Some of our bonds are drawn in blood, Mulder thought. We choose each other not only for our own sakes, but because our choices—our struggles—have taken away almost everyone else we might turn to.
That next day, they’d returned to their office to delve into their respective searches anew. Dr. Karen Jones, who had turned out to possess too high a survival instinct to work with the X-Files, could no longer provide them with solutions for the unchecked gene-editing virus circulating throughout the human population. Ergo, somebody else would have to be found.
“A person with all Dr. Jones’s knowledge and skill,” he said as Scully settled in front of her computer. “Yet none of her commitment to personal safety.”
This won him Scully’s best not-funny stare. Mulder knew this expression well. She said, “Knowledge of gene-editing technology is significantly more widespread than it used to be, which works in our favor. That said, the number of true experts out there remains finite, in fact rather limited, and we have to narrow down the potential candidates from there.”
“And how do we do that?” Mulder kicked back at his desk, resisted the urge to flip his pencil at the ceiling. “See if any of them are into dangerous sports? White-water rafting, hang gliding, MMA?”
Scully paused. “Honestly, that’s not the worst possible direction we could go in. But my first approach will be cross-checking possibilities against the online subscribers to Tad O’Malley’s channel.”
“O’Malley’s not what he used to be. Partly thanks to us.”
“No—but he still has more than half a million subscribers.” She sighed. “Which is a pretty big database to check this against, but I think I can set it up to run swiftly. We just want to find people who, despite possessing a substantive scientific background, are still open to hearing…unconventional truths.”
“What if they’re into the wrong unconventional truths?” Mulder asked. “Say we find a great genetic scientist who thinks Nessie sank the Titanic. What then?”
“We probably have to sound them out.” Scully sighed. “And we haven’t even gotten into finding someone willing to examine Skinner’s DNA without his express consent or any conventional medical reason to do so. This is going to take a while. What would I have to bribe you with to get a coffee?”
“One decaf, coming up.”
As he walked to the nearest coffee station, Mulder turned his thoughts away from Scully’s half of their current search to his own. The Shadow was still out there—possibly named Robin Vane—and if his victims were linked to the Syndicate, that meant he had information about how all this began, and about the uses to which the Inheritors intended to put it. For once, Mulder’s personal objective was identical to that assigned to him by an assistant director of the Bureau. Morrison would be so proud.
Scully had chosen her cross-references wisely; Mulder needed to do the same. After some consideration, he decided that it was worth beginning with Robin Vane; if they had the wrong name, he’d be wasting time, but his search would prove that quickly enough. Besides, gut instinct told him Vane was their guy.
(All gut instinct, Scully had explained, came down to the brain’s subconscious analysis of clues, and thus was based in rational deduction from available evidence. Mulder didn’t care; he just knew he trusted his.)
Once he had returned with a cup of pregnancy-friendly decaf and his own shot of espresso, Mulder began seeking out any and all travel records for Mr. Robin Vane, intending to cross-reference them with the known Shadow killings. If he found several points of convergence, then they were onto something.
But he didn’t find any points of convergence. In fact, he found strangely truncated records, with a highly unusual number of one-way trips (and not followed by any obvious return route) and a few long gaps of time that showed no travel at all whether by air, land, or sea.
Mulder watched the video again of the most recent Shadow killing. A new idea occurred to him. “How far do we think this guy can travel in his smoke state?”
“Hmmm?” Scully was so immersed in her own work that it took her a few seconds to process his question. “Didn’t Morrison tell us that one of his victims was found three miles from the place of the murder? It’s possible that the Shadow Killer had to travel there in multiple trips—but that could also be well within his reach.”
“What if he can travel significantly farther than that?” Mulder asked. “Even farther than Nightcrawler from the X-Men.”
“Doesn’t Nightcrawler need to see where he’s going?” His expression made her smile and add, “I have been to a movie or two in my life, Mulder.”
Nightcrawler only needed to visualize his destination, not actually see it, but this was not the time to dig deep on X-Men lore. “I’m just saying that looking at airplane and ship manifests in search of this guy may not be our best bet.”
Financial records from private institutions were, generally speaking, harder to wrangle than travel records, but a request from the FBI carried enough heft to get them. Some hours later, he had a long list of credit card charges to go through one by one. There were people who thought being an FBI agent was unendingly glamorous; Mulder would’ve liked to show them this list.
However, sifting through the fine print proved worthwhile. Although Vane seemed to have become much more discreet with his financials in recent years, he hadn’t always been as cautious. Go back more than five years, and a handful of rookie mistakes provided valuable info. Vane’s hotel stay in Atlanta (Ritz-Carlton, no less) corresponded to one of the first Shadow killings on FBI record. He’d bought himself a meal at Balthazar the same night a murder had taken place in New York. The Interpol information led to a connection between a stabbing in Milan a few hours before Robin Vane had had tickets to the opera.
“We’re in the wrong line of work, Scully,” he said. “Being a supernatural hit man pays off.”
Scully, fellow veteran of some of the cheapest motels the American taxpayer could fund, sighed with a weariness Mulder felt in his bones.
Such errors ceased as Vane gained experience; the last few years offered no clues at all. But they’d already learned enough. At this point Mulder felt that Vane either was the Shadow—his guess—or in some way was aligned with him. Either way, finding Vane would give them a chance to confront their killer. He said as much to Scully, adding, “Capture is another story—not sure how we’re supposed to collar a guy who can dissolve himself out of a pair of handcuffs.”
“But once you learn how his ability works, you can discover the limitations,” Scully said. “Assuming there are any.”
“Once upon a time you would’ve argued with me about this guy’s ability existing at all.” He couldn’t resist a grin. “Would’ve told me he probably stole credit cards to fund his trips on JetBlue.”
“I’ve seen the footage with my own eyes, Mulder. Where there is empirical evidence pointing to a theory, then following up on that theory is rational. Any idea where to look for Mr. Vane?”
“Yes, actually.” Mulder crossed to her desk, tablet in hand, to show her a particular repeating charge. “Every few weeks, sometimes more often, this guy eats at a place called Señor Taco in Mística, Arizona. Not the most promising name, in my opinion, but the enchiladas must be to die for, because Vane’s been going back regularly for the past three years.”
“That seems a little sloppy, doesn’t it?” Scully asked. “Have there been any killings in Mística?”
“Not so much as one homicide in the past seven years, much less any unexplained assassinations by a shadow or a curl of smoke. So we have no idea what’s calling him back there, and we need to find out.”
“Still. Why would Vane leave such an obvious trail, when everything else in his pattern suggests caution, even precision?”
Mulder thought about it, spotted the likely answer. “You’re right. Vane’s too meticulous to accidentally broadcast his location like this. Which means he’s intentionally broadcasting his location.”
Scully frowned. “You mean, he wants to be caught?”
Urban legend had it many serial killers subconsciously wished for their own capture; Mulder had hunted enough of them to know that legend had very little basis in truth. “I mean, he’s signaling that he’s there to someone. Probably not us. But another person or people with an interest in knowing about his trips to Mística.”
“Such as an employer,” she said. Her gaze had turned inward, thoughtful. “Such as the Inheritors.”
“Exactly.” Already Mulder was packing up, done with research, preparing for action. “Ready to hit the road?”
“You should go without me,” Scully said. “We still have a very dangerous killer of pregnant women on the loose in DC. Morrison may not consider that an equal priority, but I do.”
“Out of the question.” This won Mulder a raised eyebrow, but he kept going. “Scully, Bright Eyes is stalking you. That’s all but certain at this point. I can’t leave you here alone.”
“I have training and a service weapon.” She covered his hand with her own. “I’m not the one who needs to watch their back. He is.”
Mulder had left her behind once before when she was expecting. At the time it had felt necessary—maybe it had been—and yet it would forever be one of the greatest regrets of his life. “I want to be here when you need me.”
“You will be,” she said.
He hoped he deserved her faith.
STOCKHOLM, SWEDEN
One unremarked luxury of the very rich is silence.
Walther Nystrom flew back from the Inheritors’ gathering in a private plane that had been specially soundproofed so that even the jets proved no more than a faint rushing whirr; the loudest noise he heard on the flight back was the murmur from his personal flight attendant, asking whether he would like a glass of champagne. (He said no. He had serious matters to consider, and he would not muddy his concentration for anything less than aquavit.)
At the airport he was met by a customs concierge, then by a long low car, onyx black on the outside, lined with the palest creamy calfskin leather. It too muffled both the sound of its own engine and anything that might take place beyond its doors. His driver put on no music unless Nystrom asked, and Nystrom did not. This car took him to his current residence, a penthouse suite in one of Stockholm’s more discreet boutique hotels. The very ding of his private elevator was muted.
In his suite waited his staff, attentive to anything he might desire. The cook, who had received advance instructions, had a plate of langoustines ready at the very moment Nystrom could come to the table. He ate in the same silence in which he had traveled, free from any distraction, any complication, not even the bark of a dog.
Many of similar wealth took their luxuriant silence for granted, but never Nystrom, for he understood what it meant. Silence was the byproduct of control. Only absolute control over one’s environment could guarantee this endless quiet.
Soon, Nystrom’s environment would extend much farther than this suite, his cars, and his planes. Soon the sphere of silence around him would encompass more space than his predecessors had dared imagine.
Really, that was the flaw in the Syndicate’s plans, Nystrom mused. They had always thought too small. Little wonder that they had fallen, leaving the best of their work to be inherited by those who would have a better idea what to do with it.
However, no environment could be sealed against all potential interruptions. Just as Nystrom finished his dessert pastry, he heard a sound down the long hallway toward his bedroom. He was not afraid—his security in this suite was impeccable, nearly impassable—but he was curious as to whether his suspicion about his visitor would prove true.
Nystrom walked down the hallway, the velvet slippers he always changed into at the door soft against the parquet flooring. The dark corridor led to his bedroom, which had been designed as a sliver of perpetual night: black suede on the walls, a bed large enough for multiple companions on rare, celebratory occasions. One wall was dominated by sliding glass doors that revealed a balcony and its spectacular view of the Söderström. Upon that balcony stood Robin Vane, who inclined his head by way of greeting.
It had been polite of Mr. Vane—not to mention intelligent, given the security personnel within the suite—to appear on the balcony and not in the center of the household. Nystrom knew not whether to be more gratified by Vane’s eagerness to please or more exasperated with the man’s timing. Had Nystrom wished for an immediate meeting, he would have said so. Even those who fly in private jets wish to unwind after a long day’s travel. Vane should understand that.
No reason not to seize the opportunity, Nystrom decided. He put his hand to the pad, which read his prints and unlocked the doors. Vane very courteously waited for Nystrom to open the door himself and join him. Night had only just fallen; the sky still held a certain cobalt glow.
“Mr. Vane,” said Nystrom. “You have anticipated me. Our conversation could have waited at least another few days.”
Vane did not apologize, which on one level Nystrom could respect. “Perhaps.”
Best to get this over with. “We are in agreement about Fox Mulder. Others possess the alien DNA, and they can be observed at far less risk to the overall stability of the project.”
“I concur,” said Vane. “But that is not the reason for my visit.”
Nystrom opened his mouth to ask what Vane meant—what he could be thinking, disturbing an Inheritor for any purpose of his own—but that was the instant pain speared his chest, blossomed outward, crowded the air from his lungs. He looked down to see the hilt of a blade jutting from his chest, still gripped in Vane’s black-gloved hand. Vane had done his work well; Nystrom knew the point had found his heart. It was very nearly the last thing he ever knew.
The actual last was Vane’s whisper: “With the Syndicate’s regards.”
All was darkness. Nystrom’s limp body slid back from the knife, over the rail of the balcony, all the way down to the street below. A taxi driver slammed on the brakes just in time to prevent running over the corpse. When the driver got out of his cab to check on the man who had fallen, he instinctively looked up, to see where he’d fallen from. He saw nothing, only what looked like a tendril of smoke in the brief instant before it became vapor, invisible.