From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (1/13) by K. Rasch
Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:15:58 -0500
"No Greater Love" (1/13)
by Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com
Hi! Sorry I haven't written. :) This is something a little different
from me. It's not the usual romance/erotica thing you're used to
seeing me post. It's a case file. Now, this isn't to say that I
refrained from inserting =healthy= doses of UST into the mix. I
didn't. Sorry to the anti-relationshippers in the crowd. I writes 'em
as I sees 'em. And I can't look at Mulder and Scully without
believing them to have for each other feelings that extend beyond
simple friendship. Okay, Warning One out of the way. (phew!)
Warning Two: this story centers around a kind of religious theme.
I did this because it worked for the tale and also because I
believe there is a lot more to be investigated about our heroes'
spiritual lives. But, religion is a tricky subject. As a rule, it
provokes strong emotions. If you're easily offended in this regard,
I suggest you skip this story. Why put yourself through the
discomfort? If you decide to take a chance on it after reading this
disclaimer, no fair flaming! :) Warning Three: This story was
started in the midst of the Rift (remember, waaaaay back then,
before "Pusher" ). Elements of that infamous time have
found their way into the story. Bear with me though, I promise
M & S don't spend the entire tale fighting. As far as rating this
one goes--I don't know, PG? There's basically not much here to
shock. Certainly nothing you wouldn't see on the show. The
language may be a bit saltier. But, that's it. As usual, Mulder
and Scully are most certainly not mine. They belong to Chris
Carter, 1013, and Fox. I use them totally without permission, but
with great respect and affection. I would like to thank all the folks
who wrote me really nice funny little nudge notes along the way
asking things like, "Where the hell have you been?" and "Are
you still alive?" (The answers would be "sitting in front of my
#*!!%&# computer every night!" and "barely".) It's nice to
know that people notice if you aren't around. Many, many thanks
are also due to LindaJ, formerly Delphi's Keeper of Secret Nurse
Things for all her medical know-how and input. And finally, this
story is dedicated to my band of readers/editors. Feeling a bit
unsure about this one, I relied on their insight and encouragement
like it was a lifeline. Eowyn, Jenni and Teresa were kind enough to
offer their thoughts on Chapter One. Nicole, Paula, Connie, Kelly
and Michele (the world's greatest nudge--but that's another story)
put up with my sending them the rest of the thing. Thank
you all so much. Comments/criticism--as always, please send
them to krasch@delphi.com. I love to hear from you guys. Enjoy!
===============================================
"You know, Mulder, if the trip here was any sort of
indication as to how this case is going to shape up, I vote for
turning the car around and heading back to the airport now."
"I must have something wrong with this ear, Scully.
Because I could swear I just heard you worrying about 'omens'."
Dana Scully leaned her head back against the
passenger seat of the Taurus she and her partner had just
finished renting, and wearily closed her eyes behind her black
Raybans. "I know," she murmured dryly, her lips barely moving,
almost as if the effort to speak were too great. "Spooky, isn't it?"
Fox Mulder smiled fondly at his partner, then returned
his attention to U.S. Highway 63, the road heading due south,
right through the center of Missouri. They had been traveling
since breakfast and yet still had nearly another hour before they
reached their destination, the tiny town of Pine Grove, just
southeast of Jefferson City, the state capital.
He checked his watch. 6:53. Jesus, with as long as we've
been on the road, we should be in Guam by now, he thought wryly.
His gaze flickered back with sympathy to the woman beside him.
Poor Scully.
She had not been having the best of days.
It had all started with her alarm clock.
Or rather, the lack of her alarm clock.
The storm that had rocked D.C. the previous night had
knocked out the electricity to her building while she slept.
Consequently, looking like a winded, rumpled imitation of her
usual polished self, she had met him at Dulles that morning
with only seconds to spare before their flight was scheduled to
leave for St. Louis. As luck would have it, however, her haste
was ultimately for naught. The remnants of that same storm had
conspired to anchor their plane solidly on the ground.
For more than two hours.
Her headache had begun sometime after the first half
hour. And as far as he knew, lingered still.
"How you feelin'?" he asked as they sped past
surprisingly tall limestone bluffs dividing fields just beginning
to sprout with that season's crop.
Her eyes remained closed. "Have you ever seen those
really intricate kinds of clocks, the ones that have figures that
come out with little mallets to beat out the hour? You know . . .
the kind they have in Munich?"
"Yeah?"
She grimaced. "Well, it feels like one of those little
bastards with the mallets escaped, and has set up shop directly
behind my right eye."
"Beating out the hour?"
"Seconds. He must love his work."
At that moment, she doubted she could muster the
enthusiasm necessary to echo that particular sentiment. What
a day! First, the delay in D.C., then her headache, then they had
touched down at Lambert only to discover they had missed their
connecting flight to Central Missouri Airport. Finally, after
waiting hours in St. Louis for the next puddle-jumper out, their
commuter flight had been forced to fight startling gusty head
winds all the way in. Consequently, the trip had taken twice
as long as it should have, the comfort level being somewhat
akin to a toboggan ride down a rock pile the size of Mt. Everest.
She listlessly lolled her head against the seat, and eyed
the man who was now fiddling with the radio, searching for a
station playing something other than country music, her lids
feeling as if the little timepiece refugee had brought along some
pals to hang from her lashes. Mulder had survived their taste
of travel hell far better than she. The blasted man's suit wasn't
even wrinkled. How did he do that? She, on the other hand,
felt like a walking dirty clothes pile.
"You know the worst part of this, Mulder?"
"Hmm?"
"Now, I'm going to have to play catch-up."
He glanced at her, an eyebrow arched. "What do you
mean?"
She met his eyes through her darkened lenses. "I didn't
get a chance to go through the file like I had planned to. I
skimmed it at home last night. But, that's it. And with this
headache, there's no way in hell I'm going to be able to study it
tonight."
He shrugged blithely. "What do you want to know?"
She scowled at him. "Mulder, it isn't as if we're in high
school, and I need you to let me peer over your shoulder for the
answers on a test. I need to be able to go over the information
in that file and draw my own conclusions."
The corner of his mouth turned up at her grumpy tone.
He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. The
woman could be positively endearing when her lips pursed in
a little bow like that, he mused.
Not that he would ever share that observation.
Not if he wanted to continue living.
Deciding to pursue instead a far safer course of action,
he strove to make his voice as soothing as possible. "You can
draw all the conclusions you like once you've had the chance to
sleep this headache out of your system. In the meantime, if you're
interested, I'd be happy to share my impressions. You may not
agree with all of them. In fact, I would count on it. But, it'll give
you some place to start when you finally have the opportunity
to dig into the stuff on your own."
She considered for a moment, sitting up a bit straighter,
and turning her head to look at him squarely. "You're sure you
don't mind?"
He shook his head. "Nope. Nothing good on the radio
anyway. Just think of me as your very own private Cliff's Notes."
She smiled in spite of herself. "Okay. But rather than
you lecturing me--"
"I never 'lecture' you."
"Says the man with the slide projector," she countered
lightly, her lips curved, but her look pointed just the same. "As
I was saying, why don't you let me tell you what I do remember,
and then you can fill in the blanks."
"Fine," he agreed evenly, stinging a bit from the 'lecture'
comment, but willing to chalk it up to the headache talking.
"Whatever works for you."
She took a deep breath, and leaned back against the
seat once more, although this time her eyes remained open. With
a speed born of practice, she mentally sifted through what she
had gleaned of the case at hand thus far. "Okay. First--we've
got three deaths."
Mulder nodded. "None of which have officially been
declared a murder."
She nodded as well. "Not yet."
No, she thought, not a conventional murder in sight.
Instead, all evidence pointed to an accidental drowning, a
heart attack, and a brain aneurysm claiming the lives of three of
Pine Grove's citizens.
"Of course, there has been some speculation that the
drowning may have been a suicide," he said after a beat, his
gaze still focused on the road.
"=May= have been," she acknowledged. "Although
there was no note."
The corner of his mouth quirked. "I thought you had
only skimmed this."
She smiled dryly. "Don't be impressed just yet. It all
turns hazy on me rather quickly."
Mulder's smile broadened. Several words sprang to
mind to describe his partner's thought processes. Hazy wasn't
one of them.
"According to members of the community, two of the
victims knew each other well. Were business partners, in fact,"
she continued, her brow furrowed in concentration as she strove
to remember every last detail possible.
"Right. Mark Halprin, our deceased with the apparently
bum ticker, and Roy Cullins, a man who, it would appear, had
been thinking either too much or too hard. Together, with Mark's
brother Terry, they owned 'Backroads'--"
"--A bar on the county road running between Pine Grove
and Jefferson City," Scully murmured, watching the scenery fly by,
finishing Mulder's sentence with that uncanny fluidity they each
shared, were now so used to, they took it for granted. "Victim
number three is a different matter, however. According to friends
of the deceased, she knew the other two only in passing."
"Kimberly Weaver," Mulder said, seamlessly supplying
the name. "A college student, who, judging by the police report,
spent the last hours of her life in a bathtub."
So dulled by a combination of alcohol and barbiturates
that she forgot to remove her clothing before climbing into said
tub and eventually drowned there, Scully thought, nodding in
grim agreement as to the circumstances of the co-ed's death.
The agents were silent a moment, each considering the
girl's sorry end.
"And yet," Mulder ventured, his eyes sliding over to
steal a look at the woman beside him. "Even though it would
appear at first glance that these three had no shared connection.
They do, in fact, have one thing in common."
"Kimberly's father," Scully said shortly. "The Reverend
Andrew Weaver."
"Who, if you believe the locals, is a bona fide faith
healer."
Scully grimaced. Yet another reason why she wasn't
looking forward to this particular case. Once again, she and her
partner were being thrust into an investigation involving the
Almighty, or at the very least, His supposed servants.
Mulder caught her look. "What?"
She gazed at him through her sunglasses, striving to
keep a bland countenance. Any conversation regarding religion
was bound to turn personal. It always did. And from there, it
was only a short hop, skip and a jump to disbelief, accusations,
and defensiveness. Territory she and Mulder knew far too well.
She didn't want to visit there again just yet. Her poor head
couldn't stand the added aggravation. "Nothing."
He saw through her smokescreen instantly. She had
never been able to lie to him. "Nothing?" he challenged.
She shrugged in discomfort. Take a hint, Mulder.
"Nothing *important*."
It was as if she had slammed a door.
Then thrown the lock for good measure.
The man beside her fell mute. Instead, he merely eyed
her when he felt it safe to let his gaze stray from the road,
disbelief and perhaps . . . disappointment? . . . painted on his face.
Her head pounded with a slow steady rhythm as she tried
to ignore his voiceless demand for her to speak. Damn it, Mulder,
she silently groaned. Let it go. I'm not in the mood for this.
Sparring with you always takes all my concentration and double
my usual wit. And I'm only able to get my hands on about half
my supply of either right now. Besides, we've been down this
particular path before. There's no way we're going to reach a
middle ground. No way in hell.
She waited. Mulder finally abandoned his study of her,
and instead scrutinized the road before them with an intensity
that bordered on the fanatical, his lips absent-mindedly twisting.
Miles passed. Neither said a word, each stubbornly clinging to
their solitary stances. At long last, however, the oppressive
silence got to Scully. She sighed, giving in. "I just get tired of
being assigned to the God Squad."
Mulder's eyebrows lifted.
When the woman beside him had refused to divulge
what precisely was bothering her, he had promised himself that
he wasn't going to push. Or at least, not far. Much as the walls
she had constructed wounded him, he strove to respect his
partner's need for privacy. As close as they were, as greatly as
they relied on each other, Scully and he had limits, boundaries
neither would allow the other to cross. He had assumed that
her reticence served as another of her Do Not Enter signs. To
his regret, these had become more plentiful recently and had
begun guarding territory far more vast than either of them had
ever before realized existed.
Now, however, her flip comment suggested something
else. What, though? Embarrassment? A degree of chagrin?
Or was her unexpected choice of words simply an attempt to
derail his inquiry? He couldn't say for sure. These days he
found himself, with a touch of dismay, unable read her clearly;
not nearly as easily as he had once flattered himself he could.
"The God Squad?"
Her lips tilted wryly. "I know--not exactly the most
respectful of terms. But that's what it feels like to me sometimes."
Okay, Scully was talking to him. Good. An almost
palpable sense of relief rolled through him. He hated those tense
silences that had begun insinuating themselves of late into their
conversations. Deciding to match her bemused tone and smile
in the hopes of encouraging their tentative yet promising
discussion, he mildly shook his head, his brow wrinkled in mock
confusion. "Why does that sound as if I should be sporting an
afro and your hair should be a lot longer and blond?"
She smiled outright, seemingly glad they were taking
this tangent. "Is this your subtle way of telling me that gentlemen
actually do prefer blondes, Mulder?"
"Only when there are no redheads around." He leered at
her comically.
She chuckled. Mulder smiled back.
This was more like it, she thought with no small measure
of relief. This she could handle. The easy, ever so slightly loaded
banter that had once flowed so effortlessly between them was a
welcome diversion.
And one that she had dearly missed.
The lack of it was understandable, of course. The past
year or so had been hard on them. So damn hard on Mulder and
her. Her abduction, Mulder's near death in New Mexico, the
murders of his father and her sister--all had scarred them and
their relationship. Had altered them in ways she wouldn't have
believed possible such a short time before. Oh, they still had
each other. Still clung tenaciously to that sense of trust and
communion that their years as partners under the most difficult
of circumstances had forged. But they weren't as free with each
other as they once had been. Weren't as close.
No. That wasn't true. They were still close, closer
perhaps than ever before. Bonded together in ways she couldn't
even begin to describe, let alone understand. And yet, at the
same time, shielded from each other somehow. Almost as if
each realized that the very thing that strengthened them, gave
them the courage to face the challenges laid out before them--
their partnership--also had the potential to hurtle them down
into a world of pain. Daily, they danced along the lip of that
increasingly slippery slope. The one that taunted them with
all the vigor and cruelty of a schoolyard bully.
And they both knew the cost, didn't they?
Each had suffered the lesson being driven home in ways
so vivid that their waking hours, their rational minds couldn't
contain the memories, the imagery instead spilling over into their
dreams.
And so, as a means of self-preservation, they had
each taken a step or two back. Just enough to allow them range,
enough room to breathe, enough distance to protect themselves.
And each other. Or so they hoped. And if that added space
proved great enough for insecurities, frustrations, and various
and sundry other minor irritations to weasel in between them, well . . .
Surely that was the lesser of two evils.
She took her glasses from her eyes and squinted out
the window, trying to ignore the relentless rhythm that pulsed in
time to her heartbeat behind her eyes. The sun had dipped low
enough over the horizon that her sunglasses had become more
affectation than necessity. She put them away, wishing she
could put away other, more messy accoutrements as easily.
Longing to banish the feelings of loss, guilt and regret that
haunted her when she least expected them. The ones that
slipped up behind her when she wasn't looking and tapped
her on the shoulder as if to say, "Don't forget about us.
Because we won't ever forget about you."
She shivered at the thought.
And the fear. The fear that she would be forced to
learn those painful emotions in still more intimate ways. That
her trials weren't over. But were instead only beginning.
Sometimes, such dark musings didn't even seem
possible, let alone likely. She had already given up so much,
had been compelled to offer up such tremendous sacrifices.
What did she have left to lose?
"Are you going to leave me hanging with that cryptic
comment?" Mulder asked softly, slicing through her reverie so
sharply that it was all Scully could do to keep from jumping in
her seat. "Or do you plan on explaining to me just what you
meant by the 'God Squad'?"
She licked her lips and shot him a smile. Not one of
her most convincing ones, but she caught a break as her
partner was more focused on the increasingly shadowed
road ahead of them than on her. "I guess I was referring to
these crimes we keep running across . . . the ones that
supposedly involve religious phenomenon. I don't know.
Crazy as it sounds, sometimes I feel like we're being asked
to police God."
"You think this case sounds like the work of divine
intervention, Scully?"
"Mulder, we don't even have a case. Yet," she
retorted more sharply than she had intended. "We're here
because the brother of one of the deceased claims that his
sibling did not die of natural causes--"
"Right. But instead was murdered by a man using the
flip-side of his supposed God-given talent for healing," Mulder
responded with an equal edge to his voice, turning his head
to pin her with his gaze.
She studied his hazel eyes for as long as they held her
own. "Do you believe that Reverend Weaver murdered not
only Cullins and Halprin, but his own daughter as well?"
Mulder took a deep breath and swung his eyes once
again away from his partner's, focusing instead on the gently
rolling blacktop before them. He hadn't meant to snap that way.
What was it about cases such as these that pushed his buttons?
He would have liked to have told himself that his
mistrust of organized religion resulted from his bone-deep
hatred of hypocrisy, his need to expose corruption of all kinds,
regardless of how lofty the institution it protected. And yet,
this very aversion to lies kept him from doing so. It wasn't just
the false hopes it fostered that damned the Church in Mulder's
eyes. It was the betrayal he felt he had suffered at its hands.
Because he had once bought into such hopes. And
he now knew them for the empty promises they were.
"Scully," he began carefully, making a conscious effort
to keep from saying anything his partner might construe as an
attack or an affront. "I don't know what I believe. Not about this.
I look at the file, I read the reports from the sheriff, the coroner,
and I don't see a crime. But, Terry Halprin does. And he's going
around telling people about it. The first thing you know, the
county sheriff panics, turns to his cousin the senator, and
before you can say 'Elmer Gantry', we're plunked down in the
middle of the Show-Me State to check it out."
She nodded, her expression thoughtful. "So, you think
that when Sheriff Lowry requested our presence here he was
looking for help with damage control more than anything else?"
Mulder shrugged. "I don't know. Could be. It probably
wouldn't hurt his image in the community to be able to say that
he had called in the FBI for consultation. But, maybe it's worse
than that. Maybe our toughest job will be to protect the good
Reverend from his congregation."
"Rather than vice versa?" she ventured dryly.
"Stranger things have happened."
"Especially to us."
Her light bantering tone pulled his eyes to hers once
more. They held. Each of the car's occupants smiled, the curve
of their lips subtle, yet warm. It was over. They had passed
through yet another rough patch, Scully acknowledged with an
inner sigh of relief. Not unscathed, but yet unbowed. That
seemed to be the best they could hope for these days.
Mulder slowed the car, and finally flipped on the
headlights. A sign just coming into view announced the turn-off
for Pine Grove. He took it. Not long after leaving the main
highway for the county road, Scully spied a gas station with a
small convenience store attached to it.
"Can we pull in there? I need to pick up some aspirin.
They should carry it--don't you think? I took the last of mine in
St. Louis."
"Sure. Maybe somebody there can point us in the
direction of a motel while we're at it. We're getting close."
"Hmm. Aspirin and a motel bed. Why does that
combination sound like just this side of heaven to me?" Scully
murmured with a wry smile as they pulled into the station.
Mulder drove the car to a stop right outside the quick
mart's front door and glanced over at his partner. She was paler
than she should have been, her tailored slacks suit creased, her
hair tucked a bit haphazardly behind one ear. He could see quite
plainly in her eyes the strain under which she had labored all
day. A sense of regret poured through him unexpectedly.
You never go easy on her, Mulder, do you, accused an
insistent little voice inside his head. You knew she didn't feel
well, and yet you couldn't resist the urge to go one-on-one with
her.
He never meant to do that--to butt heads just for the
sake of butting heads, to vent his frustrations on her simply
because she was handy and he knew she could take it. And yet,
it happened more often than he cared to admit. It was just that
she was so strong, so centered, so sure that he forgot sometimes
that she wasn't indestructible. Watching Scully wearily climb
out of the Taurus, swaying for a moment when she finally stood,
stretching to her full yet slight height, he promised himself he
would be more sensitive to that in the future. To the vunerability
his partner hid behind her nimble mind and penetrating eyes.
She felt his gaze on her, and turned to look at him over
the roof of the car. He looked back at her for a moment, saying
nothing. She smiled, her expression gentle, softer than he had
seen it all day.
Some little something inside of him crumbled just a bit.
"Come on," he said with a tiny jerk of his head, his
voice low, hushed, indicating they should go inside and make
their purchases. She nodded, but before turning to proceed
him into the store, she lingered just a instant, looking as if
perhaps she might speak.
At the same time, Mulder felt as if her hesitation
invited him to say more.
Something.
Anything.
But, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what.
* * * * * * * *
Continued in Part II
===========================================================================
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (2/13) by K. Rasch
Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:16:47 -0500
No Greater Love (2/13)
By Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com
Disclaimer stuff in Part I. This is just story. :)
================================================
"Good morning."
Mulder came to a sudden halt in the dining room
doorway. Sunshine poured through the room's large picture
window, bathing his partner in soft honey colored light. She
sat at a polished yet well used farmer's table that had to be a
century old. Papers, photographs, and open file folders
surrounded her in a neat semi-circle. An empty coffee cup sat
at her elbow, as did a small china plate with a single triangle of
toast atop it. A matching cereal bowl holding only an spot of
milk and a few dispirited corn flakes lay abandoned as well,
an arm's length away.
Scully had obviously been at this for awhile.
He checked his watch. Nope. He hadn't overslept.
6:57. Jesus. So, exactly what time did they start serving
breakfast around here?
"Well, I take it the headache is gone?" he ventured
dryly, the corner of his mouth turning up as he crossed to sit
at the place setting opposite her.
"Yes," she said with relish, flashing him one of her
high wattage smiles. "I woke up this morning without a trace
of it. I feel like a new woman."
"Oh, I hope not," Mulder said, his eyes warm as he
reached for the carafe of coffee stationed between them, and
poured himself a cup. "I was kind of attached to the old one."
Her smile mellowed, but the light in her eyes did not.
"Actually, I believe I have you to thank for this, Mulder," she
murmured, pushing her coffee cup forward for him to refill as
well. "I'm sure I would never have recovered so quickly if you
hadn't found this place for us to stay. It's heads and shoulders
above your usual Motel 6 wannabes."
He shook his head, a self-deprecating smile on his lips.
Much as he would have liked to, he couldn't take credit for their
stumbling across Twin Orchards, the bed and breakfast at which
they were currently lodged. For that stroke of luck, all thanks
had to go to Kathy, the pony-tailed blond behind the counter at
the gas station the night before.
While Scully had scoured the aisles in search of aspirin,
he had taken the opportunity to ask Kathy directions to the
nearest motel. The young woman had grimaced in reaction.
"Oh, wow. There really isn't one around here. I mean
. . . not one that =I= would stay at," she had said, shivering
delicately. "There's Seven Acres out on Route P, but that's a
resident's motel. And to tell you the truth, it's pretty scary. You
and your wife don't want to stay there."
Mulder had smiled wryly, glad that Scully was at that
point peering into the cooler, studying the store's selection of
bottled water, and thus thankfully out of earshot. "Well, what
would you suggest?"
"Um . . . . Well, I guess you could stay in Jeff City
. . . .," Kathy had suggested unenthusiastically, her brow and
nose both wrinkled in chagrin. Then, inspiration had struck. "Or
. . . you know, my boyfriend's aunt has a place a few miles from
here. . . . It isn't far from town at all. . . . Normally, she doesn't
open until Memorial Day weekend. But, that's like only a couple
of weeks away, right? I bet if I called her . . . ."
The now smiling clerk had spun around, her pink smock
flaring bell-like with the motion, and enthusiastically picked up
the telephone, her course of action set. Not twenty minutes later
Mulder had pulled up outside a large, rambling farmhouse. The
building's white painted exterior had shone like a beacon in the
rosy rays of the setting sun, its newly planted flower boxes and
bright red awnings giving the structure a homey, welcoming air.
A hand painted wooden sign had heralded the property's name
and business. It had taken the tired agents no more than an
instant to recognize their good fortune.
"Yeah, well my usual choice of motels may not have
down comforters and four poster beds," Mulder admitted to his
partner, helping himself to her remaining piece of toast, and
smiling as he remembered the pleasure that had washed over
Scully's face upon seeing their accommodations the night before.
"But, they do have--"
"Overflowing roach motels? Stained mattresses?
Cracked bathroom mirrors? Paper thin walls?" She teased merrily
over the rim of her cup.
"Adult Pay-Per-View," Mulder countered with a wicked
arch of his brow before taking a sip of his own coffee.
The young redhead only smiled. "I repeat: paper thin
walls. You can't fool me, Mulder. Those movies may not be
known for their dialogue, but I've always been told that the
actors in them are far from *silent*. Somehow, I have a feeling
that if you =were= spending the tax-payers' money on that sort
of entertainment, I'd be sharing the experience with you."
Mulder dipped his head to hide a smile of his own.
"You know, Scully, one of the first things we learned at the
Academy was that the best way for a partnership to remain
strong is for the two agents to share."
She lifted her eyebrows in amused reproof. "Mulder--
in this, I encourage you to be greedy."
"Oh there you are, Agent Mulder. Agent Scully
thought you might be down about now. Your breakfast will be
along in just a minute."
Ginny Barker, Twin Orchards' owner and resident
chef bustled out of the establishment's kitchen, wiping her
hands on the apron covering her jeans and faded checked
blouse as she walked. A tall big-boned woman with close
cropped hair more gray than brown, she crossed to the table
to check the amount of coffee remaining in the carafe. Shaking
her head upon discovering how little was left, she said briskly,
"I'll bring you both some more coffee too. Can I get you
anything else, Agent Scully?"
"No. Thank you," Scully replied politely. "Everything
is fine. You have a lovely place here."
The woman's homely face split with a grin. "Why,
thank you. I appreciate that. It's a lot of work, but I enjoy it."
"Believe me, we appreciate your letting us stay,"
Mulder assured her with a small smile. "I know that Kathy
said you weren't officially opening for another couple of weeks
yet. If you don't mind my asking, what kind of people do you
normally have staying out this way?"
The twinkle in Ginny's warm brown eyes told the
agents that she had been asked that question before. "Well, I
know it doesn't look as if there's much out in this neck of
the woods. But, you'd be surprised. We've got a real pretty
stretch of hiking trail that winds through the wetlands preserve
about three miles north of here. That brings in a lot of
bird watchers, walkers, that sort of thing. And the river you
drove over just before the turn-off into my place is popular
with floaters, canoeists. So, when the weather turns warmer, I
get my fair share of them too. Then, of course, I get some of
Reverend Weaver's people from time to time."
"You mean people come from out of town to attend
Reverend Weaver's services?" Scully asked in some surprise.
A dry smile crossed Ginny's lips. "Oh, folks come from
all over to hear ol' Andy Weaver preach. He's quite a celebrity
in these parts."
Mulder matched her smile. "It sounds as if perhaps
you don't share their enthusiasm, Mrs. Barker."
"Call me Ginny," she instructed with a playful wave
of her hand. "Even after 30 years of marriage I never did get
over the need to look around for my husband's mother every
time I heard that name."
Scully's lips curved. "Have you ever been to one of
Reverend Weaver's services yourself, Ginny?"
The woman shook her head, a bemused look in her eye.
"'Fraid not, Agent Scully. I was born and raised a God-fearing
Methodist. We don't go in for all that holy-roller stuff."
Mulder's smile broadened. Scully could tell he was
getting a kick out of Ginny's disdain for the object of their
investigation. "The Reverend gets kind of theatrical, does he?"
he asked mildly.
The big woman's lips pursed. "Well, like I said, I've
never actually set foot in the Reverend's church, so I don't
know for certain. But from what I hear, yeah--you go to church
at Christ's Mercy and you see quite a show."
Scully nodded thoughtfully, hesitating a moment before
she spoke. "Have you heard anything else regarding the
Reverend? Any stories circulating as to this trouble with the
Halprin brothers and their bar?"
Ginny snorted and shook her head. "Now there's a
pack of trouble if ever I saw it."
"The Halprins?" Mulder inquired.
"Them and that Roy Cullins," Ginny confirmed with a
nod, warming to her subject now, resting her hands on the back
of one of the table's ladder back chairs, and leaning in towards
her two guests. "Those boys are from around here, you know.
I've known them since they were in kindergarten. Terry was in
my boy, Bill's, class. And let me tell you, those three--Mark,
Terry, and Roy--they were wild from the get-go."
Scully frowned, and began leafing through the sheaves
of paper before her. "Were they ever in trouble with the law?"
Ginny shook her head. "Nothing serious that I know of.
Though I wouldn't be surprised if they had their share of speeding
tickets and the occasional night in the drunk tank on their records.
But, no. I never thought of those boys as criminals. They just
liked to have a good time."
"Which is why they opened Backroads?" Mulder asked
before taking another sip of his coffee.
"Well, I'm not a mind reader," Ginny reminded the agents
with a small smile, her hands held out before her as if to say 'take
this with a grain of salt.' "But, it seems to me that for three young
fellas who spent every Friday and Saturday night of their adult
lives drinkin' and shootin' pool, the ideal business would be to
open up a place of their own."
"Is it successful?" Scully asked, having begun to jot
down notes on the legal pad before her.
"Far as I know. I'm not a drinker, myself," Ginny told
them with a wink. "It's that Methodist upbringing, don't you
know. But, from what I've been told, Backroads is jumping on
the weekends. Or was, until all of this."
"All =what= exactly?" Mulder prodded.
"Reverend Weaver's crusade," Ginny said simply,
scooping up the nearly empty carafe, and preparing to return to
her kitchen. "He and his parishioners have been determined to
shut the place down."
* * * * * * * *
"Oh yeah, Reverend Weaver has been on the proverbial
mission from God over Backroads."
Fox Mulder leaned against the battered wooden desk
facing Sheriff Steve Lowry's newer metal one and crossed his
arms solidly against his chest.
He did not like young Sheriff Lowry.
Of course he had to admit, even before he had met the
man he was prejudiced. It wasn't fair, he knew. But, Mulder
found it awfully hard to keep an open mind about a law
enforcement professional who had turned to a relative with
political connections the minute things got a little rocky. He
looked at Lowry measuringly, wondering why the sheriff had
believed himself ill-equipped to handle the conflicts apparently
rocking his community. Surely, he wasn't under the delusion
that he was physically incapable of handling the task. Lowry
was big; built like the former fullback he was. He had probably
a couple of inches on Mulder's own more slender frame, and at
least thirty more pounds. Sandy brown hair styled in that bristle
cut that Keanu Reeves had made fashionable in "Speed" crowned
a head complete with bright blue eyes, a lantern jaw and cleft chin.
The man practically had "All-American" stamped on his forehead
the same way a penny was imprinted with "In God We Trust,"
Mulder mused darkly.
But, it wasn't Lowry's frat boy good looks that sealed
Mulder's opinion of the small town sheriff.
It was the way the young, former football star was ogling
his partner.
From the moment the two agents had entered the County
Sheriff's office, Lowry had been letting his eyes drift speculatively
down Scully's body, skimming over the curves covered by her navy
blue linen suit, and settling with obvious male appreciation on the
swell of her hip.
It was all Mulder could do to keep from decking the guy.
For her part, Scully appeared oblivious to the sheriff's
interest. Presently, she stood beside him, her nose buried in yet
another file. Apparently, she had meant it when she had told
Mulder she felt as if she needed to play catch-up.
"What exactly have the Reverend and his people been
doing to get the place shut down?" she asked, finally lifting her
eyes to gaze at Lowry intently.
The sheriff shrugged, then offered the redheaded agent
his very best smile. "Well, at first Weaver directed his attack
from the pulpit. You know, lots of sermons about demon rum
and the sins of the flesh."
"Did people listen?" Scully asked mildly.
Lowry tilted his head noncommittally. "Some. You've
got to understand, Agent Scully. This is a real funny part of the
country. On the one hand, you're standing right on the
northern edge of the Bible Belt. The church plays a real
important role in the lives of the people around here. Why,
in this county alone we've got everything from Lutherans to
Southern Baptists to Pentecostals."
"And on the other hand, Sheriff?" Mulder drawled,
dragging his eyes from the wall of photographs which lay
behindthe sheriff's desk chronicling the man's gridiron career
to pin him with his gaze.
Lowry's brow furrowed in confusion for a moment.
Mulder suspected that the thinly veiled animosity he harbored
for the man was no doubt the cause of the sheriff's befuddlement.
And yet, the agent felt little guilt. The man was encroaching on
his partner. And that just wouldn't do.
Apparently unable to put his finger on what exactly was
prompting Mulder's less than kindly stare, Lowry gave up his
momentary contemplation of the matter, and decided to instead
forge on, a sheepish grin in place. "*On the other hand,* folks
around here like to blow off a little steam after putting in a day's
work. Just like anywhere, I expect. This is mostly farm country.
Men finish a hard day in the field, they like to come into town and
share a beer with their friends, talk over the weather, feed prices,
whatever. Besides, let's face it--there isn't much else to do around
here. Pine Grove's three bars get plenty of business."
"Three bars?" Mulder asked in surprise.
Lowry nodded. "Three if you count Backroads.
Although it is technically outside the city limits."
Scully cocked her head. "So why target Backroads?
Is Reverend Weaver also trying to close the other two places?"
The sheriff turned once more to the petite redhead
beside him, seemingly much happier to direct his focus to her
intense blue eyes than to her partner's stony hazel ones. "Not
that I know of. He never seemed to pay much attention to them
at all."
"So why pick on the Halprins? Did they have some
kind of history with Weaver?" Mulder asked, moodily eyeing
the way Lowry leaned in to Scully, almost as if he were getting
ready to whisper something not at all professional in her ear.
Lowry straightened again at the male agent's tone.
"Well, that's what folks wondered. Rumor was the whole thing
started because of Kimberly."
"Reverend Weaver's daughter?" Scully queried.
"Yeah," Lowry confirmed shortly. "Kim was a good kid.
But she had a bit of a wild streak."
"So what--are you saying she took to hanging out at
Backroads?" Mulder asked a bit impatiently, longing to just get
the information they needed and then get out of there. Lowry
wasn't telling them much more than Ginny Barker had been
able to impart. Mostly just hearsay and gossip. Mulder wanted
to interview the actual suspects in this case. If they could get
the sheriff to move it along, he hoped to get over to the Church
of Christ's Mercy before the day was done and talk to the
Reverend himself, or perhaps visit the families of Mark Halprin
and Roy Cullins. Anything, rather than just standing around
chewing the fat with this Howie Long look-alike. But, Scully
didn't seem to be in any great hurry. Perhaps, she believed
that the sheriff might actually have some pertinent information
to share.
Surely, she wasn't lingering because she enjoyed
Lowry's attention.
"From what I know of the situation, yeah," Lowry
retorted, the edge in his voice suggesting he was getting a bit
tired of Mulder's less than friendly attitude. "We've had a
problem with Backroads letting in underage patrons. We'd
sweep the place from time to time, talk to Terry and Mark, but
you know how it is. We had bigger things to worry about
than a few kids sneaking a couple of beers before their
twenty-first birthdays."
"Oh, yeah. I imagine this place is a regular *hotbed*
of crime," Mulder murmured, his eyes daring the sheriff to
convince him such a statement had even a grain of truth to it.
The agent's disdainful challenge was, for the sheriff,
the last straw. Having finally reached his limit of tolerance,
Lowry bristled as sharply as his hair. "Listen, Agent Mulder--
I've got a handful of men trying to patrol an entire county here.
A county filled with roads that aren't even on the map and plenty
of wide open spaces. We've got a hell of a lot of area to cover.
And my men and I do our jobs with only a fraction of the
resources you feds take for granted. So don't try to tell me--"
"Sheriff Lowry," Scully said, smoothly cutting into his
tirade, and stepping forward to neatly insert herself between the
two men whose testosterone levels had somehow inexplicably
spiked. "If we go with the assumption that Reverend Weaver was
intent on closing Backroads to keep his daughter from frequenting
there, how did he go about it?"
Lowry glared at Mulder for a good second or two more.
Mulder met his eyes, the agent's gaze frankly amused. Although
Lowry might have the physical edge on him, Mulder thought he
was more than capable of holding his own against the sheriff in
a battle of wits. The thought cheered him immeasureably.
Lowry cleared his throat, paused a moment, getting
himself under control, then continued. "Well, like I said, first
he just preached about it. Told his people to stay away from
the place. Then, first thing you know, signs started appearing
all over town. Posters tacked to anything that wasn't moving.
But it didn't all come to a head until the picketing."
"Picketing?" Mulder questioned, unable to keep a
chuckle from coloring the query.
Lowry wasn't prepared to let go of his glower just yet.
"Yeah. Picketing. Every weekend, Weaver would show up
with a van load of people out at Backroads. If he could get
enough of them together, they'd make an appearance during
the week too. They never really did anything, just stood
around outside with signs and bibles and asked the folks
going in to reconsider the error of their ways. Kinda like the
sort of thing you see done outside of abortion clinics. It got
nasty from time to time, though. We had to break up more
than a couple of fights."
Mulder shook his head, clearly amused. "How long
did this go on?"
The sheriff shrugged. "I don't know. Since March.
Maybe even the end of February."
Scully flipped through the legal pad she had earlier
set on Lowry's desk. "And Kimberly Weaver died . . .?"
"March twenty-seventh," Lowry supplied smoothly.
"Mark Halprin died almost a month later to the date, April
twenty-fifth. Roy Cullins died a week after that."
"May third," Scully murmured, her brow creased in
thought as she considered the information before her, looking
as if she were trying to put together a sort of timetable for the
supposed crimes. Lowry took advantage of her absorption,
and leaned in to peer over her shoulder in a move designed to
appear as if he wanted to get take a peek at her notes himself,
but in reality, Mulder recognized, served to surreptiously give
the sheriff a commanding view down the front of the
unsuspecting woman's blouse. The thought made something
grow heavy and hard low in Mulder's stomach. And so, feeling
as if he really just had to say *something*, the agent opened
his mouth to protest Lowry's tactics. Yet, while Scully's
concentration was focused on something other than the tall,
wide-shouldered man towering over her, she wasn't comatose.
And before her partner could ride to the rescue with one of
his patented cutting remarks, she merely glanced at Lowry
with a mild yet far from gentle expression, a brow arched. To
his credit, the sheriff took the subtle hint, and eased off.
Mulder smiled in open satisfaction.
"Is the Reverend still at it?" Mulder inquired, crossing
to stand beside his partner, wanting for some undefineable reason
to reaffirm their connection to Sheriff Lowry. To in some small
way warn the other man away.
Apparently, the message got through. Lowry took a
step back. Scully's bemused gaze swung first from the
lean, lanky dark-haired man on her left to the taller, brawnier
man on her right, then back again.
In reply to his partner's unspoken query, Mulder merely
offered her his blandest, most innocent face. He wasn't certain
it worked. But in the end, Scully decided to let the moment pass.
It was all Mulder could do not to sigh with relief.
Noting the silent communication between the two
agents and yet unable to read what specifically was being said,
Lowry hesitated for a moment. Then, offering a pained smile, he
continued. "No need to keep at it. Reverend Weaver did what
he set out to do. Backroads is in trouble. Not that Terry Halprin
is worried about that right now though. Hell--let's face it--pouring
a few less drinks on a Saturday night is the last thing on his mind.
His brother and best friend are dead, and he's scared shitless
that the same thing is going to happen to him. Oh--sorry, Agent
Scully."
"Don't worry about it," she murmured with a tiny smile.
"Scared of what exactly?" Mulder asked, catching his
partner's eyes with his own, and mirroring her smile. "That
Reverend Weaver is coming after him next?"
Lowry ducked his head as if acknowledging the
absurdity of what he was about to say. "You smile now, Agent
Mulder. But you may not find the idea so far-fetched once you
meet the man."
* * * * * * * *
Mulder would have given anything to learn that day
if Lowry's assessment of Pine Grove's resident celebrity was
accurate.
Alas, it was not to be.
Instead, at the end of one of the most tedious days in
recent memory, the FBI's best known believer sat, a mound of
pillows cushioning his back, against the headboard of his
sturdy mahogany four poster and moodily popped another
sunflower seed into his mouth, unable to believe his and his
partner's recent string of bad luck.
The whole trip felt cursed.
With narrowed eyes, he worried the seed with his tongue
and studied the meager collection of notes he had struggled that
day to collect. God, he and Scully would have had better luck
interviewing those directly involved with the case from their
basement office in the J. Edgar Hoover Building than they
were having in Pine Grove, Missouri.
Soon after Sheriff Lowry had made his enigmatic
comment regarding the Reverend and his supposed abilities,
Mulder and Scully had separated for the day. Scully had accepted
Lowry's offer to drive her to Jefferson City where the bodies of
the deceased were awaiting her perusal, thus allowing Mulder
to keep their car and begin his half of the investigation in town.
Unfortunately, the people he most wanted to talk to
failed to hold up their end of the bargain. Try though he might,
Mulder was unable to make contact with any of the people on
his "most wanted" list.
Reverend Weaver was in Springfield speaking at
Southwest Missouri State University.
Terry Halprin was in Columbia meeting with the bank
that held the mortgage on Backroads.
Mrs. Cullins, Roy's mother and only living family
member, was visiting friends in Florida.
Stymied, Mulder had been forced to improvise. Sticking
out like a heron among sparrows, he had roamed the half a dozen
blocks which constituted beautiful downtown Pine Grove,
questioning the locals, and trying to get a feel for the town and
its most famous citizen.
It had not proven to be the most enlightening afternoon
of his life.
Now, with the clock inching towards 9:00, and his
impatience with the case in general and that day in specific
growing exponentially with every tick-tock, he yearned to
share his frustration with his absent partner.
Where the hell was she?
Not that he begrudged her the time spent in the
autopsy bay. Scully had been thrilled to learn she was going to
be able to get a look at the bodies of the supposed victims.
When it came to using her medical expertise to hunt for clues,
his physician partner was more than in her element. Mulder
envied her that. At least Scully got to do what she did best
to help move the investigation along. By contrast, he felt as
if he had spent the day slogging in an ever narrowing circle
through mud.
From outside his half opened window he heard a car
pull up. He pushed himself from the bed and crossed to
investigate, spitting out the husk of the sunflower seed into
the room's wicker trash basket as he passed it. He peered through
white eyelet lace curtains and spied the county sheriff's tan
sedan. Although night had fallen thickly on the Missouri sky,
the porch light was bright enough to highlight Scully's hair as
she raised her hand in farewell, then turned to climb the steps
leading to Twin Orchards' entrance. Good. She was back.
Mulder felt something ease in the center of his chest.
He returned to his previous resting spot on the bed.
Half-heartedly scanning the pages before him, he heard Scully
climb the stairs to the second floor, the click of her door, her
light tread across the floorboards in her room. They were
lodged at the end of a long hallway, in chambers separated
by a bathroom they both shared. Ginny had apologized for
the inconvenience, and explained that with over two weeks
before she had planned on officially opening the inn for that
season, she had decided to do a little sprucing up of the bed
and breakfast's accommodations. She had managed to get the
two rooms in which they were presently staying completed,
but the rest of the floor was still in the midst of redecorating.
He waited, wrestling with his restlessness for Scully
to come to him. Eventually, she did, her soft knock at what
Mulder thought of as his bathroom door alerting him to her
presence.
"Come on in."
A tired smile on her face, Scully crossed into the room,
her suit jacket off, her blouse untucked, the top button freed
from its hole, her feet bare.
"Hi."
He smiled back at her. She looked exhausted. Rubbing
the back of her neck wearily, she surveyed the oddly ordered
chaos of papers and files that littered the comforter upon which
he sat. Shaking her head in bemusement, she padded softly over
to perch on the side of his bed, even with his knees, and reached
up to undo her hair which was secured at the base of her neck in
a low ponytail.
The whole thing struck Mulder as almost astonishing
intimate.
He glanced away from her for an instant, touched by
just the smallest amount of chagrin, unable to escape the
sensation that the opportunity to see his partner in this manner
--her clothes disheveled, somewhere between dressed and not;
her movements languid with fatigue; her face thoughtful;
her gaze soft--was something he wasn't meant to view. And yet,
at the same time, was exactly how he longed to see her.
"How'd it go?" he asked in an effort to cover his
strangely unsettling thoughts, pleased when his voice failed
to betray him.
She shrugged. "I had a few surprises."
"Such as?"
"Such as I had only two bodies to look at instead of
three."
Mulder arched a brow in question.
Scully raised hers as if silently answering him. "It seems
that Reverend Weaver decided to have his daughter's body
cremated. The funny thing is he came to this decision nearly a
month after her death."
* * * * * * * *
Continued in Part III
===========================================================================
From: krasch@delphi.com
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: *NEW* "No Greater Love" (3/13) by K. Rasch
Date: Mon, 3 Jun 96 05:17:28 -0500
"No Greater Love" (3/13)
By Karen Rasch
krasch@delphi.com
More story. Thanks!
================================================
"He had the body cremated?"
Scully nodded, wishing she weren't quite so exhausted
and thus could better appreciate the look of utter incredulity
currently gracing her partner's face.
"That's right. On April 26, Reverend Weaver put in a
request to have his daughter's body exhumed. Within the week,
her remains were returned to Berrier Brothers Funeral Home, the
place where she was originally prepared for burial, and promptly
cremated."
Mulder's gaze darkened with frustration. "Well, there
goes =that= lead. I don't suppose you were given any
explanation as to the Reverend's sudden change of heart?"
Scully shook her head. "No, I have no idea why. I
inquired at the morgue, but no one had any answers for me.
In fact, nobody seemed to know anything about it, period. Not
Gerald Perkins, the County Coroner and M.E. of record, and not
Sheriff Lowry. Although, to be honest, I don't know why any of
this should surprise me. After all, these are the same people
who believed the destruction of Kimberly Weaver's remains
wasn't important enough to mention in the paperwork they faxed
over to us in the first place."
Although she appreciated the sympathetic grimace
Mulder was at that moment sending her way, it did little to
alleviate the annoyance and disappointment that had coursed
through her veins since learning of this latest stumbling block
early that afternoon. Damn it! She had thought she was going
to be able to get at a look at the bodies of all the so-called victims.
But, because of the suspicious yet entirely legal actions of their
chief suspect, that avenue of investigation had been compromised.
Scully knew with a sort of intuition she normally associated with
Mulder that Kimberly Weaver's body had held secrets.
Information which would have shed some much needed light on
their case; a theory that was more than substantiated when she
took into account what she had learned from the remains of Mark
Halprin and Roy Cullins.
"Any other surprises?" Mulder asked glumly.
Scully tucked a leg beneath her, and cocked a brow.
"One or two. And these I think you're going to love, Mulder."
"Good, I could use a little cheering up," he murmured
wryly, his lower lip poked forward just a bit for effect.
She smiled at his assumed peevishness, more than
appreciating the sentiment. It had not been an easy day. For
either of them, she suspected. Her lower back might feel as if
sometime during the hours spent standing on the morgue's
unforgiving tile floor a stainless steel spike had been driven into
it, but Mulder looked as if their hours apart had been no kinder to
him. He sat facing her, his long legs pressing into her hip, dressed
in the remains of his slate colored suit. The jacket, tie and shoes
were missing. Only the white dress shirt, carelessly unbuttoned
at his throat, and creased gray slacks remained, both undeniably
the worse for wear, wrinkled in a way only the dry cleaners could
repair. Her partner's usually intense hazel eyes were a less than
attractive combination of sleep-tinged and red-rimmed. The
latter apparently the result of trying to rub the former away.
His hands had also seemingly found their way into his hair,
strands of which presently poked skyward at strangely
endearing angles.
All in all, Mulder looked like a little boy who had
played too hard and was now way too tired to go to sleep.
Smiling in sudden surprise at the unnerving trend her
thoughts were taking, Scully looked away from the man opposite
her, feigning interest in the delicate stitching woven into the
comforter upon which she sat. Taking a deep breath, she
resolutely pushed aside her exhaustion and the peculiar effect
her rumpled partner was having on her, striving instead to
remember with precision what she had intended to share with
Mulder when she had first entered his room. Finally, raising her
eyes once more, she plunged in. "Although both Cullins and
Halprin appear to have indeed died in the manner in which the
coroner reported, I did find some irregularities."
Mulder's interest piqued immediately. He leaned
forward slightly, his gaze intent. "What sort of irregularities?"
She shrugged slightly. "I've never seen anything like
it. And to be completely frank, I'm not at all sure I can explain it."
"Sounds like an X-File," he said with the smallest hint
of a smile, the weariness that had only moments before clouded
his eyes lifting ever so slightly. "Run it by me, Scully."
Her eyes smiled back in reaction to his enthusiasm.
"What do you know about coronaries?"
"Other than this job will likely give me one? Not
much."
Her appreciation of his humor reached her lips.
"Heart disease is genetic, Mulder. Most sufferers uncover a
history of the disorder in their family."
"Not so with Mark Halprin?" he guessed.
"No. Not a trace of it," she confirmed with a quick
shake of her head. "Now, that in and of itself is not tremendously
unusual. After all, it wouldn't be beyond the realm of possibility
for a distant relative to perhaps be afflicted with the disease.
Someone whose medical history wouldn't readily have made its
way into his file."
Mulder nodded his understanding.
"However, this supposed cause of death does become
a trifle more odd when you take into consideration the man's age
and physical condition. Halprin would have turned 35 this year.
He didn't smoke. He was a cross country runner, and according
to his brother Terry, a swimmer as well. A man in excellent shape."
Humor twinkled in her partner's eyes. "Are you trying
to tell me I should worry, Scully?"
She shook her head, a subtle smile still curving her lips.
"Not at all. Under normal circumstances, Mark Halprin would
not have been considered a likely candidate for a heart attack."
"Normal circumstances?"
She dipped her head. "That's just it--when I opened
him up what I found was far from normal."
"How do you mean?"
"A heart attack can occur in a number of ways.
Usually, however, some sort of clogging of the arteries will be
evident--plaque or clotting of some kind."
"Let me guess--Halprin's were as clean as a whistle."
"Good guess. But that wasn't what was *really* strange."
The corner of Mulder's expressive mouth raised just a
fraction. "You know, I never thought of you as a tease, Scully,
but right about now--"
She arched a brow and gave him one of her trademarked
looks. "The heart looked beaten, Mulder."
"Beaten?" he echoed, his brow furrowed in confusion.
She nodded. "Most times, in cases such as Halprin's,
you'll find what is called a myocardial infarction--a bruising of the
heart. But, this usually occurs in one location. =One=. Halprin
had them all over his heart, almost as if the organ had been
pummeled. One of the ventricles was even ruptured."
Mulder didn't understand all the intricacies involved,
but he got the gist of it. "Any idea what would cause something
like that?"
She shook her head. "Not a clue. But it gets better."
"Scully, I just knew that sharing a bed with you would
make my day."
Her eyes widened, then sharply narrowed at his quip.
Mulder's only defense was his grin, which he employed
shamelessly. Luckily for him, his partner was too exhausted to do
more then gaze at him, thunderclouds intensifying the already
vivid blue of her eyes. Ultimately however, the threatening
storm dissipated before it reached fruition, blown aside by her
own reluctant bemusement at his sally. "Cullins' brain exploded."
Mulder blinked at her without comprehension. "Excuse
me?"
"My sentiments exactly," she murmured dryly. "Any
medical textbook will tell you that an aneurysm essentially
involves a weakened area of blood vessel, normally occurring
in the Circle of Willis."
"Okay," Mulder said, not really following her, but
willing to take her word for it. "So what--are you saying that
Cullins had some sort of a massive blowout of blood vessels?"
"No. That's just it. Cullins had =no= blood vessels
compromised. Not a single one. And yet, when I spread his
cranium, it was filled with blood."
The man sitting opposite her shuddered in distaste.
"How is that possible?"
"I wish I knew," she replied with a degree of apology.
Mulder's eyes slid away from hers for a moment, his
mind whirring. "Are there any kinds of drugs that could bring
about this sort of damage?"
"No."
"Could Halprin and Cullins' injuries have been inflicted
in any way from outside the body? Through a blow or wound of
some kind?"
She shrugged again, wishing she had some better
answers for him. "No, not that I know of. Besides, there were no
markings on the surface, no indication of any physical injury from
an outside source."
"And Weaver wasn't present at the deaths of either of
these two men?" Mulder asked softly, his question rhetorical;
his partner recognizing that his gaze had now turned inward,
centering on that place where his mind put together patterns
and theories faster than any other agent in the Bureau.
"No," Scully assured him, her fingers playing with the
barrette in her hands, the one that had held her thick fall of hair
away from her face while she had performed the examinations
they were discussing, and now served as a kind of worry-stone,
a tool of sorts to help channel and order her own jumbled thoughts.
"Not that we know of. Cullins died on the job--at Backroads--in
full view of a bar load of customers. No one was standing
anywhere near him, and Reverend Weaver and his picketers
weren't even on the premises that night."
"And Halprin died at home?"
"Mmhmm," Scully murmured, stifling a yawn behind her
hand. Lord, she was tired. The day had taken its toll. She
wondered if she would even feel the pillow beneath her weary
head before she nodded off. "Alone. The Reverend was at his
church at the time. Members of his congregation's bible study
class confirmed his alibi."
Mulder nodded, his brow still creased in thought, his
eyes focused on some point beyond Scully's shoulder, his teeth
gnawing restlessly on his lower lip.
The young redhead watched him patiently, intrigued as
always by the manner in which his brain did its job, wondering
just when all the little pieces of his latest theory would tumble
into place with an almost audible click, her equally agile mind
already composing counter-hypotheses.
"Scully, what if the whole God angle doesn't figure into
it at all? What if Weaver has some sort of psychokinetic ability?
What if he was able to kill Halprin and Cullins simply by
reaching into their bodies and causing them to short circuit?"
Scully stared at him dumbly. None of the theories
she had been busily constructing had quite taken into
consideration this angle. "Psychokinesis?"
Mulder's eyes gleamed. She knew that look. The man
believed he was on to something. "Sure. It makes sense. Not
only about these murders, but about his entire faith healer
shtick."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Think about it, Scully," he instructed as he leaned
towards her and shifted to sit cross-legged so that their knees
nearly touched. "Weaver has made a living out of curing the
sick and giving the credit to the Almighty. But what if all along
=he= was the one with the power? He was the one who was
going in and manipulating tissue, blood chemistry, whatever.
Hell, he may not even realize it himself. He could have some
highly developed sort of psychokinetic talent and not even be
aware of it."
"Mulder, the kind of psychic ability you're describing
is almost unimaginable in its power. Researchers studying
extrasensory perception become ecstatic when they discover
a subject who is able to bend a spoon, and yet you're
suggesting that Reverend Weaver has the power to alter at a
cellular level a person's physical being."
"Just because it's never been documented doesn't
mean it's not possible," Mulder reminded her swiftly.
Shaking her head, Scully continued relentlessly.
"It's not only the magnitude of the power necessary to
accomplish what you're proposing Weaver is able to, it's the
medical knowledge he would have to possess in order to do
what you believe he can do. He would have to have a
detailed understanding of the human body, its structure, the
workings of its various systems--"
"So, he's a medical buff," Mulder countered carelessly,
shrugging away her protests as if they were merely troublesome
gnats. "Maybe he got As in college biology, or subscribes to
the American Journal of Medicine. I don't know. Maybe, he
doesn't need to know the particulars in order for the changes
to take place. Perhaps all he has to do is focus on an area and
think 'good thoughts'."
Scully stared at the man before her for a moment,
chewing on the inside of her cheek, her expression vexed.
"Mulder, =think= what you're suggesting. We have no motive,
no evidence. And yet, you've jumped to a conclusion that's so
. . . . so . . =out there.= This explanation actually sounds
plausible to you?" she asked with more than a touch of disbelief.
"While you find it more believable to assert that
Weaver makes a living and does away with those who cross
him by asking God for favors?" Mulder countered mildly,
holding her gaze effortlessly with hazel eyes afire with
challenge.
Scully's own turbulent blue eyes clung to his with fierce
resolution, almost as if she thought that dropping them would
be admitting some kind of weakness, some sort of doubt
regarding both her theories and her own judgment. Finally
however, she raised her eyebrows and lightly shook her head,
her voice hushed and tightly controlled. "I never said that,
Mulder. I never said that I thought the Reverend was some sort
of avenging angel. And besides, precisely when did we decide
that not only had murder been committed, but that Weaver was
indeed our prime suspect?"
Mulder recognized that his rebuff had angered her,
and yet he wasn't quite prepared to let it all go. "You're the
one who came up with the proof, Scully. The one who
discovered that everything wasn't as cut and dried as we had
been led to believe."
"Mulder, what I found today proves =nothing=."
He persisted. "Then explain to me how Halprin and
Cullins' bodies came to be in the shape they're in."
"I can't!" she shot back at him, the stresses and strains
of the day fueling her frustration with her partner and his pig-
headedness, propelling her voice upwards in both volume and
tone. "You know that. I can't explain what exactly killed those
men anymore than you can to prove to me that Weaver did it by
thinking 'bad thoughts'!"
For a moment they simply glared at each other, both
breathing hard.
Finally, shrugging his shoulders as if trying to
physically banish the unexpectedly heated disagreement he
and his partner had both just shared, Mulder said in a tone
designed to placate, "Well, regardless of which theory is
eventually proven right, one thing is for certain."
Scully cocked her head, not meeting his eyes. "What?"
"The need for proof," he said shortly. "Neither theory
has any hope of becoming anything more without hard evidence."
"Which we are notably lacking," she agreed with a little
nod, now considering the man before her, the one that infuriated
and fascinated her, both in equal measure. Neither agent said
anything for a moment, instead mulling over all that had already
been said. Then, Scully ventured quietly, "So, what about you?
What did you learn today?"
Mulder smiled dryly. "Nothing quite so colorful, I
assure you. Although, the afternoon was *not* without its
revelations." He leaned over to the night stand and selected
another sunflower seed from the bag resting there, popping it
into his mouth, then offering one to Scully. She declined, even
as the tilt of her head invited him to continue. "For instance,
did you know that The Coffee Cup does a really excellent BLT?"
Only Mulder had the power to make her emotions turn
so sharply on a dime, Scully thought with a rueful twinge of
self-knowledge. Not a moment before she had wanted to throttle
him, both for his flights of fancy and for the almost spooky talent
he had for getting under her skin when he put his mind to it. But
that desire had passed, just as it had so many times before. Oh,
he had struck a nerve with his jab over her willingness to believe
in miracles. But the attack hadn't been malicious. She knew that.
It was just hard to remember it sometimes when he hit that close
to home. Now, however, his bizarre sense of humor had kicked in.
And, as a result, the corner of her lips quirked. "Why no, I
hadn't realized that." she murmured, gazing at him with a raised
brow. "Thank you, Mulder. That's good to know."
He nodded, a healthy dose of self-deprecating humor
lighting his eyes. "Especially since The Coffee Cup is Pine
Grove's one and only restaurant."
"So, are you trying to tell me that lunch was the
highlight of your day, Mulder?"
He dipped his head again. "Sad, but true."
Scully smiled in sympathy. "I take it the locals were not
forthcoming?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he countered, even as the look
in his eyes assured her that was =precisely= what he would say.
"They were more than willing to tell me that Kimberly Weaver
was a nice girl. A good girl. A credit to her father and her
community, and a person who is sorely missed."
She chuckled over his sing-song recitation. "Shocking.
What did you learn about the Reverend?"
"Oh, nothing quite as juicy as I learned about his
daughter," Mulder assured her with heavy irony, bending down
to spit out the seed shell with a sharpshooter's accuracy into the
waste basket beside the bed. "Although I did find out that people
seem to respect him and this 'gift' he has. Nearly everyone I spoke
with had some story they had either witnessed themselves or had
heard regarding Weaver's healing ability."
"You weren't able to track down the Reverend himself?"
"I tried," Mulder protested, with an exasperated flailing
of hands. "But Weaver skipped town with the rest of this case's
principal players."
He quickly filled her in as to the whereabouts of Weaver,
Halprin, and the rest of their absent interviewees. She smiled her
condolences, and lightly patted his calf in comfort. "Well, as
Scarlett O'Hara said, 'tomorrow is another day'."
Mulder looked at the hand resting atop his pants' leg for
a beat before meeting his partner's sleepy blue eyes. "You expect
me to be cheered by the words of a woman who made her living
room curtains double as evening wear?" he murmured with a dry
smile. "No. As with everything in this case, I'm afraid it's not
that easy, Scully. True, if all things go according to plan, we'll
finally get our opportunity to speak with the elusive Reverend--a
man who, may I say, is turning out to be as mythical as your
two brothers. But, first we're going to have to sit through an
hour or two of the PTL Club Live. I'm not so sure it's an even
trade."
"Well then, we better get our rest," she said with a small
smile as she rose from the bed and crossed to the connecting
door. However, once she reached the portal, Scully paused, her
hand on the knob, her body turned only slightly towards the man
on the bed. "Mulder, these people you spoke with today--
you said they seemed to respect Weaver's supposed gift. But . . .
did you find that most of them believed in it?" she asked
hesitantly, her eyes not quite meeting his.
He shrugged, a bit uncomfortable with the direction
in which the conversation was headed. "Well, it's not as if I
was with Gallup, Scully. My poll was informal at best."
"I know," she said with a little nod, her gaze still not
engaging his directly, her hands once again busy with her
barrette. "But, I'm curious. What did people say?"
He couldn't lie to her, although saying the words didn't
come easily. "Most people bought it. The whole routine. It
appears that Ginny is in the minority. Most of the people I
spoke with thought that Reverend Andrew Weaver was the real
McCoy. A genuine holy man."
Scully nodded, saying nothing.
"Does that matter?" he asked, his intent gaze revealing
how much her answer mattered to him.
She waited a moment before replying, almost as if
weighing her words. "No. No, not at all. Like I told you, I'm
curious, that's all."
He nodded, studying her shuttered face.
For a moment they said nothing.
"Go to sleep, Scully," he told her quietly after their eyes
had silently asked all the questions hanging in the air between
them only to find the answers no less elusive than before.
She nodded once more but still made no move to leave
the room. Finally, she spoke. "Mulder, I'm okay with this. You
know? I don't want you to think--"
"I know that, Scully," he said swiftly, softly, cutting
through her assurances to him with a ruthlessness that illustrated
how unnecessary he believed them to be. "I'm not worried. I
never doubt your abilities. Never."
"Good," she said, her voice low, her eyes fierce. "I
just wanted you to know."
"I do," he said without hesitation, leaning forward once
more, almost as if his body were drawn to her somehow even
without him being consciously aware of it. "I know I can count
on you."
She smiled, quick and tight, and exited, shutting the door
carefully behind her.
Mulder sat for a good long time after she had left him,
staring at the wall separating their rooms and wondering about
all the things he and his partner never said.
* * * * * * * *
Continued in Part IV
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