Mulder had known that Scully would be less than enthused at news of a new informant. He hadn’t entirely realized how much less.
“We shouldn’t pursue this,” she said that night at their apartment, already prepared for bed in a tank top and leggings, a steaming cup of herbal tea (bag tag still dangling) forgotten on the side table. “Let it go. Don’t start down this path again.”
“I didn’t start it, remember?” Mulder had been here so many times—on the edge of the abyss, beckoning her forward. Sometimes the abyss had claimed them…but not always. “Listen. I realize we’ve received uneven intel in the past—”
“We’ve been lied to, set up—”
“And sometimes we’ve been steered in the right direction. More than once, an informant has saved our lives.”
Scully took a deep breath, and her gaze became distant—signs that she was weighing pros and cons, thinking everything through before she spoke. Mulder had gotten much better at reading her face through the years, but she still held a certain mystery. He loved and rued this quality in equal measure.
Finally she said, “Returning to the X-Files carries certain risks. Another approach by another informant…well, it makes me realize how immediate those risks are. And it’s one more person in our orbit that we can’t be sure whether or not to trust.”
“I hear you. But if the Syndicate is still out there—or, rather, if this group of ‘Inheritors’ is picking up where the Syndicate left off—we need to know that, and we need someone on the inside.”
“Assuming this Avatar character is on the inside.” Scully sighed. “We have only her word for it. We can’t assess evidence, because there is none to examine.”
“How are we supposed to get evidence without talking to her?”
She considered that for a long moment before answering, “We have to learn from observation. I only hope that observation doesn’t get one of us killed.”
“I’ll withhold judgment,” Mulder promised. He knew he could be too quick to believe would-be informants who told him what he wanted to hear—but he had at long last learned caution.
Well. Some caution.
Meanwhile, at FBI headquarters, many departments had shut down for the night. Assistant Director Morrison nodded farewell to her assistant before going to the elevator, where several personnel were waiting for the next car going down. Morrison pushed the UP arrow, and when her elevator arrived, she entered alone.
This higher floor of the building housed some of the high-profile executive offices; even in public service, more clout got you more of a view. Morrison did not walk toward any of these rooms. Instead she made her way through a lesser-used corridor, then to one she hadn’t even known existed until a few months prior. Here were more executive offices…those not known nearly so well to those beyond the reaches of power. The quiet in this area was such that Morrison found herself newly, sharply aware of the whirring of the building’s air-conditioning system, of the click-clack of her heels on the hard floor, of the faint echo that accompanied her knock on the door.
“AD Morrison,” said a deep masculine voice. It was not a question. Perhaps Morrison had been visible via security cameras. “Please enter.”
She walked in to see a man approximately her own age, tall and pale, with salt-and-pepper hair. His hands were steepled in front of him on his broad mahogany desk, which drew her attention to his very long fingers. “Good evening, sir.”
He appeared to be done with pleasantries. “I understand that Agents Mulder and Scully were recalled to this office today.”
“Yes, sir.” Morrison remained expressionless. Long Fingers wasn’t the only one who could look inscrutable.
“But you had already given them information regarding the murder at Omega Hospital.”
“They continue their investigations into that matter. However, another case seemed to merit their immediate attention.” She cocked her head, as though she were the one questioning him. “After all, if they are to be allowed to return to the Bureau—with access to all FBI resources—we must assess them thoroughly.”
“Which other case did you give them, AD Morrison?”
She wished she had thought of a better title for these, or at least assigned a geographical name, however inaccurate. As it stood, however, she could only call them: “The shadow murders.”
Long Fingers sat up straight. Under different circumstances, Morrison might have taken pleasure in disconcerting him. “Why that case?”
“Why not that case?”
“If you have to be told the answer to that question, then I’ve over-estimated your capabilities.”
That stung. “I realize there are…sensitive aspects to these crimes. However, it remains an active serial killer investigation. Aside from any abnormal elements at play, Agent Mulder remains one of the most legendary profilers in FBI history. He’d be the best person to have on the case even if there were no unexplained phenomena involved.”
Long Fingers didn’t seem to have a rebuttal ready for that, but his tone remained stern. “You haven’t been fool enough to tell him about Mística, have you?”
Affronted, Morrison said, “I should hope not. That would be a step too far.”
“More than a step,” said Long Fingers. The warning was clear. Morrison needed to be even more careful about dealing with Fox Mulder, lest someone decided it was time to deal with her.
TAFT MEMORIAL
BOWIE, MARYLAND
Mulder had promised Scully that he wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. Hopefully, checking on the welfare of Walter Skinner didn’t fall into that category.
But you still haven’t told her about this, Mulder acknowledged to himself as he walked through the doors of the care facility. Even though her medical knowledge would be enormously valuable. Hell, Scully would probably insist on being here if she knew.
However, she did not know. At this point, Mulder wasn’t hiding the visits from her as much as he was hiding his own deception. This was not a useful road to go down, as he knew from hard experience, and yet it was also a hard road to turn away from, once begun.
Just before he reached Skinner’s room, he saw Casey, the nurse, approaching him, an odd expression on their face. “Casey?” Mulder said. “Is anything wrong with Skinner?” But a glance through the room window showed Skinner lying in bed, precisely as before, monitors blinking and beeping with vital signs instead of shrieking in alarm.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Casey said, in a tone of voice that conveyed the exact opposite. “But something—something’s different.”
“What do you mean?”
Casey flipped through the charts in their grasp. “I just sent all this to Dr. Wilhite. Walter’s vital signs are all healthy—well within norms. But they’re not his old norms. See, look at his blood pressure. The rest of the time he’s been here, he’s registered around one-fifteen over eighty, on the higher side of healthy. Now it’s about ninety-five over sixty-five, still healthy, but almost low.”
Mulder really wished he had Scully with him. “Is this not a thing that happens with coma patients?”
Casey shook their head. “Sometimes sharp fluctuations can signal changes in a patient’s condition, even hint at a potential awakening, but this isn’t that. It just…switched, overnight. Also, I tested his reflexes—a common element of ongoing care—and suddenly he has much stronger reactions than before.”
“Nurse Spradlin.” The authoritative voice ringing through the corridor was Dr. Wilhite’s. He came forward, smiling evenly, but with a hint of steel behind his expression. “There are HIPAA violations, and there are HIPAA violations. And then there’s this. Do you understand the potential consequences of revealing confidential patient information to an unauthorized party?”
Casey’s cheeks flushed red. “I’m sorry, Dr. Wilhite. Mr. Mulder—in effect, he’s next of kin—”
“I realize that, which is why we’re having this conversation,” Wilhite said. “Otherwise, you’d be turning in your credentials to HR. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Of course not, sir.” Casey cast a glance back at Mulder—apologetic? afraid? It was hard to say. But the nurse hurried off, grateful to escape. Dr. Wilhite gave Mulder a short nod before going on his way.
There was nothing left for Mulder to do other than go into Skinner’s room and sit by his bedside for a few minutes. Casey said Skinner could potentially hear him, so he tried to find something to say. What came to mind: “Wilhite had every reason to object. Legally, he probably had to. That’s probably all that was.”
And yet Mulder didn’t quite believe his own words.
MÍSTICA, ARIZONA
A small gas fireplace burned in the center of the circle, small blue flames flickering. Those who had come here for healing sat all around it, meditating on the uneven light.
Cherish Craddock—wearing a thin white slip dress, various crystals on many chains around her neck, and no shoes—padded softly around the outer circumference of the circle. “You have all come here carrying burdens,” she said. Through long practice, she had learned how to pitch her voice to sound sonorous and inviting, rather than either dull or overtly sexual. It was all about finding balance. “You’ve shared some of them with the group. A few of you have shared yours with me privately. And no doubt there are even more unspoken burdens that you don’t want to admit to the group, or to me, or maybe even to yourselves.”
One of the seekers’ heads drooped, an unwitting acknowledgment of that privately borne pain. Craddock made a mental note to speak to them at some length later on, perhaps just after their immersion in the sensory-deprivation tank.
“You’ve come here,” she continued, “to lay those burdens down. But first you have to learn how to lay burdens down. Because I think some of you don’t have any clue where to start!”
As Craddock had hoped, that made several of them grin, and a few even laughed. It was possible, after all, to lay on the sacredness too thickly. Make the mystical real, tactile, approachable—and that was her job half done.
She nodded to her assistants, who walked out carrying trays with several small cups of tea.…Well, not really. But people would be more likely to drink deeply if they thought the beverage she was offering was something familiar.
“We brew a special tea here, one designed to help you with your needs. It’s both relaxing and energizing—trust me on that one. And, most importantly of all…”
This was the big moment, the one when she might actually lose a couple of them. It had happened before. But Craddock had worked on her delivery since then.
“Our tea includes very, very small doses of a hallucinogen,” she said.
And yes! A few of them were smiling, and no one looked horrified. Either Craddock had gotten a lot better at this, or all the buzz about microdosing had lowered that particular hurdle. Either way, this crew was on board.
She continued, “For those of you with medications or unusual physical needs, we’ve individually measured doses and chosen ingredients that will support and sustain you. This isn’t going to be some wild acid trip, and—this is the most important part—you won’t be alone. Our staff will be here with you throughout, and so will I. All you have to do is drink deeply, relax, and open yourself to the experience. This is only the beginning of your journey.”
With that, Craddock nodded toward the cups, and the guests took them—some hesitantly, but she detected no real resistance within the group. They’d already been meditating together, undergoing therapeutic counseling together; trust had been built, and on that foundation Craddock could build her masterpiece.
One of the staffers brushed her furry hand along the wind chimes. At that signal, the guests all drank.
The drugs started kicking in within ten minutes—both the hallucinogen and the gentle sedative, which would keep things from getting out of hand. People slumped against soft cushions or lay in one of the hammocks, while Craddock and the staffers went from person to person, offering guidance and comfort.
“I don’t mean to do it,” whispered a frail woman as she shivered in Craddock’s arms. “I don’t mean to hurt them. But then it comes out of me—takes me over—and I can’t stop it—”
“Imagine the faces of those you have hurt,” Craddock murmured. “Call their souls to you now. Look upon them with compassion, and see them looking back at you.”
“They’re—they’re here—”
“They’re here, and they understand now,” said Craddock. “They realize you didn’t intend to do it. They forgive you.”
The frail woman began to sob tears of release, and Craddock held her tightly, rocking back and forth until the first painful burst of emotion had eased.
She stepped softly between the semiconscious bodies to make her way to the most important guest of the night—not one of the regular group, but one who came here often seeking insight and solace. Craddock tolerated his comings and goings because she knew how to integrate him with the others fairly smoothly; besides, he provided his own kind of help, one very difficult to find.
“How are you feeling tonight?” she asked as she settled by his side. “How is it taking you?”
“Very gently,” he said. His eyes remained closed. “I want to speak to them again.”
It took all Craddock’s considerable skill to remain unruffled, supposedly serene. She didn’t want to do that for him again—hadn’t wanted to do it ever—even if she understood why he remained fixated on that conversation. Some people had, at their hearts, one question that could never be answered to their satisfaction, one they would continue to ask, in their deepest self, to the end of their days. Craddock’s work was, in part, about identifying that question.
“We can’t do it tonight.” If she couldn’t avoid the task, she could at least put it off for a bit. “You’ve dosed. It’s the wrong frame of mind to be in.”
To her relief, he nodded. “But soon?”
“Very soon,” she promised. She needed to move on to the other guests and found the right transition. “For tonight? Let out all the feelings you can’t show them. This is your safe space, where you can be vulnerable. Show that vulnerability while they’re not here to see.”
Down his cheek rolled a single tear. Craddock considered wiping it away, decided against it. Robin Vane was not a man you wanted to push.