudas here could
see through Jack’s reptilian charm?), and ascended to the dais, grasping the
edges of the podium as he scanned the crowd Mark knew from experience he
couldn’t see beyond the hot spots of the ballroom.
“I’m glad we could all get together here tonight,” Bales began. “I don’t
know that I’ve ever seen this many realtors assembled in one room, and the
Palm Beach Shore Patrol has informed me they’ve reopened the beaches now that
you’re all safely inside.”
Genuine laughter. They’re actually proud of being viewed as sharks, as predators,
Mark marveled. We’re proud, bubby, we’re proud, Rabbi Rothmann reminded him.
“That reminds me of a story about one of
Oh, boy, rabbis, Mark groaned. Bet Sandersen’s thrilled out of his gourd.
He wondered if there might be any Pakistanis or Indians in the house right
now, equally ready to slink under the tablecloth.
“…and the farmer says, ‘Sorry, fellas, but the local wrecker service don’t
open back up again ‘til morning. You can stay up to the house tonight, but
we only got the two guest bedrooms. One of you’ll have to sleep in the barn.’
So the rabbi asks his companions, ‘You want I should sleep out there?’”
Wonderful – dialect humor with hand gestures. Plus, Mark had sold his share
of farmhouses in his time, and he wondered how many had two spare bedrooms.
“…Nick and the Hindu answer the door, and it’s the rabbi. The rabbi tells
them, ‘I can’t sleep out there – there’s a pig in the barn, and in my religion,
swine are unclean, unkosher.’ So the Hindu says, ‘All right, all right. I
will be most happy to sleep in the barn tonight’…”
This time, Bales lapsed into a bad Apu, the minimart owner from The Simpsons.
Mark hoped there was a Patel or a Rhawalpindi or whatever in the kitchen right
now hearing this and plotting to piss in Jack’s luncheon vichyssoise tomorrow.
It wasn’t a very rabbinical thought, but the image brought the former temple
leader momentarily out of his doldrums.
“…and the Hindu tells them, ‘I am most dreadfully sorry, but there is a
cow in the barn, and in my religion, the cow is a sacred beast with whom I
am unfit to share sleeping quarters.’ So Nick sighs and says, ‘My father was
a farmer, and his father before him. I guess I can take a night in the barn.’
And he marches out across the yard.”
And it’s the pig and the cow, Mark supplied.
“About two minutes later, there’s a knock at the farmhouse door…”
And it’s the pig and the cow.
“…so the rabbi and the Hindu get up and go downstairs…”
And it’s the pig and the cow.
“…and they open the door…”
And…
“…and it’s…”
And…
“…it’s…”
A murmur went up through the crowd as Bales blinked into the glaring spotlights.
His fingers flexed on the rim of the podium, and he licked his lips. Jesus,
was the bastard having a heart attack? Mark wondered. Finally had his fill
of greed and corporate intrigue and rich banquets?
Then Bales straightened, his jaw tightening, his eyes focusing. He surveyed
the crowd with new interest.
“Athelamenathanshethallazorem,” M3’s senior VP announced. At least, that
was what it sounded like to Mark Rothmann, who dropped his fork. Then Bales
launched into a long, droning monologue, as if he were reciting the latest
townhouse listings in Martian.
Except, as Mark gradually realized, it wasn’t Martian. At least, a good
part of Bales’ departure from his script wasn’t. The former Rabbi Rothmann
was very likely the only man in the room who had any idea in hell what Jack
Bales was babbling.
Babbling, the rabbi chuckled. An interesting pun, nu? Mark watched Bales
continue with shocked interest. He had, of course, discoursed many times
on the Old Testament tale of
But Bales, as far as Mark knew, worshipped no other gods than M3, the U.S.
Mint, and the New York Stock Exchange. Was this the real thing? God speaking
through one of the least of his children, a little joke on the WASPs in
the hall?
If so, it was a good one. Because Mark was relatively certain that nowhere
in his limited education or industry dealings would Jack Bales have picked
up a talent for conversational Aramaic…
“Kersh doesn’t know,” Assistant Director Walter Skinner informed Doggett
once they were in the air. “At least not about our coming out here. A friend
of mine, field agent out of
“Mm,” Doggett nodded absently, staring out the passenger window as the small
private plane hurtled out of
“Agent Reyes,” Skinner murmured after a moment. “How’s she holding up?”
The agent regarded his superior quietly. He didn’t know why – God knows,
he trusted Skinner with his very life, and anyone could excuse the need for
some liquid courage after receiving news like Monica had had to absorb – but
he’d covered for his partner’s episode. “’Bout what you’d expect. I guess
she and the boy were pretty close, and to find out he was dead on CNN…”
“Of course,” Skinner nodded. “She get hold of her parents yet?”
“I don’t know,” Doggett mumbled.
“Mm,” the director grunted, and fell silent.
“This is some shit,” Special Agent Bill Kesey informed Skinner and Doggett
in a Midwestern twang after the introductions were made. He sped up the interstate
as trees, still-fallow corn and soybean fields, and fast food and hotel billboards
hurtled past. “EPA and CDC came in about a half-hour after we started investigating
the scene, shut us down completely. Wasn’t a total whitewash – two
“
“Because,” Kesey drawled, “I want you
to see something before I give you the real details on
It was about 25 or so miles more, past the off-ramp minimarts and burger/taco
joints, past two-story farmhouses and grain elevators, before they reached
the restaurant. A plastic Pepsi sign, awash in patriotic
“Agent Kesey, sir?” the trooper rumbled. Doggett smiled to himself: Whether
NYSP or OSP or probably even Timbuktu State Police, they were all punched
out of the same cast-iron mold. “Your partner’s still inside, and the county
pathologist’s here. Story’s leaked, already – a Cincinnati Metro guy and a
couple of TV crews have already been here, and the guy from the Mockridge
weekly. The captain gave them a standup the TV folks could use, just the nuts-and-bolts,
and sent them on their way.”
“Just as well, even though I wouldn’t be surprised CNN or Fox doesn’t get
somebody out here pronto, seven dead and all,” Kesey suggested blandly. Doggett
glanced at Skinner, whose eyes had narrowed.
“What’s really up here, Bill?” the assistant director murmured after the
trooper stalked to his unit. “You tell me you’ve got what looks like an alien
aircraft crash down in Henderson, Kentucky, and then you drag us up here to,
what, a multiple homicide scene?”
Kesey jerked his head toward the diner. “Why I wanted you to bring your
X-Files fella. C’mon; you’ll see.”
**
“Jesus,” Doggett whispered as they entered the restaurant. Even after his
years in the Marines, the NYPD, the FBI, he’d still never grown immune to
this kind of mass destruction, this kind of explosion of violence. A trio
of customers were sprawled on the shoe-streaked linoleum, blood puddling under
each. An elderly couple, oblivious to the State Police techs working around
them, sat silently in a duct-taped naugahyde booth, jaws hanging open, eyes
wide in a perpetual state of horror. No blood on either one.
A waitress – probably just past high school age – was tangled around a counter
stool. Defense wounds criss-crossed her palms. The huge carving knife that
had savaged her lay between her body and that of an ill-shaven, thin man in
a greasy chef’s apron.
“Owner’s in the freezer,” a broad, gray-haired man with a Bobby Knight expression
grunted as he emerged from behind the counter. He inspected Skinner and Doggett.
“Special
“Assistant Director Walt Skinner and
Special Agent Doggett,” Kesey introduced.
Fassbinder nodded, only momentarily distracted. “Owner’s in the freezer.
Self-inflicted to the right temple. My guess is the same .38 did these three.
And come over here by the soda case.”
He edged past, and Skinner shrugged at Doggett. Fassbinder stopped at the
stand-up Pepsi cooler. The plexiglass door was splintered in three spots,
and additional bulletholes flanked the case.
“Two more shot patterns pretty much like this, over by the menu board and
in front of the men’s room door,” Kesey’s partner reported. “What d’you make
of that?”
“Robbery?” Doggett ventured. “Robbers sprayed a few bullets around the room
to scare the locals into submission? Nah. This is overkill, especially for
what the take must’ve been.”
“Cash register ain’t been touched,” Bobby Knight’s doppelganger shook his
head. “And I’m guessing it was the owner’s gun, anyway. So did he go whacko,
start shooting up the place because some customer complained there was too
much turmeric in the chili?” He registered the surprise on his colleagues’
faces. “Food Network. And there is, by the way. The owner goes whacko, shoots
up his customer base, and then hides in the freezer not only with the inside
bolt thrown but a couple cases of burgers shoved in front of the door? Not
likely.
“And the coroner’s gonna have to confirm it, but we seem to have the Encyclopedia
Britannica of Death here. Owner seems to have killed the three farmers here,
cook slashed the waitress, and the two old folks there just seem to have kicked
the bucket.”
“Died of fright, from the looks,” Kesey murmured. “Maybe from the murder
spree going on around them.”
“Won’t fly,” Fassbinder said. “See how they fell back across the back of
the booth? Had one of the techs move ‘em back, and there’s no blood on the
leather or whatever behind them. They were dead before these three got shot,
probably before all hell broke loose.”
Doggett’s brow rose.
“What?” Fassbinder asked.
“Nothing.”
Fassbinder looked curiously at Kesey, who blew out a baffled breath. The
large agent nodded, then went over to converse with a trooper.
“You ever seen anything like this?” Kesey asked his guests.
“Not precisely like this,” Doggett replied, glancing at the slaughter around
them.
“Well, I have,” Kesey said. Skinner and Doggett looked at him simultaneously.
The
“Jesus,” Skinner gasped. He handed the PDA to Doggett, who looked up quickly.
The small screen held a nightmarishly surreal tableau: Three bodies were
scattered across the floor of a strangely clean, smooth room anchored by what
appeared to be an S&M exam table. Fluids leaked from the trio of corpses.
But the corpses were gray, with outsized ovoid heads and long, spindly appendages.
And the fluids leaking from their wounds was a Dayglo green.
“You took this?” Doggett mumbled. “I can’t believe this shit…You’re not
trying to tell me...?”
“The M.O. – if you’d call homicidal chaos an M.O. -- was almost identical,”
Kesey said. “That blood or whatever it is has some kind of chemical agent
in it – overcame those deputies, and we had to go in with respirators. As
incredible as it seems, I’d say these, aw, shit, aliens, died of whatever
killed these people.”
Doggett was now silent, deep in apparently dark thought. “I don’t know,
Bill,” Skinner said. “The coincidence seems astronomical, but it seems like
a longshot.”
Kesey nodded; he’d expected this reaction. “Saved the capper, but I want
to keep my shield, and Fassbinder’s kind of a company man down deep, so let’s
just take a quiet walk outside.”
The temp seemingly had dropped a few degrees while Doggett and Skinner were
inside, and Doggett couldn’t determine whether it was the climate or the scene
in Ernie’s that now traveled up his arms and spine.
“We have seen a scene like that before,” Skinner reminded his agent as they
walked just out of earshot behind Kesey.
“
“Or possibly that were,” Skinner suggested.
Calvin Welles had been on Texas Death Row when a group of scientists seemingly
led by or working in cooperation with Marita Covarubias essentially “bought”
him from a corrupt warden and his equally twisted prison shrink. Welles had
been identified as one of a handful of promising candidates with astonishing
psychic abilities and subjected to some kind of drug that resurrected dormant
genetical material – “junk DNA” – responsible for long-hidden human powers.
Welles, a mass murderer now empowered to new heights, had taken control
of Covarubias’ research facility, somehow influencing the staff members to
kill themselves and each other before Skinner, Doggett, Reyes, and the last
remnants of The Lone Gunmen liberated a group of children kidnapped by the
anti-colonist scientific conspiracy. The FBI agents had driven Welles underground
– or somewhere more fantastic – and Gibson Praise, a psychic prodigy who’d
befriended and protected Mulder, had vanished, as well.
The episode had been a turning point for Doggett, the door to denial slamming
forever behind him. But the thought of Welles holding sway over even Man’s
most formidable enemy shook Doggett.
“Hope you got a good dry cleaner,” Kesey said after they’d crossed the rural
highway and trespassed onto a grain rail loading facility. He reached the
base of a towering, corrugated grain silo, grasped the bottom rung of a ladder,
and hauled himself up. Doggett shrugged at Skinner, and they began their ascent.
“Fassbinder and me came in by chopper,” Kesey yelled. “That field had been
planted, we’da both noticed it, but even with just that no-till crop residue
still on the ground, you oughtta be able to see it we get high enough.” At
about 100 feet, he turned, and Skinner and Doggett stopped.
Fighting off a mild case of jet lag-enhanced vertigo, Doggett looked down,
back across the road. The state cruisers cast red-white-and-blue circles of
light, and he could see Ernie’s estate would have to repair the restaurant’s
roof.
But it was the field adjacent to the diner where Kesey had seen it. The
pattern was clear in the overcast night – a circle cut or more likely blown
or burned into the corn stubble. It looked like something out of that goofy
shit movie Reyes had hauled Doggett to, the one with Mel Gibson and the aliens.
“Christ,” he murmured.
“Yup,” Keyes deadpanned. “They warn folks in these parts not to pick up
hitchhikers. Guess our boys learned the hard way.”
Oglala,
One week later
“So life’s a bitch, and then you die,” Dr. Holmes conceded. “Then what?”
It wasn’t designed as an academic attention-getter: Holmes had no need of
such gimmicks. In the words of Renee Zellweger, he’d had his students at ‘”Hello.”
Holmes was quirky, good-humored, irreverent toward many of things for which
his students held little reverence, and, most importantly, took what could
be a mundane psych course into dark, shrouded new territory. The psychopathology
of the serial killer, the genetic underpinnings of the religious cultist,
the possibility of shared conscious and even UFOs. While his eccentricities
– the pseudoscience, no truly fervent sociopolitical dogma one could pin down
– would have made him an outcast on any major university campus, he was generally
well-liked at this small community college, a refuge for many of his colleagues
who’d survived savage academic back-biting.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Holmes grinned as more than a few eyes rolled toward
the cheap classroom ceiling. “The Prof’s gone holy-roller. Tetched by an angel.
Getting a little too far inside your Gen-XXX comfort zone, Podreski? Relax.
I’m not talking about harps and pitchforks and perpetual barbecue pits where
the soul languishes in torment but the skin never quite gets crispy enough
to serve. I’m talking science – Mr. Wizard meets Father Death. The one so
subperbly portrayed by William Sadler in
Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey.”
“You’re talking voodoo bullshit, you mean,” Zach Truesdale amended sleepily.
Truesdale was a computer sciences major who had signed up for Holmes class
as an easy gen ed credit. It had been easy, as promised, but only so because
it was like no other droning class he’d experienced. What had at the beginning
of the semester been indignant sniping at Holmes’ hybrid scientific views
had developed into a stimulating sparring match between student and teacher,
between known and unknown science.
“No, my young liege,” Holmes countered, affecting a lofty tone. “I’m talking
hard, nuts-and-bolts Physics 101. If we concede the concept of a human soul
—” A small, collective groan went up from the desks before him. “If we accept
the notion that the soul exists, what is it? What gives us the spark of life,
the ability to reason, the will to rail against evil, even against John Ritter?
Is it some ethereal gift, some intangible force bestowed on humanity from
the gods, or maybe is it a physical force of this universe.”
“Energy?” Helen Daugherty queried, with a lift of her cynical brow that
made Holmes wish he’d called in sick this morning and stayed in bed with
the mother of his child, the learned and anatomically expert biology prof,
“You’re full of shit.”
“Don’t move ahead so fast – the nature of the human mind is next week. Why
not energy? There are two essential states of being in this universe, at least
the universe we can see and touch. Matter and energy. The Truesdalian skeptic
cannot accept that any other universe might exist and rejects the notion
that we are guided by angels, demons, and pixie-dust fairies. But there it
is: Something beyond the mechanical energy of our bones and muscles and the
electrical impulses of our brains and hearts drives us along this road we
call existence. So why not energy?”
“And energy cannot be created or destroyed,” Jacob Moonrise supplied. Jacob
was a nephew of Holmes’ friend, the county sheriff, and he was possessed of
both the hard-bitten pragmatism of his generation and the supernatural bent
of his Native American forebears. “So if the soul is energy, and the soul
‘dies,’ then it can’t really cease to exist. Like those near-death experiences
people have.”
“Say they have,” Truesdale interjected. “You’re saying when we die, our
soul just flies out into the atmosphere, zipping around until, what, it finds
a new conduit or host?”
“No more John Carpenter for you, young man,” Holmes scolded. “But maybe
you’re on the right track. Nuclear energy can’t just power a microwave unless
it’s used to produce electrical energy. Electrical energy can’t be conducted
through rubber or glass. I know, believe me.”
“Light can become heat, and heat light,” Truesdale argued. “So why can’t
the soul, like there is such a thing, just seep into the environment like
ground lightning, and the rest of what’s left of us just rot away and become
worm food?”
Holmes hopped from the corner of his desk. “Don’t know, and now, you’ve
made me hungry. Oral exam tomorrow, or not, and everyone watch
Caddyshack by Friday. I want to know what Chase meant by ‘being the
ball.’ That’s all, people.”
He was standing a discreet 50 feet beyond the cafeteria entrance, though
discreet was no longer a term that could accurately describe Jeffrey Spender.
Even from a distance, Holmes noted the facial prosthetics that inadequately
disguised the ravages an alien race had visited upon him in collaboration
with his vengeful, cigarette-smoking father. Spender likely could have undergone
extensive cosmetic surgery with the resources available to him through the
shadowy cooperative into which he’d recruited Holmes and his companion, but
to date he retained the scars of his scientifically abuse.
Holmes suspected this was a matter of choice, that Jeffrey Spender embraced
his scars to keep his hatred, his fervor, his sense of mission alive. That
mission was the salvation of mankind, and a disfigured, fanatical madman was
at the helm, flanked by occasionally homicidal knights.
Fortunately, the sunglasses and seed cap Spender had adopted for this campus
visit sufficed – a tide of self-absorbed, heavily-pierced, generationally
insular students swarmed obliviously past and around the former FBI agent.
“Hey,” Holmes greeted as he approached Spender, a faint flutter in his gut.
“The little woman was wondering when you might pop on up for some hamloaf
and a fast-paced night of euchre.”
Spender had never been one for irony, even before he’d been mutilated and
emotionally deconstructed. “We need to talk.”
Sherman Holmes, AKA Fox Mulder, nodded. “Yeah, I believe we do.”
**
Even with their meager combined academic incomes and the escalating costs
of feeding and raising William, Scully had managed to do minor miracles with
the third-floor walkup she shared with Mulder and their 1 ½-year-old son,
courtesy of cable do-it-yourself programs and the Home Depot down the road.
Sunny, with bright primary splashes and tastefully elemental accessories,
the apartment was both a perfect sanctuary – and a perfect disguise – for
the pair.
Spender noticed none of this. Mulder plopped into his favorite thrift store
armchair, while Spender stood before him, the need for comfort irrelevant.
“I don’t know if it happened to make the wire services up here, but did
you happen to hear about an incident at a recent realtors’ conference in
“Glossalalia,” Mulder responded. “Saw it on the Internet. Middle-aged capitalist
type gets up to make a speech, starts Babeling in Aramaic…”
“And Anasazi and Babylonian and an ancient Tibetan dialect. As well as some
language we haven’t yet been able to identify.”
The fed-turned-teacher looked up. “There are generally two categories of
glossalalia, or ‘speaking in tongues’ – cases where the subject begins to
speak fluently in foreign, unfamiliar tongues, and those in which the subject
is believed to be speaking in God’s own language.”
Spender shook his head impatiently. “Our linguist insists it’s human language
– the syntax and structure parallels the basic structure of every language
known to man.”
“Whoa, back up. Linguist? How’d you happen to get what this realtor said?
I can’t imagine the Ten O’Clock News would’ve found that interesting footage.”
“A writer from an area business publication attended the dinner presentation,
and got it all on cassette, except for tape changes, of course. It seems this
reporter is an evangelical Baptist, and he recognized what was happening.
Or thought he did.”
Mulder caught Spender’s add-on comment,
but bypassed it for the moment. “How did you get this tape, Jeffrey?”
“It doesn’t--”
Mulder leaned forward, gentle but insistent. “How did you come to possess
this tape? Is our fundamentalist journalist still among the living?”
Spender stared down at his former FBI colleague for a moment. “I told you
before, what happened to that farmer and his wife was a tragic error. We would
have had no need for violence. We simply bought the tape, told the reporter
we represented a university research project on glossalalia.”
“So you’ve got the new
Realtors Gone Wild tape,” Mulder said. “You playing God’s word backwards,
seeing if Carson Daly comes out?”
“It’s not God’s word,” Spender answered abruptly. His faith apparently had
evaporated with the torture he’d endured. “It’s something else. If I were
religious, I might even say it’s a miracle. What we need from you--”
“Hold on, Jeffrey,” Mulder said softly. “I want to talk to you about something
else first. We want off this bus.”
“What?” Spender’s damaged mouth was
a reasonably straight line.
“Scully and I. And William. I think we’re through.”
“You can’t…”
“It’s been building, Jeffrey. We have a child, now, and although we don’t
know what the future might bring at this point, we want to raise him as a
child, not as a fugitive or a target. We both appreciate what you’ve done
to protect William, to give us a new life, but we don’t have anything left.
We want you to let us out.”
“You know the financing, the protection, would stop,” Spender said, stating
fact rather than attempting to coerce Mulder.
“I know. But we’re making enough at the college to get by, and I think we’d
just like to see how normal people live on this planet, at least as long as
this world continues to exist. Can you understand that, Jeffrey?”
Spender didn’t move. He gazed out the front window, at the pizza place and
the park across the street. Finally, he looked back down at Mulder with what
might have been a trick of Spender’s facial disfigurement or a half-smile.
“How would you like,” he asked, “to have a world for William to grow up
in?”
**
“I don’t like this,” Scully said, her face lined with intense anxiety. “I
don’t like this man in our lives, in William’s life.” She stroked William’s
thick hair as he recklessly spooned baked beans and hotdog pieces into his
anxious mouth.
“I know,” Mulder murmured, staring across the table at his son. William
grinned shyly, working his jaws fiercely. “But if what Spender says is right,
then we have to try.”
“There are others,” Scully stated.
“None with our unique blend of scientific acumen and voodoo bullshit. Look,
Scully, this Jack Bales – a man of almost no religious conviction or advanced
education – is the repository of a staggering database. A database encoded
into a variety of ancient human languages. Among other things, Bales’ meanderings
included a detailed procedure for synthesizing magnetite.”
Scully’s head came up, and she glanced at William. “Magnetite. Spender injected
William with—”
Mulder nodded. “The Anasazi village where our cigarette-smoking pal set
up housekeeping was built on a magnetite deposit. They knew, Scully – don’t
ask me how, but they knew the aliens’ Achilles heel. If Spender’s translations
are correct, this Bales is a living library of information on how to seriously
fu--, sorry, Mom, seriously mess up the extraterrestrial population. A recipe
for alien kryptonite, the genetic structure of a new strain of black oil,
who knows what else by the time Spender’s guy translates it.”
“Mulder,” Scully said slowly, “what are you suggesting? That this information
was somehow implanted in this man. By whom? And why? Why hide secrets like
this, particularly in someone as unlikely as Bales?”
Mulder smiled, leaning over to wipe a dribble of bean sauce from William’s
chin. Then he reached over to gently lift the cross hanging about Scully’s
throat, an impish grin playing at his lips.
“Maybe whoever did this works in mysterious ways, Scully.”
St. Damon’s Catholic Church
“Monica?” It was the call every fallen Catholic knew and dreaded. Monica
turned on the church steps to face Father Moreno, with what she hoped appeared
to be a sincere smile for her family’s friend and spiritual leader.
“Father,” she murmured, surrending to the burly old man’s hug. “The service
was beautiful. Thanks.”
Monica swallowed hard. Father Moreno was a kind, benevolent man who’d always
attended to the seemingly most trivial needs of his parishioners. She harbored
no animus toward the priest, but she would not allow herself to lose emotional
control in front of him. If Monica heard one more reflection about God’s will,
his plan…
Monica’s break with The Church had come gradually following her graduation
from
When she returned to her faith, it was to a Protestant church, less steeped
in ancient ritual and superstition. Less obviously, at least.
“It was good to see you again, Father,” she waved, struggling not to escape
down the stone steps.
“Monica,”
She sighed, still smiling. “Gee, I’ve got a ton to do here, and I’ve got
a big case on hold back home. I’ll see, OK.”
Father Moreno nodded, knowingly. “I hope time will allow.” He turned back
into his church.
Louisa Reyes was waiting at the base of the steps, jet black hair and jet
black dress neat as a pin, disapproval lining her strong
“Yes?” Monica demanded. “Don’t start, Mom.”
“Father Moreno christened you – he’s known you since God brought you to
us,” Louisa scolded. “You may no longer belong to the church, but I thought
your father and I taught you how to act with an old family friend.”
“Sorry. I just don’t need to be brought back into the fold just now.”
“I think you’re a bit defensive, chica,” Monica’s adoptive mother suggested,
a smile finally shaping her deep red lips. Louisa was a respected local businesswoman,
but around her family, she reverted to a Mexican-American yenta.
Monica tried to dig in her heels, but in the end, she relented, placing
an arm about Louisa’s shoulder and steering her toward the Reyes’
“Can’t talk about it, Mom, you know that.” It wasn’t precisely true, but
Monica knew her mother was disturbed by her current assignment. She’d always
feared Monica would be sucked in by some dark cult force or sacrificed by
some coven of crazed teenaged Satanists. The move to the X-Files had done
little to assuage Louisa, and her adopted daughter soon began to plead the
Fifth when asked about her casework.
“Bullshit,” Louisa muttered dryly. Monica broke into a giggle – it was always
a shock to hear such phrases uttered by her churchgoing, patrician mother.
“Come along, chica – it’s going to be a very long evening. By the way, how
is our John? You two any closer to making any plans?”
“A very long evening,” Monica echoed.
**
As with almost every funereal culture on the planet, the wine and liquor
flowed as Paul Reyes’ survivors celebrated the fallen soldier. Monica thus
wound up on Uncle Antonio’s back porch, nursing her Coke and resurrected memories
of the true Paul Reyes.
Her nephew had been a deeply troubled boy – the booze, the drugs, the girls,
the brush with the gangs. Only Louisa’s intervention had kept him from juvie
hall his senior year, and at that, he dropped out a month prior to graduation.
He’d alienated nearly his entire family before coming to some to-date inexplicable
epiphany that launched him on a quest for his G.E.D. and military enlistment.
It was as much the revisionist deification of Paul Reyes that had led to
Monica’s defection to the porch. He had been a deeply flawed, deeply disturbed
boy whose salvation ultimately had been his downfall. In her current spiritual
state, Paul’s epitaph offered little, if any, solace.
“There you are,” Tomas Reyes’ smooth bass voice suddenly rumbled behind
her. The paunchy but still muscular electrician grunted as he lowered himself
onto the step beside her. “I was afraid maybe those space people your friends
are so fond of had taken you away.”
Monica didn’t bristle at the reference to her unorthodox life’s work. Her
adoptive father was too good-hearted and gentle to taunt anyone – his humor
was the bedrock of the Reyes clan, and if Louisa often was the glue that held
it together, he was its foundation. Monica leaned on his shoulder, and he
squeezed her hand.
“Tough in there for you, eh?” he ventured after a few moments of moonlit
silence. Monica’s father was the only family member in whom she had confided
her problem. Her father was the only family member who understood her problem
firsthand. He still popped a Dos Equis or a Bud at lodge or family gatherings,
but he’d never mended the crack in the living room mantle that reminded him
of how he’d once lost himself to booze.
“Most of the time, I keep it together pretty well,” Monica informed him.
“It’s times like this, when things don’t make sense, when I begin to question
what all this is about.”
“Yeah,” Tomas replied simply. “That was Paul’s problem, I think – if he
couldn’t think it away, he’d drink it away. Probably my problem, too.”
“How do you keep it under control, Dad?” Monica asked, feeling the warmth
of his arm. “I just see the stuff these days, and I’m crawling out of my skin.”
The arm shrugged under her cheek. “Guess I’m too old for that 12-step bullshit
– I don’t mean it’s bullshit, Baby, I’m just too old for it. Spose I just
picture myself bellowing at your mama and catching you hiding behind my chair,
that look of horror in your eyes.”
Monica squeezed his calloused paw. “Stop.”
“No, you need to hold onto that, remember your old man’s not perfect. Not
you, either. It’s probably in our blood.”
“I’m adopted,” Monica recited, smiling, for the thousandth time.
“Oh, shit; I keep forgetting,” Tomas supplied in mock surprise, also for
the thousandth time.
Verdant Cove Condominiums
“So you really think I got a case here, ah, Holmes?” Jack Bales rattled
the ice in his highball glass as he re-examined the pleasant-looking, goateed
young man across his patio table. A pair of jet skis roared past off the adjoining
beach, but the former M3 marketing man took no notice.
“Well, I don’t want to imply it’s a slam-dunk,” Mulder began slowly. Didn’t
want to overplay – Mulder had given his approach to the realtor considerable
thought. Honesty was out: A guy like Bales would’ve had condo security toss
him out on his ass. Although his company had eighty-sixed him after his onstage
display of glossalalia – subtly, of course, part of M3’s downsizing and repositioning,
complete with a sweet severance parachute – Bales would be scouting for something
else in the industry, so he wouldn’t want to talk to a “reporter.”
The lawsuit scam had just the right smell of money to it, and indeed, Bales
had leapt at a meeting like a frat boy at a pile of nachos.
“But we are living in a PC age,” Mulder continued. “So much as whisper sexual
harassment in the workplace…”
“Yeah,” Bales growled. “
“Ee-yeah. Anyway. And it’s not just gender or race. That security guard
up in
Bales frowned. “Expressed my faith? Hell, I had no fucking idea what I was
saying up there that night. It was all Greek to me.”
“Aramaic, actually, I understand,” Mulder amended. “And that’s irrelevant
to our case. Glossalia – speaking in tongues – is a recognized manifestation
of spiritual faith. Whether you were consciously or unconsciously expressing
that faith – hell, whether you even believe in what you were saying – doesn’t
matter. You exercised your freedom of religion, your bosses abridged that
freedom. Case closed. Nolo contendre, ipso facto.”
“I dunno,” Bales stewed, crunching on a piece of ice. “Kinda makes me sound
like some kinda holy roller fruitcake. Nobody wants to hire some Bible thumper
to sell their ranch house or office building.”
Mulder leaned forward. “Mr. Bales, I daresay that if we win this case, you’d
never have to sell another beachfront property or write another catchy slogan
again. And I think we have an excellent chance of winning this one. What do
you think?”
Bales leaned back in his lounger, brows furrowed. Then he grinned broadly.
“Praise the Lord, let’s do it to ‘em.”
“Praise be,” Mulder nodded, reaching for his attaché case. “I have just
a few things for you to sign so I can get the ball rolling. And there is
just one small formality.” Bales’ eyes followed Mulder’s hand into the case
and back up to the table, where the “attorney” placed a small, clear plastic
cup with a snap-on lid.
“What the crap?” the former realtor muttered.
“You’re close,” Mulder chuckled. “Sorry. It’s just M3’s attorneys are going
to go after your physical and mental soundness, argue your glossalalia was
some form of organic imbalance, maybe even temporary insanity.”
“I thought temporary insanity was good.”
“Only in murder cases. We want to know
what we’re up against, check to make sure your chemicals are properly mixed.
You’re a golfer, right? Just shoot for the cup.”
Bales picked up the cup, shrugged, and stood up. He reached for his zipper.
“I don’t have to witness this,” Mulder assured him hastily. “You can do
it inside. I’ll just wait here.”
Bales nodded somberly, and disappeared inside his condo.
“Putz,” Mulder muttered, staring out at the
That was a large part of why he’d suggested she stay behind. The both of
them taking a sudden leave of absence from the college might arise suspicion,
he’d told Scully, but she’d almost certainly saw through the weak rationale.
But with William in the picture, at risk, she’d acceded to Mulder’s wishes.
“Got it in one,” Bales bragged, stepping back onto the patio and setting
the now-filled cup before Mulder. Probably a fire hazard, Mulder thought,
glancing at the bottle of Johnny Walker Red Bales had attacked as they discussed
his “case,” but it would do the job, genetically speaking.
“Great,” Mulder smiled, wrapping the sample in a towel he’d swiped from
the Holiday Inn where he was staying. “We’ll be in touch, OK?”
“Amen,” Bales grinned, slapping the “lawyer” on the shoulder and nearly
sending his shot glass of urine on an oceanic voyage.
Tomas Reyes residence
It started as it had at least a dozen times over the past three months.
It was a place Monica had never seen, peopled with strangers, in a time
she couldn’t quite pinpoint. This time, it was pretty clearly the 19
th Century – no cars, everyone dressed roughly like the folks of Walnut
Grove, the streets were dirt and the businesses, such as they were, were
whitewashed frame structures.
Monica was running. That is, the person through whose eyes Monica was witnessing
events was running. Her FBI training led her to believe it was a man – the
way the people stared as he moved past, the way the landscape moved in his
sight as seemingly strong legs carried him down the dusty street.
He, they, entered a large barn, probably a livery stable. A half-dozen horses
were tied into open stalls, square bales stacked nearly to the high roof on
one wall. His pace slowed as he examined each stall in turn.
“Sheriff?” It was a genteel voice, almost amiable, but frighteningly calm
nonetheless.
He whirled, and a handsome man in a suit and vest grinned before him. His
gloved hand held something shiny, which he brought up above his head and then
whipped diagonally downward.
Blood splattered over the stranger’s suit-front. It took Monica a moment
to realize it was her own, his own..
As her eyes flew open, Monica felt the breeze from her old bedroom window
against her clammy skin. The room, the ‘80s rock and salsa posters Tomas and
Louisa had lovingly preserved, were bathed in moonlight.
“It’s interesting,” the man standing beside her bed remarked. Monica gasped
and instinctively went for the nightstand drawer.
Calvin Welles held her Glock up – its matte surface glowed in the moon’s
reflected light. “Dangerous thing. Don’t wanna be firing off one of these
things in the dark, specially in your folks’ house.”
“If you did anything to them—” Monica growled.
“Shucks and pshaw,” Welles shook his head. “I don’t perform for small audiences
any more, Agent Reyes. Yeah, I know you and your boyfriend’s looking for me
for those folks in
“So you did murder those people,”
Reyes confirmed, recognizing the ludicrous nature of his bedside confession,
her gun in his hand.
“Those folks killed themselves and each other,” Welles yawned. His brows
rose in an approximation of Jack Nicholson’s. “They couldn’t handle the truth.”
“And the aliens? The people, whatever, in that spacecraft. Did you do the
same thing to them?”
Welles said. “Say I didn’t care for the little slice-and-dice they were
about to do on me.”
Monica’s curiosity displaced her fear. “Just what do you do to them, Mr.
Welles?”
“Mr. Welles,” he repeated, amused. “Well, Monica, you don’t mind me being
so familiar, what I do, basically, is just help folks see what they can’t
see that’s all around ‘em. Kinda like a psychic seeing eye dog, so to speak.
But I’m more interested in you, Monica.”
“And what would be so interesting about me?” she inquired.
“How about immortality?” Welles posed. “Now, I find that a very intriguing
quality in a girl. “
Monica shook off the chill his words had sparked in her gut. “So I’m immortal,
huh? I had a guy in a D.C. bar call me a goddess one time…”
“That’s another trait I like – what the good jailhouse doc used to call
self-deprecating humor. Course, he wasn’t talkin’ about me.”
Monica wondered where the truth in this man lie – the laconic refugee from
a Jeff Foxworthy routine, or the mocking sociopath who’d been wily and ruthless
enough to decimate a lab full of some of the country’s most brilliant minds
and a UFO-load of virtually invincible extraterrestrials? Maybe some of both,
or neither.
Marita Covarubias, who remained at large, had helped convert this human
monster into a psychic killing machine. That Calvin Welles also was the repository
for a number of disassociated personalities was merely a terrifying punchline
to the sick joke.
“What makes me so immortal?” Monica taunted.
“Oh, I think you got some idea. That night at the lab, first time I laid
eyes on you, I could sense you were special. I’m guessing you’re beginning
to realize that. You ever come down with a spell a’déjà vu, except it ain’t
your own déjà vu?”
Monica was silent for a moment, and he smiled broadly. “Bingo. Sorry, Monica,
I gotta confess I been eavesdroppin’ some on you from time to time. No wonder
you’re havin’ some trouble holdin’ your Jack Daniels.”
“What do you want?” Monica snapped, coldly.
“I think you and me might be able to do each other some good. Quid pro
quo, as those asshole lawyers a’mine used to say. See, I got a little personal
ailment, just like you. “
“I don’t know that I’d compare incipient alcoholism with severe multiple
personality disorder.”
Welles nodded. “Well, I’m not talkin’ about your drinkin’ problem, Monica.
I’m talkin’ about what we share.” He reached around and pulled a folded
manila envelope from his back pocket. “You got all those fancy databases
and shit at the FBI, right? Well, I’d like you to look me up a half-dozen
folks for me.”
Monica’s eyes narrowed as she accepted the envelope. “And these people
are…”
“Let’s just say they’re kinda a part of me.”
“Your personalities?” she breathed. “You want me to identify your dissociated
personalities? Mr. Welles, Calvin, one of your personalities was your own
prison psychologist.”
“Ol’ Doc never was too bright,” Welles chuckled. “That was just to throw
him off my spoor, so to speak. I was funnin’ him.”
A little too much grits and cornbread, Monica decided. “So you believe
these people, I mean, your personalities are…?”
“Who you think the folks roamin’ around
in your head are, Monica?” he asked, stepping into the shadow behind the moonlight.
“I’ll be in touch,” he murmured, his voice growing distant and hollow, as
if he were descending into a dark cellar.
Lyndon Baines Johnson Men’s Correctional Facility
“Ah, Agents Reyes and Doggett,” Dr. Jon Petrovich hailed cheerfully. There
was nothing menacing or taunting in the former psychologist’s tone: He was
no Hannibal Lecter, no evil mastermind, at least not in any superficial sense.
Petrovich might have been one of the crooked accountants or Enronesque corporate
stooges or tenth-tier mobsters who populated this minimum security prison.
As such, his meeting with the FBI agents was conducted without the need
for six-inch-thick plexiglass, muzzles, or armed guards. The post-Bush governor
still held forth for rehabilitation of white, middle-class paper felons, and
he was dressed in wide-wale corduroys and a fading black polo shirt rather
than a Department of Corrections jumpsuit. Petrovich’s smile was a genuine
one, one that betrayed pleasure at communing once again with the those on
the side of the law he’d abandoned.
“Doc,” Doggett greeted, dropping the envelope Welles had left his partner
on the formica conference table. He’d rushed to
Monica had clearly been happy to see Doggett, and she was animated about
Welles’ nocturnal visit. But the small talk played out after an hour or so,
and she stared silently out the window for a good 40 miles before they’d reached
Sweetwater.
Petrovich reached anxiously for the envelope, and pored over its contents
with nods and appreciative grunts. Finally, he looked up.
“Two years ago, I’d have branded these the delusions of a disassociative
personality in denial,” the psychologist said. “A rationale for his psychoses.
Calvin clearly never had any memory of lapsing into his alternate identities,
and we discussed each of them at some depth.
“However, Calvin was never one to rationalize himself. His actions, perhaps,
but not himself. He admitted to being a sociopath, a violent murderer – he
was egomaniacal but ultimately honest with himself. I don’t think he’d have
tried to ‘excuse’ his disassociation. And after my involvement with Ms. Covarubias
and her associates, I have developed a wide latitude of belief and acceptance.”
He tapped the top sheet of Welles’ missive. “There’s something else, too
– something I never discussed with Calvin. Irrelevant to our therapy. See,
several of his personalities left ‘clues,’ so to speak, that might verify
Calvin’s theory. The ‘boy’ who emerged from Calvin on occasion, Obadiah,
well, the name itself is archaic, outmoded, plus he had a rather stilted
manner of speaking. As did a few of the others. I talked at some depth with
what appeared to be one of the more predominant personalities, a homosexual
named Will, who was familiar with such conveniences as the automobile but
fascinated by my computer and fax machine. And Margaret, a young British
woman, made a seemingly contemporary reference to Disraeli – Benjamin Disraeli,
I assume.”
“What about Welles ‘becoming’ you?” Doggett challenged. “You think he was
faking that?”
“It’s the kind of mocking deception Calvin would have relished. I’d always
half-suspected he was playing with me.”
“So what are you saying?” Monica murmured. “That these are manifestations
of Welles’ past lives.”
Petrovich sat back, templing his fingers, relishing the opportunity to again
amaze a lay audience with his insight. “I might venture one bold step further
– that these ‘personalities’ are the people ‘Calvin’ once was. No manifestations
– the actual souls that inhabit Calvin Welles’ human vessel.”
“Please,” Doggett sighed. Monica hushed him with a finger.
“Like some form of reincarnation?” she demanded.
“Well, possibly. Except that in most theories of reincarnation, the soul
transmigrates into a new organism or person after the previous one dies. They
aren’t supposed to accumulate like old newspapers on the porch step.” Petrovich
was silent, eyeing Monica with bemusement. “You seem agitated, Agent Reyes.
Do you subscribe to this hogwash I’ve just blathered? Do you have some interest,
a personal one, in the solution to Calvin’s conundrum?”
“What amazes me, Doc,” Doggett began blandly, “Is that you aren’t more agitated
about Welles being out there, at large. You sold Welles down the river to
a bunch of scientists who wanted him to play guinea pig…”
“In the process, saving Calvin from a barbaric execution,” Petrovich pointed
out. “Agent, I appreciate your concern, but I don’t believe Calvin has any
nefarious plans of revenge for me. I think he wants to understand and be understood,
and he recognizes that I’m perhaps the only person, at least in this world,
who can help him do that.”
**
“There’s a testament to the psychiatric profession,” Doggett rumbled as
the last guard released them. Monica trailed him toward the parking lot.
“How would we even be able to start to check out that whacko theory of his?
We only have a bunch of first names. And, if I might ask, why? Is it gonna
help us catch Welles?”
“Maybe if we understand him,” Monica echoed Petrovich. “I could begin with
the federal birth and death registries…”
Doggett halted. “Wait a minute. You really think this is something worth
pursuing? Or…”
“Or what?” Monica asked calmly, crossing her arms.
“Well, I remember how that case at the slaughterhouse a year or so ago shook
you up. You didn’t buy into what that cop said, that he and you are locked
in some kind of endless loop, being born over and over again? The forces of
good and evil, locked in perpetual combat? C’mon, Monica.”
“Why are concepts like reincarnation or past lives any more incredible than
half the cases we’ve investigated?” She hesitated. “Look, John, I haven’t
told you about the dreams I’ve been having the past few months. And I never
have been able to track down my biological parents, even though I’ve searched
every available national database.”
“I didn’t know you’d tried,” Doggett said, concerned. “Look, beyond trying
to make us a Love Connection, aren’t Tomas and Louisa pretty terrific parents?”
Monica began moving toward the rental
car. “That’s not what it’s about, John. I need to know. I have a feeling the
answer has something to do with my birth parents. I just need to know, John.”
“God, you sound like Mulder.”
“If you saw a photo of a spaceship full of murdered aliens, and I was visited
by a psychic serial killer who can disappear into another dimension at will,
then maybe one of us needs to,” Monica said evenly, leaving her partner standing
on the hot
“Sure, anything but ham, pepperoni, bacon, Canadian bacon, or sausage,”
Chaim Silver muttered, not missing a beat as he rapped his translation of
Jack Bales’ meandering post-dinner speech into his Powerbook. “I actually
like hamburger, but I’ve been slipping a little, so could we leave off the
cheese?”
Mulder turned off his cell phone. “Actually, if I remember my kosher laws,
are you even supposed to be eating anything that’s come out of a kitchen where
they’ve prepared ham, pepperoni, bacon, Canadian bacon, or sausage?”
“I’m kind of quasi-semi-Orthodox – I’m not a zealot,” Silver adjusted the
embroidered yarmulke that was at odds with his Phish T-shirt and Reeboks.
The young post-doctoral linguistics/theology student and skateboarder had
been poring over Bales’ Aramaic ramblings for hours, and a bored Mulder finally
had suggested they take a break. The computer and chem labs were hidden deep
within the bowels of the video studio where Spender’s friends spent most days
producing industrial films and soft porn.
“How about Chinese?” the ex-agent requested, his gut gurgling.
“Beef and broccoli, white rice, no MSG, I get a headache,” Silver ordered.
“Make sure you get a couple of the fortune cookies – I get a kick out of the
quasi-Talmudic platitudes…Hmm.”
Mulder peered over the rotund man’s shoulder to gaze at what he had typed.
“What?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” Silver said. “Something about fathers from the
stars. Not father, singular, but fathers. The problem with these ancient
languages is that one word can mean eight different things, or eight words
may mean the same thing, depending on how they’re used. You know how many
words the Inuits have just to describe snow?”
“No, but you’re going to tell me,
right? Look, I saw a deli down the street. Why don’t I just grab us a nosh?”
“You’re a mensch, Mulder. Corned beef, rye, Russian dressing, you know what,
make it two of those. Large order of matzoh soup, couple sour dills. See if
they’ve got some carrot cake. Oh, and a celery tonic.”
Mulder shook his head. “How about a loaf and a couple of fish?”
“Goy food. Hey, how’d you hook up with Jeffrey, anyway?” The fingers continued
to work the keys. “You seem less -- what do I want to say? – anal retentive
than most of his repertory cast of assassins and golem.”
“Used to work for the FBI. In the basement, working on Art Bell-type cases.”
“Least you’re a ghoul with a sense of humor. Me, I’m doing my post-doc on
apocalyptic artifacts and documents. There’s an awesome amount of ancient
literature on the prospective end of our world, a lot of it eerily coincidental
from society to society. Jeffrey caught up with me on campus, had heard I
had a pretty solid grasp of both Aramaic and Anasazi. Dude’s seriously in
need of a good cosmetic surgeon, and he’s got this real Phantom of the Opera
vibe, but we got along, and besides, this saving the world shit is kind of
Buffyesque. Now, there’s one hot shiksa.”
“Glad you’re having fun,” a dry, raspy voice sounded from the doorway.
“Speak of the golem,” Silver muttered, returning to his keys.
“Holmes,” Larry Opps continued, “I got something.” The young geneticist
played with the tip of the cigarette pack peeking from the breast pocket
of his oversized plaid shirt. Constant smoking had kept Opps jaundiced and
thin, and he reminded Mulder of someone he hadn’t seen for more than a year
– someone he’d have just as soon forgotten. “Didn’t want to say anything
‘til I got some solid results, but Spender’s had me running DNA from several
subjects, all these holy-roller tongue babblers.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, our 2003 Humanitas Award winner,” Silver intoned.
Mulder wondered darkly how Spender’s friends had harvested the other DNA samples.
“There’s a genetic anomaly that’s common to all of them, and Bales, too.
An extra chromosomal pair, both in the male and female subjects.” Opps paused
to hack and turn maroon. “Shit. Anyway, those chromosomes don’t seem to have
any physiological function: They’re all healthy, happy – or at least maniacally
goofy – people.”
“So you think this could be linked to the glossalalia,” Mulder asked.
Opps shrugged. “It isn’t rational. Disease, organically based behaviors,
even schizophrenia and other mental and emotional problems are based in screwy
genetics. But speaking in tongues, and saying stuff that according to Silver
makes sense? That’s fucked, man.”
“I concur, young Cartman,” Mulder nodded. “But what if these extra chromosomes
have been encoded with data – bioelectrical data? What if they may even be
encoded so that at some point, the stored information is spontaneously released.”
Opps agitatedly pulled the pack from his shirt and shook loose a cancer
stick. “Sci-fi bullshit. Who or what do you think would or could do something
like that?”
Silver’s fingers hung momentarily over the keyboard. “I think you’ve got
the wrong question, my agnostic friend. Don’t ask who. I think the question
is why? And then maybe you answer everything. You know, make it three corned
beef sandwiches.”
**
“That’s the White Eagles – I ran into Michael at the Wal-Mart,” Scully explained,
closing the bedroom door on the laughter and clinking of good glasses. “When
they heard you were out of town, they decided to come over and keep William
and I company. Either they’re buying into your little ‘symposium,’ or Michael
is already hooked into your warped wavelength and knows not to ask.”
“More of us every day, Scully,” Mulder warned, slowly swinging the bag of
deli as the pleasant evening breeze riffled through his thin beard. To the
outside world,
Silence. “In and of itself, the genome contains the basic data of our existence.
Vast combinations of four basic proteins responsible for every human function.”
“I love it when you talk like a seventh
grade science video. C’mon, Scully; you think it’s possible to program someone
genetically?”
“To start babbling dead languages like a bad travel tape? If so, it’s certainly
beyond any technology I know of on Earth.”
A red convertible breezed by, the man and woman aboard clean and crisp and
perfectly groomed in indigenous tropical party wear. Mulder sighed. “Maybe
that’s the point, Scully. Maybe this was encoded into
Homo sapiens at some early stage of development, maybe even in our
infancy.”
“To what end, Mulder? If you’re suggesting
some alien race implanted this ‘code’ in humanity, why would they include
detailed instructions that could leave them vulnerable, possibly even planting
the seeds of their own destruction?”
“I don’t know, Scully. Look, you’ve seen firsthand what Jeremiah Smith could
do, and as a scientist, you have to believe there’s some sort of biological
rationale for it. Maybe just not a rationale based in human biology. And as
for why, why does Smith rescue us from his own species, rid humans of the
black oil? And what happened to the Syndicate in that hangar five years ago
tells me he’s not alone. What if—?”
“Mulder? Mulder, are you there?”
The convertible had turned into the
narrow alleyway beside
“Mulder?” Scully persisted.
“Yeah,” Mulder responded slowly, reaching into the waistband under his tee
for his nine millimeter. “I gotta go now, Babe. Give the folks a big kiss
for me.”
“Mulder!” Scully admonished as he ended the transmission and started for
the
He heard it about 30 yards out – the muffled sound of automatic weaponry.
Mulder’s heart pounded as he realized there was nothing he could do to save
Larry and Chaim. He halted reluctantly on the pavement, edged out of site
along the adjacent bank building, peered into the alley, turned, and walked
briskly away.
This remote reach of the business district was virtually deserted at dusk,
and no one noticed as the convertible edged back onto the street and cruised
almost silently away. Mulder waited on a Metro bench a half-block away until
he was certain the couple in the coupe had not been accompanied by a clean-up
crew or set the building to explode to obliterate any remaining evidence,
or that the police had not been called by a workaholic neighbor.
As he punched the building’s security code into the pad by the thick glass
doors, Mulder pondered the identity of the assassins. Certainly, his extraterrestrial
friends would have had more subtle means for neutralizing the secret lab than
this. This wasn’t Marita Covarubias’ style, and besides, from what Spender
had put together from covert accounts of the lab disaster in
That left the shadow government forces responsible for genetically engineering
Knowle Rohrer and his supersoldier cohorts, or Strughold, the shadowy Syndicate
hanger-on who according to Spender’s and the late Lone Gunmen’s sketchy intelligence
had collaborated in his time with the Nazis, Soviet Intelligence, the CIA,
and, apparently, the alien race that sought to take the Earth in 2012. Spender’d
reported the supersoldier project had gone underground since Mulder’s military
tribunal, and if the federal government wasn’t involved in this, who could
be bankrolling Strughold?
The door to Chaim Silver’s inner sanctum hung open, the combination lock
riddled and twisted. Mulder could smell the hot metallic aroma of a massacre,
and he took a breath as he entered.
“Agent Mulder,” murmured the man who knelt over Silver’s fallen body. Larry
Opps was sprawled nearby, blood oozing into the plaid of his shirt. Mulder
instinctively leveled his nine at the intruder. “Please don’t interfere, Agent,”
the calm, familiar voice advised as the man spread his fingers over Chaim’s
chest.
“Jeremiah,” Mulder whispered.
J.
Doggett blinked and rubbed his eyes. The computer screen was beginning to
blur, and he felt a gurgle in the pit of his gut. The Big Mac he’d washed
down with a Coke at lunch was all but a gaseous memory now, but he felt compelled
to stick with his search.
Monica seemed poised on the brink of fatal obsession about Calvin Welles
and the common bond he’d hinted they shared. That, combined with her recent
alcoholic relapse, had Doggett worried. Their job was dangerous enough, but
even his own hard-bitten
Monica had left with a curt nod for
As rapidly as it had evolved, the digital revolution was in its relative
infancy. Family and university websites, rather than official databases, had
yielded most of the information Doggett sought. Thad Christie, 38, wheelwright,
Two of the names on Calvin Welles’ list – two of the multiple murderer’s
purported “personalities” -- had as yet defied identification. Patricia Urbanski
and Frank Riesner. His blood sugar waning, Doggett had grabbed a Snickers
from the machine upstairs and set forth on his second task, calling bureaucrats
and cops along the Texas-Mexico border as well as a Houston-based
The agent was punching numbers into Mulder’s former phone as a shadow appeared
in his peripheral vision. Doggett glanced up, handset frozen near his right
ear.
“Hello, John.” Deputy Director Alvin Kersh perched on the edge of Monica’s
desk. Doggett cradled the phone as the director regarded the poster behind
his head. It depicted a grainy “flying saucer” hovering above a terrestrial
landscape, the bold sans serif statement “I Want To Believe” printed below.
“I thought that had been destroyed months ago.”
Doggett was weary, calorie-deprived,
and concerned for his partner. “Did somebody put in a damage report, or
did you oversee its removal yourself? I didn’t want Mulder to come back
here someday and think we’d been irresponsible with his property.”
Kersh was motionless. He smiled slightly, choosing to ignore Doggett’s insubordinate
comment. “That you continue to suffer the delusion former Agent Mulder might
someday resurface and reclaim his rightful place here is symptomatic of why
you’re stranded here in this outpost of lost ambition, John. You’re one of
the best agents I ever knew – unerring police instincts, incorruptible, willing
to do what was necessary to apprehend your man. Then you veered off on this
crusade of yours, first to find Mulder, then to save him from himself, and
now, what, to keep his chair warm?
“The shame here, John, is that you’ve sacrificed your own self-respect
and esteem for the sake of an emotionally disturbed rogue, a misfit who
soiled the agency’s name. You’ve obliterated any hope of moving forward
with what might have been a promising career, not to mention your personal
happiness. The only legacy you’ve inherited from Mulder is isolation and
regret.”
Doggett stood up. “The only regret I have is that I failed Mulder when his
life depended on it. I betrayed him with my narrow cop refusal to open my
mind to the possibility that he was right. And if you’re so convinced he was
a rogue, a misfit, why did you do what you did? Or were you just setting
Mulder up for—”
“Careful, John,” Kersh murmured, his eyes frosting over with anger and,
Doggett thought, fear. Righteous anger, real fear. Had his role in Mulder’s
escape from a military execution been sincere, an act of rebellion against
the alien-contaminated power structure. Kersh once had obliquely hinted at
a coming revolution, but Doggett had been uncertain whether the director ultimately
would side with the patriots or the alien “colonists” who appeared now to
pull his strings.
“I didn’t come down here to engage in verbal pyrotechnics, John,” Kersh
continued, notching quickly down. “I’m concerned about some reports I’m hearing
about Agent Reyes. About her extracurricular conduct.”
Doggett felt a jolt of alarm. Had Monica’s alcohol problem become a matter
of Bureau gossip? He couldn’t nursemaid her every evening, and he wondered
if the emotions she’d betrayed the night of her nephew’s death had emerged
at any of the local watering holes frequented by her fellow agents.
“Hadn’t heard anything like that,” Doggett said, eyes boring into Kersh’s.
“Even though I might argue her extracurricular conduct, as you call it,
might still be considered her business.”
“Unless it begins to creep onto the Job,” the deputy director said evenly.
“It’s your back Agent Reyes is hired to watch. You feeling safe these days?”
Doggett’s chair rattled back, and the flying saucer shimmied on the wall,
and he grabbed his jacket. “Why don’t you watch my back and tell me?” he
growled, moving past Kersh.
“By the way,” Kersh called. “Did you know a Bill Kesey?”
The agent froze, staked to the floor by Kersh’s use of the past tense.
“Agent out of the
“It was an X-File,” Doggett mumbled.
“Ah. And would Kesey have consulted you and the free-ranging Director Skinner
on another case, a highly-classified matter for which I am confident you
lack the federal clearance?”
Doggett was silent.
“Well, no matter. I’m sorry to tell you Agent Kesey was the victim of a
car-bomb explosion early this morning, outside his home. You may be contacted
regarding any knowledge you had of his investigations. I hope you two hadn’t
become too close, John.” Kersh neatly sidestepped the stunned Doggett. “Don’t
leave on my account. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your ‘work.’”
The phone on Mulder’s desk warbled four times before Doggett stumbled to
pick it up. “Doggett.”
“John?” the voice, thick with
It was Ted, Doggett’s friend in the
“The agent in
“You get anything, Ted?”
Ted paused. He knew what Doggett didn’t want to say was best left unsaid.
“Yep, and it’s right up your alley. You know, it’s a lucky thing your partner
was adopted on the other side of the border, because sometimes, it’s easier
to get the whereabouts of Bin Laden than it is to break into adoption records.
The Mexican authorities weren’t so tight-lipped, especially after I pulled
in a few favors.”
“Thanks, Ted. It’s pretty important.”
Whether to Doggett, the Bureau, or the freedom of the civilized world,
Ted didn’t ask. “Anyway, the adoption was like some kind of Bing Crosby
movie – Anglo baby left in the sanctuary of a church just over from
“Now, where this veers off from
“One was a missing 16-year-old, Karen Bellefort, Andrews-area preacher’s
daughter. Real wild hair, this gal. Drugs, booze, gave it away to anybody
asked halfway nice and almost everybody didn’t. Course, this was the late
‘60s. Turns out they sent her off to an aunt in
Doggett dropped into his chair. “A couple of burgers. Like maybe one for
Daddy. Mom and Pop ship their little mother off to the hinterlands ‘til
she gives birth, and she and the father make a break for
“And that’s where it appears to grow hair. Assuming Daddy was a kid, too,
Istarted looking for any missing juvies
at the time who looked right. Nothing popped up, so I widened the search.
All I came up with who fit the time and who could’ve known our girl was one
Trey Rexmiller, 19-year-old druggie who worked at the same ice cream joint
as Karen.”
“Wait, wait,” Doggett suddenly interrupted. He tore papers from the desk
until he recovered the list Calvin Welles had given Monica. The agent scanned
the roster, then slumped back in his chair.
“John?” he heard Ted eventually inquire. “Hey, buddy; you there.”
“Sorry, Ted,” Doggett said, his mind racing. “You were saying this kid
worked with the girl.”
“He was a patch of mighty bad road – straight-A kid ‘til his sophomore
year of high school, graduated from pot to cocaine between his junior and
senior year, broke some kid’s collarbone at a church festival, and slid
out from under at least one statutory rape charge. And that ain’t all. The
local sheriff thought Rexmiller might’ve been mixed up with some kind’ve
Satanic coven. Coven, that’s what they call ‘em?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Doggett said slowly,
trying not to ponder the possibilities.
“Looks like the boy was trying to find acceptance, I’d say was I one of
the left-wing feel-good types. He was also one of these UFO nuts – always
regalin’ his buddies and coworkers with stories about aliens and life on other
planets and such.”
The second blow landed somewhere between Doggett’s sternum and gut. “Jesus,”
he murmured. “What happened to Rexmiller?”
“Well, the night before Karen Bellefort
went missing, an neighborhood grocery near the Rexmiller place got robbed
right before closing. Owner was gut-shot, and nobody ever saw Trey again.
Two and two, buddy.”
“Maybe that was their stake, some running money,” Doggett considered.
“These were your partner’s people, maybe you wanna tell her I came up snake
eyes. Might do her a favor.”
“Might,” Doggett said, glancing anxiously at Rexmiller’s unchecked name
on Calvin Welles’ list. “Ted, you think you might Fed-Ex this stuff to me?”
“Sure. If you’re sure, John.”
“I’m not sure of anything,” Doggett said quietly.
Oglala,
“Hon?” Scully looked up to see Connie White Eagle in the kitchenette doorway,
concern lining her dark, handsome face. “Is everything all right?”
Scully forced a smile as she cradled the outdated yellow wall phone that
had come with the fashionably low-rent apartment. “Mul— Sherman and I were
disconnected. Probably just drove into a bad cell. Not a big deal.”
Connie raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been off in your own world for the last
half-hour, and this is the third time you’ve tried to call
Scully’s smile warmed – living here,
she’d become accustomed to the tribal custom of cutting to the chase. She’d
come to relish the White Eagles’ candor and concern, although her affection
for the couple was tinged with guilt and a measure of anguish. If the time
ever came to account for her lies, their masquerade, would Michael and Connie
understand? Michael’s badge only complicated their relationship, and, at
times, Scully wondered if only his sense of loyalty and respect had prevented
him from making the series of calls that would have shattered their façade.
“I just worry when John’s on the road, that’s all,” Scully shrugged.
“Don’t ever try to fool the Native American polygraph machine,” Connie scolded
mildly, tapping her temple. “Something’s been bothering you two the last week
or so. Ever since Michael spotted
Scully’s head snapped up, and she felt a cold shot of adrenalin in her gut.
“A strange man? On campus. Oh, wait. Dressed oddly for the weather? Facial
injuries? Connie, that’s an old colleague of
She stopped. Connie was expressionless, neither belief nor judgment registering.
Scully sighed.
“Trust me, please, Connie,” Scully finally whispered, hoarsely. “Just…trust
me.”
Connie did not move. Her face was as one of the totems that protected the
nearby reservation.
“I can’t…” Scully pleaded. “I…” She waved a hand and slumped back against
the counter. Her face was stricken as she looked up at her friend. “I can’t
do this. God help us. Whether for lying to you or for telling you this now,
I don’t know.”
“Maybe for both, Hon,” Connie offered.
“Your friends should be all right now, with some continued attention,” “Jeremiah
Smith” advised a bone-weary but astonished Mulder. Larry and Chaim were unconscious
on a pair of employee lounge couches, with no sign of their recent trauma
remaining but some puckered scars. These, too, would soon disappear.
“How’d you know where --” Mulder began, then held up a hand. “Never mind.
I thought you’d been hijacked back to Alpha Centauri or wherever. You know,
while I was dead.”
Smith offered the approximation of
a smile – the alien healer possessed no sense of humor in an earthly sense,
but he was innately humane. “The division within our society is growing,
and I was fortunate to find an ally – what you call a rebel – within my
enemy’s ranks. My work here must be continued.”
“What is that work, if I may be nosy?” Mulder queried.
Smith paused. “Our charge.”
“Oh, there you go. Huh?”
“This is difficult, both to explain and for me to explain, Agent Mulder.
You – your race – was never to know. Or perhaps this is the time for you to
know.” That almost-smile passed briefly again. “You see my dilemma.”
Mulder nodded. “Not even one little bit. Does this have anything to do with
realtors speaking in tongues? Did you guys do that?”
“Not precisely,” Jeremiah Smith said.
**
“Several hundreds of thousands of years ago, we came to this planet,” Jeremiah
began. “It was one of only a handful we know of – and we’ve traveled light
years over nearly a half-million years – that had the precise mix of atmospheric
chemicals, water, and carbon complexes necessary to produce life. Unlike nearly
every one of those other worlds, life had progressed to a stage where sentient
life was conceivable. That promise rested in a bipedal primate that lie somewhere
near Homo habilus on your evolutionary
scale. You’re familiar with the organism called ‘black oil’?”
“The virus,” Mulder murmured.
Jeremiah now smiled. “That would imply a subordinate position in our biological
system. If anything, the opposite might be true. But no matter: This ‘virus’
played an instrumental role in developing this candidate species into an organism
capable of organization, toolmaking, and both independent and community thought.
In short, mankind.”
“My God. I guess that explains the lack of any clear fossil evidence of
a missing link or common primate ancestor. We were genetically engineered.”
“And the ‘experiment’ was a complete success. We watched this new species
progress from manufacturing tools of stone and metal to building cities, societies,
advanced technologies, and complex cultures. We maintained an observers’
distance for millennia, watching your every major societal and scientific
evolution. And every once in a while, we would be observed in turn. In some
rare instances, where necessary, we would nudge societies toward development.
In a few of those cases, our presence unfortunately was documented.”
“Erich Von Daniken rocks,” Mulder
grinned. Then he turned serious. “So your people – species, sorry, didn’t
mean to be Earth-centric – basically groomed us for what? To develop resources,
technologies you could someday use to colonize the planet?”
Jeremiah’s expression was blank. Mulder laughed ruefully.
“What?” Jeremiah inquired.
“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking that if I survive this and what you’re
telling me gets out, a lot of Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists,
Taoists, Zoroastrians, and animists are going to have to figure out something
else to do with their weekends.”
Again, the alien healer’s face was devoid of emotion.
“What?” This time, it was Mulder’s turn.
Jeremiah hesitated for a long minute, then appeared to make a decision.
“Agent Mulder, you leap to the same conclusion your people and mine have
been making over the course of our respective histories. You assume that
because we designed life that we ourselves were its creators.”
The ex-agent blinked, then leaned back in his chair, his eyes wide with
sudden realization. “You’re shitting me.”
“No,” Jeremiah replied simply.
**
“It was our charge, our commission, your theologians might call it. Hundreds
of thousands of terrestrial years ago, during what you call Earth’s Cenozoic
Period, our society was at what I can only term a meltdown point, both sociologically
and ethically. Violence had become an everyday occurrence, a way of life.
Betrayal was the norm, and our societal institutions were collapsing on themselves.
We were in danger of extinction from within.
“And then we were offered a way out, a path to salvation, you might say.
According to the most reliable historical records we have, the plan came to
12 of our scientists simultaneously, as if it had been transmitted into them.
Every detail was identical from scientist to scientist – the complete schematics
of a genome for a species we’d never encountered, the protein manipulations
we’d need to alter that species, the fundamental tools and technologies we
would introduce to this ‘new’ species. Also included were the coordinates
of a planet 200 of your light-years away, along with the technology needed
to travel beyond our star system.
“And all 12 scientists received this warning: That we as a species would
face extinction if we failed to fulfill this commission. We were to foster
this new race, shepherd it to societal fruition, and continue to monitor its
development and ensure its essential well-being.
“Of course, the scientists were subjected to ridicule. They were accused
of everything from fraud to mass delusion, and even persecuted. One was murdered
in his laboratory. But then, something occurred that persuaded us that this
commission was crucial. Within hours of the scientist’s death, our star, our
sun, cooled by several hundred thousand degrees Fahrenheit. A million or
so of our species were reported to have died before the sun’s energy returned,
and it took nearly 100 years to fully restore society to a fully functional
state. However, work began immediately to travel to Earth.”
“Probably a solar anomaly,” Mulder scoffed.
Jeremiah’s near-smile returned. “A plausible explanation, except that this
occurrence was foretold to each of the 12 scientists.”
“Still, though, you do only have the word of these scientists that they
shared a mutual ‘vision,’ and God knows – no pun intended – God knows how
many times the story’s been twisted and shaped to fit your society’s belief
system.”
“Those are very logical points, Agent Mulder,” Jeremiah nodded somberly.
“Except that our society at that point had progressed to a stage of technological
development where we needed not rely on stone tablets or traveling disciples
or monks writing on foolscap to relate history. Visual documentation was made
of the scientists soon after their ‘visions’ occurred, including their prediction
that a solar disaster might occur. And yes, they were scientists, and might
have been able to forecast such an astronomical event. Perhaps, you might
say, the scientists, knowing a global threat was soon to present itself,
conspired to contrive this great ‘plan’ out of a desire to save their world.
Our species, like yours’, is reluctant not only to believe what cannot be
conclusively proven but to accept that any entity more powerful than itself
might exist. Particularly if this entity is capable of reducing an entire
species to icy rubble or ashes.”
“Then why do you buy all of this, you should pardon me, so blindly?” Mulder
challenged.
“Because of what is now happening, what has been unfolding for several centuries,”
Jeremiah responded. “Only now have you discovered the key to proving the existence
of everything your species and mine have unwaveringly questioned or dismissed.”
“Bales,” Mulder mumbled. He looked up at Jeremiah. “Your people installed
the genetic code, essentially invented
Homo sapiens. But he, she, it, God, Allah, Morty, whatever, knew they
likely couldn’t be trusted. So he, she, it built in a genetic backdoor,
a failsafe, I assume in selected individuals. The means to protect mankind…”
“From us,” Jeremiah finished.
**
“OK,” Mulder announced as he pocketed his Spender-supplied cell phone. “Skinner’s
lined up a safe house for Jay and Silent Bob here.”
It had been the first time he had contacted his former assistant director
since Skinner had helped Mulder and Scully escape “military” justice, nearly
a year before. Spender’s phone possessed a very special “roaming” feature,
and after receiving a prearranged code phrase, Skinner had called back from
a bar phone six blocks from the
“It’s in a little rural hole about 50 miles from here,” Mulder continued.
“Retired Drug Enforcement Agency guy Skinner knew in
“Take it easy, Chaim,” Mulder murmured. Silver’s eyes went wide, and then
his eyebrow arched. “What, Chaim?”
The shooting “victim” shook his head sheepishly as he waved toward Jeremiah
Smith. “I thought he was God. I couldn’t figure out where you came in.” He
examined his bloody shirtfront and gingerly felt his chest and abdomen. “Sure
as shit don’t make bullets like they used to, do they?”
“The bad news is, I don’t think you’ll be able to file an insurance claim,”
the ex-agent grinned. “The good news is, I think you picked the right major.”
Mulder rapidly outlined Jeremiah’s revelations.
“So there is a God,” Silver mumbled, in awe. “Holy crap. Sorry, it’s just
like lusting after Winona Ryder your whole life, and then she shows up one
day on your doorstep with a bottle of wine and a raging case of surging hormones.”
“Amen,” Mulder said reverently.
“I just meant, somehow, in the back of your mind, you always harbor some
nibbling doubt that lets you off the hook, you know? Cause you may never have
to pay for your sins, you know? But, now… And not to mention how fucking screwed-up
I’ll bet my post-doc thesis is.”
“Maybe God’s a party-loving deity,” Mulder offered. “Look, you think you
can travel?”
Chaim sat up slowly and flexed his shoulders, astonishment blossoming in
his eyes.
“As long as it isn’t Branson,” he responded.
**
Mulder glanced up at the rearview mirror as he heard Larry Opps groan from
the backseat. Another RV roared past as the geneticist came to, blinking and
exploring the interior of Mulder’s rental car.
“Welcome back from the dead,” Chaim murmured as he craned over his headrest.
“So you feel a little foolish now you know God’s a Jewish chick?”
“What happened?” Opps demanded groggily, ignoring the linguist/scholar.
He yanked at the clean new South Coast Video tee Mulder had exchanged for
his plaid-and-bloodstained shirt. “I know I didn’t dream this. You and I
were dead as fucking disco, Silver.”
“Things change,” Chaim shrugged as he looked back to the pines and palms
that rushed past their car. “You missed E.T. – he had places to be. And I
didn’t even get to thank him for saving our sorry asses.”
“Quit being so fucking cryptic,” Opps growled, examining the puckered scars
on his chest and stomach. Then, the tail of his shirt dropped back into place
as he sat up. “Jesus, what about the data? Tell me they didn’t trash the system.
Fucking tell me they didn’t trash the system”
“Wiped clean,” Mulder sighed, watching for his exit.
Opps dropped back against the seat. “Shit. Well, at least I’d just e-mailed
an update to Spender. Except for a few background notes, he ought to have
just about everything we know by now. Hey, shit, man!!”
Mulder had yanked the car over two
lanes and onto the berm, sparking a symphony of indignant horns. The agent
cut the engine, and leaned around the seat. “How soon before the gunfire
began did you send Spender the data?”
“I dunno, a half-hour or so,” Opps drawled. Then his eyes widened. “Oh,
fuck.”
“Well-spoken,” Mulder said grimly. “Just enough time to receive the data
and order a crew in to clean up.”
“Spender killed us, ah, tried to kill us?” Chaim breathed. “Why? I thought
we were all on the same team.”
Mulder suddenly groaned, and yanked Spender’s cell phone from his pocket.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he shouted, banging it against the dashboard and tossing
it into the thicket at the side of the highway. “I called Skinner’s safe house
on this thing. Boys, we’ve got to go to Plan B.”
“And what’s Plan B?” Opps asked.
“Fuck if he knows,” Chaim supplied the punchline.
Oglala, S.D.
XXXX
“I can’t tell you everything,” Scully began quietly, hands steepled on her
thighs as she rocked subconsciously on the ottoman Mulder had appropriated
from the Goodwill store downtown. “Not only would you find the truth utterly
beyond human credibility, but Mulder and I might actually be endangering your
life. I may be now.”
“Mulder?” Michael queried from his seat on the bay windowsill that had been
a major selling point for the ex-agents.
“Fox Mulder. And I’m Dana Scully. Hi, folks,” Scully smiled sadly, her voice
cracking. Connie reached over and took her hand.
“Fox.” Michael savored the name, a smile forming deep creases in his weathered
cheeks. He murmured something in his people’s tongue.
“Michael,” Connie admonished. “Go ahead.”
“We’re federal fugitives, former FBI agents. The military, or should I say
forces representing themselves as the military, trumped up murder charges
against Mulder. We managed to escape before they could kill him, but the man
he was accused of murdering wasn’t, well, wasn’t dead, and they sent him
after us. We were set up here soon after.”
Michael nodded somberly. “You’re the FBI agents, then. The X-Files.”
Scully’s eyes widened. “I didn’t think they’d put out any warrants or law
enforcement alerts on us. I didn’t think they’d want to attract attention.”
The Native American lawman smiled as he glanced down at the street. “You
forget – we’re a people of belief, of ‘superstition,’ you might say. Spooky
Mulder is a legend to me – a white man who understands the world beyond our
world. Just as William’s father, my curious new brother, does.” Michael looked
up with a grin. “C’mon,
Scully’s face relaxed, and she grinned back. “I knew that alias wouldn’t
wash.”
Michael again turned serious, and looked at Connie. “Now, I have to confess.
I knew soon after we met that there was something that wasn’t, as my people
would say, kosher about you two. I did a little investigating of my own.”
Scully’s eyes moved to Connie, whose face was impassive but whose eyes blazed
at her husband. Michael was unapologetic.
“I couldn’t find any verifiable history on either of you, but I couldn’t
crack your story, either. Whoever created this new life for you wasn’t some
street criminal with a printing press and a few good connections. This had
to involve some scary people. CIA?”
“No one you’d know,” Scully said dryly. “I hope.”
“And how well do you know them?” Michael asked quietly, again staring out
the window.
“What do you mean?” Scully’s voice rang with hollow dread.
“The black ’93 Buick that’s been parked a half-block down all evening. The
same one that dropped Sherman’s – Mulder’s – faceless friend off at the college
last week.”
Scully leapt from the ottoman. Michael waved her back.
“It’s not parked down the block any more,” he said, grimly. “They just pulled
up out front. They’re coming up…”
The cool night air staggered Monica, robbing her breath for a moment. Rather
than counteracting the wine and tobacco, the slightly tainted oxygen seemed
only to intensify her disorientation.
Fell off both wagons in one night, she reflected, savoring the lingering
taste of the Morley Light one of the agents had “loaned” her. Jan would have
an aneurysm. Doggett would give deliver yet another lecture, one of his tough
cop, Scared Straight sermons.
She’d run into an old friend, now a cybercrime specialist, at
Even in her slightly debilitated state, Monica the agent knew she was unable
to drive safely home, and she began to peer down the bar-lined avenue for
a taxi. Always a cab in D.C., she observed sourly, except when one was needed.
Monica’s head felt light, free of gravity, as she panned across the brightly-lit
urban landscape, and the lights of the Capitol and the Washington Mall formed
glowing ribbons that intrigued her.
Until she saw the boy, standing in the doorway of a darkened boutique across
the street. Actually, he was more of a man, chin blue with a few days’ beard,
dark Latino eyes shaded by the streetlight overhead.
But Monica had always thought of him as a boy – a troubled waif seeking
light wherever it might emerge. Paul Reyes was in his Desert Storm gear,
or whatever modification they’d made for the Iraqi campaign, and a dark,
wet patch glistened slightly on his chest. It reminded her her nephew was
dead, but in her current condition, that realization did not totally register.
“Paul,” she called. “Pablo!”
The boy did not move, but his lips began to move. Calmly, he began to explain
things to Monica. But although the side street was relatively quiet, she could
not hear a word. Her right foot left the curb, and she craned forward. Her
left foot then joined the right, and she edged a few steps into the oncoming
lane.
In her urgency to hear what Paul had to tell her, Monica had not heard the
squeal of wheels at the next corner, was unaware that the bass for a local
Irish folk ensemble had lost track of the time as he feverishly “wooed” a
comely young Georgetown music grad who in turn had forgotten she was there
to document rhythm and pentameter in 19th Century Celtic ballads.
The agent could have no way of knowing said musician had promised a cabbie
from Malawi to triple his fare were he to deliver him ahead of tonight’s
gig to the The Thistle and Mare, three blocks from where Paul Reyes silently
held forth.
When the cab struck Monica, she felt a flash of annoyance.
She had to know what her lost nephew was trying to convey. As blackness
descended, as figures converged on her from the taxi and the bar, as panicked
To be continued…